Wyrd Sisters

the sleeping dwarf’s head, lowering it gently onto a cushion.
    The top sheet read:

Verence Felmet Small God’s Eve A Night Of Knives Daggers Kings, by, Hwel of Vitoller’s Men. A Comedy Tragedy in Eight Five Six Three Nine Acts.
Characters: Felmet, A Good King.
Verence, A Bad King.
Wethewacs, Ane Evil Witch
Hogg, Ane Likewise Evil Witch
Magerat, Ane Sirene…
Tomjon flicked over the page.

Scene: A Drawing Room Ship at Sea Street in Pseudopolis Blasted Moor. Enter Three Witches…
The boy read for a while and then turned to the last page.
Gentles, leave us dance and sing, and wish good health unto the king. (Exeunt all, singing falala, etc. Shower of rose petals. Ringing of bells. Gods descend from heaven, demons rise from hell, much ado with turntable, etc.) The End.
    Hwel snored.
    In his dreams gods rose and fell, ships moved with cunning and art across canvas oceans, pictures jumped and ran together and became flickering images; men flew on wires, flew without wires, great ships of illusion fought against one another in imaginary skies, seas opened, ladies were sawn in half, a thousand special effects men giggled and gibbered. Through it all he ran with his arms open in desperation, knowing that none of this really existed or ever would exist and all he really had was a few square yards of planking, some canvas and some paint on which to trap the beckoning images that invaded his head.
    Only in our dreams are we free. The rest of the time we need wages.

    “It’s a good play,” said Vitoller, “apart from the ghost.”
    “The ghost stays,” said Hwel sullenly.
    “But people always jeer and throw things. Anyway, you know how hard it is to get all the chalk dust out of the clothes.”
    “The ghost stays. It’s a dramatic necessity.”
    “You said it was a dramatic necessity in the last play.”
    “Well, it was.”
    “And in Please Yourself , and in A Wizard of Ankh , and all the rest of them.”
    “I like ghosts.”
    They stood to one side and watched the dwarf artificers assembling the wave machine. It consisted of half a dozen long spindles, covered in complex canvas spirals painted in shades of blue and green and white, and stretching the complete width of the stage. An arrangement of cogs and endless belts led to a treadmill in the wings. When the spirals were all turning at once people with weak stomachs had to look away.
    “Sea battles,” breathed Hwel. “Shipwrecks. Tritons. Pirates!”
    “Squeaky bearings, laddie,” groaned Vitoller, shifting his weight on his stick. “Maintenance expenses. Overtime.”
    “It does look extremely…intricate,” Hwel admitted. “Who designed it?”
    “A daft old chap in the Street of Cunning Artificers,” said Vitoller. “Leonard of Quirm. He’s a painter really. He just does this sort of thing for a hobby. I happened to hear that he’s been working on this for months. I just snapped it up quick when he couldn’t get it to fly.”
    They watched the mock waves turn.
    “You’re bent on going?” said Vitoller, at last.
    “Yes. Tomjon’s still a bit wild. He needs an older head around the place.”
    “I’ll miss you, laddie. I don’t mind telling you. You’ve been like a son to me. How old are you, exactly? I never did know.”
    “A hundred and two.”
    Vitoller nodded gloomily. He was sixty, and his arthritis was playing him up.
    “You’ve been like a father to me, then,” he said.
    “It evens out in the end,” said Hwel diffidently. “Half the height, twice the age. You could say that on the overall average we live about the same length of time as humans.”
    The playmaster sighed. “Well, I don’t know what I will do without you and Tomjon around, and that’s a fact.”
    “It’s only for the summer, and a lot of the lads are staying. In fact it’s mainly the apprentices that are going. You said yourself it’d be good experience.”
    Vitoller looked wretched and, in the chilly air of the half-finished theater, a good deal smaller than usual, like a balloon two weeks after the party. He prodded some wood shavings distractedly with his stick.
    “We grow old, Master Hwel. At least,” he corrected himself, “I grow old and you grow older. We have heard the gongs at midnight.”
    “Aye. You don’t want him to go, do you?”
    “I was all for it at first. You know. Then I thought, there’s destiny afoot. Just when things are going well, there’s always bloody destiny. I mean, that’s where he came from. Somewhere up in