Lords and Ladies

Nanny gave up.

“Oh, well,” she said, “I'm sure you'll work it all out as you-”

Granny and the king reappeared.

“How's the girl?” said Granny.

“We took out the arrow and cleaned up the wound, anyway,” said Magrat. “But she won't wake up. Best if she stays here.”

“You sure?” said Granny. “She needs keeping an eye on. I've got a spare bedroom.”

“She shouldn't be moved,” said Magrat, briskly.

“They've put their mark on her,” said Granny. “You sure you know how to deal with it?”

“I do know it's quite a nasty wound,” said Magrat, briskly.

“I ain't exactly thinking about the wound,” said Granny. “She's been touched by them is what I mean. She's-”

“I'm sure I know how to deal with a sick person,” said Magrat. “I'm not totally stupid, you know.”

“She's not to be left alone,” Granny persisted.

“There'll be plenty of people around,” said Verence. “The guests start arriving tomorrow.”

“Being alone isn't the same as not having other people around,” said Granny.

“This is a castle. Granny.”

“Right. Well. We won't keep you, then,” said Granny. “Come, Gytha.”

Nanny Ogg helped herself to an elderly lamb chop from under one of the silver covers, and waved it vaguely at the royal pair.

“Have fun,” she said. “Insofar as that's possible.”

“Gytha!”

“Coming.”

Elves are wonderful. They provoke wonder.

Elves are marvellous. They cause marvels.

Elves are fantastic. They create fantasies.

Elves are glamorous. They project glamour.

Elves are enchanting. They weave enchantment.

Elves are terrific. They beget terror.

The thing about words is that meanings can twist just like a snake, and if you want to find snakes look for them behind words that have changed their meaning.

No one ever said elves are nice.

Elves are bad.

“Well, that's it,” said Nanny Ogg, as the witches walked out over the castle's drawbridge. “Well done, Esme.”

“It ain't over,” said Granny Weatherwax.

“You said yourself they can't get through now. No one else round here's going to try any magic at the stones, that's sure enough.”

“Yes, but it'll be circle time for another day or so yet. Anything could happen.”

“That Diamanda girl's out of it, and you've put the wind up the others,” said Nanny Ogg, tossing the lamb bone into the dry moat. “Ain't no one else going to call 'em, I know that.”

“There's still the one in the dungeon.”

“You want to get rid of it?” said Nanny. “I'll send our Shawn to King Ironfoundersson up at Copperhead, if you like. Or I could hop on the old broomstick meself and go and drop the word to the Mountain King. The dwarfs and trolls'll take it off our hands like a shot. No more problem.”

Granny ignored this.

“There's something else,” she said. “Something we haven't thought of. She'll still be looking for a way.”

They'd reached the town square now. She surveyed it. Of course, Verence was king and that was right and proper, and this was his kingdom and that was right and proper too. But in a deeper sense the kingdom belonged to her. And to Gytha Ogg, of course. Verence's writ only ran to the doings of mankind; even the dwarfs and trolls didn't acknowledge him as king, although they were very polite about it. But when it came to the trees and the rocks and the soil. Granny Weatherwax saw it as hers. She was sensitive to its moods.

It was still being watched. She could sense the watchfulness. Sufficiently close examination changes the thing being observed, and what was being observed was the whole country. The whole country was under attack, and here she was, her mind unravelling . . .

“Funny thing,” said Nanny Ogg, to no one in particular, “while I was sitting up there at the Dancers this morning I thought, funny thing. . .”

“What're you going on about now?”

“I remember when I was young there was a girl like Diamanda. Bad-tempered and impatient and talented and a real pain in the bum to the old witches. I don't know if you happen to remember her, by any chance?”

They passed Jason's forge, which rang to the sound of his hammer.

“I never forgot her,” said Granny, quietly.

“Funny thing, how things go round in circles . . .”

“No they don't,” said Granny Weatherwax firmly. “I wasn't like her. You know what the old witches round here were like. Set in their ways. No more than a bunch of old wart-charmers. And I wasn't rude to them. I was just . . . firm. Forthright. I stood up for meself. Part of being a witch is standing up for yourself - you're grinning.”

“Just wind, I promise.”

“It's completely different with her. No one's ever been able to say I wasn't open to new ideas.”

“Well known for being open to new ideas, you are,” said Nanny Ogg. “I'm always saying, that Esme Weatherwax, she's always open to new ideas.”

“Right.” Granny Weatherwax looked up at the forested hills around the town, and frowned.

“The thing is,” she said, “girls these days don't know how to think with a clear mind. You've got to think clearly and not be distracted. That's Magrat for you, always being distracted. It gets in the way of doing the proper thing.” She stopped. “I can feel her, Gytha. The Queen of the Fairies. She can get her mind past the stones. Blast that girl! She's got a way in. She's everywhere. Everywhere I look with my mind, I can smell her.”

