tp.wyrd sisters-第40部分

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　On　stage　a　guard　dropped　his　shield；　bent　down　to　pick　it　up；　and　dropped　his　spear。　Hwel　rolled　his　eyes　and　offered　up　a　silent　prayer　to　any　gods　that　might　be　watching。
　It　was　already　going　wrong。　The　earlier　rehearsals　had　their　little　teething　troubles；　it　was　true；　but　Hwel　had　known　one　or　two　monumental　horrors　in　his　time　and　this　one　was　shaping　up　to　be　the　worst。　The　pany　was　more　jittery　than　a　potful　of　lobsters。　Out　of　the　corner　of　his　ear　he　heard　the　on…stage　dialogue　falter；　and　scurried　to　the　wings。
　'…avenge　the　terror　of　thy　father's　death…'　he　hissed；　and　hurried　back　to　the　trembling　witches。　He　groaned。　Divers　alarums。　This　lot　were　supposed　to　be　terrorising　a　kingdom。　He　had　about　a　minute　before　the　cue。
　'Right！'　he　said；　pulling　himself　together。　'Now；　what　are　you？　You're　evil　hags；　right？'
　'Yes；　Hwel；'　they　said　meekly。
　'Tell　me　what　you　are；'　he　manded。
　'We're　evil　hags；　Hwel。'
　'Louder！'
　'We're　Evil　Hags！'
　Hwel　stalked　the　length　of　the　quaking　line；　then　turned　abruptly　on　his　heel；　'And　what　are　you　going　to　do？'
　The　2nd　Witche　scratched　his　crawling　wig。
　'We're　going　to　curse　people？'　he　ventured。　'It　says　in　the　script…'
　'I…can't…HEAR…you！'
　'We're　going　to　curse　people！'　they　chorused；　springing　to　attention　and　staring　straight　ahead　to　avoid　his　gaze。
　Hwel　stumped　back　along　the　line。
　'What　are　you？'
　'We're　hags；　Hwel！'
　'What　kind　of　hags？'
　'We're　black　and　midnight　hags！'　they　yelled；　getting　into　the　spirit。
　'What　kind　of　black　and　midnight　hags？'
　'Evil　black　and　midnight　hags！'
　'Are　you　scheming？'
　'Yeah！'
　'Are　you　secret？'
　'Yeah！'
　Hwel　drew　himself　to　his　full　height；　such　as　it　was。
　'What…are…you？'　he　screamed。
　'We're　scheming　evil　secret　black　and　midnight　hags！'
　'Right！'　He　pointed　a　vibrating　finger　towards　the　stage　and　lowered　his　voice　and；　at　that　moment；　a　dramatic　inspiration　dived　through　the　atmosphere　and　slammed　into　his　creative　node；　causing　him　to　say；　'Now　I　want　you　to　get　out　there　and　give　'em　hell。　Not　for　me。　Not　for　the　goddam　captain。'　He　shifted　the　butt　of　an　imaginary　cigar　from　one　side　of　his　mouth　to　the　other；　and　pushed　back　a　non…existent　tin　helmet；　and　rasped；　'But　for　Corporal　Walkowski　and　his　little　dawg。'
　They　stared　at　him　in　disbelief。
　On　cue；　someone　shook　a　sheet　of　tin　and　broke　the　spell。
　Hwel　rolled　his　eyes。　He'd　grown　up　in　the　mountains；　where　thunderstorms　stalked　from　peak　to　peak　on　legs　of　lightning。　He　remembered　thunderstorms　that　left　mountains　a　different　shape　and　flattened　whole　forests。　Somehow；　a　sheet　of　tin　wasn't　the　same；　no　matter　how　enthusiastically　it　was　shaken。
　Just　once；　he　thought；　just　once。　Let　me　get　it　right　just　once。
　He　opened　his　eyes　and　glared　at　the　witches。
　'What　are　you　hanging　around　here　for？'　he　yelled。　'Get　out　there　and　curse　them！'
　He　watched　them　scamper　on　to　the　stage；　and　then　Tomjon　tapped　him　on　the　head。
　'Hwel；　there's　no　crown。'
　'Hmm？'　said　the　dwarf；　his　mind　wrestling　with　ways　of　building　thunder…and…lightning　machines。
　'There's　no　crown；　Hwel。　I've　got　to　wear　a　crown。'
　'Of　course　there's　a　crown。　The　big　one　with　the　red　glass；　very　impressive；　we　used　it　in　that　place　with　the　big　square…'
　'I　think　we　left　it　there。'
