He Said, Sidhe Said

"Get away from her!" Elaine charged past the kitchen table, grabbed a magazine, rolled it on the run, and began flailing at the tiny bodies. She pulled a pink pixie off Katie's head and threw it across the kitchen. "Go back where you came from you, you overgrown bug!" It hit the wall beside the fridge, shook itself, buzzed angrily, and sped back to Katie.

"Mom-meee!"

"Keep your eyes covered, honey!" They swarmed so thick around the little girl that every swing knocked a couple out of the air. Unfortunately, it didn't seem to discourage them, although they did, finally, acknowledge the threat.

"Be careful, Mommy!" Katie wailed as the entire flock turned. "They bite!"

Their teeth weren't very big, but they were sharp.

The battle raged around the kitchen. Elaine soon bled from a number of small wounds. The pixies appeared to be no worse off than when they'd started even though they'd each been hit at least once.

A gold pixie perched for a moment on the table and hissed up at her, gnashing blood-stained teeth. Without thinking, Elaine slammed her aunt's old aluminium colander over it.

It shrank back from the sides and began hissing in earnest.

One down... The kitchen counter hit her in the small of the back. Elaine smashed her wrist against the cupboard, dislodging a purple pixie that had been attempting to chew her hand off, and groped around for a weapon. Dish rack, spatula, dish soap, spray can of snow...

Katie had wanted to write Merry Christmas on the kitchen window. They hadn't quite gotten around to it.

Elaine's fingers closed around the can. Knocking the lid off against the side of the sink, she nailed a lavender pixie at point-blank range.

The goopy white spray coated its wings, and it plummeted to the floor, hissing with rage.

"HA! I've got you now, you little... Take that! And that!"

The kitchen filled with the drifting clouds of a chemical blizzard.

"Mommy! They're leaving!"

Although a number of them were running rather than flying, the entire swarm appeared to be racing for the cellar door. With adrenaline sizzling along every nerve, Elaine followed. They weren't getting away from her that easily. She reached the bottom of the stairs in time to see the first of the pixies dive through the hole. Running full out, she managed to get in another shot at the half-dozen on foot before they disappeared and then, dropping to her knees, emptied the can after them.

"And may all your Christmases be white!" she screamed, sat back on her heels, and panted, feeling strong and triumphant and, for the first time in a long time, capable. She grinned down at the picture of Santa on the can. "I guess we showed them, didn't we?" Patting him on the cheek, she set the empty container down, noted it was a good thing she'd gotten the large, economy size, and turned her attention to the hole. The rock that had fallen out – or been pushed out – wasn't that large and could easily be manoeuvred back into place. She'd come down later with a can of mortar. Bucket of mortar? Someone at the hardware store would know.

Now that she really took the time to look at it, the hole actually occupied the lower corner of a larger patch in the wall. None of the stones were very big and although they'd been set carefully, they were obviously not part of the original construction. Squinting in the uncertain light, Elaine leaned forward and peered at a bit of red smeared across roughly the centre stone.

Was it blood?

It was Coral Dawn. She had a lipstick nearly the same shade in her purse. And the shape of the smear certainly suggested...

"Sealed with a kiss?"

Frowning, she poked at it with a fingertip.

The music crescendoed, and feelings not her own rode with it. Memories of... She felt herself flush. Sorrow at parting. Loneliness. Welcome. Annoyance that other, smaller creatures broke the rules and forced the passage.

Come and play! Come and...

A little stunned, Elaine lifted her finger. The music continued, but the feelings stopped. She swallowed and adjusted her jeans.

"I think she had other ways of keeping warm. Walkin' a bit funny too."

"She always smiled like she had a wonderful secret."

"A wonderful secret. Good lord." It was suddenly very warm in the cellar. If her aunt, her old, fragile aunt, who had obviously been a lot more flexible than she'd appeared, had accepted the music's invitation...

The scream of a furious cat jerked her head around and banished contemplation.

"Now what?" she demanded, scrambling to her feet and racing for the stairs. "Katie, did you let Sid-cat outside?"

"No." Katie met her at the cellar door, eyes wide. "It's two other cats. And a chicken."

