Witches Abroad (17 page)

A paw tried to grip her ankle.

Granny Weatherwax looked down into the wolf's face.

‘Preeees,' it growled. ‘Annn enndinggg? Noaaaow?'

She knelt down, and took the paw.

‘Yes?' she said.

‘Yessss!'

She stood up again, all authority, and beckoned to the approaching trio.

‘Mr Woodcutter?' she said. ‘A job for you . . .'

The woodcutter never understood why the wolf laid its head on the stump so readily.

Or why the old woman, the one in whom anger roiled like pearl barley in a bubbling stew, insisted afterwards that it be buried properly instead of skinned and thrown in the bushes. She had been very insistent about that.

And that was the end of the big bad wolf.

It was an hour later. Quite a few of the woodcutters had wandered up to the cottage, where there seemed to be a lot of interesting activity going on. Woodcutting is not a job that normally offers much in the way of diversion.

Magrat was washing the floor with as much magical assistance as could be afforded by a bucket of soapy water and a scrubbing brush. Even Nanny Ogg, whose desultory interest in the proud role of housewife had faded completely just as soon as her eldest daughter was old enough to hold a duster, was cleaning the walls. The old grandmother, who wasn't entirely in touch with events, was anxiously following both of them around with a saucer of milk. Spiders who had inherited the ceiling for generations were urged gently but firmly out of the door.

And Granny Weatherwax was walking around the clearing with the head woodcutter, a barrel-chested young man who clearly thought he looked better in his studded leather wristlets than was, in fact, the case.

‘It's been around for years, right?' he said. ‘Always lurking around the edges of villages and that.'

‘And you never tried talking to it?' said Granny.

‘Talk to it? It's a
wolf
, right? You don't talk to
wolves
. Animals can't talk.'

‘Hmm. I see. And what about the old woman? There's a lot of you woodcutters. Did you ever, you know, drop in to see her?'

‘Huh? No fear!'

‘Why?'

The head woodcutter leaned forward conspiratorially.

‘Well, they say she's a witch, right?'

‘Really?' said Granny. ‘How do you know?'

‘She's got all the signs, right?'

‘What signs are those?'

The woodcutter was pricked by a slight uneasiness.

‘Well . . . she's . . . she lives all by herself in the wood, right?'

‘Yes . . .?'

‘And . . . and . . . she's got a hook nose and she's always muttering to herself . . .'

‘Yes . . .?'

‘And she's got no teeth, right?'

‘Lawks,' said Granny. ‘I can see where you wouldn't want to be having with the likes of her, right?'

‘Right!' said the woodcutter, relieved.

‘Quite likely turn you into just about anything as soon as look at you, right?' Granny stuck her finger in her ear and twiddled it reflectively.

‘They can do that, you know.'

‘I bet they can. I bet they can,' said Granny. ‘Makes me glad there's all you big strong lads around. Tch, tch. Hmm. Can I have a look at your chopper, young man?'

He handed over his axe. Granny sagged dramatically as she grasped it. There were still traces of wolf blood on the blade.

‘Deary me, it's a big one,' she said. ‘And you're good with this, I expect.'

‘Won the silver belt two years running at the forest revels,' said the woodcutter proudly.

‘Two years running? Two years running? Lawks. That
is
good. That's
very
good. And here's me hardly able to lift it.' Granny grasped the axe in one hand and swung it inexpertly. The woodcutter jumped backwards as the blade whirred past his face and then buried itself a quarter of an inch deep in a tree.

‘Sorry about that,' said Granny Weatherwax. ‘Aren't I a daft old woman! Never was any good with anything technical!'

He grinned at her, and tried to pull the axe free.

He sank to his knees, his face suddenly white.

Granny leaned down until she was level with his ear.

‘You could have seen to the old woman,' she said quietly. ‘You could have talked to the wolf. But you didn't, right?'

He tried to speak, but his teeth didn't seem to want to part.

