Wyrd Sisters

by Pratchett, Terry

  ‘We did it the year before,’ said Hwel calmly. ‘Anyway, people are fed up with kings. They want a bit of a chuckle.’

  ‘They are not fed up with my kings,’ said Vitoller. ‘My dear boy, people do not come to the theatre to laugh, they come to Experience, to Learn, to Wonder—’

  ‘To laugh,’ said Hwel, flatly. ‘Have a look at this one.’

  Tomjon heard the rustle of paper and the creak of wickerwork as Vitoller lowered his weight on to a props basket.

  ‘A Wizard of Sorts,’ Vitoller read. ‘Or, Please Yourself.’

  Hwel stretched his legs under the table and dislodged Tomjon. He hauled the boy out by one ear.

  ‘What’s this?’ said Vitoller. ‘Wizards? Demons? Imps? Merchants?’

  ‘I’m rather pleased with Act II, Scene IV,’ said Hwel, propelling the toddler towards the props box. ‘Comic Washing Up with Two Servants.’

  ‘Any death-bed scenes?’ said Vitoller hopefully.

  ‘No-o,’ said Hwel. ‘But I can do you a humorous monologue in Act III.’

  ‘A humorous monologue!’

  ‘All right, there’s room for a soliloquy in the last act,’ said Hwel hurriedly. ‘I’ll write one tonight, no problem.’

  ‘And a stabbing,’ said Vitoller, getting to his feet. ‘A foul murder. That always goes down well.’

  He strode away to organize the setting up of the stage.

  Hwel sighed, and picked up his quill. Somewhere behind the sacking walls was the town of Hangdog, which had somehow allowed itself to be built in a hollow perched in the nearly sheer walls of a canyon. There was plenty of flat ground in the Ramtops. The problem was that nearly all of it was vertical.

  Hwel didn’t like the Ramtops, which was odd because it was traditional dwarf country and he was a dwarf. But he’d been banished from his tribe years ago, not only because of his claustrophobia but also because he had a tendency to daydream. It was felt by the local dwarf king that this is not a valuable talent for someone who is supposed to swing a pickaxe without forgetting what he is supposed to hit with it, and so Hwel had been given a very small bag of gold, the tribe’s heartfelt best wishes, and a firm goodbye.

  It had happened that Vitoller’s strolling players had been passing through at the time, and the dwarf had ventured one small copper coin on a performance of The Dragon of the Plains. He had watched it without a muscle moving in his face, gone back to his lodgings, and in the morning had knocked on Vitoller’s latty with the first draft of King Under the Mountain. It wasn’t in fact very good, but Vitoller had been perceptive enough to see that inside the hairy bullet head was an imagination big enough to bestride the world and so, when the strolling players strolled off, one of them was running to keep up.

  Particles of raw inspiration sleet through the universe all the time. Every once in a while one of them hits a receptive mind, which then invents DNA or the flute sonata form or a way of making light bulbs wear out in half the time. But most of them miss. Most people go through their lives without being hit by even one.

  Some people are even more unfortunate. They get them all.

  Such a one was Hwel. Enough inspirations to equip a complete history of the performing arts poured continuously into a small heavy skull designed by evolution to do nothing more spectacular than be remarkably resistant to axe blows.

  He licked his quill and looked bashfully around the camp. No-one was watching. He carefully lifted up the Wizard and revealed another stack of paper.

  It was another potboiler. Every page was stained with sweat and the words themselves scrawled across the manuscript in a trellis of blots and crossings-out and tiny scribbled insertions. Hwel stared at it for a moment, alone in a world that consisted of him, the next blank page and the shouting, clamouring voices that haunted his dreams.

  He began to write.

  Free of Hwel’s never-too-stringent attention, Tomjon pushed open the lid of the props hamper and, in the methodical way of the very young, began to unpack the crowns.

  The dwarf stuck out his tongue as he piloted the errant quill across the ink-speckled page. He’d found room for the star-crossed lovers, the comic grave-diggers and the hunchback king. It was the cats and the roller skates that were currently giving him trouble . . .

  A gurgle made him look up.

