'You fell out the sky,' Miss Wolftongue told me whenever I asked where I came from. But I never believed her till the time we had fish sandwiches for tea. I won't forget that Tuesday: Miss Wolftongue hadn't lopped off the heads or cooked them or anything.

     Rather thin and ancient and weedy, was my Miss Wolftongue. Her face had much more skin than it really needed; it hung by the sides of her mouth like sad Christmas decorations. Her glasses had sharp, sparkly frames and thick grey hair sprouted from under her cap.

     Oh, her cap.

     Though she'd poke the fire and mutter about the cold, she might take off her green raincoat if it was summer. But that bus driver's cap never came off.

     Early each morning she'd climb aboard her green battle bus and run folk from our village to their work. Then in the evening she'd bring them home again. She was pretty much stuck to her chair the rest of the day.

     Remembering.

     During the First War To End All Wars, Miss Wolftongue and her bus had been famous. The Friendly Bus Driver they'd called her. I didn't find her so friendly. She was supposed to look after me, but she made me sleep in the bus. 'Just, you're only a prisoner, after all,' she said.

     I was just wondering how to escape the fish sandwiches when there was a loud cry of, 'Below!' from somewhere far above. Miss Wolftongue never let me eat in the house, even if it was raining, so I had an easy view of the cloudy sky. There was a small dot growing larger and larger as it fell towards our backyard.

     'Miss Wolftongue!' I yelled. But she'd heard the cry too and was already scuttling out from her cold stone kitchen. Scanning the skies she clenched her fists, rattled them together and hissed, 'About time too, just.' She had a funny buzz to her voice like no one else round here.

     The dot was a lot bigger and nearer now. It had a head, two arms and two legs and was laughing. 'Is that ..? Is that a wee baby?' I asked in astonishment.

     'Here, don't be so ridiculous. It's at least two years old, just,' snapped Miss Wolftongue, holding her hands out and dancing round the tiny yard as she tried to judge where the dot would land. I'd never seen her move so fast. 'Here, get off your backside, boy, and help me catch it. Just, off your backside.'

     The child was almost on us now, letting out gurgles of delight as it raced down. I followed in Miss Wolftongue's footsteps as she spun round the stony yard. Wildly dashing to the far wall, she tripped over the ball and chain she made me wear, stepped onto my plate of fish sandwiches, and slid across the loose stones into the wall.

     And my little brother, as he was to become, fell into my arms, looked up at me and smiled.


I took Miss Wolftongue's word for it when she said he was about two. He was plump and had thick, brown hair. He was dressed in a worn woollen jumper way too big for him. There was a note stuck to his arm which Miss Wolftongue grabbed and hurriedly read.

     'Aha!' She beamed in delight as she lifted the wee boy from me. 'Go get Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop and I'll get the bus. Go on, get going. We're in a hurry, just.'

     'But what's going on?' I asked. 'Where did he come from?'

     She waved me away. 'Same place you did, just. Now, off with you and go get Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop. Tell her the gauntlet has been thrown down. I'll meet you outside Hibbly's.'


Holding tight to my ball and chain, I raced over bridges, leapt across bottomless chasms and flew down carved stairways. Well, really I went pretty slowly. Even catching the bus can be scary where we live.

     Our village is called Fernlaith Hill because it clings to the top of a steep tower of rock that rises up from the cold slate of the Fernlaith Valley. Don't ever come to visit us by train. The station lingers on the valley floor. To reach us you must then climb the narrow, almost vertical road that swerves down the side of the Hill like a helter-skelter. If you wait long enough you might catch Miss Wolftongue's battered bus as it battles its way back from the city of Porkskreach. If you're really lucky you'll get a lift from a delivery van, or one of the very, very rare motor cars.

     There was once a castle here, built because it was near impossible to attack. Much of the village grew out of the remains. The school is built around the old kitchens. Where, so the legend goes, King Holboom encountered the hideous jam jar lurker while engaged in a midnight snack. Apparently he got such a fright, his ear fell right off. And the Queen's Chapel is where the Night Watch set up the Great Guns during the War, to keep the skies above the valley clear from Enemy attack.

