‘It’s a steady job,’ said Nanny. ‘I’ll grant you that.’
‘Huh,’ said Granny. ‘A man who tinkles all day. No kind of husband for anyone, I’d say.’
‘You – she’d always know where he was,’ said Nanny, who was enjoying this. ‘You’d just have to listen.’
‘Never trust a man with horns on his hat,’ said Granny flatly.
Magrat stood up and pulled herself together, giving the impression that some bits had to come quite a long way.
‘You’re a pair of silly old women,’ she said quietly. ‘And I’m going home.’
She marched off down the path to her village without another word.
The old witches stared at one another.
‘Well!’ said Nanny.
‘It’s all these books they read today,’ said Granny. ‘It overheats the brain. You haven’t been putting ideas in her head, have you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean.’
Nanny stood up. ‘I certainly don’t see why a girl should have to be single her whole life just because you think it’s the right thing,’ she said. ‘Anyway, if people didn’t have children, where would we be?’
‘None of your girls is a witch,’ said Granny, also standing up.
‘They could have been,’ said Nanny defensively.
‘Yes, if you’d let them work it out for themselves, instead of encouragin’ them to throw themselves at men.’
‘They’re good-lookin’. You can’t stand in the way of human nature. You’d know that if you’d ever—’
‘If I’d ever what?’ said Granny Weatherwax, quietly.
They stared at one another in shocked silence. They could both feel it, the tension creeping into their bodies from the ground itself, the hot, aching feeling that they’d started something they must finish, no matter what.
‘I knew you when you were a gel,’ said Nanny sullenly. ‘Stuck-up, you were.’
‘At least I spent most of the time upright,’ said Granny. ‘Disgustin’, that was. Everyone thought so.’
‘How would you know?’ snapped Nanny.
‘You were the talk of the whole village,’ said Granny.
‘And you were, too! They called you the Ice Maiden. Never knew that, did you?’ sneered Nanny.
‘I wouldn’t sully my lips by sayin’ what they called you,’ shouted Granny.
‘Oh yes?’ shrieked Nanny. ‘Well, let me tell you, my good woman—’
‘Don’t you dare talk to me in that tone of voice! I’m not anyone’s good woman—’
‘Right!’
There was another silence while they stared at one another, nose to nose, but this silence was a whole quantum level of animosity higher than the last one; you could have roasted a turkey in the heat of this silence. There was no more shouting. Things had got far too bad for shouting. Now the voices came in low and full of menace.
‘I should have known better than to listen to Magrat,’ growled Granny. ‘This coven business is ridiculous. It attracts entirely the wrong sort of people.’
‘I’m very glad we had this little talk,’ hissed Nanny Ogg. ‘Cleared the air.’
She looked down.
‘And you’re in my territory, madam.’
‘Madam!’
Thunder rolled in the distance. The permanent Lancre storm, after a trip through the foothills, had drifted back towards the mountains for a one-night stand. The last rays of sunset shone livid through the clouds, and fat drops of water began to thud on the witches’ pointed hats.
‘I really don’t have time for all this,’ snapped Granny, trembling. ‘I have far more important things to do.’
‘And me,’ said Nanny.
‘Good night to you.’
‘And you.’
They turned their backs on one another and strode away into the downpour.
The midnight rain drummed on Magrat’s curtained windows as she thumbed her way purposefully through Goodie Whemper’s books of what, for want of any better word, could be called natural magic.
The old woman had been a great collector of such things and, most unusually, had written them down; witches didn’t normally have much use for literacy. But book after book was filled with tiny, meticulous handwriting detailing the results of patient experiments in applied magic. Goodie Whemper had, in fact, been a research witch.[10]
Magrat was looking up love spells. Every time she shut her eyes she saw a red-and-yellow figure on the darkness inside. Something had to be done about it.
She shut the book with a snap and looked at her notes. First, she had to find out his name. The old peel-the-apple trick should do that. You just peeled an apple, getting one length of peel, and threw the peel behind you; it’d land in the shape of his name. Millions of girls had tried it and had inevitably been disappointed, unless the loved one was called Scscs. That was because they hadn’t used an unripe Sunset Wonder picked three minutes before noon on the first frosty day in the autumn and peeled left-handedly using a silver knife with a blade less than half an inch wide; Goodie had done a lot of experimenting and was quite explicit on the subject. Magrat always kept a few by for emergencies, and this probably was one.
