A Hat Full Of Sky - Terry Pratchett [65]
Daft Wullie’s face broke into a huge smile, then crinkled into a frown.
“But ye are the leader, Rob,” he said.
“No’ on this raid, Wullie. A’m staying here. I have every confidence that ye’ll be a fiiinne leader on this raid an’ not totally mess it up like ye did the last seventeen times!”
There was a general groan from the crowd.
“Look at the sun, will ye!” said Rob, pointing. “It’s moved since we’ve been talkin’! Someone’s got tae stay wi’ her! I will no’ ha’ it said we left her tae die alone! Now, get movin’, ye scunners, or feel the flat o’ my blade!”
He raised his sword and growled. They fled.
Rob Anybody laid his sword down with care, then sat on the step of the shepherding hut to watch the sun.
After a while he was aware of something else….
Hamish the aviator gave Miss Level’s broomstick a doubtful look. It hung a few feet above the ground, and it worried him.
He hitched up the bundle on his back that contained his parachute, although it was technically the “paradrawers,” since it was made of string and an old pair of Tiffany’s best Sunday drawers, well washed. They still had flowers on them, but there was nothing like them for getting a Feegle safely to the ground. He had a feeling it (or they) were going to be needed.
“It’s no’ got feathers,” he complained.
“Look, we dinna ha’ time to argue!” said Daft Wullie. “We’re in a hurry, ye ken, an’ you’re the only one who knows how tae fly!”
“A broomstick isna flyin’,” said Hamish. “It’s magic. It hasna any wings! I dinna ken that stuff!”
But Big Yan had already thrown a piece of string over the bristle end of the stick and was climbing up. Other Feegles followed.
“Besides, how do they steer these things?” Hamish went on.
“Weel, how do ye do it with wi’ the birdies?” Daft Wullie demanded.
“Oh, that’s easy. Ye just shift your weight, but—”
“Ach, ye’ll learn as we go,” said Wullie. “Flying canna be that difficult. Even ducks can do it, and they have nae brains at a’.”
And there was really no point in arguing, which is why, a few minutes later, Hamish inched his way along the stick’s handle. The rest of the Feegles clung to the bristles at the other end, chattering.
Firmly tied to the bristles was a bundle of what looked like sticks and rags, with a battered hat and the stolen beard on top of it.
At least this extra weight meant that the stick end was pointing up, toward a gap in the fruit trees. Hamish sighed, took a deep breath, pulled his goggles over his eyes, and put a hand on a shiny area of stick just in front of him.
Gently, the stick began to move through the air. There was a cheer from the Feegles.
“See? Told yez ye’d be okay,” Daft Wullie called out. “But can ye no’ make it go a wee bit faster?”
Carefully, Hamish touched the shiny area again.
The stick shuddered, hung motionless for a moment, and then shot upward trailing a noise very like:
Arrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh….
In the silent world of Tiffany’s head, Rob Anybody picked up his sword again and crept across the darkening turf.
There was something there, small but moving.
It was a tiny thornbush, growing so fast that its twigs visibly moved. Its shadow danced on the grass.
Rob Anybody stared at it. It had to mean something. He watched it carefully. Little bush, growing…
And then he remembered what the old kelda had told them when he’d been a wee boy.
Once, the land had been all forest, heavy and dark. Then men came and cut down trees. They let the sun in. The grass grew up in the clearings. The bigjobs brought in sheep, which ate the grass, and also what grew in the grass: tree seedlings. And so the dark forests died. There hadn’t been much life in them, not once the tree trunks closed in behind you; it had been dark as the bottom of the sea in there, the leaves far above keeping out the light. Sometimes there was the crash of a branch, or the rattle and patter as acorns the squirrels had missed bounced down, from branch to branch, into the gloom. Mostly it was just hot and silent. Around the edges