     The castle foundations were carved from a mess of sharp ridges and gashes. Today, even the shortest walk through the village involves countless steep staircases cut into the rock, and wooden walkways crossing the gullies.

     I knew every inch of it in those days. Miss Wolftongue didn't care what I did so long as I reported in at teatime. Often I'd sneak out of the bus at night and wander round when there was no one to throw stones at me. I made the whole of Fernlaith Hill my home.

     Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop didn't have a house either, but I knew where to find her. For the last sixteen years she'd been a goalpost on the football pitch behind Hibbly's biscuit factory. Before that she'd been a great hero in the First War To End All Wars, endlessly whizzing through the air on her flying machine to teach the Enemy a lesson they'd never forget. When the Enemy surrendered, Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop went in a huff. 'Cheats!' she spat from her hospital bed, having been shot down just the day before. 'Why should they be allowed to surrender?' Anxiously hoping the surrender was nothing more than an Enemy ruse, Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop came to our village armed with a telescope.

     Fernlaith Hill offered a clear view of the heavens. Night after night, day after day, Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop sat on the football pitch and examined the skies. Desperate she was to glimpse even the smallest sneaky build up of Enemy forces. Behind her waited her flying machine, the pitch just the right length for a runway. Even though, rumour had it, she had been too badly injured in her final battle ever to fly again. And not too far away she'd had a small shed hastily built. The sign on the door said Top Secret Weapons Dump. Please Go Away. The Retired Air Marshal had scored out the Please. No one was quite sure what kind of weapons were in the shed but, from the sounds of them, they were very much alive.

     Eventually even the Retired Air Marshal had to admit that the Enemy weren't coming back. Her gloomy disappointment quickly turned to depression. Refusing to eat or even speak to anyone, she continued to sit motionless on the pitch long after all her tears had run dry and her flying machine fallen to rust.

     She scared the ears off me, but the older children used her as a handy goalpost.


To the left of Harverston's store a steep tunnel had been gouged from the rock. It swooped downwards a short way until the stone itself ran out, just below Hibbly's biscuit factory and hundreds of feet above the ground. A flimsy wooden ramp stretched across nothing onto a platform of stone that was just the right size for a football pitch. As always, I paused to lift up my ball before crossing; more than once that ball and chain had nearly dragged me off the Hill. On the pitch there was no grass or markings. There were makeshift goalposts, but no nets. Many a ball had been accidentally launched across the valley. Though none by me; I'd never been invited to play.

     The pitch was empty this gloomy evening. I shivered as I crossed the sharp stones towards the largest of the goalposts. Sixteen years it had sat there, slumped in defeat. But underneath the moss, graffiti and grime there still waited an immense warrior, wrapped as always in full ceremonial furs, horns and flying leathers. I looked up at her. She was massive; as broad as she was tall. Her face was bony and deeply lined; her chin more chiselled than chosen. Her grey, weathered face was grotesquely highlighted by the remains of ruby lipstick and blue eye shadow. Faded red locks were pulled up under her goggles and flying helmet. In the crook of one muscular leather-clad arm rested the strap of her handbag and a colossal sword, its blade chipped and scarred.

     'Excuse me ...' The words came out in a whisper. 'Excuse me, Madam Retired Air Marshal. Miss Wolftongue says ...'

     Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop didn't stir. Why hadn't sixteen years of rain washed her lipstick away?

     'She says the gauntlet's been thrown.'

     For a moment there was nothing. Then the eyelids flickered slowly. 'Eh?' she growled.

     'Miss Wolftongue says the gauntlet's been thrown.'

     'Ah.' With a grunt she straightened up. 'Jolly good.'


