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The Nac Mac Feegle of the Chalk hated writing for all kinds of reasons, but the biggest one was this: Writing stays. It fastens words down. A man can speak his mind and some nasty wee scuggan will write it down and who knows what he’ll do with those words? Ye might as weel nail a man’s shadow tae the wall!
But now they had a new kelda, and a new kelda brings new ideas. That’s how it’s supposed to work. It stopped a clan getting too set in its ways. Kelda Jea
She didn’t see why her husband shouldn’t, either. And Rob Anybody was finding out that Jea
Sweat was dripping off his forehead. He’d once fought a wolf all by himself, and he’d cheerfully do it again with his eyes shut and one hand tied behind him rather than do what he was doing now.
He had mastered the first two rules of writing, as he understood them.
1. Steal some paper.
2. Steal a pencil.
Unfortunately there was more to it than that.
Now he held the stump of pencil in front of him in both hands and leaned backwards as two of his brothers pushed him toward the piece of paper pi
‘Mebbe I could kind o’ ease my way inta it gently,’ he protested as his heels left little grooves in the packed-earth floor of the mound. ‘Mebbe I could just do one o’ they commeras or full stoppies—’
‘You’re the Big Man, Rob Anybody, so it’s fittin’ ye should be the first tae do the writin’,’ said Jea
‘Aye, wumman, the nasty, loopy, bendy things!’ growled Rob. ‘I di
‘You just hold the pencil on the paper and I’ll tell ye what marks to make,’ said Jea
‘Aye, but ‘tis a bushel of trouble, writin’,’ said Rob. ‘A word writ doon can hang a man!’
‘Wheest, now, stop that! ‘Tis easy!’ snapped Jea
‘An’ writin’ even goes on sayin’ a man’s wurds after he’s deid!’ said Rob Anybody, waving the pencil as if trying to ward off evil spirits. ‘Ye ca
‘Oh, so you’re afeared o’ the letters, is that it?’ said Jea
There was silence in the mound as Daft Wullie nervously took the pencil stub from his brother. Every beady eye was turned to Rob Anybody. His hands opened and shut. He started to breathe heavily, still glaring at the blank paper. He stuck out his chin.
‘Ach, ye’re a harrrrd wumman, Jea
‘There’s my brave lad!’ said Jea
The assembled pictsies watched as Rob Anybody, grunting fiercely and with his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, dragged the pencil through the curves and lines of the letters. He looked at the kelda expectantly after each one.
‘That’s it,’ she said, at last. ‘A bo
Rob Anybody stood back and looked critically at the paper.
‘That’s it?’ he said.
‘Aye,’ said Jea
Rob stared at the letters again. ‘I’m go
There was a polite cough from beside Jea
This toad had once been a lawyer (a human lawyer; toads manage without them) who’d been turned into a toad by a fairy godmother who’d intended to turn him into a frog but had been a bit hazy on the difference. Now he lived in the Feegle mound, where he ate worms and helped them out with the difficult thinking.
‘I’ve told you, Mr Anybody, that just having your name written down is no problem at all,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing illegal about the words “Rob Anybody”. Unless, of course,’ and the toad gave a little legal laugh, ‘it’s meant as an instruction!’
None of the Feegles laughed. They liked their humour to be a bit, well, fu
Rob Anybody stared at his very shaky writing. ‘That’s my name, aye?’
‘It certainly is, Mr Anybody.’
‘An’ nothin’ bad’s happenin’ at a’,’ Rob noted. He looked closer. ‘How can you tell it’s my name?’
‘Ah, that’ll be the readin’ side o’ things,’ said Jea
‘That’s where the lettery things make a sound in yer heid?’ said Rob.
‘That’s the bu
‘Could I no’ mebbe just learn the writin’ and leave the readin’ to someone else?’ Rob asked, without much hope.
‘No, my man’s got to do both,’ said Jea
‘Ach, it’s a terrible thing for a man when his wumman gangs up on him wi’ a toad,’ said Rob, shaking his head. But, when he turned to look at the grubby paper, there was just a hint of pride in his face.
‘Still, that’s my name, right?’ he said, gri
Jea
‘Just there, all by itself and no’ on a Wanted poster or anything. My name, drawn by me.’
‘Yes, Rob,’ said the kelda.
‘My name, under my thumb. No scu
Jea
‘A man’s a man o’ some standin’ when he’s got his own name where no one can touch it,’ said Rob Anybody. ‘That’s serious magic, that is—’
‘The R is the wrong way roond and you left the A and a Y out of “Anybody”,’ said Jea
‘Ach, wumman, I didna’ ken which way the fat man wuz walking’,’ said Rob, airily waving a hand. ‘Ye ca
He beamed at his name:
ЯOB NybOD
‘And I reckon you got it wrong wi’ them Y’s,’ he went on. ‘I reckon it should be N E Bo D. That’s E
He stuck the pencil into his hair, and gave her a defiant look.
Jea
Actually, only half a dozen Feegles in the Long Lake clan could read and write very well. They were considered odd, strange hobbies. After all, what—when you got out of bed in the morning—were they good for? You didn’t need to know them to wrestle a trout or mug a rabbit or get drunk. The wind couldn’t be read and you couldn’t write on water.