Wyrd Sisters

by Terry Pratchett

Page 36

 

  Tomjon sipped his tea uneasily, the backstage noises whirring around him like so much fog. He was worried.

  Hwel had said that everything about the play was fine, except for the play itself. And Tomjon kept thinking that the play itself was trying to force itself into a different shape. His mind had been hearing other words, just too faint for hearing. It was almost like eavesdropping on a conversation. Hed had to shout more to drown out the buzzing in his head.

  This wasnt right. Once a play was written it was, well, written. It shouldnt come alive and start twisting itself around.

  No wonder everyone needed prompting all the time. The play was writhing under their hands, trying to change itself.

  Ye gods, hed be glad to get out of this spooky castle, and away from this mad duke. He glanced around, decided that it would be some time before the next act was called, and wandered aimlessly in search of fresher air.

  A door yielded to his touch and he stepped out on to the battlements. He pushed it shut behind him, cutting off the sounds of the stage and replacing them by a velvet hush. There was a livid sunset imprisoned behind bars of cloud, but the air was as still as a mill pond and as hot as a furnace. In the forest below some night bird screamed.

  He walked to the other end of the battlements and peered down into the sheer depths of the gorge. Far beneath, the Lancre boiled in its eternal mists.

  He turned, and walked into a draught of such icy coldness that he gasped.

  Unusual breezes plucked at his clothing. There was a strange muttering in his ear, as though someone was-trying to talk to him but couldnt get the speed right. He stood rigid for a moment, getting his breath, and then fled for the door.

  But were not witches!

  Why do you look like them, then? Tie their hands, lads.

  Yes, excuse me, but were not really witches!

  The captain of the guard looked from face to face. His gaze took in the pointy hats, the disordered hair smelling of damp haystacks, the sickly green complexions and the herd of warts. Guard captain for the duke wasnt a job that offered long-term prospects for those who used initiative. Three witches had been called for, and these seemed to fit the bill.

  The captain never went to the theatre. When he was on the rack of adolescence hed been badly frightened by a Punch and Judy show, and since then had taken pains to avoid any organised entertainment and had kept away from anywhere where crocodiles could conceivably be expected. Hed spent the last hour enjoying a quiet drink in the guardroom.

  I said tie their hands, didnt I? he snapped.

  Shall we gag them as well, capn?

  But if youd just listen, were with the theatre—

  Yes, said the captain, shuddering. Gag them.

  Please . . .

  The captain leaned down and stared at three pairs of frightened eyes. He was trembling.

  That, he said, is the last time youll eat anyones sausage.

  He was aware that now the soldiers were giving him odd looks as well. He coughed and pulled himself together.

  Very well then, my theatrical witches, he said. Youve done your show, and now its time for your applause. He nodded to his men.

  Clap them in chains, he said.

  Three other witches sat in the gloom behind the stage, staring vacantly into the darkness. Granny Weatherwax had picked up a copy of the script, which she peered at from time to time, as if seeking ideas.

  “Divers alarums and excursions”, she read, uncertainly.

  That means lots of terrible happenings, said Magrat. You always put that in plays.

  Alarums and what? said Nanny Ogg, who hadnt been listening.

  Excursions, said Magrat patiently.

  Oh. Nanny Ogg brightened a bit. The seaside would be nice, she said.

  Do shut up, Gytha, said Granny Weatherwax. Theyre not for you. Theyre only for divers, like it says. Probably so they can recover from all them alarums.

  We cant let this happen, said Magrat, quickly and loudly. If this gets about, witchesll always be old hags with green blusher.

  And meddlin in the affairs of kings, said Nanny. Which we never do, as is well known.

  Its not the meddlin I object to, said Granny Weatherwax, her chin on her hand. Its the evil meddling.

  And the unkindness to animals, muttered Magrat. All that stuff about eye of dog and ear of toad. No-one uses that kind of stuff.

  Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg carefully avoided one anothers faces.

  Drabe! said Nanny Ogg bitterly.

  Witches just arent like that, said Magrat. We live in harmony with the great cycles of Nature, and do no harm to anyone, and its wicked of them to say we dont. We ought to fill their bones with hot lead.

  The other two looked at her with a certain amount of surprised admiration. She blushed, although not greenly, and looked at her knees.

  Goodie Whemper did a recipe, she confessed. Its quite easy. What you do is, you get some lead, and you—

  I dont think that would be appropriate, said Granny carefully, after a certain amount of internal struggle. It could give people the wrong idea.

  But not for long, said Nanny wistfully.

  No, we cant be having with that sort of thing, said Granny, a little more firmly this time. Wed never hear the last of it.

  Why dont we just change the words? said Magrat. When they come back on stage we could just put the fluence on them so they forget what theyre saying, and give them some new words.

  I suppose youre an expert at theatre words? said Granny sarcastically. Theyd have to be the proper sort, otherwise people would suspect.

  Shouldnt be too difficult, said Nanny Ogg dismissively. Ive been studyin it. You go tumpty-tumpty-tumpty.

  Granny gave this some consideration.

  Theres more to it than that, I believe, she said. Some of those speeches were very good. I couldnt understand hardly any of it.