  ‘For goodness sake, lad,’ he said. ‘It hardly fits. Put it back.’

  The Disc rolled into winter.

  Winter in the Ramtops could not honestly be described as a magical frosty wonderland, each twig laced with confections of brittle ice. Winter in the Ramtops didn’t mess about; it was a gateway straight through to the primeval coldness that lived before the creation of the world. Winter in the Ramtops was several yards of snow, the forests a mere collection of shadowy green tunnels under the drifts. Winter meant the coming of the lazy wind, which couldn’t be bothered to blow around people and blew right through them instead. The idea that Winter could actually be enjoyable would never have occurred to Ramtop people, who had eighteen different words for snow.5

  The ghost of King Verence prowled the battlements, bereft and hungry, and stared out across his beloved forests and waited his chance.

  It was a winter of portents. Comets sparkled against the chilled skies at night. Clouds shaped mightily like whales and dragons drifted over the land by day. In the village of Razorback a cat gave birth to a two-headed kitten, but since Greebo, by dint of considerable effort, was every male ancestor for the last thirty generations this probably wasn’t all that portentous.

  However, in Bad Ass a cockerel laid an egg and had to put up with some very embarrassing personal questions. In Lancre town a man swore he’d met a man who had actually seen with his own eyes a tree get up and walk. There was a short sharp shower of shrimps. There were odd lights in the sky. Geese walked backwards. Above all of this flared the great curtains of cold fire that were the Aurora Coriolis, the Hublights, whose frosty tints illuminated and coloured the midnight snows.

  There was nothing the least unusual about any of this. The Ramtops, which as it were lay across the Disc’s vast magical standing wave like an iron bar dropped innocently across a pair of subway rails, were so saturated with magic that it was constantly discharging itself into the environment. People would wake up in the middle of the night, mutter, ‘Oh, it’s just another bloody portent’, and go back to sleep.

  Hogswatchnight came round, marking the start of another year. And, with alarming suddenness, nothing happened.

  The skies were clear, the snow deep and crisped like icing sugar.

  The freezing forests were silent and smelled of tin. The only things that fell from the sky were the occasional fresh showers of snow.

  A man walked across the moors from Razorback to Lancre town without seeing a single marshlight, headless dog, strolling tree, ghostly coach or comet, and had to be taken in by a tavern and given a drink to unsteady his nerves.

  The stoicism of the Ramtoppers, developed over the years as a sovereign resistance to the thaumaturgical chaos, found itself unable to cope with the sudden change. It was like a noise which isn’t heard until it stops.

  Granny Weatherwax heard it now as she lay snug under a pile of quilts in her freezing bedroom. Hogswatchnight is, traditionally, the one night of the Disc’s long year when witches are expected to stay at home, and she’d had an early night in the company of a bag of apples and a stone hotwater bottle. But something had awoken her from her doze.

  An ordinary person would have crept downstairs, possibly armed with a poker. Granny simply hugged her knees and let her mind wander.

  It hadn’t been in the house. She could feel the small, fast minds of mice, and the fuzzy minds of her goats as they lay in their cosy flatulence in the outhouse. A hunting owl was a sudden dagger of alertness as it glided over the rooftops.

  Granny concentrated harder, until her mind was full of the tiny chittering of the insects in the thatch and the woodworm in the beams. Nothing of interest there.

&
nbsp; She snuggled down and let herself drift out into the forest, which was silent except for the occasional muffled thump as snow slid off a tree. Even in midwinter the forest was full of life, usually dozing in burrows or hibernating in the middle of trees.

  All as usual. She spread herself further, to the high moors and secret passes where the wolves ran silently over the frozen crust; she touched their minds, sharp as knives. Higher still, and there was nothing in the snowfields but packs of vermine.6

  Everything was as it should be, with the exception that nothing was right. There was something – yes, there was something alive out there, something young and ancient and . . .

  Granny turned over the feeling in her mind. Yes. That was it. Something forlorn. Something lost. And . . .

  Feelings were never simple, Granny knew. Strip them away and there were others underneath . . .

  Something that, if it didn’t stop feeling lost and forlorn very soon, was going to get angry.

