tp.wyrd sisters-第2部分

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ave　the　imagination；　but　he　was　also　one　of　those　rare　individuals　who　are　totally　focused　in　time。
　Most　people　aren't。　They　live　their　lives　as　a　sort　of　temporal　blur　around　the　point　where　their　body　actually　is　…　anticipating　the　future；　or　holding　on　to　the　past。　They're　usually　so　busy　thinking　about　what　happens　next　that　the　only　time　they　ever　find　out　what　is　happening　now　is　when　they　e　to　look　back　on　it。　Most　people　are　like　this。　They　learn　how　to　fear　because　they　can　actually　tell；　down　at　the　subconscious　level；　what　is　going　to　happen　next。　It's　already　happening　to　them。
　But　Verence　had　always　lived　only　for　the　present。　Until　now；　anyway。
　Death　sighed。
　I　SUPPOSE　NO…ONE　MENTIONED　ANYTHING　TO　YOU？　he　hazarded。
　'Say　again？'
　NO　PREMONITIONS？　STRANGE　DREAMS？　MAD　OLD　SOOTHSAYERS　SHOUTING　THINGS　AT　YOU　IN　THE　STREET？
　'About　what？　Dying？'
　NO；　I　SUPPOSE　NOT。　IT　WOULD　BE　TOO　MUCH　TO　EXPECT；　said　Death　sourly。　THEY　LEAVE　IT　ALL　TO　ME。
　'Who　do？'　said　Verence；　mystified。
　FATE。　DESTINY。　ALL　THE　REST　OF　THEM。　Death　laid　a　hand　on　the　king's　shoulder。　THE　FACT　IS；　I'M　AFRAID；　YOU'RE　DUE　TO　BEE　A　GHOST。
　'Oh。'　He　looked　down　at　his　。　。　。　body；　which　seemed　solid　enough。　Then　someone　walked　through　him。
　DON'T　LET　IT　UPSET　YOU。
　Verence　watched　his　own　stiff　corpse　being　carried　reverentially　from　the　hall。
　'I'll　try；'　he　said。
　GOOD　MAN。
　'I　don't　think　I　will　be　up　to　all　that　business　with　the　white　sheets　and　the　chains；　though；'　he　said。　'Do　I　have　to　walk　around　moaning　and　screaming？'
　Death　shrugged。　DO　YOU　WANT　TO？　he　said。
　'No。'
　THEN　I　SHOULDN'T　BOTHER；　IF　I　WERE　YOU。　Death　pulled　an　hour…glass　from　the　recesses　of　his　dark　robe　and　inspected　it　closely。
　AND　NOW　I　REALLY　MUST　BE　GOING；　he　said。　He　turned　on　his　heel；　put　his　scythe　over　his　shoulder　and　started　to　walk　out　of　the　hall　through　the　wall。
　'I　say？　Just　hold　on　there！'　shouted　Verence；　running　after　him。
　Death　didn't　look　back。　Verence　followed　him　through　the　wall；　it　was　like　walking　through　fog。
　'Is　that　all？'　he　demanded。　'I　mean；　how　long　will　I　be　a　ghost？　Why　am　I　a　ghost？　You　can't　just　leave　me　like　this。'　He　halted　and　raised　an　imperious；　slightly　transparent　finger。　'Stop！　I　mand　you！'
　Death　shook　his　head　gloomily；　and　stepped　through　the　next　wall。　The　king　hurried　after　him　with　as　much　dignity　as　he　could　still　muster；　and　found　Death　fiddling　with　the　girths　of　a　large　white　horse　standing　on　the　battlements。　It　was　wearing　a　nosebag。
　'You　can't　leave　me　like　this！'　he　repeated；　in　the　face　of　the　evidence。
　Death　turned　to　him。
　I　CAN；　he　said。　YOU'RE　UNDEAD；　YOU　SEE。　GHOSTS　INHABIT　A　WORLD　BETWEEN　THE　LIVING　AND　THE　DEAD。　IT'S　NOT　MY　RESPONSIBILITY。　He　patted　the　king　on　the　shoulder。　DON'T　WORRY；　he　said；　IT　WON'T　BE　FOREVER。
