Carpe Jugulum

by Terry Pratchett

  “Be sensible, Nanny, the rain and leaves are blowing in!”

  “Let ’em!”

  Nanny flopped into the rocking chair, pulled up her skirt and fumbled in the depths of a lengthy knicker leg until she came up with the spirit flask. She took a long pull. Her hands were shaking.

  “I can’t start being a hag at my time of life,” she muttered. “None of my bras’ll fit.”

  “Nanny?”

  “Yes?”

  “What the hell are you going on about? Daughter? Not lighting fires? Hags?”

  Nanny replaced the flask and felt around in the other leg, coming up eventually with her pipe and tobacco pouch.

  “Not sure if I ought to tell you,” she said.

  Now Granny Weatherwax was well beyond the local woods and high in the forests, following a track used by the charcoal burners and the occasional dwarf.

  Already Lancre was dying away. She could feel it ebbing from her mind. Down below, when things were quiet, she was always aware of the buzz of minds around her. Human and animal, they all stirred up together in some great mental stew. But here there were mainly the slow thoughts of the trees, which were frankly boring after the first few hours and could be safely ignored. Snow, still quite thick in the hollows and on the shadow sides of trees, was dissolving in a drizzle of rain.

  She stepped into a clearing and a small herd of deer on the far edge raised their heads to watch her. Out of habit she stopped and gently let herself unravel, until from the deer’s point of view there was hardly anyone there.

  When she began to walk forward again a deer stepped out of some bushes and stopped and turned to face her.

  She’d seen this happen before. Hunters talked about it sometimes. You could track a herd all day, creeping silently among the trees in search of that one clean shot, and just as you were aiming, a deer would step out right in Ffront of you, turn and watch—and wait. Those were the times when a hunter found out how good he was…

  Granny snapped her fingers. The deer shook itself, and galloped off.

  She climbed higher, following the stony bed of a stream. Despite its swiftness, there was a border of ice along its banks. Where it dropped over a series of small waterfalls she turned and looked back down into the bowl of Lancre.

  It was full of clouds.

  A few hundred feet below she saw a black and white magpie skim across the forest roof.

  Granny turned and scrambled quickly up the dripping, icy rocks and onto the fringes of the moorland beyond.

  Up here there was more sky. Silence clamped down. Far overhead, an eagle wheeled.

  It seemed to be the only other life. No one ever came up here. The furze and heather stretched away for a mile between the mountains, unbroken by any path. It was matted, thorny stuff that would tear unprotected flesh to ribbons.

  She sat down on a rock and stared at the unbroken expanse for a while. Then she reached into her sack and took out a thick pair of socks.

  And set off, onward and upward.

  Nanny Ogg scratched her nose. She very seldom looked embarrassed, but there was just a hint of embarrassment about her now. It was even worse than Nanny Ogg upset.

  “I ain’t sure if this is the right time,” she said.

  “Look, Nanny,” said Agnes, “we need her. If there’s something I ought to know, then tell me.”

  “It’s this business with…you know…three witches,” she said. “The maiden, the mother and…”

  “—the other one,” said Agnes. “Oh yes, I know that. But that’s just a bit of superstition, isn’t it? Witches don’t have to come in threes.”

  “Oh no. Course not,” said Nanny. “You can have any number up to about, oh, four or five.”

  “What happens if there’s more, then? Something awful?”

  “Bloody great row, usually,” said Nanny. “Over nothin’ much. And then they all goes off and sulks. Witches don’t like being compressed up, much. But three…sort of…works well. I don’t have to draw you a picture, do I?”

  “And now Magrat’s a mother—” said Agnes.

  “Ah, well, that’s where it all goes a bit runny,” said Nanny. “This maiden and mother thing…it’s not as simple as you’d think, see? Now you,” she prodded Agnes with her pipe, “are a maiden. You are, aren’t you?”

  “Nanny! That’s not the sort of thing people discuss!”

