Witches Abroad (35 page)

‘Come
on
!'

‘I really hate them.'

‘You'll be able to hate them even better from a long way off!'

The sisters were nearly on them. They didn't walk, they glided. Perhaps Lily wasn't concentrating now, because they were more snake-like than ever. Nanny thought she could see scale patterns under the skin. The jawline was all wrong.

‘Magrat!'

One of the sisters reached out. Magrat shuddered.

The snake sister opened its mouth.

Then Magrat looked up and, almost dreamily, punched it so hard that it was carried several feet along the passage.

It wasn't a blow that featured in any Way or Path. No-one ever drew this one as a diagram or practised it in front of a mirror with a bandage tied round their head. It was straight out of the lexicon of inherited, terrified survival reflexes.

‘Use the wand!' shouted Nanny, darting forward. ‘Don't ninj at them! Use the wand! That's what it's for!'

The other snake instinctively turned to follow the movement, which is why instinct is not always the keynote to survival, because Magrat clubbed it on the back of the head. With the wand. It sagged, losing shape as it fell.

The trouble with witches is that they'll never run away from things they really hate.

And the trouble with small furry animals in a corner is that, just occasionally, one of them's a mongoose.

Granny Weatherwax had always wondered: what was supposed to be so special about a full moon? It was only a big circle of light. And the dark of the moon was only darkness.

But half-way between the two, when the moon was between the worlds of light and dark, when even the moon lived on the edge . . . maybe
then
a witch could believe in the moon.

Now a half-moon sailed above the mists of the swamp.

Lily's nest of mirrors reflected the cold light, as they reflected everything else. Leaning against the wall were the three broom-sticks.

Granny picked up hers. She wasn't wearing the right colour and she wasn't wearing a hat; she needed
something
she was at home with.

Nothing moved.

‘Lily?' said Granny softly.

Her own image looked out at her from the mirrors.

‘It can all stop now,' said Granny. ‘You could take my stick and I'll take Magrat's. She can always share with Gytha. And Mrs Gogol won't come after you. I've fixed that. And we could do with more witches back home. And no more godmothering. No more getting people killed so their daughters are ready to be in a story. I know that's why you did it. Come on home. It's an offer you can't refuse.'

The mirror slid back noiselessly.

‘You're trying to be
kind
to me?' said Lily.

‘Don't think it don't take a lot of effort,' said Granny in a more normal voice.

Lily's dress rustled in the darkness as she stepped out.

‘So,' she said, ‘you beat the swamp woman.'

‘No.'

‘But you're here instead of her.'

‘Yes.'

Lily took the stick out of Granny's hands, and inspected it.

‘Never used one of these things,' she said. ‘You just sit on it and away you go?'

‘With
this
one you have to be running quite fast before it takes off,' said Granny, ‘but that's the general idea, yes.'

‘Hmm. Do you know the symbology of the broomstick?' said Lily.

‘Is it anything to do with maypoles and folksongs and suchlike?' said Granny.

‘Oh, yes.'

‘Then I don't want to hear about it.'

‘No,' said Lily. ‘I imagine you don't.'

She handed the stick back.

‘I'm staying here,' she said. ‘Mrs Gogol may have come up with a new trick, but that doesn't mean she has won.'

‘No. Things have come to an end, see,' said Granny. ‘That's how it works when you turn the world into stories. You should never have done that. You shouldn't turn the world into stories. You shouldn't treat people like they was
characters
, like they was
things
. But if you
do
, then you've got to know when the story ends.'

‘You've got to put on your red-hot shoes and dance the night away?' said Lily.

‘Somethin' like that, yes.'

‘While everyone else lives happily ever after?'

‘I don't know about that,' said Granny. ‘That's up to them. What
I'm
sayin' is, you're not allowed to go round one more time. You've
lost
.'

‘You know a Weatherwax never loses,' said Lily.

‘One of 'em learns tonight,' said Granny.

