“Well, she'd been hit already. If I'd been hit too, neither of us'd get out,” said Granny, simply.
“But that's - that's a bit heartless, Esme.”
“Heartless it may be, but headless it ain't. I've never claimed to be nice, just to be sensible. No need to look like that. Now, are you coming or are you going to stand there with your mouth open all day?”
Nanny closed her mouth, and then opened it again to say:
“What're you going to do?”
“Well, do you know how to cure her?”
“Me? No!”
“Right! Me neither. But I know someone who might know,” she said. “And we can shove him in the dungeons for now. Lots of iron bars down there. That should keep him quiet.”
“How'd he get through?”
“He was holding on to me. I don't know how it works. Maybe the stone . . . force opens to let humans through, or something. Just so long as his friends stay inside, that's all I'm bothered about.”
Nanny heaved the unconscious elf on to her shoulders without much effort.[21]
“Smells worse than the bottom of a goat's bed,” she said. “It's a bath for me when I get home.”
“Oh, dear,” said Granny “It gets worse, don't it?”
* * *
What is magic?
Then there is the witches' explanation, which comes in two forms, depending on the age of the witch. Older witches hardly put words to it at all, but may suspect in their hearts that the universe really doesn't know what the hell is going on and consists of a zillion trillion billion possibilities, and could become any one of them if a trained mind rigid with quantum certainty was inserted in the crack and twisted; that, if you really had to make someone's hat explode, all you needed to do was twist into that universe where a large number of hat molecules all decide at the same time to bounce off in different directions.
Younger witches, on the other hand, talk about it all the time and believe it involves crystals, mystic forces, and dancing about without yer drawers on.
Everyone may be right, all at the same time. That's the thing about quantum.
It was early morning. Shawn Ogg was on guard on the battlements of Lancre castle, all that stood between the inmates and any mighty barbarian hordes that might be in the area.
He enjoyed the military life. Sometimes he wished a small horde would attack, just so's he could Save the Day. He daydreamed of leading an army into battle, and wished the king would get one.
A brief scream indicated that Hodgesaargh was giving his charges their morning finger.
Shawn ignored the noise. It was part of the background hum of the castle. He was passing the time by seeing how long he could hold his breath.
He had any amount of ways of passing the time, since guard duty in Lancre involved such an awful lot of it. There was Getting The Nostrils Really Clean, that was a good one. Or Farting Tunes. Or Standing On One Leg. Holding His Breath and Counting was something he fell back on when he couldn't think of anything else and his meals hadn't been too rich in carbohydrates.
There were a couple of loud creaks from the door knocker, far below. There was so much rust on it now that the only way it could be coaxed into making any sound was to lift it up, which made it squeak, and then force it mightily downward, which caused another squeak and, if the visitor was lucky, a faint thud.
Shawn took a deep breath and leaned over the battlements.
“Halt! Who Goes There?” he said.
A ringing voice came up from below.
“It's me, Shawn. Your mum.”
“Oh, hello. Mum. Hello, Mistress Weatherwax.”
“Let us in, there's a good boy.”