tp.wyrd sisters-第26部分

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e　clouds　and　dropped　from　sight。
　
　The　Fool　and　Magrat　sat　on　a　log　on　a　small　outcrop　that　looked　out　across　the　forest。　The　lights　of　Lancre　town　were　in　fact　not　very　far　away；　but　neither　of　them　had　suggested　leaving。
　The　air　between　them　crackled　with　unspoken　thoughts　and　wild　surmisings。
　'You've　been　a　Fool　long？'　said　Magrat；　politely。　She　blushed　in　the　darkness。　In　that　atmosphere　it　sounded　the　most　impolite　of　questions。
　'All　my　life；'　said　the　Fool　bitterly。　'I　cut　my　teeth　on　a　set　of　bells。'
　'I　suppose　it　gets　handed　on；　from　father　to　son？'　said　Magrat。
　'I　never　saw　much　of　my　father。　He　went　off　to　be　Fool　for　the　Lords　of　Quirm　when　I　was　small；'　said　the　Fool。　'Had　a　row　with　my　grandad。　He　es　back　from　time　to　time；　to　see　my　mam。'
　'That's　terrible。'
　There　was　a　sad　jingle　as　the　Fool　shrugged。　He　vaguely　recalled　his　father　as　a　short；　friendly　little　man；　with　eyes　like　a　couple　of　oysters。　Doing　something　as　brave　as　standing　up　to　the　old　boy　must　have　been　quite　outside　his　nature。　The　sound　of　two　suits　of　bells　shaken　in　anger　still　haunted　his　memory；　which　was　full　enough　of　bad　scenes　as　it　was。
　'Still；'　said　Magrat；　her　voice　higher　than　usual　and　with　a　vibrato　of　uncertainty；　'it　must　be　a　happy　life。　Making　people　laugh；　I　mean。'
　When　there　was　no　reply　she　turned　to　look　at　the　man。　His　face　was　like　stone。　In　a　low　voice；　talking　as　though　she　was　not　there；　the　Fool　spoke。
　He　spoke　of　the　Guild　of　Fools　and　Joculators　in　Ankh…Morpork。
　Most　visitors　mistook　it　at　first　sight　for　the　offices　of　the　Guild　of　Assassins；　which　in　fact　was　the　rather　pleasant；…　airy　collection　of　buildings　next　door　（the　Assassins　always　had　plenty　of　money）；　sometimes　the　young　Fools；　slaving　at　their　rote　in　rooms　that　were　always　freezing；　even　in　high　summer；　heard　the　young　Assassins　at　play　over　the　wall　and　envied　them；　even　though；　of　course；　the　number　of　piping　voices　grew　noticeably　fewer　towards　the　end　of　term　（the　Assassins　also　believed　in　petitive　examination）。
　In　fact　all　sorts　of　sounds　managed　to　breach　the　high　grim　windowless　walls；　and　from　keen　questioning　of　servants　the　younger　Fools　picked　up　a　vision　of　the　city　beyond。　There　were　taverns　out　there；　and　parks。　There　was　a　whole　bustling　world；　in　which　the　students　and　apprentices　of　the　various　Guilds　and　Colleges　took　a　full　ripe　part；　either　by　playing　tricks　on　it；　running　through　it　shouting；　or　throwing　parts　of　it　up。　There　was　laughter　which　paid　no　attention　to　the　Five　Cadences　or　Twelve　Inflections。　And　…　although　the　students　debated　this　news　in　the　dormitories　at　night　…　there　was　apparently　unauthorised　humour；　delivered　freestyle；　with　no　reference　to　the　Monster　Fun　Book　or　the　Council　or　anyone。
　Out　there；　beyond　the　stained　stonework；　people　were　telling　jokes　without　reference　to　the　Lords　of　Misrule。
　It　was　a　sobering　thought。　Well；　not　a　sobering　thought　in　actual　fact；　because　alcohol　wasn't　allowed　in　the　Guild。　But　if　it　was；　it　would　have　been。
　There　was　nowhere　more　sober　than　the　Guild。
　The　Fool　spoke　bitterly　of　the　huge；　redfaced　Brother　Prankster；　of　evenings　learning　the　Merry　Jests；　of　long　mornings　in　the　freezing　gymnasium　learning　the　Eighteen　Pratfalls　and　the　accepted　trajectory　for　a　custard　pie。　And　juggling。　Juggling！　Brother　Jape；　a　man　with　a　soul　like　cold　boiled　string；　taught　juggling。　It　wasn't　that　the　Fool　was　bad　at　juggling　that　reduced　him　to　incoherent　fury。　Fools　were　expected　to　be　bad　at　juggling；　especially　if　juggling　inherently　funny　items　like　custard　pies；　flaming　torches　or　extremely　sharp　cleavers。　What　had　Brother　Jape　laying　about　him　in　red…hot；　clanging　rage　was　the　fact　that　the　Fool　was　bad　at　juggling　because　he　wasn　't　any　good　at　it。