  “Well, I knows you are, ’cos I’d soon hear if you wasn’t,” said Nanny, the kind of person who discussed that kind of thing all the time. “But that ain’t really important, because it ain’t down to technicalities, see? Now me, I don’t reckon I was ever a maiden ment’ly. Oh, you don’t need to go all red like that. What about your Aunt May over in Creel Springs? Four kids and she’s still bashful around men. You got your blush from her. Tell her a saucy joke and if you’re quick you can cook dinner for six on her head. When you’ve been around for a while, miss, you’ll see that some people’s bodies and heads don’t always work together.”

  “And what’s Granny Weatherwax, then?” said Agnes, and added, a little nastily because the reference to the blush had gone home, “Ment’ly.”

  “Damned if I’ve ever worked that out,” said Nanny. “But I reckon she sees there’s a new three here. That bloody invitation must’ve been the last straw. So she’s gone.” She poked at her pipe. “Can’t say I fancy being a crone. I ain’t the right shape and anyway I don’t know what sound they make.”

  Agnes had a sudden and very clear and horrible mental image of the broken cup.

  “But Granny isn’t a…wasn’t a…I mean, she didn’t look like a—” she began.

  “There’s no point in lookin’ at a dog an’ sayin’ that’s not a dog ’cos a dog don’t look like that,” said Nanny simply.

  Agnes fell silent. Nanny was right, of course. Nanny was someone’s mum. It was written all over her. If you cut her in half, the word “Ma” would be all the way through. Some girls were just naturally…mothers. And some, Perdita added, were cut out to be professional maidens. As for the third, Agnes went on, ignoring her own interruption, perhaps it wasn’t so odd that people generally called Nanny out for the births and Granny for the deaths.

  “She thinks we don’t need her anymore?”

  “I reckon so.”

  “What is she going to do, then?”

  “Dunno. But if you had three, and now there’s four…well, something’s got to go, hasn’t it?”

  “What about the vampires? The two of us can’t cope with them!”

  “She’s been telling us there’s three of us,” said Nanny.

  “What? Magrat? But she’s—” Agnes stopped herself. “She’s no Nanny Ogg,” she said.

  “Well, I sure as hell ain’t an Esme Weatherwax, if it comes to that,” said Nanny. “The ment’l stuff is meat and drink to her. Getting inside other heads, puttin’ her mind somewhere else…that’s her for-tay, right enough. She’d wipe the smile off that Count’s face for him. From the inside, if I know Esme.”

  They sat and stared glumly at the empty, cold fireplace.

  “Maybe we weren’t always very nice to her,” said Agnes. She kept thinking of the broken cup. She was sure Granny Weatherwax hadn’t done that accidentally. She may have thought she’d done it accidentally, but maybe everyone had a Perdita inside. She’d walked around this gloomy cottage, which was as much in tune with her thoughts by now as a dog is with its master, and she’d had three on her mind. Three, three, three…

  “Esme didn’t thrive on nice,” said Nanny Ogg. “Take her an apple pie and she’ll complain about the pastry.”

  “But people don’t often thank her. And she does do a lot.”

  “She’s not set up for thanks, neither. Ment’ly. To tell you the honest truth, there’s always been a bit of the dark in the Weatherwaxes, and that’s where the trouble is. Look at old Alison Weatherwax.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Her own granny. Went to the bad, they say, just packed up one day and headed
for Uberwald. And as for Esme’s sister…” Nanny stopped, and restarted. “Anyway, that’s why she’s always standin’ behind herself and criticizin’ what she’s doing. Some-times I reckon she’s terrified she’ll go bad without noticin’.”

  “Granny? But she’s a moral as—”

  “Oh yes, she is. But that’s because she’s got Granny Weather-wax glarin’ over her shoulder the whole time.”

  Agnes took another look around the spartan room. Now the rain was leaking steadily through the ceiling. She fancied she could hear the walls settling into the clay. She fancied she could hear them thinking.

  “Did she know Magrat was going to call the baby Esme?” she said.

  “Probably. It’s amazin’ what she picks up.”

  “Maybe not tactful, when you think about it,” said Agnes.

  “What do you mean? I’d have been honored, if it was me.”

  “Perhaps Granny thought the name was being passed on. Inherited.”

  “Oh. Yes,” said Nanny. “Yes, I can just imagine Esme workin’ it up to that, when she’s in one of her gloomy moods.”

