“Crivens! We wanna coo beastie, no’ a ship beastie!”
“Ach, one’s as goo’ as t’other! C’mon, lads, a’ grab aholt o’ a leg!”
“Aye, all the coos are inna shed, we tak what we can!”
“Keep it doon, keep it doon, will ya!”
“Ach, who’s listenin’? Okay, lads—yan…tan…teth’ra!”
The sheep rose a little in the air, and bleated in alarm as it started to go across the field backward. Tiffany thought she saw a hint of red hair in the grass around its legs, but that vanished as the ram was carried away into the mist.
She pushed her way through the hedge, ignoring the twigs that scratched at her. Granny Aching wouldn’t have let anyone get away with stealing a sheep, even if they were invisible.
But the mist was thick, and now Tiffany heard noises from the henhouse.
The disappearing-backward sheep could wait. Now the hens needed her. A fox had got in twice in the last two weeks, and the hens that hadn’t been taken were barely laying.
Tiffany ran through the garden, catching her nightdress on pea sticks and gooseberry bushes, and flung open the henhouse door.
There were no flying feathers, and nothing like the panic a fox would cause. But the chickens were clucking excitedly, and Prunes, the cockerel, was strutting nervously up and down. One of the hens looked a bit embarrassed. Tiffany lifted it up quickly.
There were two tiny blue, red-haired men underneath. They were each holding an egg clasped in their arms. They looked up with very guilty expressions.
“Ach, no!” said one. “It’s the bairn! She’s the hag…”
“You’re stealing our eggs,” said Tiffany. “How dare you! And I’m not a hag!”
The little men looked at one another, and then at the eggs.
“Whut eiggs?” said one.
“The eggs you are holding,” said Tiffany meaningfully.
“Whut? Oh, these? These are eiggs, are they?” said the one who’d spoken first, looking at the eggs as if he’d never seen them before. “There’s a thing. And there was us thinking they was, er, stones.”
“Stones,” said the other one nervously.
“We crawled under yon chookie for a wee bitty warmth,” said the first one. “And there was all these things, we though’ they was stones, which was why the puir fowl was clucking all the time…”
“Clucking,” said the second one, nodding vigorously.
“…so we took pity on the puir thing and—”
“Put…the…eggs…back,” said Tiffany slowly.
The one who hadn’t been doing much talking nudged the other one. “Best do as she says,” he said. “It’s a’ gang agley. Ye canna cross an Aching, an’ this one’s a hag. She dinged Jenny, an’ no one ha’ ever done that afore.”
“Aye, I didna think o’ that….”
Both of the tiny men put the eggs back very carefully. One of them even breathed on the shell of his and made a show of polishing it with the ragged hem of his kilt.
“No harm done, mistress,” he said. He looked at the other man. And then they vanished. But there was a suspicion of a red blur in the air, and some straw by the henhouse door flew up in the air.
“And I’m a miss!” shouted Tiffany. She lowered the hen back onto the eggs and went to the door. “And I’m not a hag! Are you fairies of some sort? And what about our ship? I mean, sheep?” she added.
There was no answer but a clanking of buckets near the house, which meant that other people were getting up.
She rescued the fairy tales, blew out the candle, and made her way into the house. Her mother was lighting the fire and asked what she was doing up, and she said that she’d heard a commotion in the henhouse and had gone out to see if it was the fox again. That wasn’t a lie. In fact, it was completely true.