Witches Abroad

their spirit level.”
    “That’s a shame.”
    “The woodcutter says they didn’t build very good houses, mind you.”
    “Well, it’s only to be expected. What with the trotters and all,” said Nanny.
    “He says the roof leaks something dreadful, right over his bed.”
    The witches walked on in silence.
    “I remember hearing once,” said Nanny, with the occasional glance at Granny Weatherwax, “about some ole enchantress in history who lived on an island and turned shipwrecked sailors into pigs.”
    “That’s a terrible thing to do,” said Magrat, on cue.
    “I suppose it’s all according to what you really are , inside,” said Nanny. “I mean, look at Greebo here.” Greebo, curled around her shoulders like a smelly fur, purred. “He’s practically a human.”
    “You do talk a lot of tosh, Gytha,” said Granny Weatherwax.
    “That’s ’cos people won’t tell me what they really think is going on,” said Nanny Ogg, grimly.
    “I said I’m not sure,” said Granny.
    “You looked into the wolf’s mind.”
    “Yes. I did.”
    “Well, then…”
    Granny sighed. “Someone’s been here before us. Passing through. Someone who knows about the power of stories, and uses ’em. And the stories have…kind of hung around. They do that, when they get fed…”
    “What’d anyone want to do that for?” said Nanny.
    “ Practice ,” said Granny.
    “Practice? What for?” said Magrat.
    “I expect we’ll find out presently,” said Granny gnomically.
    “You ought to tell me what you think,” said Magrat. “I am the official godmother around here, you know. I ought to be told things. You’ve got to tell me things.”
    Nanny Ogg went chilly. This was the kind of emotional countryside with which she was, as head Ogg, extremely familiar. That sort of comment at this sort of time was like the tiny sliding of snow off the top branch of a tall tree high in the mountains during the thaw season. It was one end of a process that, without a doubt, would end with a dozen villages being engulfed. Whole branches of the Ogg family had stopped talking to other branches of the Ogg family because of a “Thank you very much” in the wrong tones and the wrong place, and this was far worse.
    “Now,” she said hurriedly, “why don’t we—”
    “I don’t have to explain anything,” said Granny Weatherwax.
    “But we’re supposed to be three witches,” said Magrat. “If you can call us witches,” she added.
    “What do you mean by that, pray?” said Granny.
    “Pray?” thought Nanny. Someone has ended a sentence with “pray?” That’s like that bit when someone hits someone else with a glove and then throws it on the floor. There’s no going back when someone’s ended a sentence with “pray?” But she tried, anyway.
    “How about a nice—”
    Magrat plunged on with the brave desperation of someone dancing in the light of their burning bridges.
    “Well,” she said, “it seems to me —”
    “Yes?” said Granny.
    “It seems to me ,” Magrat tried again, “that the only magic we do is all—well, headology. Not what anyone else would call magic. It’s just glaring at people and tricking them. Taking advantage of their gullibility. It wasn’t what I expected when I set out to become a witch—”
    “And who says,” said Granny Weatherwax, slowly and deliberately, “that you’ve become a witch now?”
    “My word, the wind is getting up, perhaps we should—” said Nanny Ogg.
    “ What did you say?” said Magrat.
    Nanny Ogg put her hand over her eyes. Asking someone to repeat a phrase you’d not only heard very clearly but were also exceedingly angry about was around Defcon II in the lexicon of squabble.
    “I should have thought my voice was clear enough,” said Granny. “I’m very amazed my voice wasn’t clear enough. It sounded clear enough to me .”
    “Looks a bit gusty, why don’t we—?”
    “Well, I should just think I can be smug and bad-tempered and ill-considerate enough to be a witch,” said Magrat. “That’s all that’s required, isn’t it?”
    “Ill-considerate? Me ?”
    “You like people who need help, because when they need help they’re weak, and helping them makes you feel strong ! What harm would a bit of magic do?”
    “Because it’d never stop at just a bit, you stupid girl!”
    Magrat backed off, her face flushed. She reached into her bag and pulled out a slim volume, which she flourished like a weapon.
    “Stupid I may be,” she panted,