Snow stretched away under a sky so dirty white that Tiffany might have been standing inside a Ping-Pong ball. Only black trunks and scribbly branches of the trees, here and there, told her where the land stopped and the sky began.
Those, and, of course, the hoofprints. They stretched away toward a forest of black trees, boughed with snow.
The cold was like little needles all over her skin.
She looked down and saw the Nac Mac Feegle pouring through the gate, waist deep in the snow. They spread out without speaking. Some of them had drawn their swords.
They weren’t laughing and joking now. They were watchful.
“Right, then,” said Rob Anybody. “Well done. You wait here for us and we’ll get your wee brother back, nae problemo—”
“I’m coming too!” snapped Tiffany.
“Nay, the kelda disna—”
“This one dis!” said Tiffany, shivering. “I mean does! He’s my brother. And where are we?”
Rob Anybody glanced up at the pale sky. There was no sun anywhere. “Ye’re here noo,” he said, “so mebbe there’s nae harm in tellin’ ye. This is what ye call Fairyland.”
“Fairyland? No, it’s not! I’ve seen pictures! Fairyland is…is all trees and flowers and sunshine and, and tinklyness! Dumpy little babies in romper suits with horns! People with wings! Er…and weird people! I’ve seen pictures!”
“It isna always like this,” said Rob Anybody shortly. “An’ ye canna come wi’ us because ye ha’ nae weapon, mistress.”
“What happened to my frying pan?” said Tiffany.
Something bumped against her heels. She looked around and saw Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock hold up the pan triumphantly.
“Okay, ye have the pan,” said Rob Anybody, “but what ye need here is a sword of thunderbolt iron. That’s like the, you know, official weapon for invadin’ Fairyland….”
“I know how to use the pan,” said Tiffany. “And I’m—”
“Incomin’!” yelled Daft Wullie.
Tiffany saw a line of black dots in the distance and felt someone climb up her back and stand on her head.
“It’s the black dogs,” Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock announced. “Dozens o’ ’em, Big Man.”
“We’ll never outrun the dogs!” Tiffany cried, grabbing her pan.
“Dinna need to,” said Rob Anybody. “We got the gonnagle wi’ us this time. Ye might like to stick yer fingers in yer ears, though.”
William, with his eyes fixed on the approaching pack, was unscrewing some of the pipes from the mousepipes and putting them in a bag he carried hanging from his shoulder.
The dogs were much closer now. Tiffany could see the razor teeth and the burning eyes.
Slowly William took out some much shorter, smaller pipes that had a silvery look to them and screwed them into place. He had the look of someone who wasn’t going to rush.
Tiffany gripped the handle of her pan. The dogs weren’t barking. It would have been slightly less scary if they were.
William swung the mousepipes under his arm and blew into one until the bag bulged.
“I shall play,” he announced, as the dogs got close enough for Tiffany to see the drool, “that firrrrm favorite, ‘The King Underrrr Waterrrr.’”
As one pictsie, the Nac Mac Feegle dropped their swords and put their hands over their ears.
William put the mouthpiece to his lips, tapped his foot once or twice, and, as a dog gathered itself to leap at Tiffany, began to play.
A lot of things happened at more or less the same time. All Tiffany’s teeth started to buzz. The pan vibrated in her hands and dropped onto the snow. The dog in front of her went cross-eyed and, instead of leaping, tumbled forward.