Wyrd Sisters

tried to stand up.
    “Don’t do anything!” she hissed. “It’ll make things worse.”
    “‘Ditch-delivered by a drabe,’ they said. That’ll be young Millie Hipwood, who didn’t dare tell her mum and then went out gathering firewood. I was up all night with that one,” Nanny muttered. “Fine girl she produced. It’s a slander! What’s a drabe?” she added.
    “Words,” said Granny, half to herself. “That’s all that’s left. Words.”
    “And now there’s a man with a trumpet come on. What’s he going to do? Oh. End of Act One,” said Nanny.
    The words won’t be forgotten, thought Granny. They’ve got a power to them. They’re damn good words, as words go.
    There was yet another rattle of thunder, which ended with the kind of crash made, for example, by a sheet of tin escaping from someone’s hands and hitting the wall.
    In the world outside the stage the heat pressed down like a pillow, squeezing the very life out of the air. Granny saw a footman bend down to the duke’s ear. No, he won’t stop the play. Of course he won’t. He wants it to run its course.
    The duke must have felt the heat of her gaze on the back of his neck. He turned, focused on her, and gave her a strange little smile. Then he nudged his wife. They both laughed.
    Granny Weatherwax was often angry. She considered it one of her strong points. Genuine anger was one of the world’s great creative forces. But you had to learn how to control it. That didn’t mean you let it trickle away. It meant you dammed it, carefully, let it develop a working head, let it drown whole valleys of the mind and then, just when the whole structure was about to collapse, opened a tiny pipeline at the base and let the iron-hard stream of wrath power the turbines of revenge.
    She felt the land below her, even through several feet of foundations, flagstones, one thickness of leather and two thicknesses of sock. She felt it waiting.
    She heard the king say, “My own flesh and blood? Why has he done this to me? I’m going to confront him!”
    She gently took Nanny Ogg’s hand.
    “Come, Gytha,” she said.

    Lord Felmet sat back in his throne and beamed madly at the world, which was looking good right at the moment. Things were working out better than he had dared to hope. He could feel the past melting behind him, like ice in the spring thaw.
    On an impulse he called the footman back.
    “Call the captain of the guard,” he said, “and tell him to find the witches and arrest them.”
    The duchess snorted.
    “Remember what happened last time, foolish man?”
    “We left two of them loose,” said the duke. “This time…all three. The tide of public feeling is on our side. That sort of thing affects witches, depend upon it.”
    The duchess cracked her knuckles to indicate her view of public opinion.
    “You must admit, my treasure, that the experiment seems to be working.”
    “It would appear so.”
    “Very well. Don’t just stand there, man. Before the play ends, tell him. Those witches are to be under lock and key.”

    Death adjusted his cardboard skull in front of the mirror, twitched his cowl into a suitable shape, stood back and considered the general effect. It was going to be his first speaking part. He wanted to get it right.
    “Cower now, Brief Mortals,” he said. “For I am Death, ’Gainst Whom No…no…no…Hwel, ’gainst whom no?”
    “Oh, good grief, Dafe. ‘’Gainst whom no lock will hold nor fasten’d portal bar,’ I really don’t see why you have difficulty with…not that way up, you idiots!” Hwel strode off through the backstage mêlée in pursuit of a pair of importunate scene shifters.
    “Right,” said Death, to no one in particular. He turned back to the mirror.
    “’Gainst Whom No…Tumpty-Tum…nor Tumpty-Tumpty bar,” he said, uncertainly, and flourished his scythe. The end fell off.
    “Do you think I’m fearsome enough?” he said, as he tried to fix it on again.
    Tomjon, who was sitting on his hump and trying to drink some tea, gave him an encouraging nod.
    “No problem, my friend,” he said. “Compared to a visit from you, even Death himself would hold no fears. But you could try a bit more hollowness.”
    “How d’you mean?”
    Tomjon put down his cup. Shadows seemed to move across his face; his eyes sank, his lips drew back from his teeth, his skin stretched and paled.
    “I HAVE COME TO GET YOU, YOU TERRIBLE ACTOR ,” he intoned, each syllable falling into place like a coffin