　There　was　another　tinny　roll　of　thunder　but；　even　so；　the　part　of　Hwel　that　was　living　the　play　heard　a　faltering　voice　on　stage。　He　darted　to　the　wings。
　'…I　have　smother'd　many　a　babe…'　he　hissed；　and　sprinted　back。
　'Well；　just　find　another　one；　then；'　he　said　vaguely。　'In　the　props　box。　You're　the　Evil　King；　you've　got　to　have　a　crown。　Get　on　with　it；　lad；　you're　on　in　a　few　minutes。　Improvise。'
　Tomjon　wandered　back　to　the　box。　He'd　grown　up　among　crowns；　big　golden　crowns　made　of　wood　and　plaster；　studded　with　finest　glass。　He'd　cut　his　teeth　on　the　hat…brims　of　Authority。　But　most　of　them　had　been　left　in　the　Dysk　now。　He　pulled　out　collapsible　daggers　and　skulls　and　vases；　the　strata　of　the　years　and；　right　at　the　bottom；　his　fingers　closed　on　something　thin　and　crown　shaped；　which　no…one　had　ever　wanted　to　wear　because　it　looked　so　uncrownly。
　It　would　be　nice　to　say　it　tingled　under　his　hand。　Perhaps　it　did。
　
　Granny　was　sitting　as　still　as　a　statue；　and　almost　as　cold。　The　horror　of　realisation　was　stealing　over　her。
　'That's　us；'　she　said。　'Round　that　silly　cauldron。　That's　meant　to　be　us；　Gytha。'
　Nanny　Ogg　paused　with　a　walnut　halfway　to　her　gums。　She　listened　to　the　words。
　'I　never　shipwrecked　anybody！'　she　said。　'They　just　said　they　shipwreck　people！　I　never　did！'
　Up　in　the　tower　Magrat　elbowed　the　Fool　in　the　ribs。
　'Green　blusher；'　she　said；　staring　at　the　3rd　Witche。　'I　don't　look　like　that。　I　don't；　do　I？'
　'Absolutely　not；'　said　the　Fool。
　'And　that　hair！'
　The　Fool　peered　through　the　crenellations　like　an　over…eager　gargoyle。
　'It　looks　like　straw；'　he　said。　'Not　very　clean；　either。'
　He　hesitated；　picking　at　the　lichened　stonework　with　his　fingers；　Before　he'd　left　the　city　he'd　asked　Hwel　for　a　few　suitable　words　to　say　to　a　young　lady；　and　he　had　been　memorising　them　on　the　way　home。　It　was　now　or　never。
　'I'd　like　to　know　if　I　could　pare　you　to　a　summer's　day。　Because　…　well；　June　12th　was　quite　nice；　and　。　。　。Oh。　You've　gone　。　。　。'
　
　King　Verence　gripped　the　edge　of　his　seat；　his　fingers　went　through　it。　Tomjon　had　strutted　on　to　the　stage。
　'That's　him；　isn't　it？　That's　my　son？'
　The　uncracked　walnut　fell　from　Nanny　Ogg's　fingers　and　rolled　on　to　the　floor。　She　nodded。
　Verence　turned　a　haggard；　transparent　face　towards　her。
　'But　what　is　he　doing？　What　is　he　saying？'
　Nanny　shook　her　head。　The　king　listened　with　his　mouth　open　as　Tomjon；　lurching　crabwise　across　the　stage；　launched　into　his　major　speech。
　'I　think　he's　meant　to　be　you；'　said　Nanny；　distantly。
　'But　I　never　walked　like　that！　Why's　he　got　a　hump　on　his　back？　What's　happened　to　his　leg？'　He　listened　some　more；　and　added；　in　horrified　tones；　'And　I　certainly　never　did　that！　Or　that。　Why　is　he　saying　I　did　that？'
　The　look　he　gave　Nanny　was　full　of　pleading。　She　shrugged。
　The　king　reached　up；　lifted　off　his　spectral　crown；　and　examined　it。
　'And　it's　my　crown　he's　wearing！　Look；　this　is　it！　And　he's　saying　I　did　all　those…'　He　paused　for　a　minute；　to　listen　to　the　latest　couplet；　and　added；　'All　right。　Maybe　I　did　that。　So　I　set　fire　to　a　few　cottages。　But　everyone　does　that。　It's　good　for　the　building　industry；　anyway。'
　He　put　the　ghostly　crown　back　on　his　head。
　'Why's　he　saying　all　this　about　me？'　he　pleaded。
　'It's　art；'　said　Nanny。　'It　wossname；　holds　a　mirror　up　to　life。'
