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Authors: Robert Silverberg

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BOOK: Legends: Stories By The Masters of Modern Fantasy

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No one would come into the clearing, of course. That would mean admitting that they knew where it was. So they were blundering around in the surrounding bushes. She pushed her way through and was greeted with some looks of feigned surprise that would have done credit to any amateur dramatic company.

“Well, what do you lot want?” she demanded.

“Oh, Mrs. Ogg, we though you might be … taking a walk in the woods,” said Poorchick, while a scent that could clean glass wafted on the breeze. “You got to do something! It’s Mistress Weatherwax!”

“What’s she done?”

“You tell ’er, Mr. Hampicker!”

The man next to Poorchick took off his hat quickly and held it respectfully in front of him in the ai-señor-the-banditos-have-raided-our-villages position.

“Well, ma’am, my lad and I were digging for a well and then she come past—”

“Granny Weatherwax?”

“Yes’m, and she said—” Hampicker gulped. “‘You won’t find any water there, my good man. You’d be better off looking in the hollow by the chestnut tree’! An’ we dug on down anyway and
we never found no water
!”

Nanny lit her pipe. She didn’t smoke around the still since that time when a careless spark had sent the barrel she was sitting on a hundred yards into the air. She’d been lucky that a fir tree had broken her fall.

“So …
then
you dug in the hollow by the chestnut tree?” she said mildly.

Hampicker looked shocked. “
No
’m! There’s no telling
what
she wanted us to find there!”

“And she cursed my cow!” said Poorchick.

“Really? What did she say?”

“She said, may she give a lot of milk!” Poorchick stopped. Once again, now that he came to say it …

“Well, it was the way she said it,” he added, weakly.

“And what kind of way was that?”

“Nicely!”

“Nicely?”

“Smilin’ and everything! I don’t dare drink the stuff now!”

Nanny was mystified.

“Can’t quite see the problem—”

“You tell that to Mr. Hopcroft’s dog,” said Poorchick. “Hopcroft daren’t leave the poor thing on account of her! The whole family’s going mad! There’s him shearing, his wife sharpening the scissors, and the two lads out all the time looking for fresh places to dump the hair!”

Patient questioning on Nanny’s part elucidated the role the Haire Re
f
torer had played in this.

“And he gave it—?”

“Half the bottle, Mrs. Ogg.”

“Even though Esme writes ‘A right small spoonful once a week’ on the label? And even then you need to wear roomy trousers.”

“He said he was so nervous, Mrs. Ogg! I mean, what’s she playing at? Our wives are keepin’ the kids indoors. I mean, s’posin’ she smiled at them?”

“Well?”

“She’s a witch!”

“So’m I, an’ I smiles at ’em,” said Nanny Ogg. “They’re always runnin’ after me for sweets.”

“Yes, but … you’re … I mean … she … I mean … you don’t … I mean, well—”

“And she’s a good woman,” said Nanny. Common sense prompted her to add, “In her own way. I expect there
is
water down in the hollow, and Poorchick’s cow’ll give good milk, and if Hopcroft won’t read the labels on bottles then he deserves a head you can see your face in, and if you think Esme Weatherwax’d curse kids you’ve got the sense of a earthworm. She’d cuss ‘em, yes, all day long. But not curse ’em. She don’t aim that low.”

“Yes, yes,” Poorchick almost moaned, “but it don’t
feel
right, that’s
what we’re saying. Her going round being
nice,
a man don’t know if he’s got a leg to stand on.”

“Or hop on,” said Hampicker darkly.

“All right, all right, I’ll see about it,” said Nanny.

“People shouldn’t go around not doin’ what you expect,” said Poorchick weakly. “It gets people on edge.”

“And we’ll keep an eye on your sti—” Hampicker, and then staggered backward grasping his stomach and wheezing.

“Don’t mind him, it’s the stress,” said Poorchick, rubbing his elbow. “Been picking herbs, Mrs. Ogg?”

“That’s right,” said Nanny, hurrying away across the leaves.

“So shall I put the fire out for you, then?” Poorchick shouted.

Granny was sitting outside her house when Nanny Ogg hurried up the path. She was sorting through a sack of old clothes. Elderly garments were scattered around her.

And she was humming. Nanny Ogg started to worry. The Granny Weatherwax she knew didn’t approve of music.

And she smiled when she saw Nanny, or at least the corner of her mouth turned up. That was
really
worrying. Granny normally only smiled if something bad was happening to someone deserving.

“Why, Gytha, how nice to see you!”

“You all right, Esme?”

“Never felt better, dear.” The humming continued.

“Er … sorting out rags, are you?” said Nanny. “Going to make that quilt?”

It was one of Granny Weatherwax’s firm beliefs that one day she’d make a patchwork quilt. However, it is a task that requires patience, and hence in fifteen years she’d got as far as three patches. But she collected old clothes anyway. A lot of witches did. It was a witch thing. Old clothes had personality, like old houses. When it came to clothes with a bit of wear left in them, a witch had no pride at all.

“It’s in here somewhere …” Granny mumbled. “Aha, here we are …”

She flourished a garment. It was basically pink.

“Knew it was here,” she went on. “Hardly worn, either. And about my size, too.”

“You’re going to
wear
it?” said Nanny.

Granny’s piercing blue cut-you-off-at-the-knees gaze was turned upon her. Nanny would have been relieved at a reply like “No, I’m going to eat it, you daft old fool.” Instead her friend relaxed and said, a little concerned:

“You don’t think it’d suit me?”

There was lace around the collar. Nanny swallowed.

“You usually wear black,” she said. “Well, a bit more than usually. More like always.”

