tp.wyrd sisters-第18节

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eemed　to　qualify；　but　the　cook　spent　a　lot　of　his　time　weeping　in　the　pantry　because　he　wasn't　being　allowed　to　roast　anything　more　bloody　than　a　parsnip　and　the　Fool　was　already　such　a　bundle　of　nerves　that　Verence　had　given　up　his　attempts　to　get　through。
　A　witch；　now。　If　a　witch　wasn't　psychically　inclined；　then　he；　King　Verence；　was　a　puff　of　wind。　He　had　to　get　a　witch　into　the　castle。　And　then　。　。　。
　He'd　got　a　plan。　In　fact；　it　was　more　than　that；　it　was　a　Plan。　He　spent　months　over　it。　He　hadn't　got　anything　else　to　do；　except　think。　Death　had　been　right　about　that。　All　that　ghosts　had　were　thoughts；　and　although　thoughts　in　general　had　always　been　alien　to　the　king　the　absence　of　any　body　to　distract　him　with　its　assorted　humours　had　actually　given　him　the　chance　to　savour　the　joys　of　cerebration。　He'd　never　had　a　Plan　before；　or　at　least　one　that　went　much　further　than　'Let's　find　something　and　kill　it'。　And　here；　sitting　in　front　of　him　washing　itself；　was　the　key。
　'Here；　pussy；'　he　ventured。　Greebo　gave　him　a　penetrating　yellow　stare。
　'Cat；'　the　king　amended　hastily；　and　backed　away；　beckoning。　For　a　moment　it　seemed　that　the　cat　wouldn't　follow　and　then；　to　his　relief；　Greebo　stood　up；　yawned；　and　padded　towards　him。　Greebo　didn't　often　see　ghosts；　and　was　vaguely　interested　in　this　tall；　bearded　man　with　the　see…through　body。
　The　king　led　him　along　a　dusty　side　corridor　and　towards　a　lumber　room　crammed　with　crumbling　tapestries　and　portraits　of　long…dead　kings。　Greebo　examined　it　critically；　and　then　sat　down　in　the　middle　of　the　dusty　floor；　looking　at　the　king　expectantly。
　'There's　plenty　of　mice　and　things　in　here；　d'you　see；'　said　Verence。　'And　the　rain　blows　in　through　the　broken　window。　Plus　there's　all　these　tapestries　to　sleep　on。'
　'Sorry；'　the　king　added；　and　turned　to　the　door。
　This　was　what　he　had　been　working　on　all　these　months。　When　he　was　alive　he　had　always　taken　a　lot　of　care　of　his　body；　and　since　being　dead　he　had　taken　care　to　preserve　its　shape。　It　was　too　easy　to　let　yourself　go　and　bee　all　fuzzy　around　the　edges；　there　were　ghosts　in　the　castle　who　were　mere　pale　blobs。　But　Verence　had　wielded　iron　self…control　and　exercised　…　well；　had　thought　hard　about　exercise　…　and　fairly　bulged　with　spectral　muscles。　Months　of　pumping　ectoplasm　had　left　him　in　better　shape　than　he　had　ever　been；　apart　from　being　dead。
　Then　he'd　started　out　small；　with　dust　motes。　The　first　one　had　nearly　killed　him＇9＇；　but　he'd　persevered　and　progressed　to　sand　grains；　then　whole　dried　peas；　he　still　didn't　dare　venture　into　the　kitchens；　but　he　had　amused　himself　by　oversalting　Felmet's　food　a　pinch　at　a　time　until　he　pulled　himself　together　and　told　himself　that　poisoning　wasn't　honourable；　even　against　vermin。
　Now　he　leaned　all　his　weight　on　the　door；　and　with　every　microgramme　of　his　being　forced　himself　to　bee　as　heavy　as　possible。　The　sweat　of　auto…suggestion　dripped　off　his　nose　and　vanished　before　it　hit　the　floor。　Greebo　watched　with　interest　as　ghostly　muscles　moved　on　the　king's　arms　like　footballs　mating。
　The　door　began　to　move；　creaked；　then　accelerated　and　hit　the　doorway　with　a　thump。　The　latch　clicked　into　place。
　It　bloody　well　had　to　work　now；　Verence　told　himself。　He'd　never　be　able　to　lift　the　latch　by　himself。　But　a　witch　would　certainly　e　looking　for　her　cat　…　wouldn't　she？
　In　the　hills　beyond　the　castle　the　Fool　lay　on　his　stomach　and　stared　into　the　depths　of　a　little　lake。　A　couple　of　trout　stared　back　at　him。
　Somewhere　on　the　Disc；　reason　told　him；　there　must　be　someone　more　miserable　than　he　was。　He　wondered　who　it　was。
　He　hadn't　asked　to　be　a　Fool；　but　it　wouldn't　have　mattered　if　he　had；　because　he　couldn't　recall　anyone　in　his　family　ever　listening　to　anything　he　said　after　Dad　ran　away。
　Certainly　not　Grandad。　His　earliest　memory　was　of　Grandad　standing　over　him　making　him　repeat　the　jokes　by　rote；　and　hammering　home　every　punchline　with　his　belt；　it　was　thick　leather；　and　the　fact　that　it　had　bells　on　didn't　improve　things　much。