　'Didn't　you　want　to　be　anything　else？'　said　Magrat。
　'What　else　is　there？'　said　the　Fool。　'I　haven't　seen　anything　else　I　could　be。'
　Student　Fools　were　allowed　out；　in　the　last　year　of　training；　but　under　a　fearsome　set　of　restrictions。　Capering　miserably　through　the　streets　he'd　seen　wizards　for　the　first　time；　moving　like　dignified　carnival　floats。　He'd　seen　the　surviving　assassins；　foppish；　giggling　young　men　in　black　silk；　as　sharp　as　knives　underneath；　he'd　seen　priests；　their　fantastic　costumes　only　slightly　marred　by　the　long　rubber　sacrificial　aprons　they　wore　for　major　services。　Every　trade　and　profession　had　its　costume；　he　saw；　and　he　realised　for　the　first　time　that　the　uniform　he　was　wearing　had　been　carefully　and　meticulously　designed　for　no　other　purpose　than　making　its　wearer　look　like　a　plete　and　utter　pillock。
　Even　so；　he'd　persevered。　He'd　spent　his　whole　life　persevering。
　He　persevered　precisely　because　he　had　absolutely　no　talent；　and　because　grandfather　would　have　flayed　him　alive　if　he　didn't。　He　memorised　the　authorised　jokes　until　his　head　rang；　and　got　up　even　earlier　in　the　morning　to　juggle　until　his　elbows　creaked。　He　had　perfected　his　grasp　of　the　ic　vocabulary　until　only　the　very　senior　Lords　could　understand　him。　He'd　capered　and　clowned　with　an　impenetrable　grim　determination　and　he'd　graduated　top　of　his　year　and　had　been　awarded　the　Bladder　of　Honour。　He'd　dropped　it　down　the　privy　when　he　came　home。
　Magrat　was　silent。
　The　Fool　said；　'How　did　you　get　to　be　a　witch？'
　'Um？'
　'I　mean；　did　you　go　to　a　school　or　something？'
　'Oh。　No。　Goodie　Whemper　just　walked　down　to　the　village　one　day；　got　all　us　girls　lined　up；　and　chose　me。　You　don't　choose　the　Craft；　you　see。　It　chooses　you。'
　'Yes；　but　when　do　you　actually　bee　a　witch？'
　'When　the　other　witches　treat　you　as　one；　I　suppose。'　Magrat　sighed。　'If　they　ever　do；'　she　added。　'I　thought　they　would　after　I　did　that　spell　in　the　corridor。　It　was　pretty　good；　after　all。'
　'Marry；　t'was　a　rite　of　passage；'　said　the　Fool；　unable　to　stop　himself。　Magrat　gave　him　a　blank　look。　He　coughed。
　'The　other　witches　being　those　two　old　ladies？'　he　said；　relapsing　into　his　usual　gloom。
　'Yes。'
　'Very　strong　characters；　I　imagine。'
　'Very；'　said　Magrat；　with　feeling。
　'I　wonder　if　they　ever　met　my　grandad；'　said　the　Fool。
　Magrat　looked　at　her　feet。
　'They're　quite　nice　really；'　she　said。　'It's　just　that；　well；　when　you're　a　witch　you　don't　think　about　other　people。　I　mean；　you　think　about　them；　but　you　don't　actually　think　about　their　feelings；　if　you　see　what　I　mean。　At　least；　not　unless　you　think　about　it。'　She　looked　at　her　feet　again。
　'You're　not　like　that；'　said　the　Fool。
　'Look；　I　wish　you'd　stop　working　for　the　duke；'　said　Magrat　desperately。　'You　know　what　he's　like。　Torturing　people　and　setting　fire　to　their　cottages　and　everything。'
　'But　I'm　his　Fool；'　said　the　Fool。　'A　Fool　has　to　be　loyal　to　his　master。　Right　up　until　he　dies。　I'm　afraid　it's　tradition。　Tradition　is　very　important。'
　'But　you　don't　even　like　being　a　Fool！'
　'I　hate　it。　But　that's　got　nothing　to　do　with　it。　If　I've　got　to　be　a　Fool；　I'll　do　it　properly。'
　'That's　really　stupid；'　said　Magrat。
　'Foolish；　I'd　prefer。'
　The　Fool　had　been　edging　along　the　log。　'If　I　kiss　you；'　he　added　carefully；　'do　I　turn　into　a　frog？'
　Magrat　looked　down　at　her　feet　again。　They　shuffled　themselves　under　her　dress；　embarrassed　at　all　this　attention。
　She　could　sense　the　shades　of　Gytha　Ogg　and　Esme　Weatherwax　on　either　side　of　her。　Granny's　spectre　glared　at　her。　A　witch　is　master　of　every　situation；　it　said。
