'Certainly not.'
'Where are we, then?'
'The mountains. Perfectly clear on any atlas.'
'We ought to stop and ask someone.'
Tomjon gazed around at the rolling countryside. Somewhere a lonely curlew howled, or possibly it was a badger – Hwel was a little hazy about rural matters, at least those that took place higher than about the limestone layer. There wasn't another human being within miles.
'Who did you have in mind?' he said sarcastically.
'That old woman in the funny hat,' said Tomjon, pointing. 'I've been watching her. She keeps ducking down behind a bush when she thinks I've seen her.'
Hwel turned and looked down at a bramble bush, which wobbled.
'Ho there, good mother,' he said.
The bush sprouted an indignant head.
'Whose mother?' it said.
Hwel hesitated. 'Just a figure of speech, Mrs . . . Miss . . .'
'Mistress,' snapped Granny Weatherwax. 'And I'm a poor old woman gathering wood,' she added defiantly.
She cleared her throat. 'Lawks,' she went on. 'You did give me a fright, young master. My poor old heart.'
There was silence from the carts. Then Tomjon said, 'I'm sorry?'
'What?' said Granny.
'Your poor old heart what?'
'What about my poor old heart?' said Granny, who wasn't used to acting like an old woman and had a very limited repertoire in this area. But it's traditional that young heirs seeking their destiny get help from mysterious old women gathering wood, and she wasn't about to buck tradition.
'It's just that you mentioned it,' said Hwel.
'Well, it isn't important. Lawks. I expect you're looking for Lancre,' said Granny testily, in a hurry to get to the point.
ame magic didn't seem to infuse the new play. They tried it a few times, just to see how it went. The audience watched attentively, and went home. They didn't even bother to throw anything. It wasn't that they thought it was bad. They didn't think it was anything.
But all the right ingredients were there, weren't they? Tradition was full of people giving evil rulers a well-justified seeing to. Witches were always a draw. The apparition of Death was particularly good, with some lovely lines. Mix them all together . . . and they seemed to cancel out, become a mere humdrum way of filling the stage for a couple of hours.
Late at night, when the cast was alseep, Hwel would sit up in one of the carts and feverishly rewrite. He rearranged scenes, cut lines, added lines, introduced a clown, included another fight, and tuned up the special effects. It didn't seem to have any effect. The play was like some marvellous intricate painting, a feast of impressions close to, a mere blur from the distance.
When the inspirations were sleeting fast he even tried changing the style. In the morning the early risers grew accustomed to finding discarded experiments decorating the grass around the carts, like extremely literate mushrooms.
Tomjon kept one of the strangest:
1ST WITCHE: He's late.
(Pause)
2ND WITCHE: He said he would come.
(Pause)
3RD WITCHE: He said he would come but he hasn't. This is my last newt. I saved it for him. And he hasn't come.