Witches Abroad (18 page)

‘Oh? It's all wishing on stars and fairy dust, is it?
Making
people happier?'

‘There's got to be some of that! Otherwise what's the good of
anything
? Anyway . . . when I went to Desiderata's cottage you were looking for the wand, weren't you?'

‘I just didn't want it falling into the wrong hands!'

‘Like any hands but yours, I expect!'

They glared at each other.

‘Haven't you got any romance in your soul?' said Magrat plaintively.

‘No,' said Granny. ‘I ain't. And stars don't care what you wish, and magic don't make things better, and no-one doesn't get burned who sticks their hand in a fire. If you want to amount to anything as a witch, Magrat Garlick, you got to learn three things. What's real, what's not real, and what's the difference—'

‘And always get the young man's name and address,' said Nanny. ‘It worked for me every time. Only joking,' she said, as they both glared at her.

The wind was rising, here on the edge of the forest. Bits of grass and leaves whirled through the air.

‘We're going the right way, anyway,' said Nanny madly, seeking anything that would be a distraction. ‘Look. It says “Genua” on the signpost.'

It did indeed. It was an old, worm-eaten signpost right on the edge of the forest. The end of the arm had been carved into the likeness of a pointing finger.

‘A proper road, too,' Nanny burbled on. The row cooled a bit, simply because both sides were not talking to each other. Not simply not exchanging vocal communication – that's just an absence of speaking. This went right through that and out the other side, into the horrible glowering worlds of Not Talking to One Another.

‘Yellow bricks,' said Nanny. ‘Whoever heard of anyone making a road out of yellow bricks?'

Magrat and Granny Weatherwax stood looking in opposite directions with their arms folded.

‘Brightens the place up, I suppose,' said Nanny. On the horizon, Genua sparkled in the middle of some more greenery. In between, the road dipped into a wide valley dotted with little villages. A river snaked through them on the way to the city.

The wind whipped at their skirts.

‘We'll never fly in this,' said Nanny, still womanfully trying to make enough conversation for three people.

‘So we'll walk, then, eh?' she said, and added, because there's a spark of spitefulness even in innocent souls like Nanny Ogg's, ‘Singing as we go, how about it?'

‘I'm sure it's not my place to mind what anyone chooses to do,' said Granny. ‘It's nothing to do with me. I expect
some
people with wands and big ideas might have something to say.'

‘Huh!' said Magrat.

They set off along the brick road towards the distant city, in single file with Nanny Ogg as a kind of mobile buffer state in the middle.

‘What some people need,' said Magrat, to the world in general, ‘is a bit more heart.'

‘What some people need,' said Granny Weatherwax, to the stormy sky, ‘is a lot more brain.'

Then she clutched at her hat to stop the wind from blowing it off.

What
I
need, thought Nanny Ogg fervently, is a drink.

Three minutes later a farmhouse dropped on her head.

By this time the witches were well spaced out. Granny Weatherwax was striding along in front, Magrat was sulking along at the rear, and Nanny was in the middle.

As she said afterwards, it wasn't even as if she was singing. It was just that one moment there was a small, plump witch, and the next there was the collapsing remains of a wooden farmhouse.

Granny Weatherwax turned and found herself looking at a crumbling, unpainted front door. Magrat nearly walked into a back door of the same grey, bleached wood.

There was no sound but the crackle of settling timber.

‘Gytha?' said Granny.

‘Nanny?' said Magrat.

They both opened their doors.

It was a very simple design of house, with two downstairs rooms separated by a front-to-back passageway. In the middle of the passageway, surrounded by shattered and termite-ridden floor-boards, under the pointy hat that had been rammed down to her chin, was Nanny Ogg. There was no sign of Greebo.

‘Wha' happened?' she said. ‘Wha' happened?'

‘A farmhouse dropped on your head,' said Magrat.

‘Oh. One o' them things,' said Nanny vaguely.

Granny gripped her by the shoulders.

‘Gytha? How many fingers am I holding up?' she said urgently.

‘Wha' fingers? 'S'all gone dark.'

