Wyrd Sisters

Granny’s skirt.
    “I tole you it was daft!” she shouted. “You went all through all that wet mist and then up into the cold air, you daft besom!”
    “You let go of my skirt, Gytha Ogg!”
    “Come on, grab hold o’mine. You’re on fire at the back there!”
    They shot through the bottom of the cloud bank and screamed in unison as the shrub-covered ground emerged from nowhere and aimed itself directly at them.
    And went past .
    Nanny looked down a black perspective at the bottom of which a boil of white water was dimly visible. They had flown over the edge of Lancre Gorge.
    Blue smoke was pouring out of Granny’s broomstick but she hung on, determined, and forced it around.
    “What the hell you doing?” roared Nanny.
    “I can follow the river,” Granny Weatherwax screamed, above the crackle of flames. “Don’t you worry!”
    “You come aboard, d’you hear? It’s all over, you can’t do it…”
    There was a small explosion behind Granny and several handfuls of burning bristles broke off and whirled away into the booming depths of the gorge. Her stick jerked sideways and Nanny grabbed her around the shoulders as a gout of fire snapped another binding.
    The blazing broomstick shot from between her legs, twisted in the air, and went straight upward, trailing sparks and making a noise like a wet finger dragged around the top of a wineglass.
    This left Nanny flying upside down, supporting Granny Weatherwax at arm’s length. They stared into one another’s face and screamed.
    “I can’t pull you up!”
    “Well I can’t climb up, can I? Act your age, Gytha!”
    Nanny considered this. Then she let go.
    Three marriages and an adventurous girlhood had left Nanny Ogg with thigh muscles that could crack coconuts, and the G-forces sucked at her as she forced the speeding stick down and around in a tight loop.
    Ahead of her she made out Granny Weatherwax dropping like a stone, one hand clutching her hat, the other trying to prevent gravity from seeing up her skirts. She urged the stick forward until it creaked, snatched the falling witch around the waist, fought the plunging stick back up to level flight, and sagged.
    The subsequent silence was broken by Granny Weatherwax saying, “Don’t you ever do that again, Gytha Ogg.”
    “I promise.”
    “Now turn us around. We’re heading for Lancre Bridge, remember?”
    Nanny obediently turned the broomstick, brushing the canyon walls as she did so.
    “It’s still miles to go,” she said.
    “I mean to do it,” said Granny. “There’s plenty of night left.”
    “Not enough, I’m thinking.”
    “A witch doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘failure,’ Gytha.”
    They shot up into the clear air again. The horizon was a line of golden light as the slow dawn of the Disc sped across the land, bulldozing the suburbs of the night.
    “Esme?” said Nanny Ogg, after a while.
    “What?”
    “It means ‘lack of success.’”
    They flew in chilly silence for several seconds.
    “I was speaking wossname. Figuratively,” said Granny.
    “Oh. Well. You should of said.”
    The line of light was bigger, brighter. For the first time a flicker of doubt invaded Granny Weatherwax’s mind, puzzled to find itself in such unfamiliar surroundings.
    “I wonder how many cockerels there are in Lancre?” she said quietly.
    “Was that one of them wossname questions?”
    “I was just wondering.”
    Nanny Ogg sat back. There were thirty-two of crowing age, she knew. She knew because she’d worked it out last night— tonight —and had given Jason his instructions. She had fifteen grown-up children and innumerable grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and they’d had most of the evening to get into position. It should be enough.
    “Did you hear that?” said Granny. “Over Razorback way?”
    Nanny looked innocently across the misty landscape. Sound traveled very clearly in these early hours.
    “What?” she said.
    “Sort of an ‘urk’ noise?”
    “No.”
    Granny spun around.
    “Over there,” she said. “I definitely heard it this time. Something like ‘cock-a-doo-arrgh.’”
    “Can’t say I did, Esme,” said Nanny, smiling at the sky. “Lancre Bridge up ahead.”
    “And over there! Right down there! It was a definite squawk!”
    “Dawn chorus, Esme, I expect. Look, only half a mile to go.”
    Granny glared at the back of her colleague’s head.
    “There’s something going on here,” she said.
    “Search me, Esme.”
    “Your shoulders are