Wyrd Sisters (11 page)

‘Honesty is all very well,' whispered Magrat, wretchedly, ‘but somehow it isn't the same.'

‘You listen to me, my girl,' said Granny. ‘Demons don't care about the outward shape of things. It's what
you
think that matters. Get on with it.'

Magrat tried to imagine that the bleached and ancient bar of lye soap was the rarest of scented whatever, ungulants or whatever they were, from distant Klatch. It was an effort. The gods alone knew what kind of demon would respond to a summoning like this.

Granny was also a little uneasy. She didn't much care for demons in any case, and all this business with incantations and implements whiffed of wizardry. It was pandering to the things, making them feel important. Demons ought to come when they were called.

But protocol dictated that the host witch had the choice, and Nanny quite liked demons, who were male, or apparently so.

At this point Granny was alternately cajoling and threatening the nether world with two feet of bleached wood. She was impressed at her own daring.

The waters seethed a little, became very still and then, with a sudden movement and a little popping noise, mounded up into a head. Magrat dropped her soap.

It was a good-looking head, maybe a little cruel around the eyes and beaky about the nose, but nevertheless handsome in a hard kind of way. There was nothing surprising about this; since the demon was
only extending an image of itself into this reality, it might as well make a good job of it. It turned slowly, a gleaming black statue in the fitful moonlight.

‘
Well?
' it said.

‘Who're you?' said Granny, bluntly.

The head revolved to face her.

‘
My name is unpronounceable in your tongue, woman
,' it said.

‘I'll be the judge of that,' warned Granny, and added, ‘Don't you call me woman.'

‘
Very well. My name is WxrtHltl-jwlpklz
,' said the demon smugly.

‘Where were you when the vowels were handed out? Behind the door?' said Nanny Ogg.

‘Well, Mr—' Granny hesitated only fractionally – ‘WxrtHltl-jwlpklz, I expect you're wondering why we called you here tonight.'

‘
You're not supposed to say that
,' said the demon. ‘
You're supposed to say—
'

‘Shut up. We have the sword of Art and the octogram of Protection, I warn you.'

‘
Please yourself. They look like a washboard and a copper stick to me
,' sneered the demon.

Granny glanced sideways. The corner of the washroom was stacked with kindling wood, with a big heavy sawhorse in front of it. She stared fixedly at the demon and, without looking, brought the stick down hard across the thick timber.

The dead silence that followed was broken only by the two perfectly-sliced halves of the sawhorse teetering backwards and forwards and folding slowly into the heap of kindling.

The demon's face remained impassive.

‘
You are allowed three questions
,' it said.

‘Is there something strange at large in the kingdom?' said Granny.

It appeared to think about it.

‘And no lying,' said Magrat earnestly. ‘Otherwise it'll be the scrubbing brush for you.'

‘
You mean stranger than usual?
'

‘Get on with it,' said Nanny. ‘My feet are freezing out here.'

‘
No. There is nothing strange
.'

‘But we felt it—' Magrat began.

‘Hold on, hold on,' said Granny. Her lips moved soundlessly. Demons were like genies or philosophy professors – if you didn't word things
exactly
right, they delighted in giving you absolutely accurate and completely misleading answers.

‘Is there something in the kingdom that wasn't there before?' she hazarded.

‘
No
.'

Tradition said that there could be only three questions. Granny tried to formulate one that couldn't be deliberately misunderstood. Then she decided that this was playing the wrong kind of game.

‘What the hell's going on?' she said carefully. ‘And no mucking about trying to wriggle out of it, otherwise I'll boil you.'

The demon appeared to hesitate. This was obviously a new approach.

‘Magrat, just kick that kindling over here, will you?' said Granny.

‘
I protest at this treatment
,' said the demon, its voice tinged with uncertainty.

‘Yes, well, we haven't got time to bandy legs with you all night,' said Granny. ‘These word games might
be all right for wizards, but we've got other fish to fry.'

‘Or boil,' said Nanny.

