A Hat Full Of Sky (9 page)

Rob put his arm around her. “Aye, I see,” he said.

“I’m your wife, Rob, askin’ ye not to go!”

“Aye, aye. I’ll stay,” said Rob.

Jeannie looked up to him. Tears shone in the moonlight. “Ye mean it?”

“I never braked my word yet,” said Rob. “Except to polis’men and other o’ that kidney, ye ken, and they dinna count.”

“Ye’ll stay? Ye’ll abide by my word?” said Jeannie, sniffing.

Rob sighed. “Aye. I will.”

Jeannie was quiet for a while and then said, in the sharp cold voice of a kelda: “Rob Anybody Feegle, I’m tellin’ ye now to go and save the big wee hag.”

“Whut?” said Rob Anybody, amazed. “Jus’ noo
ye said I was tae stay—”

“That was as your wife, Rob. Now I’m telling you as your kelda.” Jeannie stood up, chin out and looking determined. “If ye dinna heed the world o’ yer kelda, Rob Anybody Feegle, ye can be banished fra’ the clan. Ye ken that. So you’ll listen t’ me guid. Tak’ what men you need afore it’s too late, and go to the mountains, and see that the big wee girl comes tae nae harm. And come back safe yoursel’. That is an order! Nay, ’tis more’n an order. ’Tis a geas I’m laying on ye! That cannae be brake!”

“But I—” Rob began, completely bewildered.

“I’m the
kelda
, Rob,” said Jeannie. “I canna run a clan with the Big Man pinin’. And the hills of our children need their hag. Everyone knows the land needs someone tae tell it whut it is.”

There was something about the way Jeannie had said “children.” Rob Anybody was not the fastest of thinkers, but he always got there in the end.

“Aye, Rob,” said Jeannie, seeing his expression. “Soon I’ll be birthing seven sons.”

“Oh,” said Rob Anybody. He didn’t ask how she knew the number. Keldas just knew.

“That’s
great
!” he said.

“And one daughter, Rob.”

Rob blinked.

“A daughter? This soon?”

“Aye,” said Jeannie.

“That’s wonderful good luck for a clan!” said Rob.

“Aye. So you’ve got something to come back safe to me for, Rob Anybody. An’ I beg ye to use your heid for somethin’ other than nuttin’ folk.”

“I thank ye, Kelda,” said Rob Anybody. “I’ll do as ye bid. I’ll tak’ some lads and find the big wee hag, for the good o’ the hills. It canna be a good life for the puir wee big wee thing, all alone and far fra’ home, among strangers.”

“Aye,” said Jeannie, turning her face away. “I ken that, too.”

A
t dawn Rob Anybody, watched with awe by his many brothers, wrote the word:

PLN

…on a scrap of paper bag. Then he held it up.

“Plan, ye ken,” he said to the assembled Feegles. “Now we have a Plan, all we got tae do is work out what tae
do
. Yes, Wullie?”

“Whut was that about this geese Jeannie hit ye with?” said Daft Wullie, lowering his hand.

“Not geese, geas,” said Rob Anybody. He sighed. “I
told
yez. That means it’s serious. It means I got tae bring back the big wee hag, an’ no excuses, otherwise my soul gaes slam-bang intae the big cludgie in the sky. It’s like a magical order. ’Tis a heavy thing, tae be under a geas.”

“Well, they’re big birds,” said Daft Wullie.

“Wullie,” said Rob, patiently, “ye ken I said I would tell ye when there wuz times you
should’ve kept your big gob shut?”

“Aye, Rob.”

“Weel, that wuz one o’ them times.” He raised his voice. “Now, lads, ye ken all aboot hivers. They cannae be killed! But ’tis oor duty to save the big wee hag, so this is, like, a sooey-side mission and ye’ll probably all end up back in the land o’ the living doin’ a borin’ wee job. So…I’m askin’ for volunteers!”

Every Feegle over the age of four automatically put his hand up.