　'Good。'
　IT　MAY　SEEM　LIKE　FOREVER。
　'How　long　will　it　really　be？'
　UNTIL　YOU　HAVE　FULFILLED　YOUR　DESTINY；　I　ASSUME。
　'And　how　will　I　know　what　my　destiny　is？'　said　the　king；　desperately。
　CAN'T　HELP　THERE。　I'M　SORRY。
　'Well；　how　can　I　find　out？'
　THESE　THINGS　GENERALLY　BEE　APPARENT；　I　UNDERSTAND；　said　Death；　and　swung　himself　into　the　saddle。
　'And　until　then　I　have　to　haunt　this　place。'　King　Verence　stared　around　at　the　draughty　battlements。　'All　alone；　I　suppose。　Won't　anyone　be　able　to　see　me？'
　OH；　THE　PSYCHICALLY　INCLINED。　CLOSE　RELATIVES。　AND　CATS；　OF　COURSE。
　'I　hate　cats。'
　Death's　face　became　a　little　stiffer；　if　that　were　possible。　The　blue　glow　in　his　eye　sockets　flickered　red　for　an　instant。
　I　SEE；　he　said。　The　tone　suggested　that　death　was　too　good　for　cat…haters。　YOU　LIKE　GREAT　BIG　DOGS；　I　IMAGINE。
　'As　a　matter　of　fact；　I　do。'　The　king　stared　gloomily　at　the　dawn。　His　dogs。　He'd　really　miss　his　dogs。　And　it　looked　like　such　a　good　hunting　day。
　He　wondered　if　ghosts　hunted。　Almost　certainly　not；　he　imagined。　Or　ate；　or　drank　either　for　that　matter；　and　that　was　really　depressing。　He　liked　a　big　noisy　banquet　and　had　quaffed＇1＇　many　a　pint　of　good　ale。　And　bad　ale；　e　to　that。　He'd　never　been　able　to　tell　the　difference　till　the　following　morning；　usually。
　He　kicked　despondently　at　a　stone；　and　noted　gloomily　that　his　foot　went　right　through　it。　No　hunting；　drinking；　carousing；　no　wassailing；　no　hawking　。　。　。　It　was　dawning　on　him　that　the　pleasures　of　the　flesh　were　pretty　sparse　without　the　flesh。　Suddenly　life　wasn't　worth　living。　The　fact　that　he　wasn't　living　it　didn't　cheer　him　up　at　all。
　SOME　PEOPLE　LIKE　TO　BE　GHOSTS；　said　Death。
　'Hmm？'　said　Verence；　gloomily。
　IT'S　NOT　SUCH　A　WRENCH；　I　ASSUME。　THEY　CAN　SEE　HOW　THEIR　DESCENDANTS　GET　ON。　SORRY？　IS　SOMETHING　THE　MATTER？
　But　Verence　had　vanished　into　the　wall。
　DON'T　MIND　ME；　WILL　YOU；　said　Death；　peevishly。　He　looked　around　him　with　a　gaze　that　could　see　through　time　and　space　and　the　souls　of　men；　and　noted　a　landslide　in　distant　Klatch；　a　hurricane　in　Howandaland；　a　plague　in　Hergen。
　BUSY；　BUSY；　he　muttered；　and　spurred　his　horse　into　the　sky。
　Verence　ran　through　the　walls　of　his　own　castle。　His　feet　barely　touched　the　ground　…　in　fact；　the　unevenness　of　the　floor　meant　that　at　times　they　didn't　touch　the　ground　at　all。
　As　a　king　he　was　used　to　treating　servants　as　if　they　were　not　there；　and　running　through　them　as　a　ghost　was　almost　the　same。　The　only　difference　was　that　they　didn't　stand　aside。
　Verence　reached　the　nursery；　saw　the　broken　door；　the　trailed　sheets　。　。　。
　Heard　the　hoofbeats。　He　reached　the　window；　saw　his　own　horse　go　full　tilt　through　the　open　gateway　in　the　shafts　of　the　coach。　A　few　seconds　later　three　horsemen　followed　it。　The　sound　of　hooves　echoed　for　a　moment　on　the　cobbles　and　died　away。
