A Hat Full of Sky (Discworld #32)

A Hat Full of Sky (Discworld #32) Page 21

'Er . . . none I've ever heard of, Mister Rob,' Billy confessed. 'Aye. So you already know more aboot it than any o' them big men,' said Rob. He gave the boy a smile. 'Do yer best, laddie. I dinnae expect any more of you than that.' Billy looked out of the shed door, and took a deep breath: 'Then I'll tell ye I think she's hidin' somewhere close like a hunted creature, Mr Rob. This is a wee bit o' her memory, the place o' her granny, the place where she's always felt safe. I'll tell ye I think that we're in the soul and centre o' her. The bit o' her that is her. And I'm frightened for her. Frightened to mah boots.'

'Why?'

'Because I've been watchin' the shadows, Mr Rob,' said Billy. 'The sun is movin'. It's slippin' doon the sky.'

'Aye, weel, that's whut the sun does-' Rob began. Billy shook his head. 'Nay, Mr Rob. Ye dinnae understand! I'm tellin' ye that's no' the sun o' the big wide world. That's the sun o' the soul o' her.' The Feegles looked at the sun, and at the shadows, then back at Billy. He'd stuck his chin out bravely but he was trembling. 'She'll die when night comes?' Rob said. There's worser things than death, Mr Rob. The hiver will have her, head tae toe-' That is nae gonna happen!' shouted Rob Anybody, so suddenly that Billy backed away. 'She's a strong big wee lass! She fought the Quin wi' no more than a fryin' pan!' Awf'ly Wee Billy swallowed. There were a lot of things he'd rather do than face Rob

Anybody now. But he pressed on. 'Sorry, Mr Rob, but I'm telling ye she had iron then, an' she wuz on her ain turf. She's a lang, lang way fra' hame here. An' it'll squeeze this place when it finds it, leave no more room for it, and the night will come, an'-'

' 'Scuse me, Rob. I ha' an idea.' It was Daft Wullie, twisting his hands nervously. Everyone turned to look at him. 'Ye ha' an idea?' said Rob. 'Aye, an' if I tell youse, I dinnae want you ta' say it's inna-pro-pre-ate, OK, Rob?' Rob Anybody sighed. 'OK, Wullie, ye ha' my word on it.'

'Weel,' said Wullie, his fingers knotting and unknotting. 'What is this place if it's not truly her ain place? What is it if not her ain turf? If she cannae fight the creature here, she cannae fight it anywhere!'

'But it willnae come here,' said Billy. 'It doesnae need to. As she grows weaker, this place will fade away.'

'Oh, crivens,' mumbled Daft Wullie. 'Weel, it was a good idea, right? Even if it doesnae work?' Rob Anybody wasn't paying any attention. He stared around the shepherding hut. My man's got to use his heid for something other than nuttin' folk, Jeannie had said. 'Daft Wullie is right,' he said quietly. This is her safe place. She holds the land, she has it in her eye. The creature can ne'er touch her here. Here, she has power. But 'twill be a jail hoose for her here unless she fights the monster. She'd be locked in here and watch her life gae doon the cludgie. She'll look oot at the world like a pris'ner at a tiny window, and see hersel' hated and feared. So we'll fetch the beast in here against its will, and here it will die!' The Feegles cheered. They weren't sure what was going on, but they liked the sound of it. 'How?' said Awf'ly Wee Billy. 'Ye had to gae and ask that, eh?' said Rob Anybody bitterly. 'An' I wuz doin' sae weel wi' the thinkin'-' He turned. There was a scratching noise on the door above him. Up there, across the rows and rows of half rubbed-out markings, freshly chalked letters were appearing one by one, as if an invisible hand was writing them. 'Worrds,' said Rob Anybody. 'She's tryin' tae tell us somethin'!'

