The Sea and Little Fishes (discworld) Read online

  “Oh dear.”

  Nanny Ogg didn’t often swear, or at least use words beyond the boundaries of what the Lancrastrians thought of as “colourful language”. She looked as if she habitually used bad words, and had just thought up a good one, but mostly witches are quite careful about what they say. You can never be sure what the words are going to do when they’re out of earshot. But now she swore under her breath and caused small brief fires to start in the dry grass.

  This put her in just about the right frame of mind for the Cursing.

  It was said that once upon a time this had been done on a living, breathing subject, at least at the start of the event, but that wasn’t right for a family day out and for several hundred years the Curses had been directed at Unlucky Charlie who was, however you looked at it, nothing more than a scarecrow. And since curses are generally directed at the mind of the cursed, this presented a major problem, because even “May your straw go mouldy and your carrot fall off” didn’t make much impression on a pumpkin. But points were given for general style and inventiveness.

  There wasn’t much pressure for those in any case. Everyone knew what event counted, and it wasn’t Unlucky Charlie.

  One year Granny Weatherwax had made the pumpkin explode. No one had ever worked out how she’d done it.

  Someone would walk away at the end of today and everyone would know they were the winner, whatever the points said. You could win the Witch With The Pointiest Hat prize and the broomstick dressage, but that was just for the audience. What counted was the Trick you’d been working on all summer.

  Nanny had drawn last place, at number nineteen. A lot of witches had turned up this year. News of Granny Weatherwax’s withdrawal had got around, and nothing moves faster than news in the occult community since it doesn’t just have to travel at ground level. Many pointy hats moved and nodded among the crowds.

  Witches are among themselves generally as sociable as cats but, as also with cats, there are locations and times and neutral grounds where they meet at something like peace. And what was going on was a sort of slow, complicated dance ...

  The witches walked around saying hello to one another, and rushing to meet newcomers, and innocent bystanders might have believed that here was a meeting of old friends. Which, at one level, it probably was. But Nanny watched through a witch’s eyes, and saw the subtle positioning, the careful weighing-up, the little changes of stance, the eye-contact finely tuned by intensity and length.

  And when a witch was in the arena, especially if she was comparatively unknown, all the others found some excuse to keep an eye on her, preferably without appearing to do so.

  It was like watching cats. Cats spend a lot of time carefully eyeing one another. When they have to fight, that’s merely to rubber-stamp something that’s already been decided in their heads.

  Nanny knew all this. And she also knew most of the witches to be kind (on the whole), gentle (to the meek), generous (to the deserving; the undeserving got more than they bargained for), and by and large quite dedicated to a life that really offered more kicks than kisses. Not one of them lived in a house made of confectionery, although some of the conscientious younger ones had experimented with various crisp-breads. Even children who deserved it were not slammed into their ovens. Generally they did what they’d always done — smooth the passage of their neighbours into and out of the world, and help them over some of the nastier hurdles in between.

  You needed to be a special kind of person to do that. You needed a special kind of ear, because you saw people in circumstances where they were inclined to tell you things, like where the money is buried or who the father was or how come they’d a black eye again. And you needed a special kind of mouth, the sort that stayed shut. Keeping secrets made you powerful. Being powerful earned you respect. Respect was hard currency.

  And within this sisterhood — except that it wasn’t a sisterhood, it was a loose assortment of chronic non-joiners; a group of witches wasn’t a coven, it was a small war — there was always this awareness of position. It had nothing to do with anything the other world thought of as status. Nothing was ever said. But if an elderly witch died the local witches would attend her funeral for a few last words, and then go solemnly home alone, with the little insistent thought at the back of their minds: “I’ve moved up one.”

  And newcomers were watched very, very carefully.

  “Morning, Mrs Ogg,” said a voice behind her. “I trust I find you well?”

  “How’d’yer do, Mistress Shimmy,” said Nanny, turning. Her mental filing system threw up a card: Clarity Shimmy, lives over towards Cutshade with her old mum, takes snuff, good with animals. “How’s your mother keepin’?”

