tp.wyrd sisters-第15部分

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o　heavy　with　birds　that　it　looked　as　though　a　strange　brown　and　black　spring　had　e　early。
　Occupying　the　patch　where　the　herbs　grew　in　summer　were　the　wolves；　sitting　or　lolling　with　their　tongues　hanging　out。　A　contingent　of　bears　was　crouched　behind　them；　with　a　platoon　of　deer　beside　them。　Occupying　the　metterforical　stalls　was　a　rabble　of　rabbits；　weasels；　vermine；　badgers；　foxes　and　miscellaneous　creatures　who；　despite　the　fact　that　they　live　their　entire　lives　in　a　bloody　atmosphere　of　hunter　and　hunted；　killing　or　being　killed　by　claw；　talon　and　tooth；　are　generally　referred　to　as　woodland　folk。
　They　rested　together　on　the　snow；　their　normal　culinary　relationships　entirely　forgotten；　trying　to　outstare　her。
　Two　things　were　immediately　apparent　to　Granny。　One　was　that　this　seemed　to　represent　a　pretty　accurate　cross…section　of　the　forest　life。
　The　other　she　couldn't　help　saying　aloud。
　'I　don't　know　what　this　spell　is；'　she　said。　'But　I'll　tell　you　this　for　nothing　…　when　it　wears　off；　some　of　you　little　buggers　had　better　get　moving。'
　None　of　them　stirred。　There　was　no　sound　except　for　an　elderly　badger　relieving　itself　with　an　embarrassed　expression。
　'Look；'　said　Granny。　'What　can　I　do　about　it？　It's　no　good　you　ing　to　me。　He's　the　new　lord。　This　is　his　kingdom。　I　can't　go　meddling。　It's　not　right　to　go　meddling；　on　account　of　I　can't　interfere　with　people　ruling。　It　has　to　sort　itself　out；　good　or　bad。　Fundamental　rule　of　magic；　is　that。　You　can't　go　round　ruling　people　with　spells；　because　you'd　have　to　use　more　and　more　spells　all　the　time。'　She　sat　back；　grateful　that　long…standing　tradition　didn't　allow　the　Crafty　and　the　Wise　to　rule。　She　remembered　what　it　had　felt　like　to　wear　the　crown；　even　for　a　few　seconds。
　No；　things　like　crowns　had　a　troublesome　effect　on　clever　folk；　it　was　best　to　leave　all　the　reigning　to　the　kind　of　people　whose　eyebrows　met　in　the　middle　when　they　tried　to　think。　In　a　funny　sort　of　way；　they　were　much　better　at　it。
　She　added；　'People　have　to　sort　it　out　for　themselves。　Well…known　fact。'
　She　felt　that　one　of　the　larger　stags　was　giving　her　a　particularly　doubting　look。
　'Yes；　well；　so　he　killed　the　old　king；'　she　conceded。　That's　nature's　way；　ain't　it？　Your　lot　know　all　about　this。　Survival　of　the　wossname。　You　wouldn't　know　what　an　heir　was；　unless　you　thought　it　was　a　sort　of　rabbit。'
　She　drummed　her　fingers　on　her　knees。
　'Anyway；　the　old　king　wasn't　much　of　a　friend　to　you；　was　he？　All　that　hunting；　and　such。'
　Three　hundred　pairs　of　dark　eyes　bored　in　at　her。
　'It's　no　good　you　all　looking　at　me；'　she　tried。　'I　can't　go　around　mucking　about　with　kings　just　because　you　don't　like　them。　Where　would　it　all　end？　It's　not　as　if　he's　done　me　any　harm。'
　She　tried　to　avoid　the　gaze　of　a　particularly　cross…eyed　stoat。
　'All　right；　so　it's　selfish；'　she　said。　'That's　what　bein'　a　witch　is　all　about。　Good　day　to　you。'
　She　stamped　inside；　and　tried　to　slam　the　door。　It　stuck　once　or　twice；　which　rather　spoiled　the　effect。
　Once　inside　she　drew　the　curtains　and　sat　down　in　the　rocking　chair　and　rocked　fiercely。
　'That's　the　whole　point；'　she　said。　'I　can't　go　around　meddling。　That's　the　whole　point。'
