tp.wyrd sisters-第33部分

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　They　had　been　meeting　at　Nanny　Ogg's　cottage。　Magrat　made　an　excuse　to　tarry　after　Granny　left；　around　dawn；　allegedly　to　help　Nanny　with　tidying　up。
　'Whatever　happened　to　not　meddling？'　she　said。
　'What　do　you　mean？'
　'You　know；　Nanny。'
　'It's　not　proper　meddling；'　said　Nanny　awkwardly。　'Just　helping　matters　along。'
　'Surely　you　can't　really　think　that！'
　Nanny　sat　down　and　fidgeted　with　a　cushion。
　'Well；　see；　all　this　not　meddling　business　is　fine　in　the　normal　course　of　things；'　she　said。　'Not　meddling　is　easy　when　you　don't　have　to。　And　then　I've　got　the　family　to　think　about。　Our　Jason's　been　in　a　couple　of　fights　because　of　what　people　have　been　saying。　Our　Shawn　was　thrown　out　of　the　army。　The　way　I　see　it；　when　we　get　the　new　king　in；　he　should　owe　us　a　few　favours。　It's　only　fair。'
　'But　only　last　week　you　were　saying…'　Magrat　stopped；　shocked　at　this　display　of　pragmatism。
　'A　week　is　a　long　time　in　magic；'　said　Nanny。　'Fifteen　years；　for　one　thing。　Anyway；　Esme　is　determined　and　I'm　in　no　mood　to　stop　her。'
　'So　what　you're　saying；'　said　Magrat；　icily；　'is　that　this　〃not　meddling〃　thing　is　like　taking　a　vow　not　to　swim。　You'll　absolutely　never　break　it　unless　of　course　you　happen　to　find　yourself　in　the　water？'
　'Better　than　drowning；'　Nanny　said。
　She　reached　up　to　the　mantelpiece　and　took　down　a　clay　pipe　that　was　like　a　small　tar　pit。　She　lit　it　with　a　spill　from　the　remains　of　the　fire；　while　Greebo　watched　her　carefully　from　his　cushion。
　Magrat　idly　lifted　the　hood　from　the　ball　and　glared　at　it。
　'I　think；'　she　said；　'that　I　will　never　really　understand　about　witchcraft。　Just　when　I　think　I've　got　a　grip　on　it；　it　changes。'
　'We're　all　just　people。'　Nanny　blew　a　cloud　of　blue　smoke　at　the　chimney。　'Everyone's　just　people。'
　'Can　I　borrow　the　crystal？'　said　Magrat　suddenly。
　'Feel　free；'　said　Nanny。　She　grinned　at　Magrat's　back。　'Had　a　row　with　your　young　man？'　she　said。
　'I　really　don't　know　what　you're　talking　about。'
　'Haven't　seen　him　around　for　weeks。'
　'Oh；　the　duke　sent　him　to…'　Magrat　stopped；　and　went　on　…　'sent　him　away　for　something　or　other。　Not　that　it　bothers　me　at　all；　either　way。'
　'So　I　see。　Take　the　ball；　by　all　means。'
　Magrat　was　glad　to　get　back　home。　No…one　was　about　on　the　moors　at　night　anyway；　but　over　the　last　couple　of　months　things　had　definitely　been　getting　worse。　On　top　of　the　general　suspicion　of　witches；　it　was　dawning　on　the　few　people　in　Lancre　who　had　any　dealings　with　the　outside　world　that　a）　either　more　things　had　been　happening　than　they　had　heard　about　before　or　b）　time　was　out　of　joint。　It　wasn't　easy　to　prove＇19＇；　but　the　few　traders　who　came　along　the　mountain　tracks　after　the　winter　seemed　to　be　rather　older　than　they　should　have　been。　Unexplained　happenings　were　always　more　or　less　expected　in　the　Ramtops　because　of　the　high　magical　potential；　but　several　years　disappearing　overnight　was　a　bit　of　a　first。
　She　locked　the　door；　fastened　the　shutters；　and　carefully　laid　the　green　glass　globe　on　the　kitchen　table。
　She　concentrated　。　。　。
　The　Fool　dozed　under　the　tarpaulins　of　the　river　barge；　heading　up　the　Ankh　at　a　steady　two　miles　an　hour。　It　wasn't　an　exciting　method　of　transport　but　it　got　you　there　eventually。
　He　looked　safe　enough；　but　he　was　tossing　and　turning　in　his　sleep。
　Magrat　wondered　what　it　was　like；　spending　your　whole　life　doing　something　you　didn't　want　to　do。　Like　being　dead；　she　considered；　only　worse；　the　reason　being；　you　were　alive　to　suffer　it。
　She　considered　the　Fool　to　be　weak；　badly　led　and　sorely　in　need　of　some　backbone。　And　she　was　longing　for　him　to　get　back；　so　she　could　look　forward　to　never　seeing　him　again。
