Short Story #1: The Readin' Lass

Introduction - Following is the first short story of my new writing project (refer to previous post for details), based on a suggestion from my mentor: "a story from the perspective of a Nac Mac Feegle who is spying on a young woman who is reading The Wee Free Men for the first time". I hope that it is appreciated, and please give me some more suggestions because writing this has been great fun.


Disclaimer - Because I am not Terry Pratchett, I cannot vouch for the accuracy or inoffensiveness of the Wee Free Man-speak (in fact, my Wee Free Man-speak might even be shamefully intermingled with some Southern American inflection because I happen to be reading To Kill a Mockingbird), but I tried writing it without using the affected Scottish brogue and it just looked wrong. Also, this will probably make very little sense to anyone who hasn't read Terry Pratchett's Tiffany Aching books.


And now, without further ado......


The Readin' Lass


I peek oot from behind the curtains at the big wee lass, tryin' to figure out what she's doin'. She's not movin' much. Looks a bit lazy, really. Maybe she's just starin' doon at her hands. I've seen bigjobs doin' stranger things. But I've got no pressin' engaygements at the mooment, so I might as well go en for a closer look.


I zip aroond to the other side of the room and lean in. I can jest aboot see what she's holdin' noo. I lean in, jest a little closer, and...


Och, crivens! She's readin'!


I make a beeline for the nearest exit. Nayver trust a lass who reads, noo that's jest common knowledge. Written words is dangerous things.


I've nearly made it safely oot when I hear somethin' odd and turn back aroond without stoppin' to think it through. I hafta squint to see her better, cause ye can bet yeer boots I won't be gettin' too close agin.


She's laughin.


Noo, I've heerd o' writin' causin' the wailin', and the pullin' o' the hair, and the gnashin' o' the teeth; I've heerd o' writin' leadin' to the likes o' curses and murder most foul; but I've nayver heerd o' any writin' makin' a body laugh.


Laughin' is somethin' ye do when fightin', or boozin', or when the Big Man tells a joke whether it's amusin' or not.


I take a wee step closer.


I turn my heid a bit to see what the book's front looks like and I nearly leap outta my skin.


Feegles.


There're Feegles on her book, painted up nice and pretty! I'd swear it on my heid!


Ooh, so she's a-laughin' at Feegles, is she? Weil, she'll wish she hadn't, oh, she'll wish...


"Hello."


CRIVENS!


I leap right outta sight and git back to hidin' behind her curtains, but it's too late. She saw me alreidy, and now she's laughin' agin.


I'll no' stand fer this.


I spring back oot, holdin' my sword high and lookin' quite terrifyin'. "Now see here, ye big wee lassie!" I say in my moost commandin' voice. "I dunno what filthy slanders yu've been readin', but they're none o' them true, ye hear? Who wrote 'em? I'll find 'im and he'll wish he'd never so much as thought about Feegles!"


She's not smilin' anymore. Clever lass. The corners of her mooth is jest twitchin', that's all (from fear, undootedly).


"Forgive me, master Feegle," she says very po-lightly. "But I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about."


"Oh yeah?" I say. "Then how'd ye ken I'm called a Feegle?" (Noo I've caught her in her deception.)


"Why, I've just been reading about you," she says. "Well, not you specifically, but Feegles in general. The Wee Free Men."


"Tell me what it says!" I insist. She reaches for the book and starts to open it. I shriek (in a verra manly way). "No, don't read it, that's no' safe! Jest tell me what it says about Feegles."


"Well... It says you're very brave," she esplains.


"That's... oh," I say. That's no' a slanderous falsehood. "Go on."


"And very ferocious."


"Yeah?"


"And that you're the greatest drinkers and fighters the world has ever known."


Maybe this book isn't soo bad after all.


Then I remember somethin'.


"Weil, if it says all that about Feegles, what were ye laughin' at?" I inquaar. We'll jest see hoo she dodges that.


She smiles. "I was laughing at everybody else in the book. They're all a bit ridiculous, especially when compared to all you Feegles."


I think this over a mooment. "That makes sense," I say.


"Well, of course it does," she says back.


I think it over another mooment. "I'm still no' entirely shure I believe ye," I say at last.


"Oh?"


"Per'aps... per'aps, big wee lassie, ye could read me a little?" I ask.


She lifts her eyebrows. "Are you sure? I thought it wasn't safe."


I puff my chist out. "Are yu' suggesting that a Nac Mac Feegle is afeerd of a few written words?"


"Of course not," she says. "I wouldn't dream of saying anything half so silly. Come over here."


I go over and sit doon next to her.


Truth be told, it is a big risk lettin' somebody read alood to yu'. But surely somethin' that says so many good things aboot Feegles canna be too dangerous.


Besides, I'm a Nac Mac Feegle. I can handle a wee bit o' danger jest fine.


THE END.


~Pearl Clayton