The disjointed landscape of Fernlaith Hill made it very difficult to have any useful roads, other than the one up from the valley. Miss Wolftongue kept her bus in a wooden garage about ten minutes from her house. She was waiting for us now, parked outside Hibbly's. The engine turning over, her bottle green pride and joy was happily coughing out thick black clouds.

     Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop marched unevenly, swinging her leg awkwardly and causing rows of medals on each shoulder to clank together like dull wind chimes. Even so, with my ball and chain I struggled to keep up. The bus shifted under her weight, almost toppling over as she climbed the steps.

     'By here, good evening Madam Retired Air Marshal, just,' said Miss Wolftongue, clearly excited.

     Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop merely snorted and squeezed into the front row - all of it. The little boy was on Miss Wolftongue's knee. She chucked him over to me as soon as I'd clambered into the next row. Miss Wolftongue shifted the gear stick, released the brake, and we rattled down the almost vertical road.

     'Where have we to go?' Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop demanded. Her faced was set deep in a scowl, but her fingers rapped hungrily at the handrail.

     'Oh, wee place on the coast called Wearypenn, Madam Retired Air Marshal. About twenty miles, just.'

     'Twenty miles?' Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop waved a hand round the bus, almost smashing three windows. 'Twenty miles is enough to slaughter this rusty beast.'

     'Here, this rusty beast, Madam Retired Air Marshal, has gotten you out of enough scrapes in the past, just. To Hell and back again. Just, to Hell and back.'

     'Ha!' the Retired Air Marshal squawked in disgust. She quickly added, 'Good Gordon Highlanders woman! Learn to drive!' as we were all thrown to one side.

     'I can drive well enough, thank you Madam Retired Air Marshal, just.' On the valley floor now, we were following a narrow, twisting road. The steering wheel of the bus was so big, Miss Wolftongue had to bend right over it just to grasp the sides.

     'Where are we going?' I asked. The wee boy giggled and pulled my hair, but the others ignored me.

     'Oh yes,' Miss Wolftongue went on. 'Just. I can drive well enough. I'm famous for it. So there we go, just. Remember the Battle of Jenhandra?'

     ''Course. I was there,' Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop growled grudgingly. But her scowl grew warmer.

     'Well I'm just telling you, who saved the day? Mmm? Who saved your backside that day? Just. Yours and  your squaddies'? Me, that's who,' she said smugly.

     'Miss Wolftongue is a famous war hero,' I piped up automatically: the old woman reminded me of this every day. 'She's the Friendly Bus Driver.'

     'Famous?' Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop released a wicked chuckle. 'Well I've never seen anyone ask for her autograph. Ha!'

     That shut up Miss Wolftongue, who stared huffily into the murk. Satisfied, Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop took a rock from her fur and began sharpening her sword.

     'What's going on?' I asked. Again, the little boy laughed.


After a while the valley was behind us and we were careering round the bends of a country lane. The bus quivered and thundered, tossing us high off the seats. I grabbed the boy to stop him falling, but my ball and chain sped off down the aisle, yanking us roughly after. The Retired Air Marshal released the occasional scrap of a song.

     The houses grew thicker until we stopped in a little village I guessed was Wearypenn. A wide road ran down the middle of a row of houses before petering out on a stony shore. The brakes on the bus weren't too hot, and we slid to a halt outside a pub, narrowly missing the small crowd waiting for us.

     'Reconnoitre,' ordered the Retired Air Marshal.

     Miss Wolftongue creaked off the bus. A couple of people came forward from the group and spoke with her. There were lots of grins, and she shook a few hands before returning to us.

     'I'm just laughing at that wee man there, just. The one with the floppy face. What's he like? Here anyway, it's happening on the shore. Just over there, just. It's stony; flat enough under your big feet. No danger of trench foot.'

     The Retired Air Marshal nodded.

     'Well ... your enemy awaits.' Miss Wolftongue pointed towards the pub. 'And here, they've arranged a wee tea afterwards for the winner, just.'

     Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop suddenly grabbed the other woman's arm. 'Did you tell them about lemonade and honey? You know I can't fight without my lemonade and honey.'

