• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“Awf’ly Wee Billy?” said Rob, beckoning the young gonnagle toward him. “You’re a gonnagle, ye ken aboout poetry and dreams. What’s this? Why’s it up here? It shouldna be on the top o’ the hills!”

“Serious hiddlins, Mr. Rob,” said Billy. “This is serious hiddlins. I canna work it out yet.”

“She knows the Chalk. Why’d she get this wrong?”

“I’m thinkin’ aboout it, Mr. Rob.”

“You wouldna care tae think a bit faster, would ye?”

“Rob?” said Big Yan, hurrying up. He’d been scouting ahead.

“Aye?” said Rob gloomily.

“Ye’d better come and see this.”

On top of a round hill was a four-wheeled shepherding hut, with a curved roof and a chimney for the potbellied stove. Inside, the walls were covered with the yellow and blue wrappers from hundreds of packets of Jolly Sailor tobacco. There were old sacks hanging up there, and the back of the door was covered with chalk marks where Granny Aching had counted sheep and days. And there was a narrow iron bedstead, made comfortable with old fleeces and feed sacks.

“D’ye have the unnerstandin’ of this, Awf’ly Wee Billie?” said Rob. “Can ye tell us where the big wee hag is?”

The young gonnagle looked worried. “Er, Mister Rob, ye ken I’ve only just been made a gonnagle? I mean, I know the songs an’ a’, but I’m no’ verra experienced at this….”

“Aye?” said Rob Anybody. “An’ just how many gonnagles afore ye ha’ walked through the dreams o’ a hag?”

“Er…none I’ve ever heard of, Mister Rob,” Billy confessed.

“Aye. So you already know more aboout it than any o’ them big men,” said Rob. He gave the boy a smile. “Do yer best, laddie. I dinna expect any more of you than that.”

Billy looked out of the shed door and took a deep breath: “Then I’ll tell ye I think she’s hidin’ somewhere close, like a hunted creature, Mr. Rob. This is a wee bit o’ her memory, the place o’ her granny, the place where she’s always felt safe. I’ll tell ye I think that we’re in the soul and center o’ her. The bit o’ her that is her. And I’m frightened for her. Frightened to mah boots.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been watchin’ the shadows, Mr. Rob,” said Billy. “The sun is movin’. It’s slippin’ doon the sky.”

“Aye, weel, that’s whut the sun does—” Rob began.

Billy shook his head. “Nay, Mr. Rob. Ye dinna understand! I’m tellin’ ye that’s no’ the sun o’ the big wide world. That’s the sun o’ the soul o’ her.”

The Feegles looked at the sun, and at the shadows, then back at Billy. He’d stuck his chin out bravely, but he was trembling.

“She’ll die when night comes?” Rob said.

“There’s worser things than death, Mr. Rob. The hiver will have her, head tae toe…”

“That is nae gonna happen!” shouted Rob Anybody, so suddenly that Billy backed away. “She’s a strong big wee lass! She fought the Quin wi’ no more than a fryin’ pan!”

Awf’ly Wee Billy swallowed. There were a lot of things he’d rather do than face Rob Anybody now. But he pressed on.

“Sorry, Mr. Rob, but I’m telling ye she had iron then, an’ she wuz on her ain turf. She’s a lang, lang way fra’ hame here. An’ it’ll squeeze this place when it finds it, leave no more room for it, and the night will come, an’…”

“’Scuse me, Rob. I ha’ an idea.”

It was Daft Wullie, twisting his hands nervously. Everyone turned to look at him.

“Ye ha’ an idea?” said Rob.

“Aye, an’ if I tell youse, I dinna want you ta’ say it’s inna-pro-pree-ate, okay, Rob?”

Rob Anybody sighed. “Okay, Wullie ye ha’ my word on it.”

“Weel,” said Wullie, his fingers knotting and unknotting, “what is this place if it’s not truly her ain place? What is it if not her ain turf? If she canna fight the creature here, she canna fight it anywhere!”

“But it willna come here,” said Billy. “It doesna need to. As she grows weaker, this place will fade away.”

“Oh, crivens,” mumbled Daft Wullie. “Weel, it was a good idea, right? Even if it doesna work?”

Rob Anybody wasn’t paying any attention. He stared around the shepherding hut. My man’s got to use his heid for something other than nuttin’ folk, Jeannie had said.