　The　king　thumped　the　sill；　his　fist　going　several　inches　into　the　stone。
　Then　he　pushed　his　way　out　into　the　air；　disdaining　to　notice　the　drop；　and　half　flew；　half　ran　down　across　the　courtyard　and　into　the　stables。
　It　took　him　a　mere　twenty　seconds　to　learn　that；　to　the　great　many　things　a　ghost　cannot　do；　should　be　added　the　mounting　of　a　horse。　He　did　succeed　in　getting　into　the　saddle；　or　at　least　in　straddling　the　air　just　above　it；　but　when　the　horse　finally　bolted；　terrified　beyond　belief　by　the　mysterious　things　happening　behind　its　ears；　Verence　was　left　sitting　astride　five　feet　of　fresh　air。
　He　tried　to　run；　and　got　about　as　far　as　the　gateway　before　the　air　around　him　thickened　to　the　consistency　of　tar。
　'You　can't；'　said　a　sad；　old　voice　behind　him。　'You　have　to　stay　where　you　were　killed。　That's　what　haunting　means。　Take　it　from　me。　I　know。'
　
　Granny　Weatherwax　paused　with　a　second　scone　halfway　to　her　mouth。
　'Something　es；'　she　said。
　'Can　you　tell　by　the　pricking　of　your　thumbs？'　said　Magrat　earnestly。　Magrat　had　learned　a　lot　about　witchcraft　from　books。
　'The　pricking　of　my　ears；'　said　Granny。　She　raised　her　eyebrows　at　Nanny　Ogg。　Old　Goodie　Whemper　had　been　an　excellent　witch　in　her　way；　but　far　too　fanciful。　Too　many　flowers　and　romantic　notions　and　such。
　The　occasional　flash　of　lightning　showed　the　moorland　stretching　down　to　the　forest；　but　the　rain　on　the　warm　summer　earth　had　filled　the　air　with　mist　wraiths。
　'Hoofbeats？'　said　Nanny　Ogg。　'No…one　would　e　up　here　this　time　of　night。'
　Magrat　peered　around　timidly。　Here　and　there　on　the　moor　were　huge　standing　stones；　their　origins　lost　in　time；　which　were　said　to　lead　mobile　and　private　lives　of　their　own。　She　shivered。
　'What's　to　be　afraid　of？'　she　managed。
　'Us；'　said　Granny　Weatherwax；　smugly。
　The　hoofbeats　neared；　slowed。　And　then　the　coach　rattled　between　the　furze　bushes；　its　horses　hanging　in　their　harnesses。　The　driver　leapt　down；　ran　around　to　the　door；　pulled　a　large　bundle　from　inside　and　dashed　towards　the　trio。
　He　was　halfway　across　the　damp　peat　when　he　stopped　and　stared　at　Granny　Weatherwax　with　a　look　of　horror。
　'It's　all　right；'　she　whispered；　and　the　whisper　cut　through　the　grumbling　of　the　storm　as　clearly　as　a　bell。
　She　took　a　few　steps　forward　and　a　convenient　lightning　flash　allowed　her　to　look　directly　into　the　man's　eyes。　They　had　the　peculiarity　of　focus　that　told　those　who　had　the　Know　that　he　was　no　longer　looking　at　anything　in　this　world。
　With　a　final　jerking　movement　he　thrust　the　bundle　into　Granny's　arms　and　toppled　forward；　the　feathers　of　a　crossbow　bolt　sticking　out　of　his　back。
　Three　figures　moved　into　the　firelight。　Granny　looked　up　into　another　pair　of　eyes；　which　were　as　chilly　as　the　slopes　of　Hell。
