Witches Abroad

eat. Your boots, for example. Mountains. Raw sheep. Your own foot.
    Then they tried to get some sleep. At least, Nanny and Magrat did. But all it meant was that they lay awake and listened to Granny Weatherwax muttering under her breath. They’d never seen her so upset.
    Afterward, Nanny suggested that they walk for a while. It was a nice day, she said. This was an interesting kind of forest, she said, with lots of new herbs which could do with bein’ looked at. Everyone’d feel better for a stroll in the sunshine, she said. It’d improve their tempers.
    And it was, indeed, a nice forest. After half an hour or so, even Granny Weatherwax was prepared to admit that in certain respects it wasn’t totally foreign and shoddy. Magrat wandered off the path occasionally, picking flowers. Nanny even sang a few verses of A Wizard’s Staff Has A Knob On The End with no more than a couple of token protests from the other two.
    But there was still something wrong. Nanny Ogg and Magrat could feel something between them and Granny Weatherwax, some sort of mental wall, something important deliberately hidden and unsaid. Witches usually had few secrets from one another, if only because they were all so nosy that there was never any chance to have secrets. It was worrying.
    And then they turned a corner by a stand of huge oak trees and met the little girl in the red cloak.
    She was skipping along in the middle of the path, singing a song that was simpler and a good deal cleaner than any in Nanny Ogg’s repertoire. She didn’t see the witches until she was almost on top of them. She stopped, and then smiled innocently.
    “Hello, old women,” she said.
    “Ahem,” said Magrat.
    Granny Weatherwax bent down.
    “What’re you doing out in the forest all by yourself, young lady?”
    “I’m taking this basket of goodies to my granny,” said the girl.
    Granny straightened up, a faraway look in her eyes.
    “Esme,” said Nanny Ogg urgently.
    “I know. I know,” said Granny.
    Magrat leaned down and set her face in the idiot grimace generally used by adults who’d love to be good with children and don’t stand a dog’s chance of ever achieving it. “Er. Tell me, Miss…did your mother tell you to watch out for any bad wolves that might happen to be in the vicinity?”
    “That’s right.”
    “And your granny…” said Nanny Ogg. “I guess she’s a bit bedbound at the moment, right?”
    “That’s why I’m taking her this basket of goodies—” the child began.
    “Thought so.”
    “Do you know my granny?” said the child.
    “Ye—ess,” said Granny Weatherwax. “In a way.”
    “It happened over Skund way when I was a girl,” said Nanny Ogg quietly. “They never even found the gran—”
    “And where is your granny’s cottage, little girl?” said Granny Weatherwax loudly, nudging Nanny sharply in the ribs.
    The girl pointed up a side track.
    “You’re not the wicked witch, are you?” she said.
    Nanny Ogg coughed.
    “Me? No. We’re—we’re—” Granny began.
    “Fairies,” said Magrat.
    Granny Weatherwax’s mouth dropped open. Such an explanation would never have occurred to her.
    “Only my mummy warned me about the wicked witch too,” said the girl. She gave Magrat a sharp look. “What kind of fairies?”
    “Er. Flower fairies?” said Magrat. “Look, I’ve got a wand—”
    “Which ones?”
    “What?”
    “Which flowers?”
    “Er,” said Magrat. “Well. I’m…Fairy Tulip and that’s…” she avoided looking directly at Granny “…Fairy…Daisy…and this is…”
    “Fairy Hedgehog,” said Nanny Ogg.
    This addition to the supernatural pantheon was given due consideration.
    “You can’t be Fairy Hedgehog,” said the child, after some thought. “A hedgehog’s not a flower.”
    “How do you know?”
    “’Cos it’s got spikes.”
    “So’s holly. And thistles.”
    “Oh.”
    “And I’ve got a wand,” said Magrat. Only now did she risk a look at Fairy Daisy.
    “We ought to be getting along,” said Granny Weatherwax. “You just stay here with Fairy Tulip, I think it was, and we’ll just go and make sure your granny’s all right. All right?”
    “I bet it’s not a real wand,” said the child, ignoring her and facing Magrat with a child’s unerring ability to find a weak link in any chain. “I bet it can’t turn things into things.”
    “Well—” Magrat began.
    “I bet ,” said the girl, “ I bet you can’t turn that tree stump over there