Magrat and Granny gripped the brim of Nanny's hat and half lifted, half unscrewed it from her head. She blinked at them.

‘That's the willow reinforcement,' she said, as the pointy hat creaked back into shape like a resurrecting umbrella. She was swaying gently. ‘Stop a hammer blow, a hat with willow reinforcement. All them struts, see. Distributes the force. I shall write to Mr Vernissage.'

Magrat, bemused, looked around the little house.

‘It just dropped out of the sky!' she said.

‘Could have been a big tornado or something somewhere,' said Nanny Ogg. ‘Picked it up, see, then the wind drops and down it comes. You get funny things happening in high winds. Remember that big gale we had last year? One of my hens laid the same egg four times.'

‘She's rambling,' said Magrat.

‘No I ain't, that's just my normal talking,' said Nanny.

Granny Weatherwax peered into one of the rooms. ‘I suppose there wouldn't be any food and drink about the place?' she said.

‘I think I could force myself to drink some brandy,' said Nanny quickly.

Magrat peered up the stairs.

‘Coo-ee,' she called, in the strangled voice of someone who wants to be heard without doing anything so bad-mannered as raise their voice. ‘Is there anyone here?'

Nanny, on the other hand, looked under the stairs. Greebo was a cowering ball of fur in a corner. She hauled him out by the scruff of his neck and gave him a slightly bewildered pat. Despite Mr Vernissage's millinery masterpiece, despite the worm-eaten floor, and despite even the legendary thick skull of the Oggs, she was definitely feeling several twinkles short of a glitter and suffering a slight homesick-tinged dip in her usual sunny nature. People didn't hit you over the head with farmhouses back home.

‘You know, Greebo,' she said, ‘I don't think we're in Lancre.'

‘I've found some jam,' said Granny Weatherwax, from the kitchen.

It didn't take a lot to cheer up Nanny Ogg. ‘That's fine,' she called out. ‘It'll go nicely on the dwarf bread.'

Magrat came into the room.

‘I'm not sure we should be taking other people's provisions,' she said. ‘I mean, this place must belong to someone.'

‘Oh. Did someone speak, Gytha?' said Granny Weatherwax archly.

Nanny rolled her eyes.

‘I was merely saying, Nanny,' said Magrat, ‘that this isn't our property.'

‘She says it don't belong to us, Esme,' said Nanny.

‘Tell anyone who wants to know, Gytha, that it's like salvage from a shipwreck,' said Granny.

‘She says finders keepers, Magrat,' said Nanny.

Something flickered past the window. Magrat went and peered out through the grimy pane.

‘That's funny. There's a lot of dwarfs dancing round the house,' she said.

‘Oh, yes?' said Nanny, opening a cupboard.

Granny stiffened. ‘Are they – I means, ask her if they're singing,' she said.

‘They singing, Magrat?'

‘I can hear something,' said Magrat. ‘Sounds like “Dingdong, dingdong”.'

‘That's a dwarf song all right,' said Nanny. ‘They're the only people who can make a hiho last all day.'

‘They seem very happy about it,' said Magrat doubtfully.

‘Probably it was their farmhouse and they're glad to get it back.'

There was a hammering on the back door. Magrat opened it. A crowd of brightly dressed and embarrassed dwarfs stepped back hurriedly and then peered up at her.

‘Er,' said the one who was apparently the leader, ‘is . . . is the old witch dead?'

‘Which old witch?' said Magrat.

The dwarf looked at her for a while with his mouth open. He turned and had a whispered consultation with his colleagues. Then he turned back.

‘How many have you got?'

‘There's a choice of two,' said Magrat. She wasn't feeling in a very good mood and wasn't prompted to aid the conversation more than necessary. Uncharacteristic nastiness made her add, ‘Free for the asking.'

‘Oh.' The dwarf considered this. ‘Well, which old witch did the house land on?'

‘Nanny? No, she's not dead. She's just a bit stunned. But thanks all the same for asking,' said Magrat. ‘That's very kind of you.'

This seemed to puzzle the dwarfs. They went into a huddle. There was a lot of
sotto voce
arguing.

