Lords and Ladies (Discworld 14) - Page 67

“Midnight?” said Diamanda.

“Midnight? Nothing special about midnight. Practically anyone can be a witch at midnight,” said Granny Weatherwax. “How about noon?”

“Certainly. What are we fighting for?” said Diamanda.

“Fighting? We ain't fighting. We're just showing each other what we can do. Friendly like,” said Granny Weatherwax.

She stood up.

“I'd better be goin',” she said. “Us old people need our sleep, you know how it is.”

“And what does the winner get?” said Diamanda. There was just a trace of uncertainty in her voice now. It was very faint, on the Richter scale of doubt it was probably no more than a plastic teacup five miles away falling off a low shelf onto a carpet, but it was there.

“Oh, the winner gets to win,” said Granny Weatherwax. “That's what it's all about. Don't bother to see us out. You didn't see us in.”

The door slammed back.

“Simple psychokinesis,” said Diamanda.

“Oh, well. That's all right then,” said Granny Weatherwax, disappearing into the night. “Explains it all, that does.”

There used to be such simple directions, back in the days before they invented parallel universes - Up and Down, Right and Left, Backward and Forward, Past and Future . . .

But normal directions don't work in the multiverse, which has far too many dimensions for anyone to find their way so new ones have to be invented so that the way can be found.

Like: East of the Sun, West of the Moon.

Or: Behind the North Wind.

Or: At the Back of Beyond.

Or: There and Back Again.

Or: Beyond the Fields We Know.

And sometimes there's a short cut. A door or a gate. Some standing stones, a tree cleft by lightning, a filing cabinet.

Maybe just a spot on some moor land somewhere . . .

A place where there is very nearly here.

Nearly, but not quite. There's enough leakage to make pendulums swing and psychics get nasty headaches, to give a house a reputation for being haunted, to make the occasional pot hurl across a room. There's enough leakage to make the drones fly guard.

Oh, yes. The drones.

There are things called drone assemblies. Sometimes, on fine summer days, the drones from hives for miles around will congregate in some spot, and fly circles in the air, buzzing like tiny early warning systems, which is what they are.

Bees are sensible. It's a human word. But bees are creatures of order, and programmed into their very genes is a hatred of chaos.

If some people once knew where such a spot was, if they had experience of what happens when here and there become entangled, then they might - if they knew how - mark such a spot with certain stones.

In the hope that enough daft buggers would take it as a warning, and keep away.

“Well, what'd you think?” said Granny, as the witches hurried home.

“The little fat quiet one's got a bit of natural talent,” said Nanny Ogg. “I could feel it. The rest of 'em are just along for the excitement, to my mind. Playing at witches. You know, ooh-jar boards and cards and wearing black lace gloves with no fingers to 'em and paddlin' with the occult.”

“I don't hold with paddlin' with the occult,” said Granny firmly. “Once you start paddlin' with the occult you start believing in spirits, and when you start believing in spirits you start believing in demons, and then before you know where you are you're believing in gods. And then you're in touble.”

Tags: Terry Pratchett Discworld Fantasy
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