Witches Abroad

shattered and termite-ridden floorboards, under the pointy hat that had been rammed down to her chin, was Nanny Ogg. There was no sign of Greebo.
    “Wha’ happened?” she said. “Wha’ happened?”
    “A farmhouse dropped on your head,” said Magrat.
    “Oh. One o’ them things,” said Nanny vaguely.
    Granny gripped her by the shoulders.
    “Gytha? How many fingers am I holding up?” she said urgently.
    “Wha’ fingers? ’S’ all gone dark.”
    Magrat and Granny gripped the brim of Nanny’s hat and half lifted, half unscrewed it from her head. She blinked at them.
    “That’s the willow reinforcement,” she said, as the pointy hat creaked back into shape like a resurrecting umbrella. She was swaying gently. “Stop a hammer blow, a hat with willow reinforcement. All them struts, see. Distributes the force. I shall write to Mr. Vernissage.”
    Magrat, bemused, looked around the little house.
    “It just dropped out of the sky!” she said.
    “Could have been a big tornado or something somewhere,” said Nanny Ogg. “Picked it up, see, then the wind drops and down it comes. You get funny things happening in high winds. Remember that big gale we had last year? One of my hens laid the same egg four times.”
    “She’s rambling,” said Magrat.
    “No I ain’t, that’s just my normal talking,” said Nanny.
    Granny Weatherwax peered into one of the rooms. “I suppose there wouldn’t be any food and drink about the place?” she said.
    “I think I could force myself to drink some brandy,” said Nanny quickly.
    Magrat peered up the stairs.
    “Coo-ee,” she called, in the strangled voice of someone who wants to be heard without doing anything so bad-mannered as raise their voice. “Is there anyone here?”
    Nanny, on the other hand, looked under the stairs. Greebo was a cowering ball of fur in a corner. She hauled him out by the scruff of his neck and gave him a slightly bewildered pat. Despite Mr. Vernissage’s millinery masterpiece, despite the worm-eaten floor, and despite even the legendary thick skull of the Oggs, she was definitely feeling several twinkles short of a glitter and suffering a slight homesick-tinged dip in her usual sunny nature. People didn’t hit you over the head with farmhouses back home.
    “You know, Greebo,” she said, “I don’t think we’re in Lancre.”
    “I’ve found some jam,” said Granny Weatherwax, from the kitchen.
    It didn’t take a lot to cheer up Nanny Ogg. “That’s fine,” she called out. “It’ll go nicely on the dwarf bread.”
    Magrat came into the room.
    “I’m not sure we should be taking other people’s provisions,” she said. “I mean, this place must belong to someone.”
    “Oh. Did someone speak, Gytha?” said Granny Weatherwax archly.
    Nanny rolled her eyes.
    “I was merely saying, Nanny,” said Magrat, “that this isn’t our property.”
    “She says it don’t belong to us, Esme,” said Nanny.
    “Tell anyone who wants to know, Gytha, that it’s like salvage from a shipwreck,” said Granny.
    “She says finders keepers, Magrat,” said Nanny.
    Something flickered past the window. Magrat went and peered out through the grimy pane.
    “That’s funny. There’s a lot of dwarfs dancing around the house,” she said.
    “Oh, yes?” said Nanny, opening a cupboard.
    Granny stiffened. “Are they—I means, ask her if they’re singing,” she said.
    “They singing, Magrat?”
    “I can hear something,” said Magrat. “Sounds like ‘Dingdong, dingdong.’”
    “That’s a dwarf song all right,” said Nanny. “They’re the only people who can make a hiho last all day.”
    “They seem very happy about it,” said Magrat doubtfully.
    “Probably it was their farmhouse and they’re glad to get it back.”
    There was a hammering on the back door. Magrat opened it. A crowd of brightly dressed and embarrassed dwarfs stepped back hurriedly and then peered up at her.
    “Er,” said the one who was apparently the leader, “is…is the old witch dead?”
    “Which old witch?” said Magrat.
    The dwarf looked at her for a while with his mouth open. He turned and had a whispered consultation with his colleagues. Then he turned back.
    “How many have you got?”
    “There’s a choice of two,” said Magrat. She wasn’t feeling in a very good mood and wasn’t prompted to aid the conversation more than necessary. Uncharacteristic nastiness made her add, “Free for the asking.”
    “Oh.” The dwarf considered this.