　Their　owner　threw　his　crossbow　aside。　There　was　a　glimpse　of　chain　mail　under　his　sodden　cloak　as　he　drew　his　sword。
　He　didn't　flourish　it。　The　eyes　that　didn't　leave　Granny's　face　weren't　the　eyes　of　one　who　bothers　about　flourishing　things。　They　were　the　eyes　of　one　who　knows　exactly　what　swords　are　for。　He　reached　out　his　hand。
　'You　will　give　it　to　me；'　he　said。
　Granny　twitched　aside　the　blanket　in　her　arms　and　looked　down　at　a　small　face；　wrapped　in　sleep。
　She　looked　up。
　'No；'　she　said；　on　general　principles。
　The　soldier　glanced　from　her　to　Magrat　and　Nanny　Ogg；　who　were　as　still　as　the　standing　stones　of　the　moor。
　'You　are　witches？'　he　said。
　Granny　nodded。　Lightning　skewered　down　from　the　sky　and　a　bush　a　hundred　yards　away　blossomed　into　fire。　The　two　soldiers　behind　the　man　muttered　something；　but　he　smiled　and　raised　a　mailed　hand。
　'Does　the　skin　of　witches　turn　aside　steel？'　he　said。
　'Not　that　I'm　aware；'　said　Granny；　levelly。　'You　could　give　it　a　try。'
　One　of　the　soldiers　stepped　forward　and　touched　the　man's　arm　gingerly。
　'Sir；　with　respect；　sir；　it's　not　a　good　idea…'
　'Be　silent。'
　'But　it's　terrible　bad　luck　to…'
　'Must　I　ask　you　again？'
　'Sir；'　said　the　man。　His　eyes　caught　Granny's　for　a　moment；　and　reflected　hopeless　terror。
　The　leader　grinned　at　Granny；　who　hadn't　moved　a　muscle。
　'Your　peasant　magic　is　for　fools；　mother　of　the　night。　I　can　strike　you　down　where　you　stand。'
　'Then　strike；　man；'　said　Granny；　looking　over　his　shoulder。　'If　your　heart　tells　you；　strike　as　hard　as　you　dare。'
　The　man　raised　his　sword。　Lightning　speared　down　again　and　split　a　stone　a　few　yards　away；　filling　the　air　with　smoke　and　the　stink　of　burnt　silicon。
　'Missed；'　he　said　smugly；　and　Granny　saw　his　muscles　tense　as　he　prepared　to　bring　the　sword　down。
　A　look　of　extreme　puzzlement　crossed　his　face。　He　tilted　his　head　sideways　and　opened　his　mouth；　as　if　trying　to　e　to　terms　with　a　new　idea。　His　sword　dropped　out　of　his　hand　and　landed　point　downwards　in　the　peat。　Then　he　gave　a　sigh　and　folded　up；　very　gently；　collapsing　in　a　heap　at　Granny's　feet。
　She　gave　him　a　gentle　prod　with　her　toe。　'Perhaps　you　weren't　aware　of　what　I　was　aiming　at；'　she　whispered。　'Mother　of　the　night；　indeed！'
　The　soldier　who　had　tried　to　restrain　the　man　stared　in　horror　at　the　bloody　dagger　in　his　hand；　and　backed　away。
　'I…I…I　couldn't　let。　He　shouldn't　of。　It's　…　it's　not　right　to；'　he　stuttered。
　'Are　you　from　around　these　parts；　young　man？'　said　Granny。
　He　dropped　to　his　knees。　'Mad　Wolf；　ma'am；'　he　said。　He　stared　back　at　the　fallen　captain。　'They'll　kill　me　now！'　he　wailed。
　'But　you　did　what　you　thought　was　right；'　said　Granny。
　'I　didn't　bee　a　soldier　for　this。　Not　to　go　round　killing　people。'