“I think I ought to talk to Hamish,” she said.
“Right ye are, mistress,” said a voice by her ear. She turned her head.
“How long have you been there?” she said.
“A’ the time, mistress,” said the pictsie. Others poked their heads around the trees and out from under leaves. There were at least twenty on the mound.
“You’ve been watching me all the time?”
“Aye, mistress. ’Tis oour task to watch o’er our kelda. I’m up here most o’ the time anyway, because I’m studying to become a gonnagle.” The young Feegle flourished a set of mousepipes. “An’ they willna let me play doon there on account o’ them sayin’ my playin’ sounds like a spider tryin’ to fart through its ears, mistress.”
“But what happens if I want to spend a—have a—go to the—what happens if I say I don’t want you to guard me?”
“If it’s a wee call o’ nature ye’re talkin’ aboout, mistress, the cludgie is o’er there in the chalk pit. Ye’ll just sing oot to us where ye’re goin’ and no one’ll go peeking, ye’ll have oour word on it,” said the attendant Feegle.
Tiffany glared at him as he stood in the primroses, beaming with pride and anxious duty. He was younger than most of them, without as many scars and lumps. Even his nose wasn’t broken.
“What’s your name, pictsie?” she said.
“No’-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock, mistress. There’s no’ that many Feegle names, ye ken, so we ha’ to share.”
“Well, Not-as-big-as-Little-Jock—” Tiffany began.
“That’d be Medium-Sized Jock, mistress,” said Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock.
“Well, Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock, I can—”
“That’s No’-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock, mistress,” said Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock. “Ye were one jock short,” he added helpfully.
“You wouldn’t be happier with, say, Henry?” said Tiffany, helplessly.
“Ach, nay, mistress.” Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock wrinkled his face. “There’s nay history tae the name, ye ken. But there have been a number o’ brave warriors called No’-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock. Why, ’tis nearly as famous a name as Wee Jock itself! An’, o’ course, should Wee Jock hisself be taken back to the Last World, then I’ll get the name o’Wee Jock, which isna to say that I mislike the name o’ No’-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock, ye ken. There’s been many a fine story o’ the exploits o’ No’-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock,” the pictsie added, looking so earnest that Tiffany didn’t have the heart to say that they must have been very long stories.
Instead she said: “Well, er, please, I want to talk to Hamish the aviator.”
“Nae problem,” said Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock. “He’s up there right noo.”
He vanished. A moment later Tiffany heard—or, rather, felt with her ears—the bubbling sensation of a Feegle whistle.
Tiffany pulled Diseases of the Sheep, which was now looking very battered, out of her apron. There was a blank page at the back. She tore it out, feeling like a criminal for doing so, and took out her pencil.
“Dear Mum and Dad,” she wrote carefully. “How are you, I am well. Wentworth is also well but I have to go and fetch him from the Qu where he is staying. Hope to be back soon, Tiffany. PS I hope the cheese is all right.”
She was just considering this when she heard a rush of wings overhead. There was a whirring noise, a moment of silence, and then a small, weary, and rather muffled voice said: “Ach, crivens…”
She looked out onto the turf. The body of Hamish was upside down a few feet away. His arms with their twirlers were still outstretched.*
It took some time to get him out. If he landed headfirst and spinning, Tiffany was told, he had to be unscrewed in the opposite direction so that his ears wouldn’t come off.
When he was upright and swaying unsteadily, Tiffany said: “Can you wrap this letter in a stone and drop it in front of the farmhouse where people will see it?”
“Aye, mistress.”
“And…er…does it hurt when you land headfirst like that?”
“Nay, mistress, but it is awfu’ embarrassing.”
“Then there’s a sort of toy we used to make that might help you,” said Tiffany. “You make a kind of…bag of air—”