  And still she couldn’t find it. She could feel the tiny minds of chrysalises down under the frozen leaf-mould. She could sense the earthworms, which had migrated below the frost line. She could even sense a few people, who were hardest of all – human minds were thinking so many thoughts all at the same time that they were nearly impossible to locate; it was like trying to nail fog to the wall.

  Nothing there. Nothing there. The feeling was all around her, and there was nothing to cause it. She’d gone down about as far as she could, to the smallest creature in the kingdom, and there was nothing there.

  Granny Weatherwax sat up in bed, lit a candle and reached for an apple. She glared at her bedroom wall.

  She didn’t like being beaten. There was something out there, something drinking in magic, something growing, something that seemed so alive it was all around the house, and she couldn’t find it.

  She reduced the apple to its core and placed it carefully in the tray of the candlestick. Then she blew out the candle.

  The cold velvet of the night slid back into the room.

  Granny had one last try. Perhaps she was looking in the wrong way . . .

  A moment later she was lying on the floor with the pillow clasped around her head.

  And to think she had expected it to be small . . .

  Lancre Castle shook. It wasn’t a violent shaking, but it didn’t need to be, the construction of the castle being such that it swayed slightly even in a gentle breeze. A small turret toppled slowly into the depths of the misty canyon.

  The Fool lay on his flagstones and shivered in his sleep. He appreciated the honour, if it was an honour, but sleeping in the corridor always made him dream of the Fools’ Guild, behind whose severe grey walls he had trembled his way through seven years of terrible tuition. The flagstones were slightly softer than the beds there, though.

  A few feet away a suit of armour jingled gently. Its pike vibrated in its mailed glove until, swishing through the night air like a swooping bat, it slid down and shattered the flagstone by the Fool’s ear.

  The Fool sat up and realized he was still shivering. So was the floor.

  In Lord Felmet’s room the shaking sent cascades of dust down from the ancient four-poster. He awoke from a dream that a great beast was tramping around the castle, and decided with horror that it might be true.

  A portrait of some long-dead king fell off the wall. The duke screamed.

  The Fool stumbled in, trying to keep his balance on a floor that was now heaving like the sea, and the duke staggered out of bed and grabbed the little man by his jerkin.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he hissed. ‘Is it an earthquake?’

  ‘We don’t have them in these parts, my lord,’ said the Fool, and was knocked aside as a chaise-longue drifted slowly across the carpet.

  The duke dashed to the window, and looked out at the forests in the moonlight. The white-capped trees shook in the still night air.

  A slab of plaster crashed on to the floor. Lord Felmet spun around and this time his grip lifted the Fool a foot off the floor.

  Among the very many luxuries the duke had dispensed with in his life was that of ignorance. He liked to feel he knew what was going on. The glorious uncertainties of existence held no attraction for him.

  ‘It’s the witches, isn’t it?’ he growled, his left cheek beginning to twitch like a landed fish. ‘They’re out there, aren’t they? They’re putting an Influence on the castle, aren’t they?’

  ‘Marry, nuncle—’ the Fool began.

  ‘They run this country, don’t they?’

  ‘No, my lord, they’ve never—’

  ‘Who asked you?’

  The Fool was trembling with fear in perfect anti-phase to the castle, so that he was the only thing that now appeared to be standing perfectly still.

  ‘Er, you did, my lord,’ he quavered.

  ‘Are you arguing with me?’

  ‘No, my lord!’

  ‘I thought so. You’re in league with them, I suppose?’

  ‘My lord!’ said the Fool, really shocked.

  ‘You’re all in league, you people!’ the duke snarled. ‘The whole bunch of you! You’re nothing but a pack of ringleaders!’

  He flung the Fool aside and thrust the tall windows open, striding out into the freezing night air. He glared out over the sleeping kingdom.

  ‘Do you all hear me?’ he screamed. ‘I am the king!’

  The shaking stopped, catching the duke off-balance. He steadied himself quickly, and brushed the plaster dust off his nightshirt.

  ‘Right, then,’ he said.

  But this was worse. Now the forest was listening. The words he spoke vanished into a great vacuum of silence.