“And a very sad sight I look too,” said Granny robustly. “It’s about time I brightened myself up a bit, don’t you think?”

“And it’s so very … pink.”

Granny put it aside and to Nanny’s horror took her by the hand and said earnestly, “And, you know, I reckon I’ve been far too dog-in-the-manger about this Trials business, Gytha—”

“Bitch-in-the-manger,” said Nanny Ogg, absentmindedly.

For a moment Granny’s eyes became two sapphires again.

“What?”

“Er … you’d be a bitch-in-the-manger,” Nanny mumbled. “Not a dog.”

“Ah? Oh, yes. Thank you for pointing that out. Well, I thought, it
is
time I stepped back a bit, and went along and cheered on the younger folks. I mean, I have to say, I … really haven’t been very nice to people, have I …”

“Er …”

“I’ve tried
being
nice,” Granny went on. “It didn’t turn out like I expected, I’m sorry to say.”

“You’ve never been really …
good
at nice,” said Nanny.

Granny smiled. Hard though she stared, Nanny was unable to spot anything other than earnest concern.

“Perhaps I’ll get better with practice,” she said.

She patted Nanny’s hand. And Nanny stared at her hand as though something horrible had happened to it.

“It’s just that everyone’s more used to you being … firm,” she said.

“I thought I might make some jam and cakes for the produce stall,” said Granny.

“Oh … good.”

“Are there any sick people want visitin’?”

Nanny stared at the trees. It was getting worse and worse. She rummaged
in her memory for anyone in the locality sick enough to warrant a ministering visit but still well enough to survive the shock of a ministering visit by Granny Weatherwax. When it came to practical psychology and the more robust type of folk physiotherapy Granny was without equal; in fact, she could even do the latter at a distance, for many a pain-wracked soul had left their bed and walked, nay, run at the news that she was coming.

“Everyone’s pretty well at the moment,” said Nanny diplomatically.

“Any old folk want cheerin’ up?”

It was taken for granted by both women that
old people
did not include them. A witch aged ninety-seven would not have included herself. Old people happened to other people.

“All fairly cheerful right now,” said Nanny.

“Maybe I could tell stories to the kiddies?”

Nanny nodded. Granny had done that once before, when the mood had briefly taken her. It had worked pretty well, as far as the children were concerned. They’d listened with openmouthed attention and apparent enjoyment to a traditional old folk legend. The problem had come when they’d gone home afterward and asked the meaning of words like “disemboweled.”

“I could sit in a rocking chair while I tell ’em,” Granny added. “That’s how it’s done, I recall. And I could make them some of my special treacle toffee apples. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Nanny nodded again, in a sort of horrified reverie. She realized that only she stood in the way of a wholesale rampage of niceness.

“Toffee,” she said. “Would that be the sort you did that shatters like glass, or that sort where our boy Pewsey had to have his mouth levered open with a spoon?”

“I reckon I know what I did wrong last time.”

“You know you and sugar don’t get along, Esme. Remember them all-day suckers you made?”

“They
did
last all day, Gytha.”

“Only ’cos our Pewsey couldn’t get it out of his little mouth until we pulled two of his teeth, Esme. You ought to stick to pickles. You and pickles goes well.”

“I’ve got to do
something,
Gytha. I can’t be an old grump all the time. I know! I’ll help at the Trials. Bound to be a lot that needs doing, eh?”

Nanny grinned inwardly. So
that
was it.

“Why, yes,” she said. “I’m sure Mrs. Earwig will be happy to tell you what to do,” she said.
And more fool her if she does,
she thought,
because I can tell you’re planning something.

“I shall talk to her,” said Granny. “I’m sure there’s a million things I could do to help, if I set my mind to it.”

“And I’m sure you will,” said Nanny heartily. “I’ve a feelin’ you’re going to make a big difference.”

Granny started to rummage in the bag again.

“You are going to be along as well, aren’t you, Gytha?”

“Me?” said Nanny. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

N
anny got up especially early. If there was going to be any unpleasantness she wanted a ringside seat.

What there was was bunting. It was hanging from tree to tree in terrible brightly colored loops as she walked toward the Trials.

There was something oddly familiar about it, too. It should not technically be possible for anyone with a pair of scissors to be unable to cut out a triangle, but someone had managed it. And it was also obvious that the flags had been made from old clothes, painstakingly cut up. Nanny knew this because not many real flags have collars.

In the Trials field people were setting up stalls and falling over children. The committee were standing uncertainly under a tree, occasionally glancing up at a pink figure at the top of a very long ladder.

“She was here before it was light,” said Letice, as Nanny approached. “She said she’d been up all night making the flags.”

“Tell her about the cakes,” said Gammer Beavis darkly.

“She made
cakes?
” said Nanny. “But she can’t cook!”

The committee shuffled aside. A lot of the ladies contributed to the food for the Trials. It was a tradition and an informal competition in its own right. At the center of the spread of covered plates was a large platter piled high with … things, of indefinite color and shape. It looked as though a herd of small cows had eaten a lot of raisins and then been ill. They were Ur-cakes, prehistoric cakes, cakes of great weight and presence that had no place among the iced dainties.

“She’s never had the knack of it,” said Nanny weakly. “Has anyone tried one?”

“Hahaha,” said Gammer solemnly.

“Tough, are they?”

“You could beat a troll to death.”

“But she was so … sort of …
proud
of them,” said Letice. “And then there’s … the jam.”

It was a large pot. It seemed to be filled with solidified purple lava.

BOOK: Legends: Stories By The Masters of Modern Fantasy

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