Free Trigger Warning: Short Fictions and Disturbances by Neil Gaiman Page A

not see me approaching, and he did not look up until I said, “I used to do that. Gather the wool from the thornbushes and twigs. My mother would wash it, then she would make me things with it. A ball, and a doll.”
    He turned. He looked shocked, as if I had appeared out of nowhere. And I had not. I had walked many a mile, and had many more miles to go. I said, “I walk quietly. Is this the house of Calum MacInnes?”
    The boy nodded, drew himself up to his full height, which was perhaps two fingers bigger than mine, and he said, “I am Calum MacInnes.”
    “Is there another of that name? For the Calum MacInnes that I seek is a grown man.”
    The boy said nothing, just unknotted a thick clump of sheep’s wool from the clutching fingers of the thornbush. I said, “Your father, perhaps? Would he be Calum MacInnes as well?”
    The boy was peering at me. “What are you?” he asked.
    “I am a small man,” I told him. “But I am a man, nonetheless, and I am here to see Calum MacInnes.”
    “Why?” The boy hesitated. Then, “And why are you so small?”
    I said, “Because I have something to ask your father. Man’s business.” And I saw a smile start at the tips of his lips. “It’s not a bad thing to be small, young Calum. There was a night when the Campbells came knocking on my door, a whole troop of them, twelve men with knives and sticks, and they demanded of my wife, Morag, that she produce me, as they were there to kill me, in revenge for some imagined slight. And she said, ‘Young Johnnie, run down to the far meadow, and tell your father to come back to the house, that I sent for him.’ And the Campbells watched as the boy ran out the door. They knew that I was a most dangerous person. But nobody had told them that I was a wee man, or if that had been told them, it had not been believed.”
    “Did the boy call you?” said the lad.
    “It was no boy,” I told him, “but me myself, it was. And they’d had me, and still I walked out the door and through their fingers.”
    The boy laughed. Then he said, “Why were the Campbells after you?”
    “It was a disagreement about the ownership of cattle. They thought the cows were theirs. I maintained the Campbells’ ownership of them had ended the first night the cows had come with me over the hills.”
    “Wait here,” said young Calum MacInnes.
    I sat by the burn and looked up at the house. It was a good-sized house: I would have taken it for the house of a doctor or a man of law, not of a border reaver. There were pebbles on the ground and I made a pile of them, and I tossed the pebbles, one by one, into the burn. I have a good eye, and I enjoyed rattling the pebbles over the meadow and into the water. I had thrown a hundred stones when the boy returned, accompanied by a tall, loping man. His hair was streaked with gray, his face was long and wolfish. There are no wolves in those hills, not any longer, and the bears have gone too.
    “Good day to you,” I said.
    He said nothing in return, only stared. I am used to stares. I said, “I am seeking Calum MacInnes. If you are he, say so, I will greet you. If you are not he, tell me now, and I will be on my way.”
    “What business would you have with Calum MacInnes?”
    “I wish to hire him, as a guide.”
    “And where is it you would wish to be taken?”
    I stared at him. “That is hard to say,” I told him. “For there are some who say it does not exist. There is a certain cave on the Misty Isle.”
    He said nothing. Then he said, “Calum, go back to the house.”
    “But, Da—”
    “Tell your mother I said she was to give you some tablet. You like that. Go on.”
    Expressions crossed the boy’s face—puzzlement, hunger, happiness—and then he turned and ran back to the white house.
    Calum MacInnes said, “Who sent you here?”
    I pointed to the burn as it splashed its way between us on its journey down the hill. “What’s that?” I asked.
    “Water,” he replied.
    “And they say there