  Theres no trick to it at all, Nanny Ogg insisted. Anyway, half of them are forgetting their lines as it is. Itll be easy.

  We could put words in their mouths? said Magrat.

  Nanny Ogg nodded. I dont know about new words, she said. But we can make them forget these words.

  They both looked at Granny Weatherwax. She shrugged.

  I suppose its worth a try, she conceded.

  Witches as yet unborn will thank us for it, said Magrat ardently.

  Oh, good, said Granny.

  At last! What are you three playing at? Weve been looking for you everywhere!

  The witches turned to see an irate dwarf trying to loom over them.

  Us? said Magrat. But were not in—

  Oh yes you are, remember, we put it in last week. Act Two, Downstage, around the cauldron. You havent got to say anything. Youre symbolising occult forces at work. Just be as wicked as you can. Come on, theres good lads. Youve done well so far.

  Hwel slapped Magrat on the bottom. Good complexion youve got mere, Wilph, he said encouragingly. But for goodness sake use a bit more padding, youre still the wrong shape. Fine warts there, Billem. I must say, he added, standing back, you look as nasty a bunch of hags as a body might hope to clap eyes on. Well done. Shame about the wigs. Now run along. Curtain up in one minute. Break a leg.

  He gave Magrat another ringing slap on her rump, slightly hurting his hand, and hurried off to shout at someone else.

  None of the witches dared to speak. Magrat and Nanny Ogg found themselves instinctively turning towards Granny.

  She sniffed. She looked up. She looked around. She looked at the brightly lit stage behind her. She brought her hands together with a clap that echoed around the castle, and then rubbed them together.

  Useful, she said grimly. Lets do the show right here. Nanny squinted sullenly after Hwel. Break your own leg, she muttered.

  Hwel stood in the wings and gave the signal for the curtains. And for the thunder.

  It didnt come.

  Thunder!
he hissed, in a voice heard by half the audience. Get on with it!

  A voice from behind the nearest pillar wailed, I went and bent the thunder, Hwel! It just goes clonk-clonk!

  Hwel stood silent for a moment, counting. The company watched him, awestruck but not, unfortunately, thunderstruck.

  At last he raised his fists to the open sky and said, I wanted a storm! Just a storm. Not even a big storm. Any storm. Now I want to make myself absolutely CLEAR! I have had ENOUGH! I want thunder right NOW!

  The stab of lightning that answered him turned the multi-hued shadows of the castle into blinding white and searing black. It was followed by a roll of thunder, on cue.

  It was the loudest noise Hwel had ever heard. It seemed to start inside his head and work its way outwards.

  It went on and on, shaking every stone in the castle. Dust rained down. A distant turret broke away with balletic slowness and, tumbling end over end, dropped gently into the hungry depths of the gorge.

  When it finished it left a silence that rang like a bell.

  Hwel looked up at the sky. Great black clouds were blowing across the castle, blotting out the stars.

  The storm was back.

  It had spent ages learning its craft. It had spent years lurking in distant valleys. It had practised for hours in front of a glacier. It had studied the great storms of the past. It had honed its art to perfection. And now, tonight, with what it could see was clearly an appreciative audience waiting for it, it was going to take them by, well . . . tempest.

  Hwel smiled. Perhaps the gods did listen, after all. He wished hed asked for a really good wind machine as well.

  He gestured frantically at Tomjon.

  Get on with it!

  The boy nodded, and launched into his main speech.

  And now our domination is complete—

  Behind him on the stage the witches bent over the cauldron.

  Its just tin, this one, hissed Nanny. And its full of all yuk.

  And the fire is just red paper, whispered Magrat. It looked so real from up there, its just red paper! Look, you can poke it—

  Never mind, said Granny. Just look busy, and wait until I say.

  As the Evil King and the Good Duke began the exchange that was going to lead to the exciting Duel Scene they became uncomfortably aware of activity behind them, and occasional chuckles from the audience. After a totally inappropriate burst of laughter Tomjon risked a sideways glance.

  One of the witches was taking their fire to bits. Another one was trying to clean the cauldron. The third one was sitting with her arms folded, glaring at him.

  The very soil cries out at tyranny— said Wimsloe, and then caught the expression on Tomjons face and followed his gaze. His voice trailed into silence.

  “And calls me forth for vengeance”, prompted Tomjon helpfully.

  B-but— whispered Wimsloe, trying to point surreptitiously with his dagger.

  I wouldnt be seen dead with a cauldron like this, said Nanny Ogg, in a whisper loud enough to carry to the back of the courtyard. Two days work with a scourer and a bucket of sand, is this.

  “And calls me forth for vengeance” hissed Tomjon. Out of the tail of his eye he saw Hwel in the wings, frozen in an attitude of incoherent rage.

  How do they make it flicker? said Magrat.

  Be quiet, you two, said Granny. Youre upsetting people. She raised her hat to Wimsloe. Go ahead, young man. Dont mind us.

  Wha? said Wimsloe.

  Aha, it calls you forth for vengeance, does it? said Tomjon. in desperation. And the heavens cry revenge, too, I expect.

  On cue, the storm produced a thunderbolt that blew the top off another tower . . .