Wyrd Sisters

be meddling with the destinies of mankind, and everything. Lots of smoke and green light. You could do a lot with three witches. It was surprising no one had thought of it before.
    “So we can tell this Fool that we’ll do it, can we?” said Vitoller, his hand on the bag of silver.
    And of course you couldn’t go wrong with a good storm. And there was the ghost routine that Vitoller had cut out of Please Yourself , saying they couldn’t afford the muslin. And perhaps he could put Death in, too. Young Dafe would make a damn good Death, with white make-up and platform soles…
    “How far away did he say he’d come from?” he said.
    “The Ramtops,” and the playmaster. “Some little kingdom no one has ever heard of. Sounds like a chest infection.”
    “It’d take months to get there.”
    “I’d like to go, anyway,” said Tomjon. “That’s where I was born.”
    Vitoller looked at the ceiling. Hwel looked at the floor. Anything was better, just at that moment, than looking at each other’s face.
    “That’s what you said,” said the boy. “When you did a tour of the mountains, you said.”
    “Yes, but I can’t remember where,” said Vitoller. “All those little mountain towns looked the same to me. We spent more time pushing the lattys across rivers and dragging them up hills than we ever did on the stage.”
    “I could take some of the younger lads and we could make a summer of it,” said Tomjon. “Put on all the old favorites. And we could still be back by Soulcake Day. You could stay here and see to the theater, and we could be back for a Grand Opening.” He grinned at his father. “It’d be good for them,” he said slyly. “You always said some of the young lads don’t know what a real acting life is like.”
    “Hwel’s still got to write the play,” Vitoller pointed out.
    Hwel was silent. He was staring at nothing at all. After a while one hand fumbled in his doublet and brought out a sheaf of paper, and then disappeared in the direction of his belt and produced a small corked ink pot and a bundle of quills.
    They watched as, without once looking at them, the dwarf smoothed out the paper, opened the ink pot, dipped a quill, held it poised like a hawk waiting for its prey, and then began to write.
    Vitoller nodded at Tomjon.
    Walking as quietly as they could, they left the room.

    Around mid-afternoon they took up a tray of food and a bundle of paper.
    The tray was still there at teatime. The paper had gone.
    A few hours later a passing member of the company reported hearing a yell of “It can’t work! It’s back to front!” and the sound of something being thrown across the room.
    Around supper Vitoller heard a shouted request for more candles and fresh quills.
    Tomjon tried to get an early night, but sleep was murdered by the sound of creativity from the next room. There were mutterings about balconies, and whether the world really needed wave machines. The rest was silence, except for the insistent scratching of quills.
    Eventually, Tomjon dreamed.
    “ Now. Have we got everything this time ?”
    “ Yes, Granny .”
    “ Light the fire, Magrat .”
    “ Yes, Granny .”
    “ Right. Let’s see now —”
    “ I wrote it all down, Granny .”
    “ I can read, my girl, thank you very much. Now, what’s this. ‘Round about the cauldron go, In the poisoned entrails throw…’ What are these supposed to be ?”
    “ Our Jason slaughtered a pig yesterday, Esme .”
    “ These look like perfectly good chitterlin’s to me, Gytha. There’s a couple of decent meals in them, if I’m any judge .”
    “Please, Granny .”
    “ There’s plenty of starvin’ people in Klatch who wouldn’t turn up their nose at ’em, that’s all I’m saying…All right, all right. ‘Whole grain wheat and lentils too, In the cauldron seethe and stew’? What happened to the toad ?”
    “Please, Granny. You’re slowing it down. You know Goodie was against all unnecessary cruelty. Vegetable protein is a perfectly acceptable substitute .”
    “ That means no newt or fenny snake either, I suppose ?”
    “ No, Granny .”
    “ Or tiger’s chaudron ?”
    “ Here .”
    “ What the hell’s this, excuse my Klatchian ?”
    “ It’s a tiger’s chaudron. Our Wane bought it off a merchant from forn parts .”
    “ You sure ?”
    “ Our Wane asked special, Esme .”
    “ Looks like any other chaudron to me. Oh, well. ‘Double hubble, stubble trouble, Fire burn and cauldron bub—’ WHY isn’t