Wyrd Sisters

you?” she shouted. “What do you want?”
    Her voice bounced and echoed among the rocks. There was a distant boom of an avalanche, high among the peaks.
    On the crest of the moor, where in the summer partridges lurked among the bushes like small whirring idiots, was a standing stone. It stood roughly where the witches’ territories met, although the boundaries were never formally marked out.
    The stone was about the same height as a tall man, and made of bluish tinted rock. It was considered intensely magical because, although there was only one of it, no one had ever been able to count it ; if it saw anyone looking at it speculatively, it shuffled behind them. It was the most self-effacing monolith ever discovered.
    It was also one of the numerous discharge points for the magic that accumulated in the Ramtops. The ground around it for several yards was bare of snow, and steamed gently.
    The stone began to edge away, and watched her suspiciously from behind a tree.
    She waited for ten minutes until Magrat came hurrying up the path from Mad Stoat, a village whose good-natured inhabitants were getting used to ear massage and flower-based homeopathic remedies for everything short of actual decapitation. * She was out of breath, and wore only a shawl over a nightdress that, if Magrat had anything to reveal, would have been very revealing.
    “You felt it too?” she said.
    Granny nodded. “Where’s Gytha?” she said.
    They looked down the path that led to Lancre town, a huddle of lights in the snowy gloom.

    There was a party going on. Light poured out into the street. A line of people were winding in and out of Nanny Ogg’s house, from inside which came occasional shrieks of laughter and the sounds of breaking glass and children grizzling. It was clear that family life was being experienced to its limits in that house.
    The two witches stood uncertainly in the street.
    “Do you think we should go in?” said Magrat diffidently. “It’s not as though we were invited. And we haven’t brought a bottle.”
    “Sounds to me as if there’s a deal too many bottles in there already,” said Granny Weatherwax disapprovingly. A man staggered out of the doorway, burped, bumped into Granny, said, “Happy Hogswatchnight, missus,” glanced up at her face and sobered up instantly.
    “ Miss ,” snapped Granny.
    “I am most frightfully sorry—” he began.
    Granny swept imperiously past him. “Come, Magrat,” she commanded.
    The din inside hovered around the pain threshold. Nanny Ogg got around the Hogswatchnight tradition by inviting the whole village in, and the air in the room was already beyond the reach of pollution controls. Granny navigated through the press of bodies by the sound of a cracked voice explaining to the world at large that, compared to an unbelievable variety of other animals, the hedgehog was quite fortunate.
    Nanny Ogg was sitting in a chair by the fire with a quart mug in one hand, and was conducting the reprise with a cigar. She grinned when she saw Granny’s face.
    “What ho, my old boiler,” she screeched above the din. “See you turned up, then. Have a drink. Have two. Wotcher, Magrat. Pull up a chair and call the cat a bastard.”
    Greebo, who was curled up in the inglenook and watching the festivities with one slit yellow eye, flicked his tail once or twice.
    Granny sat down stiffly, a ramrod figure of decency.
    “We’re not staying,” she said, glaring at Magrat, who was tentatively reaching out toward a bowl of peanuts. “I can see you’re busy. We just wondered whether you might have noticed—anything. Tonight. A little while ago.”
    Nanny Ogg wrinkled her forehead.
    “Our Darron’s eldest was sick,” she said. “Been at his dad’s beer.”
    “Unless he was extremely ill,” said Granny, “I doubt if it was what I was referring to.” She made a complex occult sign in the air, which Nanny totally ignored.
    “Someone tried to dance on the table,” she said. “Fell into our Reet’s pumpkin dip. We had a good laugh.”
    Granny waggled her eyebrows and placed a meaningful finger alongside her nose.
    “I was alluding to things of a different nature,” she hinted darkly.
    Nanny Ogg peered at her.
    “Something wrong with your eye, Esme?” she hazarded.
    Granny Weatherwax sighed.
    “Extremely worrying developments of a magical tendency are even now afoot,” she said loudly.
    The room went quiet. Everyone stared at the witches, except for Darron’s eldest, who