The Wee Free Men

back of her neck and tried to see what the cat was looking at.
    On the dresser was a row of blue-and-white jars that weren’t very useful for anything. They’d been left to her mother by an elderly aunt, and she was proud of them because they looked nice but were completely useless. There was little room on the farm for useless things that looked nice, so they were treasured.
    Ratbag was watching the lid of one of them. It was rising very slowly, and under it was a hint of red hair and two beady, staring eyes.
    It lowered again when Tiffany gave it a long stare. A moment later she heard a faint rattle, and when she looked up, the pot was wobbling back and forth and there was a little cloud of dust rising along the top of the dresser. Ratbag was looking around in bewilderment.
    They certainly were very fast.
    She ran out into the paddock and looked around. The mist was off the grass now, and skylarks were rising on the downs.
    “If that sheep doesn’t come back this minute ,” she shouted at the sky, “there will be a reckoning !”
    The sound bounced off the hills. And then she heard, very faint but close by, the sound of small voices:
    “Whut did the hag say?” said the first voice.
    “She said there’d be a reck’ning’!”
    “Oh, waily, waily, waily! We’re in trouble noo!”
    Tiffany looked around, face red with anger.
    “We have a duty ,” she said, to the air and the grass.
    It was something Granny Aching had said once, when Tiffany had been crying about a lamb. She’d said: “We are as gods to the beasts o’ the field, my jiggit. We order the time o’ their birth and the time o’ their death. Between times, we ha’ a duty.”
    “We have a duty,” Tiffany repeated, more softly. She glared around the field. “I know you can hear me, whoever you are. If that sheep doesn’t come back, there will be…trouble….”
    The larks sang over the sheepfolds, making the silence deeper.
    Tiffany had to do the chores before she had any more time to herself. That meant feeding the chickens and collecting the eggs, and feeling slightly proud of the fact that there were two more than there might otherwise have been. It meant fetching six buckets of water from the well and filling the log basket by the stove, but she put those jobs off because she didn’t like doing them much. She did quite like churning butter, though. It gave her time to think.
    When I’m a witch with a pointy hat and a broomstick, she thought as she pumped the handle, I’ll wave my hand and the butter will come just like that . And any little red-headed devils who even think about taking our beasts will be—
    There was a slopping sound behind her, where she’d lined up the six buckets to take to the well.
    One of them was now full of water, which was still sloshing backward and forward.
    She went back to the churning as if nothing had happened but stopped after a while and went over to the flour bin. She took a small handful of flour and dusted it over the doorstep, and then went back to the churning.
    A few minutes later there was another watery sound behind her. When she turned around, there was, yes, another full bucket. And in the flour on the stone doorstep were just two lines of footprints, one leading out of the dairy and one coming back.
    It was all Tiffany could do to lift one of the heavy wooden buckets when it was full.
    So, she thought, they are immensely strong as well as being incredibly fast. I’m really being very calm about this.
    She looked up at the big wooden beams that ran across the room, and a little dust fell down, as if something had quickly moved out of the way.
    I think I ought to put a stop to this right now, she thought. On the other hand, there’s no harm in waiting until all the buckets are filled up.
    “And then I’ll have to fill the log box in the scullery,” she said aloud. Well, it was worth a try.
    She went back to the churning and didn’t bother to turn her head when she heard four more sloshes behind her. Nor did she look around when she heard little whooshwhoosh noises and the clatter of logs in the box. She turned to see only when the noise stopped.
    The log box was full up to the ceiling, and all the buckets were full. The patch of flour was a mass of footprints.
    She stopped churning. She had a feeling that eyes were watching her, a lot of eyes.
    “Er…thank you,” she said. No, that wasn’t right. She sounded nervous. She let go of the butter paddle and stood up, trying to