‘But
we're
outside the stories,' said Lily. ‘Me because I . . . am the medium through which they happen, and you because you fight them. We're the ones in the middle. The free ones—'

There was a sound behind them. The faces of Magrat and Nanny Ogg appeared over the top of the stairwell.

‘You need any help, Esme?' said Nanny cautiously.

Lily laughed.

‘Here's
your
little snakes, Esme.'

‘You know,' she added, ‘you're really just like me. Don't you know that? There isn't a thought that's gone through my head that you haven't thought, too. There isn't a deed I've done that you haven't contemplated. But you never found the courage. That's the difference between people like me and people like you.
We
have the courage to
do
what you only dream of.'

‘Yes?' said Granny. ‘Is that what you think? You think I dream?'

Lily moved a finger. Magrat floated up out of the stairwell, struggling. She waved her wand frantically.

‘That's what I like to see,' said Lily. ‘People wishing. I never wished for anything in my life. I always
made
things happen. So much more rewarding.'

Magrat gritted her teeth.

‘I'm sure I wouldn't look good as a pumpkin, dear,' said Lily. She waved a hand airily. Magrat rose.

‘You'd be surprised at the things I can do,' said Lily dreamily, as the younger witch drifted smoothly over the flagstones. ‘You should have tried mirrors yourself, Esme. It does wonders for a soul. I only let the swamp woman survive because her hate was invigorating. I do like being hated, you know. And you
do
know. It's a kind of respect. It shows you're having an effect. It's like a cold bath on a hot day. When stupid people find themselves powerless, when they fume in their futility, when they're beaten and they've got nothing but that yawning in the acid pit of their stomachs – well, to be honest, it's like a prayer. And the
stories
 . . . to
ride
on stories . . . to borrow the strength of them . . . the
comfort
of them . . . to be in the hidden centre of them . . . Can you understand that? The sheer pleasure of seeing the patterns repeat themselves? I've always loved a pattern. Incidentally, if the Ogg woman continues to try to sneak up behind me I shall really let your young friend drift out over the courtyard and then, Esme, I might just lose interest.'

‘I was just walkin' about,' said Nanny. ‘No law against it.'

‘You changed the story your way, and now I'm going to do it mine,' said Lily. ‘And once again . . . all you have to do is go. Just go away. What happens here doesn't matter. It's a city far away of which you know little. I'm not totally certain I could out-trick you,' she added, ‘but these two . . . they haven't got the right stuff in them. I could make jam of them. I hope you know that. So tonight, I suggest, a Weatherwax learns to lose?'

Granny stood silent for a while, leaning on her useless broom.

‘All right. Put her down,' she said. ‘And then I'll say you've won.'

‘I wish I could believe that,' said Lily. ‘Oh . . . but you're the nice one, aren't you? You have to keep your word.'

‘Watch me,' said Granny. She walked to the parapet and looked down. The two-faced moon was still bright enough to illuminate the billowing fogs that surrounded the palace like a sea.

‘Magrat? Gytha?' she said. ‘Sorry about this. You've won, Lily. There ain't nothing I can do.'

She jumped.

Nanny Ogg rushed forward and stared over the edge, just in time to see a dim figure vanish in the mists.

All three figures left on the tower took a deep breath.

‘It's a trick,' said Lily, ‘to get me off guard.'

‘It isn't!' screamed Magrat, dropping to the stones.

‘She had her broomstick,' said Lily.

‘It don't work! It won't start!' shouted Nanny. ‘
Right
,' she said, menacingly, striding towards the slim shape of Lily. ‘We'll soon wipe that smug look off your face—'

She halted as silver pain shot through her body.

Lily laughed.

‘It's true, then?' she said. ‘Yes. I can see it in your faces. Esme was bright enough to know she couldn't win. Don't be stupid. And don't point that silly wand at me, Miss Garlick. Old Desiderata would have defeated me long ago if she could. People have no understanding.'