“Oh, come
on
,” said Rob. “You canna
all
come! Look, I’ll tak’…Daft Wullie, Big Yan, and…you, Awf’ly Wee Billy Bigchin. An’ I’m takin’ no weans, so if yez under three inches high, ye’re not comin’! Except for ye, o’course, Awf’ly Wee Billy. As for the rest of youse, we’ll settle this the traditional Feegle way. I’ll tak’ the last fifty men still standing!”

He beckoned the chosen three to a place in the corner of the mound while the rest of the crowd squared up cheerfully. A Feegle liked to face enormous odds all by himself, because it meant you didn’t have to look where you were hitting.

“She’s more’n a hundret miles awa’,” said Rob as the big fight started. “We canna run it—’tis
too far. Any of youse scunners got any ideas?”

“Hamish can get there on his buzzard,” said Big Yan, stepping aside as a cluster of punching, kicking Feegles rolled past.

“Aye, and he’ll come wi’ us, but he canna tak’ more’n one passenger,” shouted Rob over the din.

“Can we swim it?” said Daft Wullie, ducking as a stunned Feegle hurtled over his head.

The others looked at him. “Swim it? How can we swim there fra’ here, yer daftie?” said Rob Anybody.

“It’s just worth consid’ring, that’s all,” said Wullie, looking hurt. “I wuz just tryin’ to make a contribution, ye ken? Just wanted to show willin’.”

“The big wee hag left in a cart,” said Big Yan.

“Aye, so what?” said Rob.

“Weel, mebbe we could?”

“Ach, no!” said Rob. “Showin’ oursels tae hags is one thing, but not to other folks! You remember what happened a few years back when Daft Wullie got spotted by that lady who wuz painting the pretty pichoors doon in the valley? I dinna want to have them Folklore Society bigjobs pokin’ aroound again!”

“I have an idea, Mister Rob. It’s me, Awf’ly
Wee Billy Bigchin Mac Feegle. We could disguise oursels.”

Awf’ly Wee Billy Bigchin Mac Feegle always announced himself in full. He seemed to feel that if he didn’t tell people who he was, they’d forget about him and he’d disappear. When you’re half the size of most grown pictsies, you’re
really
short; much shorter and you’d be a hole in the ground.

He was the new gonnagle. A gonnagle is the clan’s bard and battle poet, but they don’t spend all their lives in the same clan. In fact, they’re a sort of clan all by themselves. Gonnagles move around among the other clans, making sure the songs and stories get spread around all the Feegles. Awf’ly Wee Billy had come with Jeannie from the Long Lake clan, which often happens. He was very young for a gonnagle, but as Jeannie had said, there was no age limit to gonnagling. If the talent was in you, you gonnagled. And Awf’ly Wee Billy knew all the songs and could play the mousepipes so sadly that outside it would start to rain.

“Aye, lad?” said Rob Anybody, kindly. “Speak up, then.”

“Can we get hold o’ some human clothes?” said Awf’ly Wee Billy. “Because there’s an old
story about the big feud between the Three Peaks clan and the Windy River clan and the Windy River boys escaped by making a tattiebogle walk, and the men o’ Three Peaks thought it was a bigjob and kept oot o’ its way.”

The others looked puzzled, and Awf’ly Wee Billy remembered that they were men of the Chalk and had probably never seen a tattiebogle.

“A scarecrow?” he said. “It’s like a bigjob made o’ sticks, wi’ clothes on, for to frighten away the birdies fra’ the crops? Now, the song says the Windy River’s kelda used magic to make it walk, but I reckon it was done by cunnin’ and strength.”

He sang about it. They listened.

He explained how to make a human that would walk. They looked at one another. It was a mad, desperate plan, which was very dangerous and risky and would require tremendous strength and bravery to make it work.

Put like that, they agreed to it instantly.

Tiffany found that there was more than chores and the research, though. There was what Miss Level called “filling what’s empty and emptying what’s full.”