'Yes, they say-' Billy began. 'I ken weel what they say!' snapped Rob Anybody. 'I ha' the knowin' of the readin'! They say-' He looked up again. 'OK, they say ... that's the snake, an' that's the kinda like a gate letter, an' the comb on its side, two o' that, an' the fat man standin' still, an' the snake again, and then there's whut we calls a “space” and then there's the letter like a saw's teeth, and two o' the letters that's roound like the sun, and the letter that's a man sittin' doon, and onna next line we ha' ... the man wi' his arms oot, and the letter that's you, an' ha, the fat man again but noo he's walkin, an' next he's standin' still again, an' next is the comb, an' the up-an'-doon ziggy-zaggy letter, and the man's got his arms oot, and then there's me, and that ziggy-zaggy and we end the line with the comb again . . . an' on the next line we starts wi' the bendy hook,

that's the letter roound as the sun, them's twa' men sittin' doon, there's the letter reaching ooot tae the sky! then there's a space 'cos there's nae letter, then there's the snaky again, an' the letter like a hoose frame, and then there's the letter that's me, aye, an' another fella sitting doon, an' another big roound letter, and, ha, oor ol' friend, the fat man walkin'! The End!' He stood back, hands on hips, and demanded: There! Is that readin' I just did, or wuz it no'?' There was a cheer from the Feegles, and some applause. Awf'ly Wee Billy looked up at the chalked words: And then he looked at Rob Anybody's expression. 'Aye, aye,' he said, 'Ye're doin great, Mr Rob. Sheep's wool, turpentine and Jolly Sailor tobacco.'

'Ach, weel, anyone can read it all in one go,' said Rob Anybody, dismissively. 'But youse gotta be guid to break it doon intae all the tricksie letters. And veera guid to have the knowin' o' the meanin' o' the whole.'

'What is that?' said Awf'ly Wee Billy. 'The meaning, gonnagle, is that you are gonna' go stealin' There was a cheer from the rest of the Feegles. They hadn't been keeping up very well, but they recognized that word all right. 'An' it's gonna be a stealin' tae remember!' Rob yelled, to another cheer. 'Daft Wullie!'

'Aye!'

'Ye'll be in charge! Ye ha' not got the brains o' a beetle, brother o' mine, but when it comes tae the thievin' ye hae no equal in this wurld! Ye've got tae fetch turpentine and fresh ship wool and some o' the Jolly Sailor baccy! Ye got tae get them to the big hag wi' twa' bodies! Tell her she must mak' the hiver smell them, right? It'll bring it here! And ye'd best be quick, because that sun is movin' down the sky. Ye'll be stearin' fra' Time itself - aye? Ye have a question?' Daft Wullie had raised a finger. 'Point o' order, Rob,' he said, 'but it was a wee bittie hurtful there for you to say I dinnae hae the brains of a beetle

Rob hesitated, but only for a moment. 'Aye, Daft Wullie, ye are right in whut ye say. It was unricht o' me to say that. It was the heat o' the moment, an' I am full sorry for it. As I stand here before ye now, I will say: Daft Wullie, ye do hae the brains o' a beetle, an' I'll fight any scunner who says different!' Daft Wullie's face broke into a huge smile, then crinkled into a frown. 'But ye are the leader, Rob,' he said. 'No' on this raid, Wullie. A'm staying here. I have every confidence that ye'll be a fiiinne leader on this raid an' not totally mess it up like ye did the last seventeen times!' There was a general groan from the crowd. 'Look at the sun, will ye!' said Rob, pointing. 'It's moved since we've been talkin'! Someone's got tae stay wi' her! I will no' ha' it said we left her tae die alone! Now, get movin', ye scunners, or feel the flat o' my blade!' He raised his sword and growled. They fled. Rob Anybody laid his sword down with care, then sat on the step of the shepherding hut to watch the sun. After a while, he was aware of something else . . . Hamish the aviator gave Miss Level's broomstick a doubtful look. It hung a few feet above the ground and it worried him. He hitched up the bundle on his back that contained his parachute, although it was technically the 'paradrawers', since it was made of string and an old pair of Tiffany's best Sunday drawers, well washed. They still had flowers on, but there was nothing like them for getting a Feegle safely to the ground. He had a feeling it (or they) were going to be needed. 'It's no' got feathers,' he complained. 'Look, we dinnae ha' time to argue!' said Daft Wullie. 'We're in a hurry, ye ken, an' you're the only one who knows how tae fly!'