  “We buried her last month, Mrs Ogg.”

  Nanny Ogg quite liked Clarity, because she didn’t see her very often.

  “Oh dear ...” she said.

  “But I shall tell her you asked after her, anyway,” said Clarity. She glanced briefly towards the ring. “Who’s the fat girl on now? Got a backside on her like a bowling ball on a short seesaw.”

  “That’s Agnes Nitt.”

  “That’s a good cursin’ voice she’s got there. You know you’ve been cursed with a voice like that.”

  “Oh yes, she’s been blessed with a good voice for cursin’,” said Nanny politely. “Esme Weatherwax an’ me gave her a few tips,” she added.

  Clarity’s head turned.

  At the far edge of the field, a small pink shape sat alone behind the Lucky Dip. It did not seem to be drawing a big crowd.

  Clarity leaned closer.

  “What’s she ... er ... doing?”

  “I don’t know,” said Nanny. “I think she’s decided to be nice about it.”

  “Esme? Nice about it?”

  “Er ... yes,” said Nanny. It didn’t sound any better now she was telling someone.

  Clarity stared at her. Nanny saw her make a little sign with her left hand, and then hurry off.

  The pointy hats were bunching up now. There were little groups of three or four. You could see the points come together, cluster in animated conversation, and then open out again like a flower, and turn towards the distant blob of pinkness. Then a hat would leave that group and head off purposefully to another one, where the process would start all over again. It was a bit like watching very slow nuclear fission. There was a lot of excitement, and soon there would be an explosion.

  Every so often someone would turn and look at Nanny, so she hurried away among the sideshows until she fetched up beside the stall of the dwarf Zakzak Stronginthearm, maker and purveyor or occult knicknackery to the more impressionable. He nodded at her cheerfully over the top of a display saying “Lucky Horseshoes $2 Each”.

  “Hello, Mrs Ogg” he said.

  Nanny realized she was flustered.

  “What’s lucky about ’em?” she said, picking up a horseshoe.

  “Well, I get two dollars each for them,” said Stronginthearm.

  “And that makes them lucky?”

  “Lucky for me,” said Stronginthearm. “I expect you’ll be wanting one too, Mrs Ogg? I’d have fetched along another box if I’d known they’d be so popular. Some of the ladies’ve bought two.”

  There was an inflection to the word “ladies”.

  “Witches have been buying lucky horseshoes?” said Nanny.

  “Like there’s no tomorrow,” said Zakzak. He frowned for a moment. They had been witches, after all. “Er ... there will be ... won’t there?” he added.

  “I’m very nearly certain of it,” said Nanny, which didn’t seem to comfort him.

  “Suddenly been doing a roaring trade in protective herbs, too,” said Zakzak. And, being a dwarf, which meant that he’d see the Flood as a marvellous opportunity to sell towels, he added, “Can I interest you, Mrs Ogg?”

  Nanny shook her head. If trouble was going to come from the direction everyone had been looking, then a sprig of rue wasn’t going to be much help. A large oak tree’d be be
tter, but only maybe.

  The atmosphere was changing. The sky was a wide pale blue, but there was thunder on the horizons of the mind. The witches were uneasy and with so many in one place the nervousness was bouncing from one to another and, amplified, rebroadcasting itself to everyone. It meant that even ordinary people who thought that a rune was a dried plum were beginning to feel a deep, existential worry, the kind that causes you to snap at your kids and want a drink.

  Nanny peered through a gap between a couple of stalls. The pink figure was still sitting patiently, and a little crestfallen, behind the barrel. There was, as it were, a huge queue of no one at all.

  Then Nanny scuttled from the cover of one tent to another until she could see the produce stand. It had already been doing a busy trade but there, forlorn in the middle of the cloth, was the pile of terrible cakes. And the jar of jam. Some wag had chalked up a sign beside it: “Get Thee fpoon out of thee Jar, 3 tries for A Penney!!!”

  She thought she’d been careful to stay concealed, but she heard the straw rustle behind her. The committee had tracked her down.

  “That’s your handwriting, isn’t it, Mrs Earwig?” she said. “That’s cruel. That ain’t ... nice.”

