Witches Abroad

a person who has certain ideas in their mind and wants to find out what someone else knows.
    “What sort?” she said. “Exactly?”
    Mrs. Gogol reached into the cushions of her rocking-chair and, after some rummaging, produced a leather bag and a pipe. She lit the pipe and puffed a cloud of bluish smoke into the morning air.
    “You look in mirrors a lot these days, Mistress Weatherwax?” she said.
    Granny’s chair tipped backward, almost throwing her off the veranda and into the inky waters. Her hat flew away into the lily pads.
    She had time to see it settle gently on the water. It floated for a moment and then—
    —was eaten. A very large alligator snapped its jaws shut and gazed smugly at Granny.
    It was a relief to have something to shout about.
    “My hat! It ate my hat! One of your alleygators ate my hat ! It was my hat ! Make it give it back!”
    She snatched a length of creeper off the nearest tree and flailed at the water.
    Nanny Ogg backed away.
    “You shouldn’t do that, Esme! You shouldn’t do that!” she quavered. The alligator backed water.
    “I can hit cheeky lizards if I want!”
    “Yes, you can, you can,” said Nanny soothingly, “but not…with a…snake…”
    Granny held up the creeper for inspection. A medium-sized Three-Banded Coit gave her a frightened look, considered biting her nose for a moment, thought better of it, and then shut its mouth very tightly in the hope she’d get the message. She opened her hand. The snake dropped to the boards and slithered away quickly.
    Mrs. Gogol hadn’t stirred in her chair. Now she half turned. Saturday was still patiently watching his fishing line.
    “Saturday, go and fetch the lady’s hat,” she said.
    “Yes, m’m.”
    Even Granny hesitated at that.
    “You can’t make him do that!” she said.
    “But he’s dead,” said Mrs. Gogol.
    “Yes, but it’s bad enough being dead without bein’ in bits too,” said Granny. “Don’t you go in there, Mr. Saturday!”
    “But it was your hat , lady,” said Mrs. Gogol.
    “Yes, but…” said Granny, “…a…hat was all it was. I wouldn’t send anyone into any alligators for any hat.”
    Nanny Ogg looked horrified.
    No one knew better than Granny Weatherwax that hats were important. They weren’t just clothing. Hats defined the head. They defined who you were . No one had ever heard of a wizard without a pointy hat—at least, no wizard worth speaking of. And you certainly never heard of a witch without one. Even Magrat had one, although she hardly ever wore it on account of being a wet hen. That didn’t matter too much; it wasn’t the wearing of the hats that counted so much as having one to wear. Every trade, every craft had its hat. That’s why kings had hats. Take the crown off a king and all you had was someone good at having a weak chin and waving to people. Hats had power. Hats were important. But so were people.
    Mrs. Gogol took another puff at her pipe.
    “Saturday, go and get my best hat for holidays,” she said.
    “Yes, Mrs. Gogol.”
    Saturday disappeared into the hut for a moment, and came out with a large and battered box securely wrapped with twine.
    “I can’t take that,” said Granny. “I can’t take your best hat.”
    “Yes you can,” said Mrs. Gogol. “I’ve got another hat. Oh, yes. I’ve got another hat all right.”
    Granny put the box down carefully.
    “It occurs to me, Mrs. Gogol,” she said, “that you ain’t everything you seem.”
    “Oh yes I is, Mistress Weatherwax. I never bin nothing else, just like you.”
    “You brought us here?”
    “No. You brought yourselves here. Of your own free will. To help someone, ain’t that right? You decided to do it, ain’t that right? No one forced you, ain’t that right? ’Cept yourselves.”
    “She’s right about all that,” said Nanny. “We’d have felt it, if it was magic.”
    “That’s right,” said Granny. “No one forced us, except ourselves. What’s your game, Mrs. Gogol?”
    “I ain’t playing no game, Mistress Weatherwax. I just want back what’s mine. I want justice. And I wants her stopped.”
    “Her who?” said Nanny Ogg.
    Granny’s face had frozen into a mask.
    “Her who’s behind all this,” said Mrs. Gogol. “The Duc hasn’t got the brains of a prawn, Mrs. Ogg. I mean her . Her with her mirror magic. Her who likes to control. Her who’s in charge. Her who’s tinkering with destiny. Her that Mistress Weatherwax knows all about.”
    Nanny Ogg was