Elaine gave her daughter a quick hug. "You stay here and guard Sid-cat. Mommy'll take care of it."

The pixie trapped under the colander hissed inarticulate threats.

"Shut up," she snapped without breaking stride. To her surprise, it obeyed. Grabbing her jacket, she headed out through the woodshed, snatching up the axe as she went. She didn't have a clue what she was going to do with it, but the weight felt good in her hand.

The cats were an identical muddy calico, thin with narrow heads, tattered ears, and vicious expressions. Bellies to the snow and ragged tails lashing from side to side, they were flanking the biggest chicken Elaine had ever seen. As she watched, one of the cats darted forward and the chicken lashed out with its tail.

Up until this moment, Elaine had never seen a chicken that hadn't been wrapped in cellophane, but even she knew that chickens did not have long, scaled, and, apparently, prehensile tails.

The first cat dodged the blow, while the second narrowly missed being eviscerated by a sideswipe from one of the bird's taloned feet. Elaine wasn't sure she should get involved, mostly because she wasn't sure whose side she should be on. Although the chicken had come from her cellar.

Growling low in its throat, the first cat attacked again, slid under a red and gold wing, and found itself face to face with its intended prey. To Elaine's surprise, the bird made no attempt to use its beak. It merely stared, unblinking, into the slitted yellow eyes of the cat.

The cat suddenly grew very still, its growl cut off in mid note, its tail frozen in mid lash.

All at once, choosing sides became very easy.

Still buzzing from her battle with the pixies, Elaine charged forward. The not-quite-a-chicken turned. Eyes squeezed shut, knuckles white around the haft, she swung the axe in a wild arc. Then again. And again.

The blade bit hard into something that resisted only briefly. Over the pounding of the blood in her ears, Elaine heard the sound of feathers beating against air and something stumbling in the snow. Something slammed against her shins. Opening her eyes a crack, she risked a look.

The headless body of the bird lay, not entirely still, at her feet. She leapt back as the tail twitched and nearly fell over the stone statue of the cat. Its companion glared at her, slunk in, grabbed the severed head, and, trailing blood from its prize, raced under a tangle of snow-laden bushes.

"I am not going to be sick," Elaine told herself sternly, leaning on the axe. Actually, the instruction appeared unnecessary. Although she was a little out of breath, she felt exalted rather than nauseous. She poked at the corpse with her foot. Whatever remaining life force had animated it after its head had been chopped off appeared to have ebbed. "And it's really most sincerely dead," she muttered. "Now what?"

Then the crunch of small bones from the bushes gave her an idea, and she smiled.

* * * *

Elaine watched Katie instructing Sid-cat in the use of her new paint box and decided that this could be one of the best Christmases she'd had in years. The woodstove seemed to be behaving, throwing out enough heat to keep the kitchen and the living room warm and cosy. She'd found a bag of frozen cranberries jammed under one of Porky's generous shoulders, and a pot of cranberry sauce now bubbled and steamed on top of the stove. Thanks to the instructions in her aunt's old cookbooks, the smell of roasting... well, the smell of roasting filled the house.

Her gaze drifted up to the top of the tree. Although the old angel had been an important part of her old life and she'd always feel its loss, the new angel was an equally important symbol of her fight to make a new life, and find a new home for herself and her daughter. Tethered with a bit of ribbon, its wings snow-covered in honour of the season, the pixie tossed glowing golden hair back off its face and gnawed on a bit of raw pork.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, Katie."

"Didn't Santa bring you any presents?"

"Mommy got her present early this morning. While you were still asleep."

"Did you like it?"

"Very, very much."

On the stereo, a Welsh choir sang Hosannas. Rising up from the cellar, wrapping around a choirboy's clear soprano, a set of pipes trilled out smug hosannas of their own.

A long, long time ago, I was a Brownie. In fact, I was a Brownie for two extra years. I started early because a new Brownie troop had just been formed and they needed girls, so my best friend and I were allowed in even though we were underage. I stayed late because the local Guide troop had no room, so the six of us ready to fly up were made junior leaders and allowed to pretty much run things for a year. Not surprisingly, after we finally did fly up and were suddenly low girl in the pecking order again, we all quit.