  “We’ve decided you’re to go and talk to Miss Weatherwax,” said Letice. “She’s got to stop it.”

  “Stop what?”

  “She’s doing something to people’s heads! She’s come here to put the ’fluence on us, right? Everyone knows she does head magic. We can all feel it! She’s spoiling it for everyone!”

  “She’s only sitting there,” said Nanny.

  “Ah, yes, but how is she sitting there, may we ask?”

  Nanny peered around the stall again.

  “Well ... like normal. You know ... bent in the middle and the knees ...”

  Letice waved a finger sternly.

  “Now you listen to me, Gytha Ogg —”

  “If you want her to go away, you go and tell her!” snapped Nanny. “I’m fed up with —”

  There was the piercing scream of a child.

  The witches stared at one another, and then ran across the field to the Lucky Dip.

  A small boy was writhing on the ground, sobbing.

  It was Pewsey, Nanny’s youngest grandchild.

  Her stomach turned to ice. She snatched him up, and glared into Granny’s face.

  “What have you done to him, you —” she began.

  “Don’twannadolly! Don’twannadolly! Wannasoljer! WannawannawannaSOLJER!”

  Now Nanny looked down at the rag doll in Pewsey’s sticky hand, and the expression of affronted tearful rage on such of his face as could be seen around his screaming mouth —

  “OiwannawannaSOLJER!”

  — and then at the other witches, and at Granny Weatherwax’s face, and felt the horrible cold shame welling up from her boots.

  “I said he could put it back and have another go,” said Granny meekly. “But he just wouldn’t listen.”

  “— wannawannaSOL —”

  “Pewsey Ogg, if you don’t shut up right this minute Nanny will —” Nanny Ogg began, and dredged up the nastiest punishment she could think of, “Nanny won’t give you a sweetie ever again!”

  Pewsey closed his mouth, stunned into silence by this unimaginable threat. Then, to Nanny’s horror, Letice Earwig drew herself up and said, “Miss Weatherwax, we would prefer it if you left.”

  “Am I being a bother?” said Granny. “I hope I’m not being a bother. I don’t want to be a bother. He just took a lucky dip and —”

  “You’re ... upsetting people.”

  Any minute now, Nanny thought. Any minute now she’s going to raise her head and narrow her eyes and if Letice doesn’t take two steps backwards she’ll be a lot tougher than me.

  “I can’t stay and watch?” Granny said quietly.

  “I know your game,” said Letice. “You’re planning to spoil it, aren’t you? You can’t stand the thought of being beaten, so you’re intending something nasty.”

  Three steps back, Nanny thought. Else there won’t be anything left but bones. Any minute now ...

  “Oh, I wouldn’t like anyone to think I was spoiling anything,” said Granny. She sighed and stood up. “I’ll be off home ...”

  “No you won’t!” snapped Nanny Ogg, pushing her back down on to the chair. “What do you think of this, Beryl Dismass? And you, Letty Parkin?”

  “They’re all —” Letice began.

  “I weren’t talking to you!”

  The witches behind Mrs Earwig avoided Nanny’s gaze. “Well, it’s not that ... I mean, we don’t think ... “ began Beryl awkwardly. “That is ... I’ve always had a lot of respect for ... but ... well, it is for everyone ...”

  Her voice trailed off. Letice looked triumphant.

  “Really? I think we had better be going after all, then,” said Nanny sourly. “I don’t like the comp’ny in these parts.” She looked around. “Agnes? You give me a hand to get Granny home ...”

  “I really don’t need ...” Granny began, but the other two each took an arm and gently propelled her through the crowd, which parted to let them through and turned to watch them go.

  “Probably the best for all concerned, in the circumstances,” said Letice. Several of the witches tried not to look at her face.

  There were scraps of material all over the floor in Granny’s kitchen, and gouts of congealed jam had dripped off the edge of the table and formed an immovable mound on the floor. The jam saucepan had been left in the stone sink to soak, although it was clear that the iron would rust away before the jam ever softened.