‘I can see you're very sorry about all that,' she said. ‘I can see you're seein' the error of your ways. I bet you can't wait to be up and repairing her cottage for her, and getting the garden back in good order, and seeing she has fresh milk every day and a good supply of wood, right? In fact I wouldn't be surprised if you wasn't generous enough to build her a
new
cottage, with a proper well an' all. Somewhere near the village so she don't have to live alone, right? You know, I can see the future sometimes and I just
know
that's what's goin' to happen,
right
?'

Sweat ran off his face. Now his lungs didn't seem to be operating, either.

‘An' I knows you're goin' to keep your word, and I'm so pleased about it that I'm going to make sure you're especially lucky,' said Granny, her voice still in the same pleasant monotone. ‘I knows it can be a dangerous job, woodchoppin'. People can get hurt. Trees can accidentally fall on 'em, or the top of their chopper can suddenly come off and cut their head open.' The woodcutter shuddered as Granny went on: ‘So what I'm goin' to do is a little spell to make sure that none of this 'appens to you. On account of me bein' so grateful. Because of you helpin' the old lady. Right? Just nod.'

He managed to move his head a fraction. Granny Weatherwax smiled.

‘There!' she said, standing up and brushing a speak of leafmould off her dress. ‘You see how sweet life can be, if we all helps one another?'

The witches left around lunchtime. By then the old woman's garden was full of people, and the air with the sound of sawing and hammering. News like Granny Weatherwax travels fast. Three woodcutters were digging over the vegetable plot, two more were fighting to clean the chimney, and four of them were halfway down a new well that was being dug with impressive speed.

The old grandmother, who was still the kind of person who hangs on to one idea until another one dislodges it by force, was running out of saucers to put the milk in.

The witches sneaked away in all the busyness.

‘There,' said Magrat, as they strolled down the path, ‘it just goes to show how people will pitch in and help, if only someone sets an example. You don't have to bully people all the time, you know.'

Nanny Ogg glanced at Granny.

‘I saw you talking to the head woodcutter,' she said. ‘What was you talking about?'

‘Sawdust,' said Granny.

‘Oh, yes?'

‘One of the woodcutters told
me
,' said Magrat, ‘that there's been other odd things happening in this forest. Animals acting human, he said. There used to be a family of bears living not far away.'

‘Nothing unusual about a family of bears living together,' said Nanny. ‘They're very convivial animals.'

‘In a cottage?'

‘
That's
unusual.'

‘That's what I mean,' said Magrat.

‘You'd definitely feel a bit awkward about going round to borrow a cup of sugar,' said Nanny. ‘I expect the neighbours had something to say about it.'

‘Yes,' said Magrat. ‘They said “oink”.'

‘What'd they say “oink” for?'

‘Because they couldn't say anything else. They were pigs.'

‘We had people like that next door when we lived at –' Nanny began.

‘I mean
pigs
. You know. Four legs? Curly tail? What pork is before it's pork? Pigs.'

‘Can't see anyone letting pigs live in a cottage,' said Granny.

‘He said they didn't. The pigs built their own. There were three of them. Little pigs.'

‘What happened to them?' said Nanny.

‘The wolf ate them. They were the only animals stupid enough to let him get near them, apparently. Nothing was found of them except their spirit level.'

‘That's a shame.'

‘The woodcutter says they didn't build very good houses, mind you.'

‘Well, it's only to be expected. What with the trotters and all,' said Nanny.

‘He says the roof leaks something dreadful, right over his bed.'

The witches walked on in silence.

‘I remember hearing once,' said Nanny, with the occasional glance at Granny Weatherwax, ‘about some ole enchantress in history who lived on an island and turned shipwrecked sailors into pigs.'

‘That's a terrible thing to do,' said Magrat, on cue.

‘I suppose it's all according to what you really
are
, inside,' said Nanny. ‘I mean, look at Greebo here.' Greebo, curled around her shoulders like a smelly fur, purred. ‘He's practically a human.'