Usually only one of Miss Level’s bodies went out at a time. People thought Miss Level was twins, and she made sure they continued to do so, but she found it a little bit safer all around to keep the bodies apart. Tiffany could see why. You only had to watch both of Miss Level when she was eating. The bodies would pass plates to one another without saying a word, sometimes they’d eat off one another’s forks, and it was rather strange to see one person burp and the other one say “Oops, pardon me.”

“Filling what’s empty and emptying what’s full” meant wandering around the local villages and the isolated farms and, mostly, doing medicine. There were always bandages to change or expectant mothers to talk to. Witches did a lot of midwifery, which is a kind of “emptying what’s full,” but Miss Level wearing her pointy hat had only to turn up at a cottage for other people to suddenly come visiting, by sheer accident. And there was an awful lot of gossip and tea drinking. Miss Level moved in a twitching, living world of gossip, although Tiffany noticed that she picked up a lot more than she passed on.

It seemed to be a world made up entirely of women, but occasionally, out in the lanes, a man would strike up a conversation about the weather
and somehow, by some sort of code, an ointment or a potion would get handed over.

Tiffany couldn’t quite work out how Miss Level got paid. Certainly the basket she carried filled up more than it emptied. They’d walk past a cottage and a woman would come scurrying out with a fresh-baked loaf or a jar of pickles, even though Miss Level hadn’t stopped there. But they’d spend an hour somewhere else, stitching up the leg of a farmer who’d been careless with an axe, and get a cup of tea and a stale biscuit. It didn’t seem fair.

“Oh, it evens out,” said Miss Level, as they walked on through the woods. “You do what you can. People give what they can, when they can. Old Slapwick there, with the leg, he’s as mean as a cat, but there’ll be a big cut of beef on my doorstep before the week’s end, you can bet on it. His wife will see to it. And pretty soon people will be killing their pigs for the winter, and I’ll get more lard, ham, bacon, and sausages turning up than a family could eat in a year.”

“You will? What do you do with all that food?”

“Store it,” said Miss Level.

“But you—”

“I store it in other people. It’s amazing what
you can store in other people.” Miss Level laughed at Tiffany’s expression. “I mean, I take what I don’t need around to those who don’t have a pig, or who’re going through a bad patch, or who don’t have anyone to remember them.”

“But that means they’ll owe
you
a favor!”

“Right! And so it just keeps on going around. It all works out.”

“I bet some people are too mean to pay—”

“Not
pay
,” said Miss Level, severely. “A witch never expects payment and never asks for it and just hopes she never needs to. But sadly, you are right.”

“And then what happens?”

“What do you mean?”

“You stop helping them, do you?”

“Oh, no,” said Miss Level, genuinely shocked. “You can’t
not
help people just because they’re stupid or forgetful or unpleasant. Everyone’s poor around here. If I don’t help them, who will?”

“Granny Aching…that is, my grandmother said someone has to speak up for them as has no voices,” Tiffany volunteered after a moment.

“Was she a witch?”

“I’m not sure,” said Tiffany. “I think so, but she didn’t know she was. She mostly lived by herself
in an old shepherding hut up on the downs.”

“She wasn’t a cackler, was she?” said Miss Level, and when she saw Tiffany’s expression she said hurriedly, “Sorry, sorry. But it can happen, when you’re a witch who doesn’t know it. You’re like a ship with no rudder. But obviously she wasn’t like that, I can tell.”

“She lived on the hills and talked to them, and she knew more about sheep than anybody!” said Tiffany hotly.

“I’m sure she did, I’m sure she did—”

“She
never
cackled!”

“Good, good,” said Miss Level soothingly. “Was she clever at medicine?”

Tiffany hesitated. “Um…only with sheep,” she said, calming down. “But she was very good. Especially if it involved turpentine. Mostly if it involved turpentine, actually. But always she…was…just…there. Even when she wasn’t
actually
there….”