　It　was　a　long；　hot　summer。
　They　didn't　rush　things。　There　was　a　lot　of　country　between　Ankh…Morpork　and　the　Ramtops。　It　was；　Hwel　had　to　admit；　fun。　It　wasn't　a　word　dwarfs　were　generally　at　home　with。
　Please　Yourself　went　over　well。　It　always　did。　The　apprentices　excelled　themselves。　They　forgot　lines；　and　played　jokes；　in　Sto　Lat　the　whole　third　act　of　Gretalina　and　Mellias　was　performed　against　the　backdrop　for　the　second　act　of　The　Mage　Wars；　but　no…one　seemed　to　notice　that　the　greatest　love　scene　in　history　was　played　on　a　set　depicting　a　tidal　wave　sweeping　across　a　continent。　That　was　possibly　because　Tomjon　was　playing　Gretalina。　The　effect　was　so　disconcertingly　riveting　that　Hwel　made　him　swap　roles　for　the　next　house；　if　you　could　apply　the　term　to　a　barn　hired　for　the　day；　and　the　effect　still　had　more　rivets　than　a　suit　of　plate　armour；　including　the　helmet；　and　even　though　Gretalina　in　this　case　was　now　young　Wimsloe；　who　was　a　bit　simple　and　tended　to　stutter　and　whose　spots　might　eventually　clear　up。
　The　following　day；　in　some　nameless　village　in　the　middle　of　an　endless　sea　of　cabbages；　he　let　Tomjon　play　Old　Miskin　in　Please　Yourself；　a　role　that　Vitoller　always　excelled　in。　You　couldn't　let　anyone　play　it　who　was　under　the　age　of　forty；　not　unless　you　wanted　an　Old　Miskin　with　a　cushion　up　his　jerkin　and　greasepaint　wrinkles。
　Hwel　didn't　consider　himself　old。　His　father　had　still　been　digging　three　tons　of　ore　a　day　at　the　age　of　two　hundred。
　Now　he　felt　old。　He　watched　Tomjon　hobble　off　the　stage；　and　for　a　fleeting　instant　knew　what　it　was　to　be　a　fat　old　man；　pickled　in　wine；　fighting　old　wars　that　no…one　cared　about　any　more；　hanging　grimly　on　to　the　precipice　of　late　middle…age　for　fear　of　dropping　off　into　antiquity；　but　only　with　one　hand；　because　with　the　other　he　was　raising　two　fingers　at　Death。　Of　course；　he'd　known　that　when　he　wrote　the　part。　But　he　hadn't　known　it。
　The　same　magic　didn't　seem　to　infuse　the　new　play。　They　tried　it　a　few　times；　just　to　see　how　it　went。　The　audience　watched　attentively；　and　went　home。　They　didn't　even　bother　to　throw　anything。　It　wasn't　that　they　thought　it　was　bad。　They　didn't　think　it　was　anything。
　But　all　the　right　ingredients　were　there；　weren't　they？　Tradition　was　full　of　people　giving　evil　rulers　a　well…justified　seeing　to。　Witches　were　always　a　draw。　The　apparition　of　Death　was　particularly　good；　with　some　lovely　lines。　Mix　them　all　together　。　。　。　and　they　seemed　to　cancel　out；　bee　a　mere　humdrum　way　of　filling　the　stage　for　a　couple　of　hours。
　Late　at　night；　when　the　cast　was　alseep；　Hwel　would　sit　up　in　one　of　the　carts　and　feverishly　rewrite。　He　rearranged　scenes；　cut　lines；　added　lines；　introduced　a　clown；　included　another　fight；　and　tuned　up　the　special　effects。　It　didn't　seem　to　have　any　effect。　The　play　was　like　some　marvellous　intricate　painting；　a　feast　of　impressions　close　to；　a　mere　blur　from　the　distance。
　When　the　inspirations　were　sleeting　fast　he　even　tried　changing　the　style。　In　the　morning　the　early　risers　grew　accustomed　to　finding　discarded　experiments　decorating　the　grass　around　the　carts；　like　extremely　literate　mushrooms。
　Tomjon　kept　one　of　the　strangest：
　
　1ST　WITCHE：　He's　late。
　（Pause）
　2ND　WITCHE：　He　said　he　would　e。
　（Pause）
　3RD　WITCHE：　He　said　he　would　e　but　he　hasn't。　This　is　my　last　newt。　I　saved　it　for　him。　And　he　hasn't　e。
　（Pause）
　
　'I　think；'　said　Tomjon；　later；　'you　ought　to　slow　down　a　bit。　You've　done　what　was　ordered。　No…one　said　it　had　to　sparkle。'
　'It　could；　you　know。　If　I　could　just　get　it　right。'
　'You're　absolutely　sure　about　the　ghost；　are　you？'　said　Tomjon。　The　way　he　threw　the　line　away　made　it　clear　that　he　wasn't。
