“Bag o’ air?” said the aviator, looking puzzled.
“Well, you know how things like shirts billow out on a clothesline when it’s windy? Well, you just make a cloth bag and tie some strings to it and a stone to the strings, and when you throw it up, the bag fills with air and the stone floats down.”
Hamish stared at her.
“Do you understand me?” said Tiffany.
“Oh, aye. I wuz just waitin’ to see if you wuz goin’ to tell me anything else,” said Hamish politely.
“Do you think you could, er, borrow some fine cloth?”
“Nay, mistress, but I ken well where I can steal some,” said Hamish.
Tiffany decided not to comment on this. She said: “Where was the Queen when the mist came down?”
Hamish pointed. “Aboot a half mile yonder, mistress.”
In the distance Tiffany could see some more mounds, and a few stones from the old days.
Trilithons, they were called, which just meant “three stones.” The only stones found naturally on the downs were flints. But the giant stones of the trilithons had been dragged from at least ten miles away, and were stacked like a child stacks toy bricks. Here and there the big stones had been stood in circles; sometimes one stone had been placed all alone. It must have taken a lot of people a long time to do all that. Some people said there’d been human sacrifices up there. Some said they were part of some old religion. Some said they marked ancient graves.
Some said they were a warning: Avoid this place.
Tiffany hadn’t. She’d been there with her sisters a few times, as a dare, just in case there were any skulls. But the mounds around the stones were thousands of years old. All that you found there now were rabbit holes.
“Anything else, mistress?” said Hamish politely. “Nay? Then I’ll just be goin’….”
He raised his arms over his head and started to run across the turf. Tiffany jumped as the buzzard skimmed down a few feet away from her and snatched him back up into the sky.
“How can a man six inches high train a bird like that?” she asked as the buzzard circled again for height.
“Ach, all it takes is a wee drop o’ kindness, mistress,” said Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock.
“Really?”
“Aye, an’ a big dollop o’ cruelty,” Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock said. “Hamish trains ’em by runnin’ aroound in a rabbit skin until a bird pounces on him.”
“That sounds awful!” said Tiffany.
“Ach, he’s not too nasty aboot it. He just knocks them out wi’ his heid, and then he’s got a special oil he makes which he blows up their beak,” Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock went on. “When they wakes up, they thinks he’s their mammy and’ll do his biddin’.”
The buzzard was already a distant speck.
“He hardly seems to spend any time on the ground!” said Tiffany.
“Oh, aye. He sleeps in the buzzard’s nest at night, mistress. He says it’s wunnerfully warm. An’ he spends all his time in the air,” Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock added. “He’s ne’er happy unless he’s got the wind under his kilt.”
“And the birds don’t mind?”
“Ach, no, mistress. All the birds and beasts up here know it’s good luck to be friends wi’ the Nac Mac Feegle, mistress.”
“They do?”
“Well, to tell ye the truth, mistress, it’s more that they know it’s unlucky not to be friends wi’ the Nac Mac Feegle.”
Tiffany looked at the sun. It was only a few hours away from setting.
“I must find the way in,” she said. “Look, Not-as-small-as—”