These days, the only interaction I have with Guiding is the same interaction everyone else in town has. During cookie season, a swarm of Sparks – very small girls in pink sweatshirts – surrounds anyone who gets out of a car in the grocery store parking lot. They sell a lot of cookies.

TUESDAY EVENINGS, SIX THIRTY TO SEVEN

She sat in the church hall basement on the old wooden chair like she'd sat for a thousand Septembers; where a thousand equalled thirty-seven, but seemed like so many more.

In the old days, she'd sat with other women – Tawny Owls, Grey Owls, Brown Owls – chatting and laughing and joyfully waiting for the new girls. Some girls raced down the stairs, leaving mothers or older sisters behind, thrilled to finally be old enough. Some descended slowly, deliberately, holding onto an adult hand, shy and unsure.

For the last eight years, she'd waited alone, but the girls still came. Less of them, sure, but she didn't need many – three or four eight-year-olds to join her nine-year-olds to replace those girls who had flown up. But both of last year's eight-year-olds had moved away, so this year, there were no nine-year-olds.

She watched the clock, watched eight o'clock come and go, and she stayed just a little longer. Sometimes parents got off work late. Or the girls might have school functions they needed to attend.

Eight thirty came and went.

She knew. She could feel the certainty catch at the back of her throat every time she swallowed. No one was going to come. What few girls the right age there were among the greying population of this small town had too many other enticements. Five hundred channels. A hundred gigabytes. Baseball. Ballet. Soccer. Music lessons.

They'd wanted her to fold the troop last year.

Maybe they'd been right.

She reached out a hand to scoop up the paperwork and brochures spread out on the scarred desk in front of her.

"Oi, Missus! Is this where we sign up?"

Decades of dealing with little girls had given her nerves of steel. Although she'd thought herself alone in the basement and could, in fact, see no evidence to the contrary, she neither started nor shrieked, merely leaned forward and peered over the edge of the desk.

Five men peered up at her. The tallest had to have been less than a metre high or she'd have been able to see the top of his head from her chair. All five wore old-fashioned clothing in varying shades of brown: waistcoats and jackets, loose trousers and cotton shirts, handkerchiefs knotted loosely around tanned necks. All five had brown hair and brown eyes. In fact, they looked remarkably like…

She leaned out a little further, half afraid she'd see hairy feet.

Thank God. Brown shoes.

"Take a picture," grumbled one. "Lasts longer."

The other four seemed to find that very funny, but even during all the sniggering, not one expectant gaze had left her face. They were clearly waiting for her to say something.

All right.

"Sign up for what?" she asked.

The tallest little man sighed. "We're Brownies, ain't we? We heared this is where you sign up."

Suddenly, sitting down seemed like an excellent idea.

"Oi! Where'd she go?"

"I'm thinking she fainted, like. Took one look at your ugly puss and fell right… OW!"

"Don't be daft. If she was on the floor, we could see her."

They had accents; a soft burr on voices that rose and fell like her Uncle Dave's after an evening at the Legion. A clattering that a part of her brain translated as wooden soles against tile – she'd worn wood and leather clogs back in the seventies – and all five came around the corner of the desk. Only four of them were in wooden-soled shoes, the fifth wore modern trainers, although she'd never realized they came in brown.

"Right then, there you are." The tallest folded his arms. "Let's get on with it, we ain't got all night."

"Yes, we do."

"Shut it!" he snapped without turning or unlocking his gaze from her face. "You the Brownie leader, then?"

She had to clear her throat to find her voice. "Yes, but…"

"So what's the problem?"

"You're not…" A rudimentary sense of self-preservation cut her off before she could finish with the right kind of Brownies. "…the kind of Brownies I usually deal with."

Their spokesman folded his arms belligerently, his action mirrored by the other four. "So?"

"This organization is for little girls."

"Little girls?"

"Yes."

"But we're Brownies!"

She spread her hands in the universal gesture for that's not really relevant, and there's nothing I can do about it anyway.

"But, but…"

A small but hoary fist smacked him on the shoulder. "I told you this'd never work, you great git!"

"Little girls," snorted another.

"It'll never happen for us," sighed a third.