　Granny　turned　slowly　in　her　seat　to　look　at　the　audience。　They　were　staring　at　the　performance；　their　faces　rapt。　The　words　washed　over　them　in　the　breathless　air。　This　was　real。　This　was　more　real　even　than　reality。　This　was　history。　It　might　not　be　true；　but　that　had　nothing　to　do　with　it。
　Granny　had　never　had　much　time　for　words。　They　were　so　insubstantial。　Now　she　wished　that　she　had　found　the　time。　Words　were　indeed　insubstantial。　They　were　as　soft　as　water；　but　they　were　also　as　powerful　as　water　and　now　they　were　rushing　over　the　audience；　eroding　the　levees　of　veracity；　and　carrying　away　the　past。
　That's　us　down　there；　she　thought。　Everyone　knows　who　we　really　are；　but　the　things　down　there　are　what　they'll　remember　…　three　gibbering　old　baggages　in　pointy　hats。　All　we've　ever　done；　all　we've　ever　been；　won't　exist　any　more。
　She　looked　at　the　ghost　of　the　king。　Well；　he'd　been　no　worse　than　any　other　king。　Oh；　he　might　burn　down　the　odd　cottage　every　now　and　again；　in　a　sort　of　absent…minded　way；　but　only　when　he　was　really　angry　about　something；　and　he　could　give　it　up　any　time　he　liked。　Where　he　wounded　the　world；　he　left　the　kind　of　wounds　that　healed。
　Whoever　wrote　this　Theatre　knew　about　the　uses　of　magic。　Even　I　believe　what's　happening；　and　I　know　there's　no　truth　in　it。
　This　is　Art　holding　a　Mirror　up　to　Life。　That's　why　everything　is　exactly　the　wrong　way　round。
　We've　lost。　There　is　nothing　we　can　do　against　this　without　being　exactly　what　we　aren't。
　Nanny　Ogg　gave　her　a　violent　nudge　in　the　ribs。
　'Did　you　hear　that？'　she　said。　'One　of　'em　said　we　put　babbies　in　the　cauldron！　They've　done　a　slander　on　me！　I'm　not　sitting　here　and　have　'em　say　we　put　babbies　in　a　cauldron！'
　Granny　grabbed　her　shawl　as　she　tried　to　stand　up。
　'Don't　do　anything！'　she　hissed。　'It'll　make　things　worse。'
　'　〃Ditch…delivered　by　adrabe〃；　they　said。　That'll　be　young　Millie　Hipwood；　who　didn't　dare　tell　her　mum　and　then　went　out　gathering　firewood。　I　was　up　all　night　with　that　one；'　Nanny　muttered。　'Fine　girl　she　produced。　It's　a　slander！　What's　a　drabe？'　she　added。
　'Words；'　said　Granny；　half　to　herself。　'That's　all　that's　left。　Words。'
　'And　now　there's　a　man　with　a　trumpet　e　on。　What's　he　going　to　do？　Oh。　End　of　Act　One；'　said　Nanny。
　The　words　won't　be　forgotten；　thought　Granny。　They've　got　a　power　to　them。　They're　damn　good　words；　as　words　go。
　There　was　yet　another　rattle　of　thunder；　which　ended　with　the　kind　of　crash　made；　for　example；　by　a　sheet　of　tin　escaping　from　someone's　hands　and　hitting　the　wall。
　In　the　world　outside　the　stage　the　heat　pressed　down　like　a　pillow；　squeezing　the　very　life　out　of　the　air。　Granny　saw　a　footman　bend　down　to　the　duke's　ear。　No；　he　won't　stop　the　play。　Of　course　he　won't。　He　wants　it　to　run　its　course。
　The　duke　must　have　felt　the　heat　of　her　gaze　on　the　back　of　his　neck。　He　turned；　focused　on　her；　and　gave　her　a　strange　little　smile。　Then　he　nudged　his　wife。　They　both　laughed。
　Granny　Weatherwax　was　often　angry。　She　considered　it　one　of　her　strong　points。　Genuine　anger　was　one　of　the　world's　great　creative　forces。　But　you　had　to　learn　how　to　control　it。　That　didn't　mean　you　let　it　trickle　away。　It　meant　you　dammed　it；　carefully；　let　it　develop　a　working　head；　let　it　drown　whole　valleys　of　the　mind　and　then；　just　when　the　whole　structure　was　about　to　collapse；　opened　a　tiny　pipeline　at　the　base　and　let　the　iron…hard　stream　of　wrath　power　the　turbines　of　revenge。
　She　felt　the　land　below　her；　even　through　several　feet　of　foundations；　flagstones；　on