'A broomstick isnae flyin',' said Hamish. 'It's magic. It hasnae any wings! I dinnae ken that stuff!' But Big Yan had already thrown a piece of string over the bristle end of the stick and was climbing up. Other Feegles followed. 'Besides, how do they steer these things?' Hamish went on. 'Weel, how do ye do it with wi' the birdies?' Daft Wullie demanded. 'Oh, that's easy. Ye just shift your weight, but-'

'Ach, yell learn as we go,' said Wullie. 'Flying can-nae be that difficult. Even ducks can do it, and they have nae brains at a'.' And there was really no point in arguing, which is why, a few minutes later, Hamish inched his way along the stick's handle. The rest of the Feegles clung to the bristles at the other end, chattering. Firmly tied to the bristles was a bundle of what looked like sticks and rags, with a battered hat and the stolen beard on top of it. At least this extra weight meant that the stick end was pointing up, towards a gap in the fruit trees. Hamish sighed, took a deep breath, pulled his goggles over his eyes and put

a hand on a shiny area of stick just in front of him. Gently, the stick began to move through the air. There was a cheer from the Feegles. 'See? Told yez ye'd be OK,' Daft Wullie called out. 'But can ye no' make it go a wee bit faster?' Carefully, Hamish touched the shiny area again. The stick shuddered, hung motionless for a moment, and then shot upwards trailing a noise very like Arrrrrrrrrgg00ggg0gg0ghhhh.hhhhhh.hhhh . . . In the silent world of Tiffany's head, Rob Anybody picked up his sword again and crept across the darkening turf. There was something there, small but moving. It was a tiny thorn bush, growing so fast that its twigs visibly moved. Its shadow danced on the grass. Rob Anybody stared at it. It had to mean something. He watched it carefully. Little bush, growing . . . And then he remembered what the old kelda had told them when he'd been a wee boy. Once, the land had been all forest, heavy and dark. Then men came and cut down trees. They let the sun in. The grass grew up in the clearings. The bigjobs brought in sheep, which ate the grass, and also what grew in the grass: tree seedlings. And so the dark forests died. There hadn't been much life in them, not once the tree trunks closed in behind you; it had been dark as the bottom of the sea in there, the leaves far above keeping out the light. Sometimes there was the crash of a branch, or the rattle and patter as acorns the squirrels had missed bounced down, from branch to branch, into the gloom. Mostly it was just hot and silent. Around the edges of the forest were the homes of many creatures. Deep inside the forest, the everlasting forest, was the home of wood. But the turf lived in the sun, with its hundreds of grasses and flowers and birds and insects. The Nac Mac Feegle knew that better than most, being so much closer to it. What looked like a green desert at a distance was a tiny, thriving, roaring jungle . . . 'Ach,' said Rob Anybody. 'So that's yer game, izzit? Weel, ye're no' takin' over in here too!' He chopped at the spindly thing with his sword, and stood back. The rustling of leaves behind him made him turn. There were two more saplings unfolding. And a third. He looked across the grass and saw a dozen, a hundred tiny trees beginning their race for the sky. Worried though he was, and he was worried to his boots, Rob Anybody grinned. If there's one thing a Feegle likes, it's knowing that wherever you strike you're going to hit an enemy. The sun was going down and the shadows were moving and the turf was dying. Rob charged. Arrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . . What happened during the Nac Mac Feegles' search for the right smell was

remembered by several witnesses (quite apart from all the owls and bats who were left spinning in the air by a broomstick being navigated by a bunch of screaming little blue men). One of them was Number 95, a ram owned by a not very imaginative farmer. But all he remembered was a sudden noise in the night and a draughty feeling on his back. That was about as exciting as it got for Number 95, so he went back to thinking about grass. Arrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . . Then there was Mildred Pusher, aged seven, who was the daughter of the farmer who owned Number 95. One day, when she'd grown up and become a grandmother, she told her grandchildren about the night she came downstairs by candlelight for a drink of water and heard the noises under the sink . . . 'And there were these little voices, you see, and one said, “Ach, Wullie, you cannae drink that, look, it says 'Poison!!' on the bottle,” and another voice said, “Aye, gonnagle, they put that on tae frighten a man from havin' a wee drink,” and the first voice said, “Wullie, it's rat poison!” and the second voice said, “That's fine, then, 'cos I'm no' a rat!” And then I opened the cupboard under the sink and, what do you think, it was full of fairies! And they looked at me and I looked at them and one of them said, “Hey, this is a dream you're having, big wee girl!” and immediately they all agreed! And the first one said, “So, in this dream ye're having, big wee girl, you wouldna mind telling us where the turpentine is, wouldya?” And so I told them it was outside in the barn, and he said, “Aye? Then we're offski. But here's a wee gift fra' the fairies for a big wee girl who's gonna go right back tae sleep!” And then they were gone!' One of her grandchildren, who'd been listening with his mouth open, said, 'What did they give you, Grandma?'