     Miss Wolftongue grinned. 'By here, it'd be a sorry day if I forgot that. Just, it'd be a sorry day. They're making it now, Madam Retired Air Marshal.'

     Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop relaxed her hand and gently patted Miss Wolftongue's arm. 'Excellent as always, Wolftongue. Rather like old times, eh? Remember when we sneaked bus right up behind ...'

     '... those grannies with their iron slaughterphant? By here, we drove close to the wind that day.'

     The Retired Air Marshal nodded happily. 'Best way. But how it felt to be alive, eh? How it felt.'

     Miss Wolftongue didn't normally smile at me, let alone speak, but she did now. 'Here, come on, just,' she said, 'and bring the little fellow.'

     The little fellow could walk, and I was still pretty little myself then, so I took his hand rather than try carrying him. The small crowd cheered politely as Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop joined them, and we all headed for the beach. The gentle waves peppered the air with the smell of salt.

     A larger group were waiting on the shore; maybe about a hundred or so. Well, when I think about it now, there must have been that many. But sometimes you remember things differently from the way they happened, and I was only about six then. They were all gathered in a rough circle, leaving a large space free in the middle. We were guided to the left of the circle, where a small wooden stool waited for the Retired Air Marshal. It was almost dark now. Although there were gas lamps on the road, they weren't of much help here. But on the opposite side of the ring, I could make out another stool holding up a large man. His hair was thinning, but his moustache bristled massively. He'd taken off his shirt to reveal a white vest and confident muscles. Four children were massaging and grooming those muscles. Another two kneeled, polishing his boots. Further back, on a wooded jetty groaning under the weight, stood their flying machine.

     I pulled on Miss Wolftongue's sleeve. 'What's going on? Who is that?'

     'Retired Air Commodore Woodtrollop, just, that's who he is. He made quite a name for himself during the War, just.' Nodding approvingly, she added, 'Very vicious.'

     'Have we come to visit him?' I asked.

     Miss Wolftongue's eyes were sparkling. 'Indeed we have not, by here. Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop has come to do battle with him, just.'

     'Why?'

     'Why? Why? Because he threw down the gauntlet. You were there! Just! You caught it, by here.' And she grabbed her chest as if the shock of my stupidity was too much for her to bear.

     'I just caught the wee boy.' And I pointed to him so she'd understand.

     'The wee boy is the gauntlet, just. Good Gordon Highlanders! Throwing down the gauntlet is ... just ... well, a gauntlet is a sort of glove; an armoured glove. So if you throw your glove at your enemy's feet it means you're challenging them. And they have to do battle with you or just admit to the whole world they're scared of you. And here, it doesn't have to be an actual glove, it can be a -'

     'A wee boy?'

     'Anything, just. Between you and me, Woodtrollop is a bit of a show-off, just. A bit of a show-off.'

     'But why has he challenged Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop? Has she done something to annoy him?'

     'Just ... Heroes like Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop, and here' - she cleared her throat politely - 'myself, are not like other people, just. We're creatures of action. We ride the urgent hours of consequence, just. But we find peacetime a struggle.'

     'So you fight each other?'

     Miss Wolftongue was suddenly sheepish. 'Well, only the big ... just, you need to be higher than a captain. Else you face a court-martial, just, a court-martial. And here, it's due; not fight.'

     'What's the difference?'

     'Fighting is crass and unrefined, just. It's what common people do after a skinful of beer. Duelling is artful and sophisticated. It's for warriors, so it is. But by here, I've not had fun like this for years. Not since you landed on my doorstep, just. And this is going to be so great, just. It'll be so great. See, Woodtrollop was the last officer to challenge the Retired Air Marshal, just. And like everyone else, he lost, just. Looks like he's never gotten over it.'

     Woodtrollop advanced a little into the no-man's-land between us. Stabbing the stones with a bloodstained triple-bladed sword, he sat cross-legged on the beach. Closing his eyes and holding his hands upwards, he began to breathe deeply.

