Hwel stood in the wings and gave the signal for the curtains. And for the thunder.
It didn't come.
'Thunder!' he hissed, in a voice heard by half the audience. 'Get on with it!'
A voice from behind the nearest pillar wailed, 'I went and bent the thunder, Hwel! It just goes clonk-clonk!'
Hwel stood silent for a moment, counting. The company watched him, awestruck but not, unfortunately, thunderstruck.
At last he raised his fists to the open sky and said, 'I wanted a storm! Just a storm. Not even a big storm. Any storm. Now I want to make myself absolutely CLEAR! I have had ENOUGH! I want thunder right NOW!'
The stab of lightning that answered him turned the multi-hued shadows of the castle into blinding white and searing black. It was followed by a roll of thunder, on cue.
It was the loudest noise Hwel had ever heard. It seemed to start inside his head and work its way outwards.
It went on and on, shaking every stone in the castle. Dust rained down. A distant turret broke away with balletic slowness and, tumbling end over end, dropped gently into the hungry depths of the gorge.
When it finished it left a silence that rang like a bell.
Hwel looked up at the sky. Great black clouds were blowing across the castle, blotting out the stars.
The storm was back.
It had spent ages learning its craft. It had spent years lurking in distant valleys. It had practised for hours in front of a glacier. It had studied the great storms of the past. It had honed its art to perfection. And now, tonight, with what it could see was clearly an appreciative audience waiting for it, it was going to take them by, well . . . tempest.
Hwel smiled. Perhaps the gods did listen, after all. He wished he'd asked for a really good wind machine as well.
He gestured frantically at Tomjon.
'Get on with it!'
The boy nodded, and launched into his main speech.
'And now our domination is complete—'
Behind him on the stage the witches bent over the cauldron.
'It's just tin, this one,' hissed Nanny. 'And it's full of all yuk.'
'And the fire is just red paper,' whispered Magrat. 'It looked so real from up there, it's just red paper! Look, you can poke it—'
'Never mind,' said Granny. 'Just look busy, and wait until I say.'
As the Evil King and the Good Duke began the exchange that was going to lead to the exciting Duel Scene they became uncomfortably aware of activity behind them, and occasional chuckles from the audience. After a totally inappropriate burst of laughter Tomjon risked a sideways glance.
One of the witches was taking their fire to bits. Another one was trying to clean the cauldron. The third one was sitting with her arms folded, glaring at him.
'The very soil cries out at tyranny—' said Wimsloe, and then caught the expression on Tomjon's face and followed his gaze. His voice trailed into silence.
' “And calls me forth for vengeance”,' prompted Tomjon helpfully.
'B-but—' whispered Wimsloe, trying to point surreptitiously with his dagger.
'I wouldn't be seen dead with a cauldron like this,' said Nanny Ogg, in a whisper loud enough to carry to the back of the courtyard. 'Two days' work with a scourer and a bucket of sand, is this.'
' “And calls me forth for vengeance” ' hissed Tomjon. Out of the tail of his eye he saw Hwel in the wings, frozen in an attitude of incoherent rage.
'How do they make it flicker?' said Magrat.