Wyrd Sisters

It was the loudest noise Hwel had ever heard. It seemed to start inside his head and work its way outwards.

It went on and on, shaking every stone in the castle. Dust rained down. A distant turret broke away with balletic slowness and, tumbling end over end, dropped gently into the hungry depths of the gorge.

When it finished it left a silence that rang like a bell.

Hwel looked up at the sky. Great black clouds were blowing across the castle, blotting out the stars.

The storm was back.

It had spent ages learning its craft. It had spent years lurking in distant valleys. It had practised for hours in front of a glacier. It had studied the great storms of the past. It had honed its art to perfection. And now, tonight, with what it could see was clearly an appreciative audience waiting for it, it was going to take them by, well … tempest.

Hwel smiled. Perhaps the gods did listen, after all. He wished he’d asked for a really good wind machine as well.

He gestured frantically at Tomjon.

‘Get on with it!’

The boy nodded, and launched into his main speech.

‘And now our domination is complete—’

Behind him on the stage the witches bent over the cauldron.

‘It’s just tin, this one,’ hissed Nanny. ‘And it’s full of all yuk.’

‘And the fire is just red paper,’ whispered Magrat. ‘It looked so real from up there, it’s just red paper! Look, you can poke it—’

‘Never mind,’ said Granny. ‘Just look busy, and wait until I say.’

As the Evil King and the Good Duke began the exchange that was going to lead to the exciting Duel Scene they became uncomfortably aware of activity behind them, and occasional chuckles from the audience. After a totally inappropriate burst of laughter Tomjon risked a sideways glance.

One of the witches was taking their fire to bits. Another one was trying to clean the cauldron. The third one was sitting with her arms folded, glaring at him.

‘The very soil cries out at tyranny—’ said Wimsloe, and then caught the expression on Tomjon’s face and followed his gaze. His voice trailed into silence.

‘“And calls me forth for vengeance”,’ prompted Tomjon helpfully.

‘B-but—’ whispered Wimsloe, trying to point surreptitiously with his dagger.

‘I wouldn’t be seen dead with a cauldron like this,’ said Nanny Ogg, in a whisper loud enough to carry to the back of the courtyard. ‘Two days’ work with a scourer and a bucket of sand, is this.’

‘“And calls me forth for vengeance”,‘ hissed Tomjon. Out of the tail of his eye he saw Hwel in the wings, frozen in an attitude of incoherent rage.

‘How do they make it flicker?’ said Magrat.

‘Be quiet, you two,’ said Granny. ‘You’re upsetting people.’ She raised her hat to Wimsloe. ‘Go ahead, young man. Don’t mind us.’

‘Wha?’ said Wimsloe.

‘Aha, it calls you forth for vengeance, does it?’ said Tomjon, in desperation. ‘And the heavens cry revenge, too, I expect.’

On cue, the storm produced a thunderbolt that blew the top off another tower …

The duke crouched in his seat, his face a panorama of fear. He extended what had once been a finger.

‘There they are,’ he breathed. ‘That’s them. What are they doing in my play? Who said they could be in my play?’

The duchess, who was less inclined to deal in rhetorical questions, beckoned to the nearest guard.

On stage Tomjon was sweating under the load of the script. Wimsloe was incoherent. Now Gumridge, who was playing the part of the Good Duchess in a wig of flax, had lost the thread as well.

‘Aha, thou callst me an evil king, though thou wisperest it so none save I may hear it,’ Tomjon croaked. ‘And thou hast summoned the guard, possibly by some most secret signal, owing nought to artifice of lips or tongue.’

A guard came on crabwise, still stumbling from Hwel’s shove. He stared at Granny Weatherwax.

‘Hwel says what the hell’s going on?’ he hissed.

‘What was that?’ said Tomjon. ‘Did I hear you say I come, my lady?’

‘Get these people off, he says!’

Tomjon advanced to the front of the stage.

‘Thou babblest, man. See how I dodge thy tortoise spear. I said, see how I dodge thy tortoise spear. Thy spear, man. You’re holding it in thy bloody hand, for goodness’ sake.’

The guard gave him a desperate, frozen grin.

Tomjon hesitated. Three other actors around him were staring fixedly at the witches. Looming up in front of him with all the inevitability of a tax demand was a sword fight during which, it was beginning to appear, he would have to parry his own wild thrusts and stab himself to death.

He turned to the three witches. His mouth opened.

For the first time in his life his awesome memory let him down. He could think of nothing to say.

Granny Weatherwax stood up. She advanced to the edge of the stage. The audience held its breath. She held up a hand.

‘Ghosts of the mind and all device away, I bid the Truth to have—’ she hesitated —’its tumpty-tumpty day.’

Tomjon felt the chill engulf him. The others, too, jolted into life.