Wyrd Sisters

Flick, flick, went the stick on the wood shavings, knocking them into the air.

‘I mean, you know he’s not my flesh and blood.’

‘He’s your son, though,’ said Hwel. ‘This hereditary business isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’

‘It’s fine of you to say that.’

‘I mean it. Look at me. I wasn’t supposed to be writing plays. Dwarfs aren’t even supposed to be able to read. I shouldn’t worry too much about destiny, if I was you. I was destined to be a miner. Destiny gets it wrong half the time.’

‘But you said he looks like the Fool person. I can’t see it myself, mark you.’

‘The light’s got to be right.’

‘Could be some destiny at work there.’

Hwel shrugged. Destiny was funny stuff, he knew. You couldn’t trust it. Often you couldn’t even see it. Just when you knew you had it cornered, it turned out to be something else—coincidence, maybe, or providence. You barred the door against it, and it was standing behind you. Then just when you thought you had it nailed down it walked away with the hammer.

He used destiny a lot. As a tool for his plays it was even better than a ghost. There was nothing like a bit of destiny to get the old plot rolling. But it was a mistake to think you could spot the shape of it. And as for thinking it could be controlled …

——

Granny Weatherwax squinted irritably into Nanny Ogg’s crystal ball. It wasn’t a particularly good one, being a greenish glass fishing float brought back from forn seaside parts by one of her sons. It distorted everything including, she suspected, the truth.

‘He’s definitely on his way,’ she said, at last. ‘In a cart.’

‘A fiery white charger would have been favourite,’ said Nanny Ogg. ‘You know. Caparisoned, and that.’

‘Has he got a magic sword?’ said Magrat, craning to see.

Granny Weatherwax sat back.

‘You’re a disgrace, the pair of you,’ she said. ‘I don’t know—magic chargers, fiery swords. Ogling away like a couple of milkmaids.’

‘A magic sword is important,’ said Magrat. ‘You’ve got to have one. We could make him one,’ she added wistfully. ‘Out of thunderbolt iron. I’ve got a spell for that. You take some thunderbolt iron,’ she said uncertainly, ‘and then you make a sword out of it.’

‘I can’t be having with that old stuff,’ said Granny. ‘You can wait days for the damn things to hit and then they nearly take your arm off.’

‘And a strawberry birthmark,’ said Nanny Ogg, ignoring the interruption.

The other two looked at her expectantly.

‘A strawberry birthmark,’ she repeated. ‘It’s one of those things you’ve got to have if you’re a prince coming to claim your kingdom. That’s so’s everyone will know. O’course, I don’t know how they know it’s strawberry.’

‘Can’t abide strawberries,’ said Granny vaguely, quizzing the crystal again.

In its cracked green depths, smelling of bygone lobsters, a minute Tomjon kissed his parents, shook hands or hugged the rest of the company, and climbed aboard the leading latty.

It must of worked, she told herself. Else he wouldn’t be coming here, would he? All those others must be his trusty band of good companions. After all, common sense, he’s got to come five hundred miles across difficult country, anything could happen.

I daresay the armour and swords is in the carts.

She detected a twinge of doubt, and set out to quell it instantly. There isn’t any other reason for him to come, stands to reason. We got the spell exactly right. Except for the ingredients. And most of the poetry. And it probably wasn’t the right time. And Gytha took most of it home for the cat, which couldn’t of been proper.

But he’s on his way. What can’t speak, can’t lie.

‘Best put the cloth over it when you’ve done, Esme,’ said Nanny. ‘I always get worried someone’ll peer in at me when I’m having my bath.’

‘He’s on his way,’ said Granny, the satisfaction in her voice so strong you could have ground corn with it. She dropped the black velvet bag over the ball.

‘It’s a long road,’ said Nanny. ‘There’s many a slip twixt dress and drawers.^{62} There could be bandits.’

‘We shall watch over him,’ said Granny.

‘That’s not right. If he’s going to be king he ought to be able to fight his own battles,’ said Magrat.

‘We don’t want him to go wasting his strength,’ said Nanny primly. ‘We want him good and fresh for when he gets here.’

‘And then, I hope, we shall leave him to fight his battles in his own way,’ said Magrat.

Granny clapped her hands together in a businesslike fashion.

‘Quite right,’ she said. ‘Provided he looks like winning.’

They had been meeting at Nanny Ogg’s cottage. Magrat made an excuse to tarry after Granny left, around dawn, allegedly to help Nanny with tidying up.

‘Whatever happened to not meddling?’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know, Nanny.’

‘It’s not proper meddling,’ said Nanny awkwardly. ‘Just helping matters along.’

‘Surely you can’t really think that!’

Nanny sat down and fidgeted with a cushion.