A Blink of the Screen

put their finger on which nevertheless had them under their thumb. As for the witches themselves, they had that look worn by actors about two minutes from the end of a horror movie, when they know the monster is about to make its final leap and now it’s only a matter of which door.
    Letice was surrounded by witches. Nanny could hear raised voices. She nudged another witch, who was watching gloomily.
    ‘What’s happening, Winnie?’
    ‘Oh, Reena Trump made a pig’s ear of her piece and her friends say she ought to have another go because she was so nervous.’
    ‘That’s a shame.’
    ‘And Virago Johnson ran off ’cos her weather spell went wrong.’
    ‘Left under a bit of a cloud, did she?’
    ‘And I was all thumbs when I had a go. You could be in with a chance, Gytha.’
    ‘Oh, I’ve never been one for prizes, Winnie, you know me. It’s the fun of taking part that counts.’
    The other witch gave her a skewed look.
    ‘You almost made that sound believable,’ she said.
    Gammer Beavis hurried over. ‘On you go, Gytha,’ she said. ‘Do your best, eh? The only contender so far is Mrs Weavitt and her whistling frog, and it wasn’t as if it could even carry a tune. Poor thing was a bundle of nerves.’
    Nanny Ogg shrugged, and walked out into the roped-off area. Somewhere in the distance someone was having hysterics, punctuated by an occasional worried whistle.
    Unlike the magic of wizards, the magic of witches did not usually involve the application of much raw power. The difference is that between hammers and levers. Witches generally tried to find the small point where a little change made a lot of result. To make an avalanche you can either shake the mountain, or maybe you can just find exactly the right place to drop a snowflake.
    This year Nanny had been idly working on the Man of Straw. It was an ideal trick for her. It got a laugh, it was a bit suggestive, it was a lot easier than it looked but showed she was joining in, and it was unlikely to win.
    Damn! She’d been relying on that frog to beat her. She’d heard it whistling quite beautifully on the summer evenings.
    She concentrated.
    Pieces of straw rustled through the stubble. All she had to do was use the little bits of wind that drifted across the field, allow them to move here and here, spiral up and—
    She tried to stop her hands from shaking. She’d done this a hundred times, she could tie the damn stuff in knots by now. She kept seeing the face of Esme Weatherwax, and the way she’d just sat there, looking puzzled and hurt, while for a few seconds Nanny had been ready to kill—
    For a moment she managed to get the legs right, and a suggestion of arms and head. There was a smattering of applause from the watchers. Then an errant eddy caught the thing before she could concentrate on its first step, and it spun down, just a lot of useless straw.
    She made some frantic gestures to get it to rise again. It flopped about, tangled itself, and lay still.
    There was a bit more applause, nervous and sporadic.
    ‘Sorry … don’t seem to be able to get the hang of it today,’ she muttered, walking off the field.
    The judges went into a huddle.
    ‘I reckon that frog did really well,’ said Nanny, more loudly than was necessary.
    The wind, so contrary a little while ago, blew sharper now. What might be called the psychic darkness of the event was being enhanced by real twilight.
    The shadow of the bonfire loomed on the far side of the field. No one as yet had the heart to light it. Almost all of the non-witches had gone home. Anything good about the day had long drained away.
    The circle of judges broke up and Mrs Earwig advanced on the nervous crowd, her smile only slightly waxen at the corners.
    ‘Well, what a difficult decision it has been,’ she said brightly. ‘But what a marvellous turnout, too! It really has been a most tricky choice—’
    Between me and a frog that lost its whistle and got its foot stuck in its banjo, thought Nanny. She looked sidelong at the faces of her sister witches. She’d known some of them for sixty years. If she’d ever read books, she’d have been able to read the faces just like one.
    ‘We all know who won, Mrs Earwig,’ she said, interrupting the flow.
    ‘What do you mean, Mrs Ogg?’
    ‘There’s not a witch here who could get her mind right today,’ said Nanny. ‘And most of ’em have bought lucky charms, too. Witches? Buying lucky charms?’ Several women stared at the ground.
    ‘I