Then the head dwarf turned back to Magrat. He removed his helmet and turned it around and around nervously in his hands.

‘Er,' he said, ‘can we have her boots?'

‘What?'

‘Her boots?' said the dwarf, blushing. ‘Can we have them, please?'

‘What do you want her boots for?'

The dwarf looked at her. Then he turned and went into a huddle with his colleagues again. He turned back to Magrat.

‘We've just got this . . . feeling . . . that we ought to have her boots,' he said.

He stood there blinking.

‘Well, I'll go and ask,' said Magrat. ‘But I don't think she'll say yes.'

As she went to close the door the dwarf twiddled his hat some more.

‘They
are
ruby-coloured, aren't they?' he said.

‘Well, they're red,' said Magrat. ‘Is red all right?'

‘They've got to be red.' All the other dwarfs nodded. ‘It's no good if they're not red.'

Magrat gave him a blank look and shut the door.

‘Nanny,' she said slowly, when she was back in the kitchen, ‘there's some dwarfs outside who want your boots.'

Nanny looked up. She'd found a stale loaf in a cupboard and was industriously chewing. It was amazing what you're eat if the alternative was dwarf bread.

‘What d'they want 'em for?' she said.

‘Didn't say. They just said they had a feeling they want your boots.'

‘That sounds highly suspicious to me,' said Granny.

‘Old Shaker Wistley over Creel Springs way was a devil for boots,' said Nanny, putting down the breadknife. ‘Especially black button boots. He used to collect 'em. If he saw you going past in a new pair he had to go and have a lie-down.'

‘I reckon that's a bit
sophisticated
for dwarfs,' said Granny.

‘Maybe they want to drink out of 'em,' said Nanny.

‘What do you mean, drink out of them?' said Magrat.

‘Ah, well, that's what they do in foreign parts,' said Nanny. ‘They drink fizzy wine out of ladies' boots.'

They all looked down at Nanny's boots.

Not even Nanny could imagine what anyone would want to drink out of them, or what they would do afterwards.

‘My word. That's even more sophisticated than old Shaker Wistley,' said Nanny reflectively.

‘They seemed a bit puzzled about it,' said Magrat.

‘I expect they would be. It ain't often people get a feeling they ought to go around pulling a decent witch's boots off. This sounds like another story flapping around. I think,' said Granny Weatherwax, ‘that we ought to go and talk to these dwarfs.'

She strode out into the passageway and opened the door.

‘Yes?' she demanded.

The dwarfs backed away at the sight of her. There was a lot of whispering and elbowing and muttered comments in the nature of ‘No,
you
', and ‘I asked
last
time'. Finally a dwarf was pushed forward. It might have been the original dwarf. It was hard to tell, with dwarfs.

‘Er,' he said. ‘Er. Boots?'

‘What
for
?' said Granny.

The dwarf scratched its head. ‘Damned if I know,' he said. ‘We were just wondering about it ourselves, 's'matterofact. We were just coming off shift in the coal mine half an hour ago, we saw the farmhouse land on . . . on the witch, an' . . . well . . .'

‘You just
knew
you had to run up and steal her boots?' said Granny.

The dwarf's face widened into a relieved grin.

‘That's right!' he said. ‘And sing the Ding-dong song. Only she was supposed to be squashed. No offence meant,' he added quickly.

‘It's the willow reinforcement,' said a voice behind Granny. ‘Worth its weight in glod.'

Granny stared for a while, and then smiled.

‘I think you lads ought to come inside,' she said. ‘I've got some questions to ask you.'

The dwarfs looked very uncertain.

‘Um,' said the spokesdwarf.

‘Nervous of going into a house with witches in it?' said Granny Weatherwax.

The spokesdwarf nodded, and then went red. Magrat and Nanny Ogg exchanged glances behind Granny's back. Something had definitely gone wrong somewhere. In the mountains dwarfs certainly weren't afraid of witches. The problem was to stop them digging up your floor.

‘You've been down from the mountains for some time, I expect,' said Granny.