The Wee Free Men

lost.
    Anyway , she added in her head, you can’t love people all the time when they have a permanently runny nose. Any anyway …I wonder…
    “I wish I could find my brother,” she said aloud.
    This seemed to have no effect. But the house was full of people, opening and shutting doors and calling out and getting in one another’s way, and the…Feegles were shy, despite many of them having faces like a hatful of knuckles.
    Don’t wish , Miss Tick had said. Do things.
    She went downstairs. Even some of the women who’d been packing fleeces up at the shearing had come down. They were clustered around her mother, who was sitting at the table crying. No one noticed Tiffany. That often happened.
    She slipped into the dairy, closed the door carefully behind her, and leaned down to peer under the sink.
    The door burst open again and her father ran in. He stopped. Tiffany looked up guiltily.
    “He can’t be under there, girl!” her father said.
    “Well, er…” said Tiffany.
    “Did you look upstairs?”
    “Even the attic, Dad—”
    “Well.” Her father looked panicky and impatient at the same time. “Go and…do something!”
    “Yes, Dad.”
    When the door had shut, Tiffany peered under the sink again.
    “Are you there, toad?”
    “Very poor pickings under here,” the toad answered, crawling out. “You keep it very clean. Not even a spider.”
    “This is urgent !” snapped Tiffany. “My little brother has gone missing. In broad daylight! Up on the downs, where you can see for miles!”
    “Oh, croap ,” said the toad.
    “Pardon?” said Tiffany.
    “Er, that was, er, swearing in Toad,” said the toad. “Sorry, but—”
    “Has what’s going on got something to do with magic?” said Tiffany. “It has, hasn’t it…?”
    “I hope it hasn’t,” said the toad, “but I think it has.”
    “Have those little men stolen Wentworth?”
    “Who, the Feegles? They don’t steal children!”
    There was something in the way the toad said it. They don’t steal…
    “Do you know who has taken my brother, then?” Tiffany demanded.
    “No. But…they might,” said the toad. “Look, Miss Tick told me that you were not to—”
    “My brother has been stolen ,” said Tiffany sharply. “Are you going to tell me not to do anything about it?”
    “No, but—”
    “Good! Where are the Feegles now?”
    “Lying low, I expect. The place is full of people searching, after all, but—”
    “How can I bring them back? I need them!”
    “Um, Miss Tick said—”
    “How can I bring them back?”
    “Er…you want to bring them back, then?” said the toad, looking mournful.
    “Yes!”
    “It’s just that’s something not many people have ever wanted to do,” said the toad. “They’re not like brownies. If you get Nac Mac Feegle in the house, it’s usually best to move away.” He sighed. “Tell me, is your father a drinking man?”
    “He has a beer sometimes,” said Tiffany. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
    “Only beer?”
    “Well, I’m not supposed to know about what my father calls the Special Sheep Liniment,” said Tiffany. “Granny Aching used to make it in the old cowshed.”
    “Strong stuff, is it?”
    “It dissolves spoons,” said Tiffany. “It’s for special occasions. Father says it’s not for women because it puts hairs on your chest.”
    “Then if you want to be sure of finding the Nac Mac Feegle, go and fetch some,” said the toad. “It will work, believe me.”
    Five minutes later Tiffany was ready. Few things are hidden from a quiet child with good eyesight, and she knew where the bottles were stored and she had one now. The cork was hammered in over a piece of rag, but it was old and she was able to lever it out with the tip of a knife. The fumes made her eyes water.
    She went to pour some of the golden-brown liquid into a saucer—
    “No! We’ll be trampled to death if you do that,” said the toad. “Just leave the cork off.”
    Fumes rose from the top of the bottle, wavering like the air over rocks on a hot day.
    She felt it—a sensation, in the dim, cool room, of riveted attention.
    She sat down on a milking stool and said, “All right, you can come out now.”
    There were hundreds. They rose up from behind buckets. They lowered themselves on string from the ceiling beams. They sidled sheepishly from behind the cheese racks. They crept out from under the sink. They came out of places where you’d think a man with hair like an orange gone nova