“Everything's going to be all right,” said Nanny, patting her on the shoulder. “You'll see.”

“She's looking for a way,” Granny repeated.

“Good morrow, brothers, and wherehap do we whist this merry day?” said Carter the baker.

The rest of the Lancre Morris Men looked at him.

“You on some kind of medication or what?” said Weaver the thatcher.

“Just trying to enter into the spirit of the thing,” said Carter.

“That's how rude mechanicals talk.”

“Who're rude mechanicals?” said Baker the weaver.

“They're the same as Comic Artisans, I think,” said Carter the baker.

“I asked my mum what artisans are,” said Jason.

“Yeah?”

“They're us.”

“And we're Rude Mechanicals as well?” said Baker the weaver.

“I reckon.”

“Bum!”

“Well, we certainly don't talk like these buggers in the writing,” said Carter the baker. “I never said 'fol-de-rol' in my life. And I can't understand any of the jokes.”

“You ain't supposed to understand the jokes, this is a play,” said Jason.

“Drawers!” said Baker the weaver.

“Oh, shut up. And push the cart.”

“Don't see why we couldn't do the Stick and Bucket Dance . . .” mumbled Tailor the other weaver.

“We're not doing the Stick and Bucket dance! I never want to hear any more ever about the Stick and Bucket dance! I still get twinges in my knee! So shut up about the Stick and Bucket dance!”

“Belly!” shouted Baker, who wasn't a man to let go of an idea.

The cart containing the props bumped and skidded on the rutted track.

Jason had to admit that Morris dancing was a lot easier than acting. People didn't keep turning up to watch and giggle. Small children didn't stand around jeering. Weaver and Thatcher were in almost open rebellion now, and mucking up the words. The evenings were becoming a constant search for somewhere to rehearse.

Even the forest wasn't private enough. It was amazing how people would just happen to be passing.

Weaver stopped pushing, and wiped his brow.

“You'd have thought the Blasted Oak would've been safe,” he said. “Half a mile from the nearest path, and damn me if after five minutes you can't move for charcoal burners, hermits, trappers, tree tappers, hunters, trolls, bird-limers, hurdle-makers, swine-herds, truffle hunters, dwarfs, bodgers and suspicious buggers with big coats on. I'm surprised there's room in the forest for the bloody trees. Where to now?”

They'd reached a crossroads, if such it could be called.

“Don't remember this one,” said Carpenter the poacher. “Thought I knew all the paths around here.”

“That's 'cos you only ever sees 'em in the dark,” said Jason.

“Yeah, everyone knows 'tis your delight on a shining night,” said Thatcher the carter.

“Tis his delight every night,” said Jason.

“Hey,” said Baker the weaver, “we're getting really good at this rude mechanism, ain't we?”

“Let's go right,” said Jason.

“Nah, it's all briars and thorns that way.”

“All right, then, left then.”

“It's all winding,” said Weaver.

“What about the middle road?” said Carter.

Jason peered ahead.

There was a middle track, hardly more than an animal path, which wound away under shady trees. Ferns grew thickly alongside it. There was a general green, rich, dark feel to it, suggested by the word “bosky”[22]

His blacksmith's senses stood up and screamed.

“Not that way,” he said.

“Ah, come on,” said Weaver. “What's wrong with it?”

“Goes up to the Dancers, that path does,” said Jason. “Me mam said no one was to go up to the Dancers 'cos of them young women dancing round 'em in the nudd.”

“Yeah, but they've been stopped from that,” said Thatcher. “Old Granny Weatherwax put her foot down hard and made 'em put their drawers on.”

“And they ain't to go there anymore, neither,” said Carter. “So it'll be nice and quiet for the rehearsing.”

“Me mam said no one was to go there,” said Jason, a shade uncertainly.

“Yeah, but she probably meant . . . you know . . . with magical intent,” said Carter. “Nothing magical about prancing around in wigs and stuff.”

“Right,” said Thatcher. “And it'll be really private.”

“And,” said Weaver, “if any young women fancies sneaking back up there to dance around without their drawers on, we'll be sure to see 'em.”

There was a moment of absolute, introspective silence.

“I reckon,” said Thatcher, voicing the unspoken views of nearly all of them, “we owes it to the community.”

“We-ell,” said Jason, “me mam said . . .”

“Anyway, your mum's a fine one to talk,” said Weaver. “My dad said that when he was young, your mum hardly ever had-”

“Oh, all right,” said Jason, clearly outnumbered. “Can't see it can do any harm. We're only actin'. It's . . . it's make-believe. It's not as if it's anything real. But no one's to do any dancing. Especially, and I want everyone to be absolutely definite about this, the Stick and Bucket dance.”

“Oh, we'll be acting all right,” said Weaver. “And keeping watch as well, o'course.”