  There was a row of empty pickle jars as well.

  Granny sat down and folded her hands in her lap.

  “Want a cup of tea, Esme?” said Nanny Ogg.

  “No, dear, thank you. You get on back to the Trials. Don’t you worry about me.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’ll just sit here quiet. Don’t you worry.”

  “I’m not going back!” Agnes hissed, as they left. “I don’t like the way Letice smiles ...”

  “You once told me you didn’t like the way Esme frowns,” said Nanny.

  “Yes, but you can trust a frown. Er ... you don’t think she’s losing it, do you?”

  “No one’ll be able to find it if she has,” said Nanny. “No, you come on back with me. I’m sure she’s planning ... something.” I wish the hell I knew what it is, she thought. I’m not sure I can take any more waiting.

  She could feel the mounting tension before they reached the field. Of course, there was always tension, that was part of the Trials, but this kind had a sour, unpleasant taste. The sideshows were still going on but ordinary folk were leaving, spooked by sensations they couldn’t put their finger on which nevertheless had them under their thumb. As for the witches themselves, they had that look worn by actors about two minutes from the end of a horror movie, when they know the monster is about to make its final leap and now it’s only a matter of which door.

  Letice was surrounded by witches. Nanny could hear raised voices. She nudged another witch, who was watching gloomily.

  “What’s happening, Winnie?”

  “Oh, Reena Trump made a pig’s ear of her piece and her friends say she ought to have another go because she was so nervous.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “And Virago Johnson ran off ’cos her weather spell went wrong.”

  “Left under a bit of a cloud, did she?”

  “And I was all thumbs when I had a go. You could be in with a chance, Gytha.”

  “Oh, I’ve never been one for prizes, Winnie, you know me. It’s the fun of taking part that counts.”

  The other witch gave her a skewed look.

  “You almost made that sound believable,” she said.

  Gammer Beavis hurried over. “On you go, Gytha”, she said. “Do your best, eh? The only contender so far is Mrs Weavitt and her whistling frog, and it wasn’t as if it could even carry a tune. Poor thin
g was a bundle of nerves.”

  Nanny Ogg shrugged, and walked out into the roped-off area. Somewhere in the distance someone was having hysterics, punctuated by an occasional worried whistle.

  Unlike the magic of wizards, the magic of witches did not usually involve the application of much raw power. The difference is between hammers and levers. Witches generally tried to find the small point where a little changes made a lot of result. To make an avalanche you can either shake the mountain, or maybe you can just find exactly the right place to drop a snowflake.

  This year Nanny had been idly working on the Man of Straw. It was an ideal trick for her. It got a laugh, it was a bit suggestive, it was a lot easier than it looked but showed she was joining in, and it was unlikely to win.

  Damn! She’d been relying on that frog to beat her. She’d heard it whistling quite beautifully on the summer evenings.

  She concentrated.

  Pieces of straw rustled through the stubble. All she had to do was use the little bits of wind that drifted across the field, allowed to move here and here, spiral up and —

  She tried to stop her hands from shaking. She’d done this a hundred times, she could tie the damn stuff in knots by now. She kept seeing the face of Esme Weatherwax, and the way she’d just sat there, looking puzzled and hurt, while for a few seconds Nanny had been ready to kill —

  For a moment she managed to get the legs right, and a suggestion of arms and head. There was a smattering of applause from the watchers. Then an errant eddy caught the thing before she could concentrate on its first step, and it spun down, just a lot of useless straw.

  She made some frantic gestures to get it to rise again. It flopped about, tangled itself, and lay still.

  There was a bit more applause, nervous and sporadic.

  “Sorry ... don’t seem to be able to get the hang of it today,” she muttered, walking off the field.

  The judges went into a huddle.

  “I reckon that frog did really well,” said Nanny, more loudly than was necessary.

  The wind, so contrary a little while ago, blew sharper now. What might be called the psychic darkness of the event was being enhanced by real twilight.

  The shadow of the bonfire loomed on the far side of the field. No one as yet had the heart to light it. Almost all the non-witches had gone home. Anything good about the day had long drained away.