Witches Abroad

HE ANSWER TO THAT , said Death, IS SOMEWHERE BETWEEN NO AND YES .
    Lily turned, and a billion figures turned with her.
    “When can I get out?”
    W HEN YOU FIND THE ONE THAT’S REAL .
    Lily Weatherwax ran on through the endless reflections.

    A good cook is always the first one into the kitchen every morning and the last one to go home at night.
    Mrs. Pleasant damped down the fires. She did a quick inventory of the silverware and counted the tureens. She—
    She was aware of being stared at.
    There was a cat in the doorway. It was big and gray. One eye was an evil yellow-green, the other one pearly white. What remained of its ears looked like the edge of a stamp. Nevertheless, it had a certain swagger, and generated an I-can-beat-you-with-one-paw feel that was strangely familiar.
    Mrs. Pleasant stared at it for a while. She was a close personal friend of Mrs. Gogol and knew that shape is merely a matter of deeply-ingrained personal habit, and if you’re a resident of Genua around Samedi Nuit Mort you learn to trust your judgment rather more than you trust your senses.
    “Well now,” she said, with barely a trace of a tremor in her voice, “I expect you’d like some more fish legs, I mean heads, how about that?”
    Greebo stretched and arched his back.
    “And there’s some milk in the coolroom,” said Mrs. Pleasant.
    Greebo yawned happily.
    Then he scratched his ear with his back leg. Humanity’s a nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there.

    It was a day later.
    “Mrs. Gogol’s healing ointment really seems to work,” said Magrat. She held up a jar that was half-full of something pale green and strangely gritty and had a subtle smell which, you could quite possibly believe, occupied the whole world.
    “It’s got snakes’ heads in it,” said Nanny Ogg.
    “Don’t you try to upset me,” said Magrat. “I know the Snake’s Head is a kind of flower. A fritillary, I think. It’s amazing what you can do with flowers, you know.”
    Nanny Ogg, who had in fact spent an instructive if gruesome half-hour watching Mrs. Gogol make the stuff, hadn’t the heart to say so.
    “That’s right,” she said. “Flowers. No getting anything past you, I can see that.”
    Magrat yawned.
    They had been given the run of the palace, although no one felt like running anywhere. Granny had been installed in the next room.
    “Go and get some sleep,” said Nanny. “I’ll go and take over from Mrs. Gogol in a moment.”
    “But Nanny…Gytha…” said Magrat.
    “Hmm?”
    “All that…stuff…she was saying, when we were traveling. It was so…so cold . Wasn’t it? Not wishing for things, not using magic to help people, not being able to do that fire thing—and then she went and did all those things! What am I supposed to make of that?”
    “Ah, well,” said Nanny. “It’s all according to the general and the specific, right?”
    “What does that mean?” Magrat lay down on the bed.
    “Means when Esme uses words like ‘Everyone’ and ‘No one’ she doesn’t include herself.”
    “You know…when you think about it…that’s terrible.”
    “That’s witchcraft. Up at the sharp end. And now…get some sleep.”
    Magrat was too tired to object. She stretched out and was soon snoring in a genteel sort of way.
    Nanny sat and smoked her pipe for a while, staring at the wall.
    Then she got up and pushed open the door.
    Mrs. Gogol looked up from her stool by the bed.
    “You go and get some sleep too,” said Nanny. “I’ll take over for a spell.”
    “There’s something not right,” said Mrs. Gogol. “Her hands are fine. She just won’t wake up.”
    “It’s all in the mind, with Esme,” said Nanny.
    “I could make some new gods and get everyone to believe in ’em real good. How about that?” said Mrs. Gogol. Nanny shook her head.
    “I shouldn’t think Esme’d want that. She’s not keen on gods. She thinks they’re a waste of space.”
    “I could cook up some gumbo, then. People’ll come a long way to taste that.”
    “It might be worth a try,” Nanny conceded. “Every little helps, I always say. Why not see to it? Leave the rum here.”
    After the voodoo lady had gone Nanny smoked her pipe some more and drank a little rum in a thoughtful sort of way, looking at the figure on the bed.
    Then she bent down close to Granny Weatherwax’s ear, and whispered:
    “You ain’t going to lose , are you?”

    Granny Weatherwax looked out at the multi-layered, silvery