The Wee Free Men

They were all about six inches tall and mostly coloured blue, although it was hard to know if that was the actual colour of their skins or just the dye from their tattoos, which covered every inch that wasn't covered with red hair. They wore short kilts, and some wore other bits of clothing too, like skinny waistcoats. A few of them wore rabbit or rat skulls on their heads, as a sort of helmet. And every single one of them carried, slung across his back, a sword nearly as big as he was.

However, what Tiffany noticed more than anything else was that they were scared of her. Mostly they were looking at their own feet, which was no errand for the faint-hearted because their feet were large, dirty and half tied up with animal skins to make very bad shoes. None of them wanted to look her in the eye.

'You were the people who filled the water buckets?' she said.

There was a lot of foot shuffling and coughing and a chorus of 'Ayes'.

'And the wood box?'

There were more 'Ayes'.

Tiffany glared at them.

'And what about the sheep?'

This time they all looked down.

'Why did you steal the sheep?'

There was a lot of muttering and nudging and then one of the tiny men removed his rabbit skull helmet and twiddled it nervously in his hands.

'We wuz hungerin', mistress,' he muttered. 'But when we kenned it was thine, we did put the beastie back in the fold.'

They looked so crestfallen that Tiffany took pity on them.

'I expect you wouldn't have stolen it if you weren't so hungry, then,' she said.

There were several hundred astonished looks.

'Oh, we would, mistress,' said the helmet-twiddler.

'You would?'

Tiffany sounded so surprised that the twiddler looked around at his colleagues for support. They all nodded.

'Yes, mistress. We have tae. We are a famously stealin' folk. Aren't we, lads? Whut's it we're famous for?'

'Stealin'!' shouted the blue men.

'And what else, lads?'

'Fightin'!'

'And what else?'

'Drinkin'!'

'And what else?'

There was a certain amount of thought about this, but they all reached the same conclusion.

'Drinkin' and fightin'!'

'And there was summat else,' muttered the twiddler. 'Ach, yes. Tell the hag, lads!'

'Stealin' an' drinkin' an' fightin'!' shouted the blue men cheerfully.

'Tell the wee hag who we are, lads,' said the helmet-twiddler.

There was the scrape of many small swords being drawn and thrust into the air.

'Nac Mac Feegle! The Wee Free Men! Nae king! Nae quin! Nae laird! Nae master! We willna' be fooled again!'

Tiffany stared at them. They were all watching her to see what she was going to do next, and the longer she said nothing, the more worried they became. They lowered their swords, looking embarrassed.

'But we wouldna' dare deny a powerful hag, except mebbe for strong drink,' said the twiddler, his helmet spinning desperately in his hands and his eyes on the bottle of Special Sheep Liniment. 'Will ye no' help us?'

'Help you?' said Tiffany. 'I want you to help me! Someone has taken my brother in broad daylight.'

'Oh waily, waily waily!' said the helmet-twiddler. 'She's come, then. She's come a-fetchin'. We're too late! It's the Quin!'

'There was only one of them!' said Tiffany.

'They mean the Queen,' said the toad. The Queen of the—'

'Hush yer gob!' shouted the helmet-twiddler, but his voice was lost in the wails and groans of the Nac Mac Feegles. They were pulling at their hair and stamping on the ground and shouting 'Alackaday!' and 'Waily waily waily!' and the toad was arguing with the helmet-twiddler and everyone was getting louder to make themselves heard—

Tiffany stood up. 'Everybody shut up right now!' she said.

Silence fell, except for a few sniffs and faint 'wailys' from the back.

'We wuz only dreeing our weird, mistress,' said the helmet-twiddler, almost crouching in fear.

'But not in here!' snapped Tiffany, shaking with anger. This is a dairy! I have to keep it clean!'

'Er... dreeing your weird means "facing your fate",' said the toad.

"Cuz if the Quin is here then it means our kelda is weakenin' fast,' said the helmet-twiddler. 'An' we'll ha' naeone tae look after us.'

To look after us, thought Tiffany. Hundreds of tough little men who could each win the Worst Broken Nose Contest need someone to look after them?

She took a deep breath.

'My mother's in the house crying,' she said, 'and...' I don't know how to comfort her, she added to herself. I'm no good at this sort of thing, I never know what I should be saying. Out loud she said: 'And she wants him back. Er. A lot.' She added, hating to say it: 'He's her favourite.'

She pointed to the helmet-twiddler, who backed away.

'First of all,' she said, 'I can't keep thinking of you as the helmet-twiddler, so what is your name?'

A gasp went up from the Nac Mac Feegles, and Tiffany heard one of them murmur, 'Aye, she's the hag, sure enough. That's a hag's question!'

The helmet-twiddler looked around at them as if seeking help.

'We dinnae give oor names,' he muttered. But another Feegle, somewhere safe at the back, said, 'Wheest! You cannae refuse a hag!'