Terry Pratchett - Carpe Jugulum

Perdita thought a witch’s hat was a powerful symbol of authority. Agnes thought that a dumpy girl should not wear a tall hat, especially with black. It made her look as though someone had dropped a liquorice-flavoured ice-cream cone.

The trouble was that although Agnes was right, so was Perdita. The pointy hat carried a lot of weight in the Ramtops. People talked to the hat, not to the person wearing it. When people were in serious trouble they went to a witch. [2] Sometimes, of course, to say, ‘Please stop doing it.’

You had to wear black, too. Perdita liked black. Perdita thought black was cool. Agnes thought that black wasn’t a good colour for the circumferentially challenged … oh, and that ‘cool’ was a dumb word used only by people whose brains wouldn’t fill a spoon.

Magrat Garlick hadn’t worn black and had probably never in her life said ‘cool’ except when commenting on the temperature.

Agnes stopped examining her pointiness in the mirror and looked around the cottage that had been Magrat’s and was now hers, and sighed. Her gaze took in the expensive, gold-edged card on the mantelpiece.

Well, Magrat had certainly retired now, and had gone off to be Queen and if there was ever any doubt about that then there could be no doubt today. Agnes was puzzled at the way Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax still talked about her, though. They were proud (more or less) that she’d married the King, and agreed that it was the right kind of life for her, but while they never actually articulated the thought it hung in the air over their heads in flashing mental colours: Magrat had settled for second prize .

Agnes had almost burst out laughing when she first realized this, but you wouldn’t be able to argue with them. They wouldn’t even see that there could be an argument.

Granny Weatherwax lived in a cottage with a thatch so old there was quite a sprightly young tree growing in it, and got up and went to bed alone, and washed in the rain barrel. And Nanny Ogg was the most local person Agnes had ever met. She’d gone off to foreign parts, yes, but she always carried Lancre with her, like a sort of invisible hat. But they took it for granted that they were top of every tree, and the rest of the world was there for them to tinker with.

Perdita thought that being a queen was just about the best thing you could be.

Agnes thought the best thing you could be was far away from Lancre, and good second best would be to be alone in your own head.

She adjusted the hat as best she could and left the cottage.

Witches never locked their doors. They never needed to.

As she stepped out into the moonlight, two magpies landed on the thatch.

The current activities of the witch Granny Weatherwax would have puzzled a hidden observer.

She peered at the flagstones just inside her back door and lifted the old rag rug in front of it with her toe.

Then she walked to the front door, which was never used, and did the same thing there. She also examined the cracks around the edges of the doors.

She went outside. There had been a sharp frost during the night, a spiteful little trick by the dying winter, and the drifts of leaves that hung on in the shadows were still crisp. In the harsh air she poked around in the flowerpots and bushes by the front door.

Then she went back inside.

She had a clock. Lancrastians liked clocks, although they didn’t bother much about actual time in any length much shorter than an hour. If you needed to boil an egg, you sang fifteen verses of ‘Where Has All The Custard Gone?’ under your breath. {4} 4 Possibly the Lancrastrian version of ‘Where Have All The Flowers Gone?’, which can also be used for egg-timing purposes. But the tick was a comfort on long evenings.

Finally she sat down in her rocking chair and glared at the doorway.

Owls were hooting in the forest when someone came running up the path and hammered on the door.

Anyone who hadn’t heard about Granny’s iron self-control, which you could bend a horseshoe round, might just have thought they heard her give a tiny sigh of relief.

‘Well, it’s about time—’ she began.

The excitement up at the castle was just a distant hum down in the mews. The hawks and falcons sat hunched on their perches, lost in some inner world of stoop and updraught. There was the occasional clink of a chain or flutter of a wing.

Hodgesaargh the falconer was getting ready in the tiny room next door when he felt the change in the air. He stepped out into a silent mews. The birds were all awake, alert, expectant . Even King Henry the eagle, whom Hodgesaargh would only go near at the moment when he was wearing full plate armour, was peering around.

You got something like this when there was a rat in the place, but Hodgesaargh couldn’t see one. Perhaps it had gone.

For tonight’s event he’d selected William the buzzard, who could be depended upon. All Hodgesaargh’s birds could be depended upon, but more often than not they could be depended upon to viciously attack him on sight. William, however, thought that she was a chicken, and she was usually safe in company.

But even William was paying a lot of attention to the world, which didn’t often happen unless she’d seen some corn.

Odd, thought Hodgesaargh. And that was all. The birds went on staring up, as though the roof simply was not there.

Granny Weatherwax lowered her gaze to a red, round and worried face.

‘Here, you’re not—’ She pulled herself together. ‘You’re the Wattley boy from over in Slice, aren’t you?’

‘Y’g’t …’ The boy leaned against the doorjamb and fought for breath. ‘You g’t—’

‘Just take deep breaths. You want a drink of water?’

‘You g’t t’—’

‘Yes, yes, all right. Just breathe …’

The boy gulped air a few times. ‘You got to come to Mrs Ivy and her baby missus!’ {5} 5 Ivy is an evergreen plant that continues growing even on dead trees; hence it is sometimes a symbol of immortality, persistence of life.

The words came out in one quick stream. Granny grabbed her hat from its peg by the door and pulled her broomstick out of its lodging in the thatch.

‘I thought old Mrs Patternoster was seeing to her,’ {6} 6 Paternoster (Latin for ‘Our Father’) generally refers to the Lord’s Prayer in Latin, as said by Roman Catholics until the 1960s. she said, ramming her hatpins into place with the urgency of a warrior preparing for sudden battle.

‘She says it’s all gone wrong miss!’

Granny was already running down her garden path.

There was a small drop on the other side of the clearing, with a twenty-foot fall to a bend in the track. The broom hadn’t fired by the time she reached it but she ran on, swinging a leg over the bristles as it plunged.

The magic caught halfway down and her boots dragged across the dead bracken as the broom soared up into the night.

The road wound over the mountains like a dropped ribbon. Up here there was always the sound of the wind.

The highwayman’s horse was a big black stallion. It was also quite possibly the only horse with a ladder strapped behind the saddle.

This was because the highwayman’s name was Casanunda, and he was a dwarf. Most people thought of dwarfs as reserved, cautious, law-abiding and very reticent on matters of the heart and other vaguely connected organs, and this was indeed true of almost all dwarfs. But genetics rolls strange dice on the green baize of life and somehow the dwarfs had produced Casanunda, who preferred fun to money and devoted to women all the passion that other dwarfs reserved for gold.

He also regarded laws as useful things and he obeyed them when it was convenient. Casanunda despised highwaymanning, but it got you out in the fresh air of the countryside, which was very good for you, especially when the nearby towns were lousy with husbands carrying a grudge and a big stick.