She took a deep breath, and threw the peel over her shoulder.
She turned slowly.
I’m a witch, she told herself. This is just another spell. There’s nothing to be frightened of. Get a grip of yourself, girl. Woman.
She looked down, and bit the back of her hand out of nervousness and embarrassment.
‘Who’d have thought it?’ she said aloud.
It had worked.
She turned back to her notes, her heart fluttering. What was next? Ah, yes – gathering fern seed in a silk handkerchief at dawn. Goodie Whemper’s tiny handwriting went on for two pages of detailed botanical instructions which, if carefully followed, resulted in the kind of love potion that had to be kept in a tightly-stoppered jar at the bottom of a bucket of iced water.
Magrat pulled open her back door. The thunder had passed, but now the first grey light of the new day was drowned in a steady drizzle. But it still qualified as dawn, and Magrat was determined.
Brambles tugging at her dress, her hair plastered against her head by the rain, she set out into the dripping forest.
The trees shook, even without a breeze.
Nanny Ogg was also out early. She hadn’t been able to get any sleep anyway, and besides, she was worried about Greebo. Greebo was one of her few blind spots. While intellectually she would concede that he was indeed a fat, cunning, evil-smelling multiple rapist, she nevertheless instinctively pictured him as the small fluffy kitten he had been decades before. The fact that he had once chased a female wolf up a tree and seriously surprised a she-bear who had been innocently digging for roots didn’t stop her worrying that something bad might happen to him. It was generally considered by everyone else in the kingdom that the only thing that might slow Greebo down was a direct meteorite strike. Now she was using a bit of elementary magic to follow his trail, although anyone with a sense of smell could have managed it. It had led her through the damp streets and to the open gates of the castle.
She gave the guards a nod as she went through. It didn’t occur to either of them to stop her because witches, like beekeepers and big gorillas, went where they liked. In any case, an elderly lady banging a bowl with a spoon was probably not the spearhead of an invasion force.
Life as a castle guard in Lancre was extremely boring. One of them, leaning on his spear as Nanny went past, wished there could be some excitement in his job. He will shortly learn the error of his ways. The other guard pulled himself together, and saluted.
‘Mornin’, Mum.’
‘Mornin’, our Shawn,’ said Nanny, and set off across the inner courtyard.
Like all witches Nanny Ogg had an aversion to front doors. She went around the back and entered the keep via the kitchens. A couple of maids curtsied to her. So did the head housekeeper, whom Nanny Ogg vaguely recognised as a daughter-in-law, although she couldn’t remember her name.
And so it was that when Lord Felmet came out of his bedroom he saw, coming along the passage towards him, a witch. There was no doubt about it. From the tip of her pointed hat to her boots, she was a witch. And she was coming for him.
Magrat slid helplessly down a bank. She was soaked to the skin and covered in mud. Somehow, she thought bitterly, when you read these spells you always think of it being a fine sunny morning in late spring. And she had forgotten to check what bloody kind of bloody fern it bloody was.
A tree tipped a load of raindrops on to her. Magrat pushed her sodden hair out of her eyes and sat down heavily on a fallen log, from which grew great clusters of pale and embarrassing fungus.
It had seemed such a lovely idea. She’d had great hopes of the coven. She was sure it wasn’t right to be a witch alone, you could get funny ideas. She’d dreamed of wise discussions of natural energies while a huge moon hung in the sky, and then possibly they’d try a few of the old dances described in some of Goodie Whemper’s books. Not actually naked, or sky clad as it was rather delightfully called, because Magrat had no illusions about the shape of her own body and the older witches seemed solid across the hems, and anyway that wasn’t absolutely necessary. The books said that the old-time witches had sometimes danced in their shifts. Magrat had wondered about how you danced in shifts. Perhaps there wasn’t room for them all to dance at once, she’d thought.