　Mistress；　said　the　vision　of　Nanny　Ogg；　and　made　a　brief　gesture　involving　much　grinning　and　waving　of　forearms。
　'We　shall　have　to　see；'　she　said。
　It　was　destined　to　be　the　most　impressive　kiss　in　the　history　of　foreplay。
　Time；　as　Granny　Weatherwax　had　pointed　out；　is　a　subjective　experience。　The　Fool's　years　in　the　Guild　had　been　an　eternity　whereas　the　hours　with　Magrat　on　the　hilltop　passed　like　a　couple　of　minutes。　And；　high　above　Lancre；　a　double　handful　of　seconds　extended　like　taffy　into　hours　of　screaming　terror。
　'Ice！'　screamed　Granny。　'It's　iced　up！'
　Nanny　Ogg　came　alongside；　trying　vainly　to　match　courses　with　the　tumbling；　bucking　broomstick。　Octarine　fire　crackled　over　the　frozen　bristles；　shorting　them　out　at　random。　She　leaned　over　and　snatched　a　handful　of　Granny's　skirt。
　'I　tole　you　it　was　daft！'　she　shouted。　'You　went　all　through　all　that　wet　mist　and　then　up　into　the　cold　air；　you　daft　besom！'
　'You　let　go　of　my　skirt；　Gytha　Ogg！'
　'e　on；　grab　hold　o'mine。　You're　on　fire　at　the　back　there！'
　They　shot　through　the　bottom　of　the　cloud　bank　and　screamed　in　unison　as　the　shrub…covered　ground　emerged　from　nowhere　and　aimed　itself　directly　at　them。
　And　went　past。
　Nanny　looked　down　a　black　perspective　at　the　bottom　of　which　a　boil　of　white　water　was　dimly　visible。　They　had　flown　over　the　edge　of　Lancre　Gorge。
　Blue　smoke　was　pouring　out　of　Granny's　broomstick　but　she　hung　on；　determined；　and　forced　it　around。
　'What　the　hell　you　doing？'　roared　Nanny。
　'I　can　follow　the　river；'　Granny　Weatherwax　screamed；　above　the　crackle　of　flames。　'Don't　you　worry！'
　'You　e　aboard；　d'you　hear？　It's　all　over；　you　can't　do　it　。　。　。'
　There　was　a　small　explosion　behind　Granny　and　several　handfuls　of　burning　bristles　broke　off　and　whirled　away　into　the　booming　depths　of　the　gorge。　Her　stick　jerked　sideways　and　Nanny　grabbed　her　around　the　shoulders　as　a　gout　of　fire　snapped　another　binding。
　The　blazing　broomstick　shot　from　between　her　legs；　twisted　in　the　air；　and　went　straight　upwards；　trailing　sparks　and　making　a　noise　like　a　wet　finger　dragged　around　the　top　of　a　wineglass。
　This　left　Nanny　flying　upside　down；　supporting　Granny　Weatherwax　at　arm's　length。　They　stared　into　one　another's　face　and　screamed。
　'I　can't　pull　you　up！'
　'Well；　I　can't　climb　up；　can　I？　Act　your　age；　Gytha！'
　Nanny　considered　this。　Then　she　let　go。
　Three　marriages　and　an　adventurous　girlhood　had　left　Nanny　Ogg　with　thigh　muscles　that　could　crack　coconuts；　and　the　G…forces　sucked　at　her　as　she　forced　the　speeding　stick　down　and　around　in　a　tight　loop。
　Ahead　of　her　she　made　out　Granny　Weatherwax　dropping　like　a　stone；　one　hand　clutching　her　hat；　the　other　trying　to　prevent　gravity　from　seeing　up　her　skirts。　She　urged　the　stick　forwards　until　it　creaked；　snatched　the　falling　witch　around　the　waist；　fought　the　plunging　stick　back　up　to　level　flight；　and　sagged。
　The　subsequent　silence　was　broken　by　Granny　Weatherwax　saying；　'Don't　you　ever　do　that　again；　Gytha　Ogg。'
　'I　promise。'
　'Now　turn　us　around。　We're　heading　for　Lancre　Bridge；　remember？'
　Nanny　obediently　turned　the　broomstick；　brushing　the　canyon　walls　as　she　did　so。
　'It's　still　miles　to　go；'　she　said。
　'I　mean　to　do　it；'　said　Granny。　'There's　plenty　of　night　left。'
　'Not　enough；　I'm　thinking。'
　'A　witch　doesn't　know　the　meaning　of　the　word　〃failure〃。　Gytha。'
　They　shot　up　into　the　clear　air　again。　The　horizon　was　a　line　of　golden　light　as　the　slow　dawn　of　the　Disc　sped　across　the　land；　bulldozing　the　suburbs　of　the　night。
　'Esme？'　said　Nanny　Ogg；　after　a　while。
　'What？'
　'It　means　〃lack　of　success〃。'
　They　flew　in　chilly　silence　for　several　seconds。
　'I　was　speaking　wossname。　Figuratively；'　said　Granny。
　'Oh。　Well。　You　should　of　said。'
　The　line　of　light　was　bigger；　brighter。　For　the　first　time