‘You do talk a lot of tosh, Gytha,' said Granny Weatherwax.

‘That's 'cos people won't tell me what they
really
think is going on,' said Nanny Ogg, grimly.

‘I said I'm not sure,' said Granny.

‘You looked into the wolf's mind.'

‘Yes. I did.'

‘Well, then . . .'

Granny sighed. ‘Someone's been here before us. Passing through. Someone who knows about the power of stories, and uses 'em. And the stories have . . . kind of hung around. They do that, when they get fed . . .'

‘What'd anyone want to do that for?' said Nanny.

‘
Practice
,' said Granny.

‘Practice? What for?' said Magrat.

‘I expect we'll find out presently,' said Granny gnomically.

‘You ought to tell me what you think,' said Magrat. ‘I am the official godmother around here, you know. I ought to be told things. You've got to tell me things.'

Nanny Ogg went chilly. This was the kind of emotional countryside with which she was, as head Ogg, extremely familiar. That sort of comment at this sort of time was like the tiny sliding of snow off the top branch of a tall tree high in the mountains during the thaw season. It was one end of a process that, without a doubt, would end with a dozen villages being engulfed. Whole branches of the Ogg family had stopped talking to other branches of the Ogg family because of a ‘Thank you very much' in the wrong tones and the wrong place, and this was far worse.

‘Now,' she said hurriedly, ‘why don't we –'

‘I don't have to explain anything,' said Granny Weatherwax.

‘But we're supposed to be
three
witches,' said Magrat. ‘If you can call us witches,' she added.

‘What do you mean by that, pray?' said Granny.

‘Pray?' thought Nanny. Someone has ended a sentence with ‘pray?' That's like that bit when someone hits someone else with a glove and then throws it on the floor. There's no going back when someone's ended a sentence with ‘pray?' But she tried, anyway.

‘How about a nice –'

Magrat plunged on with the brave desperation of someone dancing in the light of their burning bridges.

‘Well,' she said, ‘it seems to
me
—'

‘Yes?' said Granny.

‘It seems to
me
,' Magrat tried again, ‘that the only
magic
we do is all – well, headology. Not what anyone else would call magic. It's just glaring at people and tricking them. Taking advantage of their gullibility. It wasn't what I expected when
I
set out to become a witch—'

‘And who says,' said Granny Weatherwax, slowly and deliberately, ‘that you've become a witch now?'

‘My word, the wind is getting up, perhaps we should—' said Nanny Ogg.

‘
What
did you say?' said Magrat.

Nanny Ogg put her hand over her eyes. Asking someone to repeat a phrase you'd not only heard very clearly but were also exceedingly angry about was around Defcon II in the lexicon of squabble.

‘I should have thought my voice was clear enough,' said Granny. ‘I'm very amazed my voice wasn't clear enough. It sounded clear enough to
me
.'

‘Looks a bit gusty, why don't we—?'

‘Well, I should just think I can be smug and bad-tempered and ill-considerate enough to be a witch,' said Magrat. ‘That's all that's required, isn't it?'

‘Ill-considerate?
Me
?'

‘You like people who need help, because when they need help they're weak, and helping them makes you feel
strong
! What harm would a bit of magic do?'

‘Because it'd never stop at just a bit, you stupid girl!'

Magrat backed off, her face flushed. She reached into her bag and pulled out a slim volume, which she flourished like a weapon.

‘Stupid I may be,' she panted, ‘but at least I'm trying to learn things! Do you know the kind of things people can use magic for? Not just illusion and bullying! There's people in this book that can . . . can . . . walk on hot coals, and stick their hands in a fire and not get hurt!'

‘Cheap trickery!' said Granny.

‘They really can!'

‘Impossible. No-one can do that!'

‘It shows they can control things! Magic's got to be more than just knowing things and manipulating people!'