“Yes,” said Miss Level.

“You know what I mean?” said Tiffany.

“Oh, yes,” said Miss Level. “Your Granny Aching lived down on the uplands—”

“No, up on the downland,” Tiffany corrected her.

“Sorry, up on the downland, with the sheep,
but people would look up sometimes, look up at the hills, knowing she was there somewhere, and say to themselves, ‘What would Granny Aching do?’ or ‘What would Granny Aching say if she found out?’ or ‘Is this the sort of thing Granny Aching would be angry about?’” said Miss Level. “Yes?”

Tiffany narrowed her eyes. It was true. She remembered when Granny Aching had hit a peddler who’d overloaded his donkey and was beating it. Granny usually used only words, and not many of them. The man had been so frightened by her sudden rage that he’d stood there and taken it.

It had frightened Tiffany, too. Granny, who seldom said anything without thinking about it for ten minutes beforehand, had struck the wretched man twice across the face in a brief blur of movement. And then news had got around, all along the Chalk. For a while, at least, people were a little more gentle with their animals. For months after that moment with the peddler, carters and drovers and farmers all across the downs would hesitate before raising a whip or a stick, and think: Suppose Granny Aching is watching?

But—

“How did you
know
that?” Tiffany asked.

“Oh, I guessed. She sounds like a witch to me, whatever she thought she was. A good one, too.”

Tiffany inflated with inherited pride.

“Did she help people?” Miss Level added.

The pride deflated a bit. The instant answer “yes” jumped onto her tongue, and yet…Granny Aching hardly ever came down off the hills, except for Hogswatch and the early lambing. You seldom saw her in the village unless the peddler who sold Jolly Sailor tobacco was late on his rounds, in which case she’d be down in a hurry and a flurry of greasy black skirts to cadge a pipeful off one of the old men.

But there wasn’t a person on the Chalk, from the Baron down, who didn’t owe something to Granny. And what they owed to her, she made them pay to others. She always knew who was short of a favor or two.

“She made them help one another,” she said. “She made them help themselves.”

In the silence that followed, Tiffany heard the birds singing by the road. You got a lot of birds here, but she missed the high scream of the buzzards.

Miss Level sighed. “Not many of us are
that
good,” she said. “If
I
was that good, we wouldn’t
be going to visit old Mr. Weavall again.”

Tiffany said “Oh dear” inside.

Most days included a visit to Mr. Weavall. Tiffany dreaded them.

Mr. Weavall’s skin was paper-thin and yellowish. He was always in the same old armchair, in a tiny room in a small cottage that smelled of old potatoes and was surrounded by a more or less overgrown garden. He’d be sitting bolt upright, his hands on two walking sticks, wearing a suit that was shiny with age, staring at the door.

“I make sure he has something hot every day, although he eats like a bird,” Miss Level had said. “And old Widow Tussy down the lane does his laundry, such as it is. He’s ninety-one, you know.”

Mr. Weavall had very bright eyes and chatted away to and at them as they tidied up the room. The first time Tiffany had met him, he’d called her Mary. Sometimes he still did so. And he’d grabbed her wrist with surprising force as she walked past…. It had been a real shock, that claw of a hand suddenly gripping her. You could see blue veins under the skin.

“I shan’t be a burden on anyone,” he’d said urgently. “I got money put by for when I go. My boy, Toby, won’t have nothin’ to worry about. I
can pay my way! I want the proper funeral show, right? With the black horses and the plumes and the mutes and a knife-and-fork tea for everyone afterward, I’ve written it all down, fair and square. Check in my box to make sure, will you? That witch woman’s always hanging around here!”

Tiffany had given Miss Level a despairing look. She’d nodded and pointed to an old wooden box tucked under Mr. Weavall’s chair.

It had turned out to be full of coins, mostly copper, but there were quite a few silver ones. It looked like a fortune, and for a moment Tiffany’d wished she had as much money.