‘
Look
.' said the demon, and now there was a whine of terror in its voice. ‘
We're not supposed to volunteer information just like that. There are rules, you know
.'

‘There's some old oil in the can on the shelf, Magrat,' said Nanny.

‘
If I simply tell you
—' the demon began.

‘Yes?' said Granny, encouragingly.

‘
You won't let on, will you?
' it implored.

‘Not a word,' promised Granny.

‘Lips are sealed,' said Magrat.

‘
There is nothing new in the kingdom
,' said the demon, ‘
but the land has woken up
.'

‘What do you mean?' said Granny.

‘
It's unhappy. It wants a king that cares for it
.'

‘How—' Magrat began, but Granny waved her into silence.

‘You don't mean people, do you?' she said. The glistening head shook. ‘No, I didn't think so.'

‘What—' Nanny began. Granny put a finger to her lips.

She turned and walked to the washhouse's window, a dusty spiderweb graveyard of faded butterfly wings and last summer's bluebottles. A faint glow beyond the frosted panes suggested that, against all reason, a new day would soon dawn.

‘Can you tell us why?' she said, without turning round. She'd felt the mind of a whole country . . .

She was rather impressed.

‘
I'm just a demon. What do I know? Only what is, not the why and how of it
.'

‘I see.'

‘
May I go now?
'

‘Um?'

‘
Please?
'

Granny jerked upright again.

‘Oh. Yes. Run along,' she said distractedly. ‘Thank you.'

The head didn't move. It hung around, like a hotel porter who has just carried fifteen suitcases up ten flights of stairs, shown everyone where the bathroom is, plumped up the pillows, and feels he has adjusted all the curtains he is going to adjust.

‘
You wouldn't mind banishing me, would you?
' said the demon, when no-one seemed to be taking the hint.

‘What?' said Granny, who was thinking again.

‘
Only I'd feel better for being properly banished. “Run along” lacks that certain something
,' said the head.

‘Oh. Well, if it gives you any pleasure. Magrat!'

‘Yes?' said Magrat, startled.

Granny tossed the copper stick to her.

‘Do the honours, will you?' she said.

Magrat caught the stick by what she hoped Granny was imagining as the handle, and smiled.

‘Certainly. Right. OK. Um. Begone, foul fiend, unto the blackest pit—'

The head smiled contentedly as the words rolled over it. This was more like it.

It melted back into the waters of the copper like candlewax under a flame. Its last contemptuous comment, almost lost in the swirl, was, ‘
Run aaaa-longgg
. . .'

Granny went home alone as the cold pink light of dawn glided across the snow, and let herself into her cottage.

The goats were uneasy in their outhouse. The starlings muttered and rattled their false teeth under the roof. The mice were squeaking behind the kitchen dresser.

She made a pot of tea, conscious that every sound in the kitchen seemed slightly louder than it ought to be. When she dropped the spoon into the sink it sounded like a bell being hit with a hammer.

She always felt uncomfortable after getting involved in organized magic or, as she would put it, out of sorts with herself. She found herself wandering around the place looking for things to do and then forgetting them when they were half-complete. She paced back and forth across the cold flagstones.

It is at times like this that the mind finds the oddest jobs to do in order to avoid its primary purpose, i.e. thinking about things. If anyone had been watching they would have been amazed at the sheer dedication with which Granny tackled such tasks as cleaning the teapot stand, rooting ancient nuts out of the fruit bowl on the dresser, and levering fossilized bread crusts out of the cracks in the flagstones with the back of a teaspoon.

Animals had minds. People had minds, although human minds were vague foggy things. Even insects had minds, little pointy bits of light in the darkness of non-mind.

Granny considered herself something of an expert on minds. She was pretty certain things like countries didn't have minds.

They weren't even
alive
, for goodness sake. A country was, well, was—

Hold on. Hold on . . . A thought stole gently into
Granny's mind and sheepishly tried to attract her attention.