     'What's he doing?'

     'Preparing himself for battle, just.'

     I looked over at the Retired Air Marshal, who was glaring in the direction of the pub. 'What about Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop? Isn't she going to prepare?'

     Miss Wolftongue nodded. 'Here, don't you doubt it, just, don't you bother doubting. Look, here it comes now.'

     A young woman came running onto the shore with a large tankard which she handed to the Retired Air Marshal. The old warrior drank the contents in a oner.

     'What's that?'

     'Hot lemonade with a spoonful of honey. Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop likes to get ready for battle by letting out her mighty war cry. But it strains her throat, just.'

     Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop threw the empty cup away. Woodtrollop sprang to his feet, grabbing the sword along the way. Using her own sword as a walking stick, and still carrying her handbag, the Retired Air Marshal set off to face her foe.

     Miss Wolftongue reached out and tickled the wee boy under the chin. 'Don't worry,' she told him. 'The Retired Air Marshal will win easily.'

     Woodtrollop charged. The crowd gasped in horror as that murderous, triple-bladed sword sliced through the air. But Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop merely cleared her throat, threw back her head and yelled,

Woodtrollop fell to the ground in a faint, much to the disappointment of the spectators, who had been hoping for a fight rather longer and more spectacular.

     Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop moved towards the gate. 'I believe you said something about tea for winner?'


We didn't stay long in the pub, which was small and drab and had only very old balloons. Miss Wolftongue was buzzing with excitement, especially after someone asked for her autograph, but the Retired Air Marshal wanted to go home. Woodtrollop had already gone. As soon as he came to, he'd leapt into his flying machine and was off. Too ashamed to face the warrior who'd beaten him for the second time.

     'By here, wasn't that wonderful?' Miss Wolftongue cooed as we drove off. 'Just! Did you see the way the Retired Air Marshal swung her sword? The way she scared the ears off him? Just, they're not actually allowed to kill one another. Against the rules, just.' Again she tickled the wee boy under his chin. 'I told you she'd beat him easily, didn't I?'

     Easily. She'd said that to him twice. 'What about Easily's mum and dad?' I asked. 'Shouldn't we get him home?'

     'Who? Easily? Ha! By here, Easily!' Miss Wolftongue suddenly slammed on the brakes. 'Look, a chip shop. Let's have chips, just.' And she scurried off the bus.

     'No fun at all,' murmured Retired Air Marshal Hazzlethrop as we waited. I think she was more talking to herself. 'Not like old days. Not like War. But there'll never be another War To End All Wars. Not for me.' A sudden quake slammed through her body. She gave a fierce whoop, as though she couldn't catch her breath.

     After a moment she continued, 'Comes a time you have to admit it. Too badly injured.' She turned her gaze to the night sky. 'Can't pedal fast enough to keep my flying machine in air. Not like Woodtrollop.'

     The wee boy had fallen asleep now. A few moths and midges clashed in the beams of the bus headlamps.

     'Not like being alive at all.'


'But what about his parents?' I asked again as Miss Wolftongue finished the last of her chips and scrunched up the paper.

     'Who? Little Easily? Just, Little Easily doesn't have parents. Woodtrollop just grabbed him out that orphanage he's in charge of. Same as he did with you. That's where he went after the War, to run an orphanage. Just. So I guess we're stuck with him, worst luck. Just like we're stuck with you. Here, I'll need to get a new ball and chain.'

     'I hate my ball and chain,' I said grumpily.

     'Here, that's just too bad, just. You and he, you're like prisoners of war when you think of it. Just, prisoners. Of course you have to have a ball and chain, just.' Miss Wolftongue turned and patted the wee boy on the head, which was rather frightening because she was still driving and there were no street lights. 'By here, that was a good joke you made. I think we will call him Easily.'

     I suddenly felt quite jealous because I didn't have a name.

     'He can be your wee brother, just.'

     Easily smiled in his sleep.

© Francis O'Dowd 2004