'Hah!' said Granny Weatherwax. 'I should just say it is a folk song! I knows all about folk songs. Hah! You think you're listenin' to a nice song about . . . about cuckoos and fiddlers and nightingales and whatnot, and then it turns out to be about . . . about something else entirely,' she added darkly. 'You can't trust folk songs. They always sneak up on you.'
Magrat fended them off a rock. An eddy spun them around slowly.
'I know one about two little bluebirds,' said Nanny Ogg.
'Um,' said Magrat.
'They may start out by being bluebirds, but I bet they ends up some kind of mettyfor,' said Granny.
'Er, Granny,' said Magrat.
'It was bad enough Magrat telling me about maypoles and what's behind 'em,' said Granny. She added, wistfully, 'I used to enjoy looking at a maypole of a spring morning.'
'I think the river's getting a bit sort of rough,' said Magrat.
'I don't see why people can't just let things be,' said Granny.
'I mean really quite rough, really . . .' said Magrat, pushing them away from a jagged rock.
'She's right, you know,' said Nanny Ogg. 'It's a bit on the choppy side.'
Granny looked over Magrat's shoulder at the river ahead. It had a cut-off look, such as might be associated with, for example, an imminent waterfall. The boat was now surging along. There was a muted roar.
'They never said anything about a waterfall,' she said.
'I 'spect they thought we'd find out for ourselves,' said Nanny Ogg, gathering up her possessions and hauling
Greebo out of the bottom of the boat by the scruff of his neck. 'Very sparin' with information, your average dwarf. Thank goodness witches float. Anyway, they knew we'd got the brooms.'
'You've got brooms,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'How'm I supposed to get mine started in a boat? Can't run up and down, can I? And stop movin' about like that, you'll have us all over - '
'Get your foot out of the way, Esme - '
The boat rocked violently.
Magrat rose to the occasion. She pulled out the wand, just as a wavelet washed over the boat.
'Don't worry,' she said, 'I'll use the wand. I think I've got the hang of it now - '
'No!' screamed Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg together.
There was a large, damp noise. The boat changed shape. It also changed colour. It became a cheery sort of orange.
'Pumpkins!' screamed Nanny Ogg, as she was gently tipped into the water. 'More bloody pumpkins!'
Lilith sat back. The ice around the river hadn't been that good as a mirror, but it had been good enough.
Well. A wishy-washy overgrown girl more suitable to the attentions of a fairy godmother than to being one, and a little old washerwoman-type who got drunk and sang songs. And a wand the stupid girl didn't know how to use.
It was annoying. More than that, it was demeaning. Surely Desiderata and Mrs Gogol could have achieved something better than this. You derived status by the strength of your enemies.
Of course, there was her. After all this time . . .
Of course. She approved of that. Because there would have to be three of them. Three was an important number for stories. Three wishes, three princes, three billy goats, three guesses . . . three witches. The maiden, the mother and the . . . other one. That was one of the oldest stories of all.
Esme Weatherwax had never understood stories. She'd never understood how real reflections were. If she had, she'd probably have been ruling the world by now.
'You're always looking in mirrors!' said a petulant voice. 'I hate it when you're always looking in mirrors!'