  There was something out there. He could feel it. It was strong enough to shake the castle, and now it was watching him, listening to him.

  The duke backed away, very carefully, fumbling behind him for the window catch. He stepped carefully into the room, shut the windows and hurriedly pulled the curtains across.

  ‘I am the king,’ he repeated, quietly. He looked at the Fool, who felt that something was expected of him.

  The man is my lord and master, he thought. I have eaten his salt, or whatever all that business was. They told me at Guild school that a Fool should be faithful to his master until the very end, after all others have deserted him. Good or bad doesn’t come into it. Every leader needs his Fool. There is only loyalty. That’s the whole thing. Even if he is clearly three-parts bonkers, I’m his Fool until one of us dies.

  To his horror he realized the duke was weeping.

  The Fool fumbled in his sleeve and produced a rather soiled red and yellow handkerchief embroidered with bells. The duke took it with an expression of pathetic gratitude and blew his nose. Then he held it away from him and gazed at it with demented suspicion.

  ‘Is this a dagger I see before me?’ he mumbled.

  ‘Um. No, my lord. It’s my handkerchief, you see. You can sort of tell the difference if you look closely. It doesn’t have as many sharp edges.’

  ‘Good fool,’ said the duke, vaguely.

  Totally mad, the Fool thought. Several bricks short of a bundle. So far round the twist you could use him to open wine bottles.

  ‘Kneel beside me, my Fool.’

  The Fool did so. The duke laid a soiled bandage on his shoulder.

  ‘Are you loyal, Fool?’ he said. ‘Are you trustworthy?’

  ‘I swore to follow my lord until death,’ said the Fool hoarsely.

  The duke pressed his mad face close to the Fool, who looked up into a pair of bloodshot eyes.

  ‘I didn’t want to,’ he hissed conspiratorially. ‘They made me do it. I didn’t want—’

  The door swung open. The duchess filled the doorway. In fact, she was nearly the same shape.

  ‘Leonal!’ she barked.

  The Fool was fascinated by what happened to the duke’s eyes. The mad red flame vanished, was sucked backwards, and was replaced by the hard blue stare he had come to recognize. It
didn’t mean, he realized, that the duke was any less mad. Even the coldness of his sanity was madness in a way. The duke had a mind that ticked like a clock and, like a clock, it regularly went cuckoo.

  Lord Felmet looked up calmly.

  ‘Yes, my dear?’

  ‘What is the meaning of all this?’ she demanded.

  ‘Witches, I suspect,’ said Lord Felmet.

  ‘I really don’t think—’ the Fool began. Lady Felmet’s glare didn’t merely silence him, it almost nailed him to the wall.

  ‘That is clearly apparent,’ she said. ‘You are an idiot.’

  ‘A Fool, my lady.’

  ‘As well,’ she added, and turned back to her husband.

  ‘So,’ she said, smiling grimly. ‘Still they defy you?’

  The duke shrugged. ‘How should I fight magic?’ he said.

  ‘With words,’ said the Fool, without thinking, and was instantly sorry. They were both staring at him.

  ‘What?’ said the duchess.

  The Fool dropped his mandolin in his embarrassment.

  ‘In – in the Guild,’ said the Fool, ‘we learned that words can be more powerful even than magic’

  ‘Clown!’ said the duke. ‘Words are just words. Brief syllables. Sticks and stones may break my bones—’ he paused, savouring the thought – ‘but words can never hurt me.’

  ‘My lord, there are such words that can,’ said the Fool. ‘Liar! Usurper! Murderer!’

  The duke jerked back and gripped the arms of the throne, wincing.

  ‘Such words have no truth,’ said the Fool, hurriedly. ‘But they can spread like fire underground, breaking out to burn—’

  ‘It’s true! It’s true!’ screamed the duke. ‘I hear them, all the time!’ He leaned forward. ‘It’s the witches!’ he hissed.

  ‘Then, then, then they can be fought with other words,’ said the Fool. ‘Words can fight even witches.’

  ‘What words?’ said the duchess, thoughtfully.

  The Fool shrugged. ‘Crone. Evil eye. Stupid old woman.’