　The　lattys　lurched　slowly　over　the　rutted　roads；　towards　yet　another　little　city　whose　name　the　pany　couldn't　quite　remember　and　would　instantly　forget。　The　winter　sun　hung　low　over　the　damp；　misty　cabbage　fields　of　the　Sto　Plains；　and　the　foggy　silence　magnified　the　creaking　of　the　wheels。
　Hwel　sat　with　his　stubby　legs　dangling　over　the　backboard　of　the　last　latty。
　He'd　done　his　best。　Vitoller　had　left　the　education　of　Tomjon　in　his　hands；　'You're　better　at　all　that　business；'　he'd　said；　adding　with　his　usual　tact；　'Besides；　you're　more　his　height。'
　But　it　wasn't　working。
　'Apple；'　he　repeated；　waving　the　fruit　in　the　air。
　Tomjon　grinned　at　him。　He　was　nearly　three　years　old；　and　hadn't　said　a　word　anyone　could　understand。　Hwel　was　harbouring　dark　suspicions　about　the　witches。
　'But　he　seems　bright　enough；'　said　Mrs　Vitoller；　who　was　travelling　inside　the　latty　and　darning　the　chain　mail。　'He　knows　what　things　are。　He　does　what　he's　told。　I　just　wish　you'd　speak；'　she　said　softly；　patting　the　boy　on　the　cheek。
　Hwel　gave　the　apple　to　Tomjon；　who　accepted　it　gravely。
　'I　reckon　them　witches　did　you　a　bad　turn；　missus；'　said　the　dwarf。　'You　know。　Changelings　and　whatnot。　There　used　to　be　a　lot　of　that　sort　of　thing。　My　great…great…grandmother　said　it　was　done　to　us；　once。　The　fairies　swapped　a　human　and　a　dwarf。　We　never　realised　until　he　started　banging　his　head　on　things；　they　say…'
　
　'They　say　this　fruit　be　like　unto　the　world
So　sweet。　Or　like；　say　I；　the　heart　of　man
So　red　without　and　yet　within；　unclue'd；
We　find　the　worm；　the　rot；　the　flaw。
However　glows　his　bloom　the　bite
Proves　many　a　man　be　rotten　at　the　core。'
　
　The　two　of　them　swivelled　around　to　stare　at　Tomjon；　who　nodded　to　them　and　proceeded　to　eat　the　apple。
　'That　was　the　Worm　speech　from　The　Tyrant；'　whispered　Hwel。　His　normal　grasp　of　the　language　temporarily　deserted　him。　'Bloody　hell；'　he　said。
　'But　he　sounded　just　like…'
　'I'm　going　to　get　Vitoller；'　said　Hwel；　and　dropped　off　the　tailboard　and　ran　through　the　frozen　puddles　to　the　front　of　die　convoy；　where　the　actor…manager　was　whistling　tunelessly　and；　yes；　strolling。
　'What　ho；　b'zugda…hiara＇8＇；'　he　said　cheerfully。
　'You've　got　to　e　at　once！　He's　talking！'
　Talking？'
　Hwel　jumped　up　and　down。　'He's　quoting！'　he　shouted。　'You've　got　to　e！　He　sounds　just　like…'
　'Me？'　said　Vitoller；　a　few　minutes　later；　after　they　had　pulled　the　lattys　into　a　grove　of　leafless　trees　by　the　roadside。　'Do　I　sound　like　that？'
　'Yes；'　chorused　the　pany。
　Young　Willikins；　who　specialised　in　female　roles；　prodded　Tomjon　gently　as　he　stood　on　an　upturned　barrel　in　the　middle　of　the　clearing。
　'Here；　boy；　do　you　know　my　speech　from　Please　Yourself！'　he　said。
　Tomjon　nodded。　'　〃He　is　not　dead；　I　say；　who　lies　beneath　the　stone。　For　if　Death　could　but　hear…〃　'
　They　listened　in　awed　silence　as　the　endless　mists　rolled　across　the　dripping　fields　and　the　red　ball　of　the　sun　floated　down　the　sky。　When　the　boy　had　finished　hot　tears　were　streaming　down　Hwel's　face。
　'By　all　the　gods；'　he　said；　when　Tomjon　had　finished；　'I　must　have　been　on　damn　good　form　when　I　wrote　that。'　He　blew　his　nose　noisily。
　'Do　I　sound　like　that？'　said　Willikins；　his　face　pale。
　Vitoller　patted　him　gently　on　the　shoulder。
　'If　you　sounded　like　that；　my　bonny；'　he　said；　'you　wouldn't　be　standing　arse…deep　in　slush　in　the　middle　of　these　forsaken　fields；　with　nothing　but　liberated　cabbage　for　thy　tea。'
　He　clapped　his　hands。
　'No　more；　no　more；'　he　said；　his　breath　making　puffs　of　steam　in　the　freezing　air。　'Backs　to　it；　everybody。　We　must　be　outside　the　walls　of　Sto　Lat　by　sunset。'
