The Wee Free Men

There was a shout behind her. She twisted in the Queen’s grip, and saw Roland fighting for the hammer. As she watched he turned desperately and raised the heavy thing over his head, knocking over the elf behind him.

The Queen pulled her round savagely as the hammer fell. ‘Sweetie?’ she hissed. ‘I’ll show you swe—’

‘Crivens! It’s the Quin! An’ she’s got oour kelda, the ol’ topher!’

‘Nae quinl Nae laird! Wee Free Men!’

‘I could murrrder a kebab!’

‘Get her!’

Tiffany might have been the only person, in all the worlds that there are, to be happy to hear the sound of the Nac Mac Feegle.

They poured out of the smashed nut. Some were still wearing bow ties. Some were back in their kilts.

But they were all in a fighting mood and, to save time, were fighting with one another to get up to speed.

The clearing . . . cleared. Real or dreams, the people could see trouble when it rolled towards them in a roaring, cursing, red and blue tide.

Tiffany ducked out of the Queen’s grasp and, still holding Wentworth, hurried into the grasses to watch.

Big Yan ran past, carrying a struggling full-sized elf over his head. Then he stopped suddenly, and tossed it high over the clearing.

‘An’ away he goes, right on his heidY he yelled, then turned and ran back into the battle.

The Nac Mac Feegles couldn’t be trodden on, or squeezed. They worked in groups, running up one another’s backs to get high enough to punch an elf or, for preference, bash it with their heads. And once anyone was down, it was all over bar the kicking.

There was some method in the way the Nac Mac Feegle fought. For example, they always chose the biggest opponent because, as Rob Anybody said later, ‘It makes them easier to hit, ye ken.’ And they simply didn’t stop. It was that which wore people down. It was like being attacked by wasps with fists.

It took them a little while to realize that they’d run out of people to fight. They carried on fighting one another for a bit anyway, since they’d come all this way, and then settled down and began to go through the pockets of the fallen in case there was any loose change.

Tiffany stood up.

‘Ach, weel, no’ a bad job tho’ I says it mysel’,’ said Rob Anybody, looking around. ‘A very neat fight an’ we dinnae e’en ha’ to resort to usin’ poetry.’

‘How did you get into the nut?’ said Tiffany. ‘I mean, it was . . . a nut!’

‘Only way we could find in,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘It’s got to be a way that fits. ‘Tis difficult work, navigatin’ in dreams.’

‘Especially when ye’re a wee bittie pished,’ said Daft Wullie, grinning broadly.

‘What? You’ve been . . . drinking?’ said Tiffany. ‘I’ve been facing the Queen and you’ve been in a pub?’

‘Ach, no!’ said Rob Anybody. ‘Ye ken that dream wi’ the big party? When you had the pretty frock an’ a’? We got stuck in it.’

‘But I killed the drome!’

Rob looked a little shifty. ‘Weeeel,’ he said, ‘we didnae get oout as easily as you. It took us a wee while.’

‘Until we finished all the drink,’ said Daft Wullie, helpfully. Rob glared at him.

‘Ye didnae ha’ to put it like that!’ he snapped.

‘You mean the dream keeps on going?’ said Tiffany.

‘If you’re thirsty enough,’ said Daft Wullie. ‘An’ it wasnae just the drink, there was can-a-pays as well.’

‘But I thought if you ate or drank in a dream you stayed there!’ said Tiffany.

‘Aye, for most creatures,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘Not for us, though. Hooses, banks, dreams, ‘tis a’ the same to us. There’s nothing we cannae get in or oot of.’

‘Except maybe pubs,’ said Big Yan.

‘Oh, aye,’ said Rob Anybody cheerfully. ‘Gettin’ oot o’ pubs sometimes causes us a cerrrtain amount o’ difficulty, I’ll grant ye that.’

‘And where did the Queen go?’ Tiffany demanded.

‘Ach, she did an off ski as soon as we arrived,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘An’ so should we, lady, afore the dream changes.’ He nodded at Wentworth. ‘Is this the wee bairn? Ach, what a noseful o’ bogeys!’

‘Wanna sweetie!’ shouted Wentworth, on automatic sweetie pilot.

‘Weeel, ye cannae ha’ none!’ shouted Rob Anybody. ‘An’ stop snivellin’ and come awa’ wi’ us and stop bein’ a burden to your wee sister!’

Tiffany opened her mouth to protest, and shut it again when Wentworth, after a moment of shock, chuckled.

‘Funny!’ he said. ‘Wee man! Weewee man!’

‘Oh dear,’ said Tiffany. ‘You’ve got him started now.’

But she was very surprised, none the less. Wentworth never showed this much interest in anyone who wasn’t a jelly baby.

‘Rob, we’ve got a real one here,’ a pictsie called out. To her horror, Tiffany saw that several of the Nac Mac Feegles were holding up Roland’s unconscious head. He was full-length on the ground.

‘Ah, that was the laddie who wuz rude to ye,’ said Rob. ‘An’ he tried to hit Big Yan with a hammer, too. That wasnae a clever thing to try. What shall we do with him?’

The grasses trembled. The light was fading from the sky. The air was growing colder, too.

‘We can’t leave him here!’ said Tiffany.