  “My granny used to say if you’re too sharp you’ll cut yourself,” said Agnes.

  They sat in gray silence for a while, and then Nanny Ogg said: “My own granny has an old country sayin’ she always trotted out at times like this…”

  “Which was…?”

  “‘Bugger off, you little devil, or I’ll chop off your nose and give it to the cat.’ Of course, that’s not so very helpful at a time like this, I’ll admit.”

  There was a tinkle behind them.

  She turned her head and looked down at the table.

  “There’s a spoon gone…”

  There was another jangle, this time by the door.

  A magpie paused in its attempt to pick the stolen spoon off the doorstep, cocked its head and glared at them with a beady eye. It just managed to get airborne before Nanny’s hat, spinning like a plate, bounced off the doorjamb.

  “The devils’ll pinch anything that damn well shines—” she began.

  The Count de Magpyr looked out of the window at the glow that marked the rising sun.

  “There you are, you see?” he said, turning back to his family. “Morning, and here we are.”

  “You’ve made it overcast,” said Lacrimosa sullenly. “It’s hardly sunny.”

  “One step at a time, dear, one step at a time,” said the Count cheerfully. “I just wished to make the point. Today, yes, it is overcast. But we can build on it. We can acclimatize. And one day…the beach…”

  “You really are very clever, dear,” said the Countess.

  “Thank you, my love,” said the Count, nodding his private agreement. “How are you doing with that cork, Vlad?”

  “Is this such a good idea, Father?” said Vlad, struggling with a bottle and a corkscrew. “I thought we did not drink…wine.”

  “I believe it’s time we started.”

  “Yuk,” said Lacrimosa. “I’m not touching that, it’s squeezed from vegetables!”

  “Fruit, I think you’ll find,” said the Count calmly. He took the bottle from his son and removed the cork. “A fine claret, I understand. You’ll try some, my dear?”

  His wife smiled nervously, supporting her husband but slightly against her better judgment.

  “Do we, er, are we, eh, supposed to warm it up?” she said.

  “Room temperature is suggested.”

  “That’s sickening,” said Lacrimosa. “I don’t know how you can bear it!”

  “Try it for your father, dear,” said the Countess. “Quickly, before it congeals.”

  “No, my dear. Wine stays runny.”

  “Really? How very convenient.”

  “Vlad?” said the Count, pouring a glass. The son watched nervously.

  “Perhaps it would help if you think of it as grape blood,” said his father, as Vlad took the wine. “And you, Lacci?”

  She folded her arms resolutely. “Huh!”

  “I thought you’d like this sort of thing, dear,” said the Countess. “It’s the sort of thing your crowd does, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” said the girl.

  “Oh, staying up until gone noon, and wearing brightly colored clothes, and giving yourselves funny names,” said the Countess.

  “Like Gertrude,” sneered Vlad. “And Pam. They think it’s cool.”

  Lacrimosa turned on him furiously, nails out. He caught her wrist, grinning.

  “That’s none of your business!”

  “Lady Strigoiul said her daughter has taken to calling herself Wendy,” said the Countess. “I can’t imagine why she’d want to, when Hieroglyphica is such a nice name for a girl. And if I was her mother I’d see to it that she at least wore a bit of eyeliner—”

  “Yes, but no one drinks wine,” said Lacrimosa. “Only real weirdos who file their teeth blunt drink wine—”

  “Maladora Krvoijac does,” said Vlad. “Or ‘Freda,’ I should say—”

  “No she doesn’t!”

  “What? She wears a silver corkscrew on a chain round her neck and sometimes there’s even a cork on it!”

  “That’s just a fashion item! Oh, I know she says she’s partial to a drop of port, but really it’s just blood in the glass. Henry actually brought a bottle to a party and she fainted at the smell!”

  “Henry?” said the Countess.

  Lacrimosa looked down sulkily. “Graven Gierachi,” she said.

  “The one who grows his hair short and pretends he’s an accountant,” said Vlad.

  “I just hope someone’s told his father, then,” said the Countess.