　'There's　nothing　wrong　with　the　ghost；'　snapped　Hwel。　'The　scene　with　the　ghost　is　the　best　I've　done。'
　'I　was　just　wondering　if　this　is　the　right　play　for　it；　that's　all。'
　'The　ghost　stays。　Now　let's　get　on；　boy。'
　
　Two　days　later；　with　the　Ramtops　a　blue　and　white　wall　that　was　beginning　to　dominate　the　Hubward　horizon；　the　pany　was　attacked。　There　wasn't　much　drama；　they　had　just　manhandled　the　lattys　across　a　ford　and　were　resting　in　the　shade　of　a　grove　of　trees；　which　suddenly　fruited　robbers。
　Hwel　looked　along　the　line　of　half　a　dozen　stained　and　rusty　blades。　Their　owners　seemed　slightly　uncertain　about　what　to　do　next。
　'We've　got　a　receipt　somewhere…'　he　began。
　Tomjon　nudged　him。　'These　don't　look　like　Guild　thieves；'　he　hissed。　'They　definitely　look　freelance　to　me。'
　It　would　be　nice　to　say　that　the　leader　of　the　robbers　was　a　black…bearded；　swaggering　brute；　with　a　red　headscarf　and　one　gold　earring　and　a　chin　you　could　clean　pots　with。　Actually　it　would　be　practically　pulsory。　And；　in　fact；　this　was　so。　Hwel　thought　the　wooden　leg　was　overdoing　it；　but　the　man　had　obviously　studied　the　role。
　'Well　now；'　said　the　bandit　chief。　'What　have　we　here；　and　do　they　have　any　money？'
　'We're　actors；'　said　Tomjon。
　'That　ought　to　answer　both　questions；'　said　Hwel。
　'And　none　of　your　repartee；'　said　the　bandit。　'I've　been　to　the　city；　I　have。　I　know　repartee　when　I　see　it　and…'　he　half　turned　to　his　followers；　raising　an　eyebrow　to　indicate　that　the　next　remark　was　going　to　be　witty　…　'if　you're　not　careful　I　can　make　a　few　cutting　remarks　of　my　own。'
　There　was　dead　silence　behind　him　until　he　made　an　impatient　gesture　with　his　cutlass。
　'All　right；'　he　said；　against　a　chorus　of　uncertain　laughter。　'We'll　just　take　any　loose　change；　valuables；　food　and　clothing　you　might　be　having。'
　'Could　I　say　something？'　said　Tomjon。
　The　pany　backed　away　from　him。　Hwel　smiled　at　his　own　feet。
　'You're　going　to　beg　for　mercy；　are　you？'　said　the　bandit。
　'That's　right。'
　Hwel　thrust　his　hands　deep　into　his　pockets　and　looked　up　at　the　sky；　whistling　under　his　breath　and　trying　not　to　break　into　a　maniac　grin。　He　was　aware　that　the　other　actors　were　also　looking　expectantly　at　Tomjon。
　He's　going　to　give　them　the　mercy　speech　from　The　Troll's　Tale；　he　thought　。　。　。
　'The　point　I'd　just　like　to　make　is　that…'　said　Tomjon；　and　his　stance　changed　subtly；　his　voice　became　deeper；　his　right　hand　flung　out　dramatically　…　'　〃The　worth　of　man　lies　not　in　feats　of　arms；　Or　the　fiery　hunger　o'　the　ravening…〃　'
　It's　going　to　be　like　when　that　man　tried　to　rob　us　back　in　Sto　Lat；　Hwel　thought。　If　they　end　up　giving　us　their　swords；　what　the　hell　can　we　do　with　them？　And　it's　so　embarrassing　when　they　start　crying。
　It　was　at　this　moment　that　the　world　around　him　took　a　green　tint　and　he　thought　he　could　make　out；　right　on　the　cusp　of　hearing；　other　voices。
　'There's　men　with　swords；　Granny！'
　'…rend　with　glowing　blades　the　marvel　of　the　world…'　Tomjon　said；　and　the　voices　at　the　edge　of　imagination　said。　'No　king　of　mine　is　going　to　beg　anything　off　anyone。　Give　me　that　milk　jug；　Magrat。'
　'…the　heart　of　passion；　the　kiss…'
　'That　was　a　present　from　my　aunt。'
　'…this　jewel　of　jewels；　this　crown　of　crowns。'
　There　was　silence。　One　or　two　of　the　bandits　were　weeping　silently　into　their　hands。
　Their　chief　said；　'Is　that　it？'
　For　the　first　time　in　his　life　Tomjon　looked　nonplussed。
　'Well；　yes；'　he　said。　'Er。　Would　you　like　me　to　repeat　it？'
　'It　was　a　good　speech；'　the　bandit　conceded。　'But　I　don't　see　what　it's　got　to　do　with　me。　I'm　a　practical　man。　Hand　over　your　valuables。'
　His　sword　came　up　until　it　was　level　with　Tomjon's　throat。
　'And　all　the　rest　of　you　shouldn't　be　standing　there　like　idiots；'　he　added。　'e　on。　Or　the　boy　gets　it。'
　Wimslo