Witches Abroad

ahead of them.
    “Look at it like this,” said Nanny, under her breath, “what can they do to us?”
    “I can’t stand snakes,” said Magrat quietly.
    “They’ve got those teeth, of course,” said Nanny, as if conducting a seminar. “More like fangs, really. Come on, girl. Let’s see if we can find another way.”
    “I hate them.”
    Nanny tugged at Magrat, who did not move.
    “Come on !”
    “I really hate them.”
    “You’ll be able to hate them even better from a long way off!”
    The sisters were nearly on them. They didn’t walk, they glided. Perhaps Lily wasn’t concentrating now, because they were more snake-like than ever. Nanny thought she could see scale patterns under the skin. The jawline was all wrong.
    “Magrat!”
    One of the sisters reached out. Magrat shuddered.
    The snake sister opened its mouth.
    Then Magrat looked up and, almost dreamily, punched it so hard that it was carried several feet along the passage.
    It wasn’t a blow that featured in any Way or Path. No one ever drew this one as a diagram or practiced it in front of a mirror with a bandage tied around their head. It was straight out of the lexicon of inherited, terrified survival reflexes.
    “Use the wand!” shouted Nanny, darting forward. “Don’t ninj at them! Use the wand! That’s what it’s for!”
    The other snake instinctively turned to follow the movement, which is why instinct is not always the keynote to survival, because Magrat clubbed it on the back of the head. With the wand.
    It sagged, losing shape as it fell.
    The trouble with witches is that they’ll never run away from things they really hate.
    And the trouble with small furry animals in a corner is that, just occasionally, one of them’s a mongoose.

    Granny Weatherwax had always wondered: what was supposed to be so special about a full moon? It was only a big circle of light. And the dark of the moon was only darkness.
    But halfway between the two, when the moon was between the worlds of light and dark, when even the moon lived on the edge…maybe then a witch could believe in the moon.
    Now a half-moon sailed above the mists of the swamp.
    Lily’s nest of mirrors reflected the cold light, as they reflected everything else. Leaning against the wall were the three broomsticks.
    Granny picked up hers. She wasn’t wearing the right color and she wasn’t wearing a hat; she needed something she was at home with.
    Nothing moved.
    “Lily?” said Granny softly.
    Her own image looked out at her from the mirrors.
    “It can all stop now,” said Granny. “You could take my stick and I’ll take Magrat’s. She can always share with Gytha. And Mrs. Gogol won’t come after you. I’ve fixed that. And we could do with more witches back home. And no more godmothering. No more getting people killed so their daughters are ready to be in a story. I know that’s why you did it. Come on home. It’s an offer you can’t refuse.”
    The mirror slid back noiselessly.
    “You’re trying to be kind to me?” said Lily.
    “Don’t think it don’t take a lot of effort,” said Granny in a more normal voice.
    Lily’s dress rustled in the darkness as she stepped out.
    “So,” she said, “you beat the swamp woman.”
    “No.”
    “But you’re here instead of her.”
    “Yes.”
    Lily took the stick out of Granny’s hands, and inspected it.
    “Never used one of these things,” she said. “You just sit on it and away you go?”
    “With this one you have to be running quite fast before it takes off,” said Granny, “but that’s the general idea, yes.”
    “Hmm. Do you know the symbology of the broomstick?” said Lily.
    “Is it anything to do with maypoles and folksongs and suchlike?” said Granny.
    “Oh, yes.”
    “Then I don’t want to hear about it.”
    “No,” said Lily. “I imagine you don’t.”
    She handed the stick back.
    “I’m staying here,” she said. “Mrs. Gogol may have come up with a new trick, but that doesn’t mean she has won.”
    “No. Things have come to an end, see,” said Granny. “That’s how it works when you turn the world into stories. You should never have done that. You shouldn’t turn the world into stories. You shouldn’t treat people like they was characters , like they was things . But if you do , then you’ve got to know when the story ends.”
    “You’ve got to put on your red-hot shoes and dance the night away?” said Lily.
    “Somethin’ like that, yes.”
    “While everyone else lives