　As　the　grumbling　actors　awoke　from　the　spell　and　wandered　back　to　the　shafts　of　the　lattys　Vitoller　beckoned　to　the　dwarf　and　put　his　arm　around　his　shoulders；　or　rather　around　the　top　of　his　head。
　'Well？'　he　said。　'You　people　know　all　about　magic；　or　so　it　is　said。　What　do　you　make　of　it？'
　'He　spends　all　his　time　around　the　stage；　master。　It's　only　natural　that　he　should　pick　things　up；'　said　Hwel　vaguely。
　Vitoller　leaned　down。
　'Do　you　believe　that？'
　'I　believe　I　heard　a　voice　that　took　my　doggerel　and　shaped　it　and　fired　it　back　through　my　ears　and　straight　into　my　heart；'　said　Hwel　simply。　'I　believe　I　heard　a　voice　that　got　behind　the　crude　shape　of　the　words　and　said　the　things　I　had　meant　them　to　say；　but　had　not　the　skill　to　achieve。　Who　knows　where　such　things　e　from？'
　He　stared　impassively　into　Vitoller's　red　face。　'He　may　have　inherited　it　from　his　father；'　he　said。
　'But…'
　'And　who　knows　what　witches　may　achieve？'　said　the　dwarf。
　Vitoller　felt　his　wife's　hand　pushed　into　his。　As　he　stood　up；　bewildered　and　angry；　she　kissed　him　on　the　back　of　the　neck。
　'Don't　torture　yourself；'　she　said。　'Isn't　it　all　for　the　best？　Your　son　has　declaimed　his　first　word。'
　
　Spring　came；　and　ex…King　Verence　still　wasn't　taking　being　dead　lying　down。　He　prowled　the　castle　relentlessly；　seeking　for　a　way　in　which　its　ancient　stones　would　release　their　grip　on　him。
　He　was　also　trying　to　keep　out　of　the　way　of　the　other　ghosts。
　Champot　was　all　right；　if　a　bit　tiresome。　But　Verence　had　backed　away　at　the　first　sight　of　the　Twins；　toddling　hand　in　hand　along　the　midnight　corridors；　their　tiny　ghosts　a　memorial　to　a　deed　darker　even　than　the　usual　run　of　regicidal　unpleasantness。
　And　then　there　was　the　Troglodyte　Wanderer；　a　rather　faded　monkeyman　in　a　furry　loincloth　who　apparently　happened　to　haunt　the　castle　merely　because　it　had　been　built　on　his　burial　mound。　For　no　obvious　reason　a　chariot　with　a　screaming　woman　in　it　occasionally　rumbled　through　the　laundry　room。　As　for　the　kitchen　。　。　。
　One　day　he'd　given　in；　despite　everything　old　Champot　had　said；　and　had　followed　the　smells　of　cooking　into　the　big；　hot；　high　domed　cavern　that　served　the　castle　as　kitchen　and　abattoir。　Funny　thing；　that。　He'd　never　been　down　there　since　his　childhood。　Somehow　kings　and　kitchens　didn't　go　well　together。
　It　was　full　of　ghosts。
　But　they　weren't　human。　They　weren't　even　proto…human。
　They　were　stags。　They　were　bullocks。　They　were　rabbits；　and　pheasants；　and　partridges；　and　sheep；　and　pigs。　There　were　even　some　round　blobby　things　that　looked　unpleasantly　like　the　ghosts　of　oysters。　They　were　packed　so　tightly　that　in　fact　they　merged　and　mingled；　turning　the　kitchen　into　a　silent；　jostling　nightmare　of　teeth　and　fur　and　horns；　half…seen　and　misty。　Several　noticed　him；　and　there　was　a　weird　blarting　of　noises　that　sounded　far…off；　tinny　and　unpleasantly　out　of　register。　Through　them　all　the　cook　and　his　assistants　wandered　quite　unconcernedly；　making　vegetarian　sausages。
　Verence　had　stared　for　half　a　minute　and　then　fled；　wishing　that　he　still　had　a　real　stomach　so　that　he　could　stick　his　fingers　down　his　throat　for　forty　years　and　bring　up　everything　he'd　eaten。
　He'd　sought　solace　in　the　stables；　where　his　beloved　hunting　dogs　had　whined　and　scratched　at　the　door　and　had　generally　been　very　ill…at…eas