Or: There and Back Again.
Or: Beyond the Fields We Know.
And sometimes there's a short cut. A door or a gate. Some standing stones, a tree cleft by lightning, a filing cabinet.
Maybe just a spot on some moor land somewhere . . .
A place where there is very nearly here.
Nearly, but not quite. There's enough leakage to make pendulums swing and psychics get nasty headaches, to give a house a reputation for being haunted, to make the occasional pot hurl across a room. There's enough leakage to make the drones fly guard.
Oh, yes. The drones.
There are things called drone assemblies. Sometimes, on fine summer days, the drones from hives for miles around will congregate in some spot, and fly circles in the air, buzzing like tiny early warning systems, which is what they are.
Bees are sensible. It's a human word. But bees are creatures of order, and programmed into their very genes is a hatred of chaos.
If some people once knew where such a spot was, if they had experience of what happens when here and there become entangled, then they might - if they knew how - mark such a spot with certain stones.
In the hope that enough daft buggers would take it as a warning, and keep away.
“Well, what'd you think?” said Granny, as the witches hurried home.
“The little fat quiet one's got a bit of natural talent,” said Nanny Ogg. “I could feel it. The rest of 'em are just along for the excitement, to my mind. Playing at witches. You know, ooh-jar boards and cards and wearing black lace gloves with no fingers to 'em and paddlin' with the occult.”
“I don't hold with paddlin' with the occult,” said Granny firmly. “Once you start paddlin' with the occult you start believing in spirits, and when you start believing in spirits you start believing in demons, and then before you know where you are you're believing in gods. And then you're in touble.”
“But all them things exist,” said Nanny Ogg.
“That's no call to go around believing in them. It only encourages 'em.”
Granny Weatherwax slowed to a walk.
“What about her?” she said.
“What exactly about her do you mean?” - “You felt the power there?”
“Oh, yeah. Made my hair stand on end.”
“Someone gave it to her, and I know who. Just a slip of a gel with a head full of wet ideas out of books, and suddenly she's got the power and don't know how to deal with it. Cards! Candles! That's not witchcraft, that's just party games. Paddlin' with the occult. Did you see she'd got black fingernails?”
“Well, mine ain't so clean-”
“I mean painted.”
“I used to paint my toenails red when I was young,” said Nanny, wistfully.
“Toenails is different. So's red. Anyway,” said Granny, “you only did it to appear allurin'.”
“It worked, too.”
“Hah!”
They walked along in silence for a bit.
“I felt a lot of power there,” Nanny Ogg said, eventually.
“Yes. I know.”