There was a way in which those brooding forests could have a mind. Granny sat up, a piece of antique loaf in her hand, and gazed speculatively at the fireplace. Her mind's eye looked through it, out at the snow-filled aisles of trees. Yes. It had never occurred to her before. Of course, it'd be a mind made up of all the other little minds inside it; plant minds, bird minds, bear minds, even the great slow minds of the trees themselves . . .

She sat down in her rocking chair, which started to rock all by itself.

She'd often thought of the forest as a sprawling creature, but only metterforically, as a wizard would put it; drowsy and purring with bumblebees in the summer, roaring and raging in autumn gales, curled in on itself and sleeping in the winter. It occurred to her that in addition to being a collection of other things, the forest was a thing in itself. Alive, only not alive in the way that, say, a shrew was alive.

And
much slower
.

That would have to be important. How fast did a forest's heart beat? Once a year, maybe. Yes, that sounded about right. Out there the forest was waiting for the brighter sun and longer days that would pump a million gallons of sap several hundred feet into the sky in one great systolic thump too big and loud to be heard.

And it was at about this point that Granny bit her lip.

She'd just thought the word ‘systolic', and it certainly wasn't in her vocabulary.

Somebody was inside her head with her.

Some thing.

Had she just thought all those thoughts, or had they been thought
through
her?

She glared at the floor, trying to keep her ideas to herself. But her mind was being watched as easily as if her head was made of glass.

Granny Weatherwax got to her feet and opened the curtains.

And they were out there on what – in warmer months – was the lawn. And every single one of them was staring at her.

After a few minutes Granny's front door opened. This was an event in its own right; like most Ramtoppers Granny lived her life via the back door. There were only three times in your life when it was proper to come through the front door, and you were carried every time.

It opened with considerable difficulty, in a series of painful jerks and thumps. A few flakes of paint fell on to the snowdrift in front of the door, which sagged inward. Finally, when it was about halfway open, the door wedged.

Granny sidled awkwardly through the gap and out on to the hitherto undisturbed snow.

She had put her pointed hat on, and the long black cloak which she wore when she wanted anyone who saw her to be absolutely clear that she was a witch.

There was an elderly kitchen chair half buried in snow. In summer it was a handy place to sit and do whatever hand chores were necessary, while keeping one eye on the track. Granny hauled it out, brushed the snow off the seat, and sat down firmly with her knees apart and her arms folded defiantly. She stuck out her chin.

The sun was well up but the light on this Hogswatchday was still pink and slanting. It glowed on the great cloud of steam that hung over the assembled creatures. They hadn't moved, although every now and again one of them would stamp a hoof or scratch itself.

Granny looked up at a flicker of movement. She hadn't noticed before, but every tree around her garden was so heavy with birds that it looked as though a strange brown and black spring had come early.

Occupying the patch where the herbs grew in summer were the wolves, sitting or lolling with their tongues hanging out. A contingent of bears was crouched behind them, with a platoon of deer beside them. Occupying the metterforical stalls was a rabble of rabbits, weasels, vermine, badgers, foxes and miscellaneous creatures who, despite the fact that they live their entire lives in a bloody atmosphere of hunter and hunted, killing or being killed by claw, talon and tooth, are generally referred to as woodland folk.

They rested together on the snow, their normal culinary relationships entirely forgotten, trying to outstare her.

Two things were immediately apparent to Granny. One was that this seemed to represent a pretty accurate cross-section of the forest life.

The other she couldn't help saying aloud.

‘I don't know what this spell is,' she said. ‘But I'll tell you this for nothing – when it wears off, some of you little buggers had better get moving.'

None of them stirred. There was no sound except for an elderly badger relieving itself with an embarrassed expression.

‘Look,' said Granny. ‘What can I do about it? It's no good you coming to me. He's the new lord. This is his kingdom. I can't go meddling. It's not
right
to go meddling, on account of I can't interfere with people ruling. It has to sort itself out, good or bad. Fundamental rule of magic, is that. You can't go round ruling people with spells, because you'd have to use more and more spells all the time.' She sat back, grateful that long-standing tradition didn't allow the Crafty and the Wise to rule. She remembered what it had felt like to wear the crown, even for a few seconds.