Raised fists fell. Feet lifted to kick settled back onto the ground. A mouthful of damp sleeve was spit slowly out. What had clearly been about to descend into violence, became, instead, five dispirited little men.

Shoulders slumped, they turned away.

"Sorry for bothering you, Missus."

"Wait!" Not until they started to turn did she realize she'd been the one to call them back. After a moment's silent panic, she figured she might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, and a moment later decided that might not be the best simile she could have used as a couple of the little men looked like they'd rustled a sheep or two in their day. "If you're already Brownies…"

"If?" A bit of the belligerence returned.

"Sorry. Since you're already Brownies, why do you want to join my troop?"

"Why?"

"Yes, why?"

"Right, then." A gnarled finger indicated she should hold that thought, and the Brownies huddled up.

"If she can't help, she doesn't need to know."

"If she knows, maybe she can help."

"But then she'll know too much."

"We could kill her."

"Sure and what century are you living in? We'd have CSI all over us before we could say Killicrankie."

"You know, I've never understood why we'd say Killicrankie. It's daft. Totally bloody daft."

"Oh, shut your pie hole."

She wondered if they knew or cared she could hear every word. A short scuffle later, the vote to tell her went four to one. After the forceful application of a clog to the dissenter's nether regions, it ended five votes in favour. As they jumped up to sit on the edge of the desk…

"Right, then, that's a mite easier on the back of the neck."

…she handed out tissues and fished a box of last season's classic cookies out of her bag. All hands were still busy blotting bloody noses and minor bites, so she left the open box on the desk, took a chocolate and a vanilla, and sat back in her chair.

The tallest Brownie gave her a thoughtful look – his shiner already beginning to fade – took a cookie of each flavour, and passed the box along. "It's like this, Missus," he said, "we're tired of being Brownies…"

"All the cleaning."

"And the serving."

"And the not being appreciated."

"Or believed in."

"…and we heard you can make us something else."

"Something else?"

"That's what we heard." He tapped a fingertip to the side of one hirsute nostril.

"Well, my girls fly up to be Guides, but…"

"Guides!" Unsurprisingly, his smile was missing a couple of teeth. "Then that's what we'll be. We'll be Guides."

Agreement from the others emerged slightly muffled by the cookies.

She thought she was taking this remarkably well, all things considered. "You don't understand; Guides are another level in a worldwide organization."

"Aye. And we're Brownies."

"You'll be making us Guides," added the Brownie in the running shoes.

They really weren't getting it. "It's not Guides the same way that you're Brownies. It's more a name given to acknowledge that the girls are ready to move on."

"Aye." The tallest Brownie nodded. "And so are we."

"Past ready."

"Way past."

"Long past."

"Oi, Missus! Got any more cookies?"

"No. You've eaten the whole box, any more and you'll make yourself sick." When they accepted that without argument, she took a deep breath and tried again. "Brownies are part of an all-female organization. They're eight- and nine-year-old girls. You're not girls, and even if you were, you'd be too old."

"But we are Brownies."

"Yes, but…"

"Que Sera."

"He starts to sing, I'm for stuffin' my fist down his gullet."

"That'd improve things."

"What's he gotta use them fancy foreign words for anyways?"

"Too big for his bloody britches."

"Stop it." To her surprise, they did – if not immediately, after only some minor bruising. "That kind of behaviour is not good citizenship."

"What does that mean when it's home?"

But the tallest answered before she could. "It means she's taken us on; doesn't it, Missus?"

The clock showed twenty past nine. They were alone in the basement, just her and five Brownies.

"Yes," she told them. "That's what it means." After all, the latest Strategic Plan listed increasing the diversity of membership as a key priority.

* * * *

Their names were Big Tam, Little Tam, Callum, Conner, and Ewan. There was a reason they sounded like her Uncle Dave.

"Have you looked in your phone book lately," Big Tam snorted. "Two pages of Mc's and near three of Mac's, plus Campbells and Buchanans and Browns and Kerrs. We came across the big pond with them, didn't we. Course, Ewan's working for a Singh now, his last Campbell married over."

Ewan grinned. "I'll take a nice curry over a bloody bowl of milk and a bannock any night."