A Hat Full Of Sky

the room.
    “Okay, I’ll gie a handful o’ gold to the first scunner who gi’es me a pipeful o’ Jolly Sailor!” it yelled.
    The room erupted. Tables scraped. Chairs overturned.
    The scarecrow man grabbed the first pipe and threw the coins into the air. As fights immediately broke out, he turned back to the bar and said: “And I’ll ha’ that wee drop o’ whisky before I go, barman. Ach, no you willna, Big Yan! Shame on ye! Hey, youse legs can shut up right noo! A wee pint of whisky’ll do us no harm! Oh, aye? Who deid and made ye Big Man, eh? Listen, ye scunner, oour Rob is in there! Aye, and he’d have a wee drink, too! ”
    The customers stopped pushing one another out the way to get at the coins, and got up to face a whole body arguing with itself.
    “Anywa’, I’m in the heid, right? The heid’s in charge. I dinna ha’ tae listen to a bunch o’ knees! I said this wuz a bad idea, Wullie. Ye ken we ha’ trouble getting oout of pubs! Well, speaking on behalf o’ the legs, we’re not gonna stand by and watch the heid get pished, thank ye so veerae much!”
    To the horror of the customers the entire bottom half of the figure turned around and started to walk toward the door, causing the top half to fall forward. It gripped the edge of the bar desperately, managed to say, “Okay! Is a deep-fried pickled egg totally oout o’ the question?” and then the figure—
    —tore itself in half. The legs staggered a few steps toward the door and fell over.
    In the shocked silence a voice from somewhere in the trousers said: “Crivens! Time for offski!”
    The air blurred for a moment and the door slammed.
    After a while one of the customers stepped forward cautiously and prodded the heap of old clothes and sticks that was all that remained of the visitor. The hat rolled off, and he jumped back.
    A glove that was still hanging on to the bar fell to the floor with a thwap! that sounded very loud.
    “Well, look at it this way,” said the barman. “Whatever it was, at least it’s left its pockets.”
    From outside came the sound of:
    Arrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

    The broomstick hit the thatched roof of Miss Level’s cottage hard and stuck in it. Feegles fell off, still fighting.
    In a struggling, punching mass they rolled into the cottage, conducted guerrilla warfare all the way up the stairs, and ended up in a head-butting, kicking heap in Tiffany’s bedroom, where those who’d been left behind to guard the sleeping girl and Miss Level joined in out of interest.
    Gradually the fighters became aware of a sound. It was the skirl of the mousepipes, cutting through the battle like a sword. Hands stopped gripping throats, fists stopped in mid punch, kicks hovered in midair.
    Tears ran down Awf’ly Wee Billy’s face as he played “The Bonny Flowers,” the saddest song in the world. It was about home, and mothers, and good times gone past, and faces no longer there. The Feegles let go of one another and stared down at their feet as the forlorn notes wound about them, speaking of betrayal and treachery and the breaking of promises—
    “Shame on ye!” screamed Awf’ly Wee Billy, letting the pipe drop out of his mouth. “Shame on ye! Traitors! Betrayers! Ye shame hearth and hame! Your hag is fightin’ for her verra soul! Have ye no honor?” He flung down the mousepipes, which wailed into silence. “I curse my feets that let me stand here in front o’ ye! Ye shame the verrae sun shinin’ on ye! Ye shame the kelda that birthed ye! Traitors! Scuggans! What ha’ I done to be among this parcel o’ rogues? Any man here want tae fight? Then fight me! Aye, fight me! An’ I swear by the harp o’ bones I’ll tak’ him tae the deeps o’ the sea an’ then kick him tae the craters o’ the moon an’ see him ride tae the Pit o’ Heel itself on a saddle made o’ hedgehogs! I tell ye, my rage is the strength of the storm that tears mountains intae sand! Who among ye will stand agin me?”
    Big Yan, who was almost three times the size of Awf’ly Wee Billy, cowered back as the little gonnagle stood in front of him. Not a Feegle would have raised a hand at that moment, for fear of his life. The rage of a gonnagle was a dreadful thing to see. A gonnagle could use words like swords.
    Daft Wullie shuffled forward.
    “I can see ye’re upset, gonnagle,” he mumbled. “’Tis me that’s at fault, on account o’ being daft. I shoulda remembered aboout us and pubs.”
    He looked so dejected