A Hat Full Of Sky

on tightly with arms and legs while both of Miss Level ran alongside her, holding on to ropes and making encouraging noises. They had stopped when Tiffany threw up for the fourth time.
    Well, that was then!
    She grabbed the stick, swung a leg over it—and found that her other foot stuck to the ground as though nailed there. The broomstick swung around wildly as she tried to pull it up, and, when the boot was finally tugged off the ground, the stick turned over so that Tiffany was upside down. This is not the best position in which to make a grand exit.
    She said, quietly, “I am not going to learn you, you are going to learn me . Or the next lesson will involve an axe!”
    The broomstick turned upright, then gently rose.
    “Right,” said Tiffany. There was no fear this time. There was just impatience. The ground dropping away below her didn’t worry her at all. If it didn’t have the sense to stay away from her, she’d hit it….

    As the stick drifted away, there was whispering in the long grass of the garden.
    “Ach, we’re too late, Rob. That wuz the hiver, that wuz.”
    “Aye, but did ye see that foot? It’s nae won yet—oour hag’s in there somewhere! She’s fighting it! It canna win until it’s taken the last scrap o’ her! Wullie, will ye stop tryin’ to grab them apples!”
    “It’s sorry I am tae say this, Rob, but no one can fight a hiver. ’Tis like fightin’ yoursel. The more you fight, the more it’ll tak’ o’ ye. And when it has all o’ ye — ”
    “Wash oot yer mouth wi’ hedgehog pee, Big Yan! That isna gonna happen—”
    “Crivens! Here comes the big hag!”
    Half of Miss Level stepped out into the ruined garden.
    She stared up at the departing broomstick, shaking her head.
    Daft Wullie was stuck out in the open, where he’d been trying to snag a fallen apple. He turned to flee and would have got clean away if he hadn’t run straight into a pottery garden gnome. He bounced off, stunned, and staggered wildly, trying to focus on the big, fat, chubby-cheeked figure in front of him. He was far too angry to hear the click of the garden gate and the soft tread of approaching footsteps.
    When it comes to choosing between running and fighting, a Feegle doesn’t think twice. He doesn’t think at all.
    “What’re ye grinnin’ at, pal?” he demanded. “Oh aye, you reckon you’re the big man, eh, jus’ ’cos yez got a fishin’ rod?” He grabbed a pink pointy ear in each hand and aimed his head at what turned out be quite a hard pottery nose. It smashed anyway, as things tend to in these circumstances, but it did slow the little man down and cause him to stagger in circles.
    Too late, he saw Miss Level bearing down on him from the doorway. He turned to flee, right into the hands of also Miss Level.
    Her fingers closed around him.
    “I’m a witch, you know,” she said. “And if you don’t stop struggling this minute, I will subject you to the most dreadful torture. Do you know what that is?”
    Daft Wullie shook his head in terror. Long years of juggling had given Miss Level a grip like steel. Down in the long grass the rest of the Feegles listened so hard it hurt.
    Miss Level brought him a little closer to her mouth.
    “I’ll let you go right now without giving you a taste of the twenty-year-old MacAbre single malt I have in my cupboard,” she said.
    Rob Anybody leaped up.
    “Ach, crivens, mistress, what a thing to taunt a body wi’! D’ye no’ have a drop of mercy in you?” he shouted. “Ye’re a cruel hag indeed tae—” He stopped. Miss Level was smiling. Rob Anybody looked around, flung his sword on the ground and said: “Ach, crivens! ”

    The Nac Mac Feegle respected witches, even if they did call them hags. And this one had brought out a big loaf and a whole bottle of whisky on the table for the taking. You had to respect someone like that.
    “Of course, I’d heard of you, and Miss Tick mentioned you,” she said, watching them eat, which is not something to be done lightly. “But I always thought you were just a myth.”
    “Aye, weel, we’ll stay that way if ye dinna mind,” said Rob Anybody, and belched. “’Tis bad enough wi’ them arky-olly-gee men wantin’ to dig up oour mounds wi’oot them folklore ladies wantin’ to tak’ pichoors o’ us an’ that.”
    “And you watch over Tiffany’s farm, Mr. Anybody?”
    “Aye, we do that, an’ we dinna ask for any reward,” said Rob Anybody stoutly.
    “Aye, we just tak’ a few