The Wee Free Men

“Ach, no, mistress,” said Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock nervously. Then he grinned. “Fion’s goin’ off to be the kelda for a clan over near Copperhead Mountain,” he said, “an’ she’s asked me to go along as the gonnagle!”



“Congratulations!”



“Aye, and William says I should be fine if I just work on the mousepipes,” said the pictsie. “And…er…”



“Yes?” said Tiffany.



“Er…Hamish says there’s a girl in the Long Lake clan who’s looking to become a kelda…er…it’s a fine clan she’s from…er…” The pictsie was going violet with embarrassment.



“Good,” said Tiffany. “If I was Rob Anybody, I’d invite her over right away.”



“Ye dinna mind?” asked Not-as-big-as-Medium-Sized-Jock-but-bigger-than-Wee-Jock-Jock hopefully.



“Not at all,” said Tiffany. She did a little bit, she had to admit to herself, but it was a bit she could put away on a shelf in her head somewhere.



“That’s grand!” said the pictsie. “The lads were a bit worried, ye ken. I’ll run up and tell them.” He lowered his voice. “An’ would ye like me to run after that big heap o’ jobbies that just left and see that he falls off his horse again?”



“No!” said Tiffany hurriedly. “No. Don’t. No.” She picked up the butter paddles. “You leave him to me,” she added, smiling. “You can leave everything to me.”



When she was alone again, she finished the butter…patapatapat….



She paused, put the paddles down, and with the tip of a very clean finger drew a curved line in the surface, with another curved line just touching it, so that together they looked like a wave. She traced a third, flat curve under it, which was the Chalk.



Land Under Wave.



She quickly smoothed the butter again and picked up the stamp she’d made yesterday; she’d carved it carefully out of a piece of apple wood that Mr. Block, the carpenter, had given her.



She stamped it onto the butter and took it off carefully.



There, glistening on the oily rich yellow surface, was a gibbous moon and, sailing in front of the moon, a witch on a broomstick.



She smiled again, and it was Granny Aching’s smile. Things would be different one day.



But you had to start small, like oak trees.



Then she made cheese…



…in the dairy, on the farm, and the fields unrolling, and becoming the downlands sleeping under the hot midsummer sun, where the flocks of sheep, moving slowly, drift over the short turf like clouds on a green sky, and here and there sheepdogs speed over the grass like shooting stars. Forever and ever, wold without end.