‘We ought to go down there,' said Magrat. ‘She might be lying there—'

‘That's it. Be good. It's what you're good at,' said Lily, as they ran to the stairwell.

‘But we'll be back,' snarled Nanny Ogg. ‘Even if we have to live in the swamp with Mrs Gogol and eat snakes' heads!'

‘Of course,' said Lily, arching an eyebrow. ‘That's what I said. One needs people like you around. Otherwise one is never quite sure one is still working. It's a way of keeping score.'

She watched them disappear down the steps.

A wind blew over the tower. Lily gathered up her skirts and walked to the end, where she could see the shreds of mist streaming over the rooftops far below. There were the faint strains of music from the distant carnival dance as it wound its way through the streets.

It would soon be midnight. Proper midnight, not some cut-price version caused by an old woman crawling around in a clock.

Lily tried to see through the murk to the bottom of the tower.

‘Really, Esme,' she murmured, ‘you did take losing hard.'

Nanny reached out and restrained Magrat as they ran down the spiral stairs.

‘Slow down a bit, I should,' she said.

‘But she could be hurt –!'

‘So could you, if you trip. Anyway,' said Nanny, ‘I don't reckon Esme is lyin' in a crumpled heap somewhere. That's not the way she'd go. I reckon she did it just to make sure Lily forgot about us and wouldn't try anything on us. I reckon she thought we were – what was that Tsortean bloke who could only be wounded if you hit 'im in the right place? No-one ever beat 'im until they found out about it. His knee, I think it was. We're her Tsortean knee, right?'

‘But we know you have to run really fast to get her broomstick going!' shouted Magrat.

‘Yeah, I know,' said Nanny. ‘That's what I thought. And now I'm thinking . . . how fast do you go when you're dropping? I mean, straight down?'

‘I . . . don't know,' said Magrat.

‘I reckon Esme thought it was worth findin' out,' said Nanny. ‘That's what I reckon.'

A figure appeared around the bend in the stairs, plodding upwards. They stood aside politely to let it pass.

‘Wish I could remember what bit of him you had to hit,' Nanny said. ‘That's going to be nagging at me all night, now.'

T
HE HEEL
.

‘Right? Oh, thanks.'

A
NY TIME
.

The figure continued onwards and upwards.

‘He had a good mask on, didn't he,' said Magrat, eventually.

She and Nanny sought confirmation in each other's face.

Magrat went pale. She looked up the stairs.

‘I think we should run back up and—' she began.

Nanny Ogg was much older. ‘I think we should walk,' she said.

Lady Volentia D'Arrangement sat in the rose garden under the big tower and blew her nose.

She'd been waiting for half an hour and she'd had enough.

She'd hoped for a romantic tête-à-tête: he'd seemed such a nice man, sort of eager and shy at the same time. Instead, she'd nearly been hit on the head when an old woman on a broom and wearing what looked, as far as she could see through the blur of speed, like Lady Volentia's own dress, had screamed down out of the mist. Her boots had ploughed through the roses before the curve of her flight took her up again.

And some filthy smelly tomcat kept brushing up against her legs.

And it had started off as such a nice evening . . .

‘'ullo, your Ladyship?'

She looked around at the bushes.

‘My name's Casanunda,' said a hopeful voice.

Lily Weatherwax turned when she heard the tinkle of glass from within the maze of mirrors.

Her brow wrinkled. She ran across the flagstones and opened the door into the mirror world.

There was no sound but the rustle of her dress and the soft hiss of her own breathing. She glided into the place between the mirrors.

Her myriad selves looked back at her approvingly. She relaxed.

Then her foot struck something. She looked down and saw on the flagstones, black in the moonlight, a broomstick lying in shards of broken glass.

Her horrified gaze rose to meet a reflection.

It glared back at her.

‘Where's the pleasure in bein' the winner if the loser ain't alive to know they've lost?'