  “Be quiet,” said the Count. “This is all just cultural conditioning, you understand? Please! I’ve worked hard for this! All we want is a piece of the day. Is that too much to ask? And wine is just wine. There’s nothing mystical about it. Now, take up your glasses. You too, Lacci. Please? For Daddy?”

  “And when you tell ‘Cyril’ and ‘Tim’ they’ll be so impressed,” said Vlad to Lacrimosa.

  “Shut up!” she hissed. “Father, it’ll make me sick!”

  “No, your body will adapt,” said the Count. “I’ve tried it myself. A little watery, perhaps, somewhat sour, but quite palatable. Please?”

  “Oh well…”

  “Good,” said the Count. “Now, raise the glasses—”

  “Le sang nouveau est arrivé,” said Vlad.

  “Carpe diem,” said the Count.

  “By the throat,” said the Countess.

  “People won’t believe me when I tell them,” said Lacrimosa.

  They swallowed.

  “There,” said Count Magpyr. “That wasn’t too bad, was it?”

  “A bit chilly,” said Vlad.

  “I’ll have a wine warmer installed,” said the Count. “I’m not an unreasonable vampire. But within a year, children, I think I can have us quite cured of phenophobia and even capable of a little light salad—”

  Lacrimosa turned her back theatrically and made throwing-up noises into a vase.

  “—and then, Lacci, you’ll be free. No more lonely days. No more—”

  Vlad was half expecting it, and kept an entirely blank expression as his father whipped a card from his pocket and held it up.

  “That is the double snake symbol of the Djelibeybian water cult,” he said calmly.

  “You see?” said the Count excitedly. “You barely flinched! Sacrephobia can be beaten! I’ve always said so! The way may have been hard at times—”

  “I hated the way you used to leap out in corridors and flick holy water on us,” said Lacrimosa.

  “It wasn’t holy at all,” said her father. “It was strongly diluted. Mildly devout at worst. But it made you strong, didn’t it?”

  “I caught colds a lot, I know that.”

  The Count’s hand whipped out of his pocket.

  Lacrimosa gave a sigh of theatrical weariness. “The All-Seeing Face of the Ionians,” she
said wearily.

  The Count very nearly danced a jig.

  “You see? It has worked! You didn’t even wince! And apparently as holy symbols go it’s pretty strong. Isn’t it all worth it?”

  “There’ll have to be something really good to make up for those garlic pillows you used to make us sleep on.”

  Her father took her by the shoulder and turned her toward the window.

  “Will it be enough to know that the world is your oyster?”

  Her forehead wrinkled in perplexity. “Why should I want it to be some nasty little sea creature?” she said.

  “Because they get eaten alive,” said the Count. “Unfortunately I doubt if we can find a slice of lemon five hundred miles long, but the metaphor will suffice.”

  She brightened up, grudgingly. “We-ell…” she said.

  “Good. I like to see my little girl smile,” said the Count. “Now…who shall we have for breakfast?”

  “The baby.”

  “No, I think not.” The Count pulled a bellpull beside the fireplace. “That would be undiplomatic. We’re not quite there yet.”

  “Well, that apology for a queen looks pretty bloodless. Vlad should have hung on to his fat girl,” said Lacrimosa.

  “Don’t you start,” Vlad warned. “Agnes is a…very interesting girl. I feel there is a lot in her.”

  “A lot of her,” said Lacrimosa. “Are you saving her for later?”

  “Now, now,” said the Count. “Your own dear mother wasn’t a vampire when I met her—”

  “Yes, yes, you’ve told us a million times,” said Lacrimosa, rolling her eyes with the impatience of someone who’d been a teenager for eighty years. “The balcony, the nightdress, you in your cloak, she screamed—”

  “Things were simpler then,” said the Count. “And also very, very stupid.” He sighed. “Where the hell’s Igor?”

  “Ahem. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about him, dear,” said the Countess. “I think he’ll have to go.”

  “That’s right!” snapped Lacrimosa. “Honestly, even my friends laugh at him!’

  “I find his more-gothic-than-thou attitude extremely irritating,” said the Countess. “That stupid accent…and do you know what I found him doing in the old dungeons last week?”