　Grandad　was　credited　with　seven　official　new　jokes。　He'd　won　the　honorary　cap　and　bells　of　the　Grand　Prix　des　Idiots　Blithering　at　Ankh…Morpork　four　years　in　a　row；　which　no…one　else　had　ever　done；　and　presumably　they　made　him　the　funniest　man　who　ever　lived。　He　had　worked　hard　at　it；　you　had　to　give　him　that。
　The　Fool　recalled　with　a　shudder　how；　at　the　age　of　six。
　he'd　timidly　approached　the　old　man　after　supper　with　a　joke　he'd　made　up。　It　was　about　a　duck。
　It　had　earned　him　the　biggest　thrashing　of　his　life；　which　even　then　must　have　presented　the　old　joker　with　a　bit　of　a　challenge。
　'You　will　learn；　my　lad…'　he　recalled；　with　every　sentence　punctuated　by　jingling　cracks　…　'that　there　is　nothing　more　serious　than　jesting。　From　now　on　you　will　never…'　the　old　man　paused　to　change　hands　…　'never；　never；　ever　utter　a　joke　that　has　not　been　approved　by　the　Guild。　Who　are　you　to　decide　what　is　amusing？　Marry；　let　the　untutored　giggle　at　unskilled　banter；　it　is　the　laughter　of　the　ignorant。　Never。　Never。　Never　let　me　catch　you　joculating　again。'
　After　that　he'd　gone　back　to　learning　the　three　hundred　and　eighty…three　Guild…approved　jokes；　which　was　bad　enough；　and　the　glossary；　which　was　a　lot　bigger　and　much　worse。
　And　then　he'd　been　sent　to　Ankh；　and　there；　in　the　bare；　severe　rooms；　he'd　found　there　were　books　other　than　the　great　heavy　brass…bound　Monster　Fun　Book。　There　was　a　whole　circular　world　out　there；　full　of　weird　places　and　people　doing　interesting　things；　like　。　。　。
　Singing。　He　could　hear　singing。
　He　raised　his　head　cautiously；　and　jumped　at　the　tinkle　of　the　bells　on　his　cap。　He　gripped　the　hated　things　hurriedly。
　The　singing　went　on。　The　Fool　peeped　cautiously　through　the　drift　of　meadowsweet　that　was　providing　him　with　perfect　concealment。
　The　singing　wasn't　particularly　good。　The　only　word　the　singer　appeared　to　know　was　'la'；　but　she　was　making　it　work　hard。　The　general　tune　gave　the　impression　that　the　singer　believed　that　people　were　supposed　to　sing　'lalala'　in　certain　circumstances；　and　was　determined　to　do　what　the　world　expected　of　her。
　The　Fool　risked　raising　his　head　a　little　further；　and　saw　Magrat　for　the　first　time。
　She　had　stopped　dancing　rather　self…consciously　through　the　narrow　meadow　and　was　trying　to　plait　some　daisies　in　her　hair；　without　much　success。
　The　Fool　held　his　breath。　On　long　nights　on　the　hard　flagstones　he　had　dreamed　of　women　like　her。　Although；　if　he　really　thought　about　it；　not　much　like　her；　they　were　better　endowed　around　the　chest；　their　noses　weren't　so　red　and　pointed；　and　their　hair　tended　to　flow　more。　But　the　Fool's　libido　was　bright　enough　to　tell　the　difference　between　the　impossible　and　the　conceivably　attainable；　and　hurriedly　cut　in　some　filter　circuits。
　Magrat　was　picking　flowers　and　talking　to　them。　The　Fool　strained　to　hear。
　'Here's　Woolly　Fellwort；'　she　said。　'And　Treacle　Worm…seed；　which　is　for　inflammation　of　the　ears　。　。　。'
　Even　Nanny　Ogg；　who　took　a　fairly　cheerful　view　of　the　world；　would　have　been　hard　put　to　say　anything　plimentary　about　Magrat's　voice。　But　it　fell　on　the　Fool's　ears　like　blossom。
　'。　。　。　and　Five…leaved　False　Mandrake；　sovereign　against　fluxes　of　the　bladder。　Ah；　and　here's　Old　Man's　Frogbit。　That's　for　constipation。'
　The　Fool　stood　up　sheepishly；　in　a　carillon　of　jingles。　To　Magrat　it　was　as　if　the　meadow；　hitherto　supporting　nothing　more　hazardous　than　clouds　of　pale　blue　butterflies　and　a　few　self…employed　bumblebees；　had　sprouted　a　large　red…and…yellow　demon。
　It　was　opening　and　shutting　its　mouth。　It　had　three　menacing　horns。
　An　urgent　voice　at　the　back　of　her　mind　said：　You　should　run　away　now；　like　a　timid　gazelle；　this　is　the　accepted　action　in　these　circumstances。
　mon　sense　intervened。　In　her　most　optimistic　moments　Magrat　would　not　have　pared　herself　to　a　gazelle；　timid　or　otherwise。　Besides；　it　added；　the　basic　snag　about　running　away　like　a　timid　gazelle　was　that　in　all　probability　she　would　easily　outdistance　him。
　'Er；'　said　the　apparition。
　Unmon　sense；　which；　despite　Granny　Weatherwax's　general　belief　that　Magrat　was　several　sticks　short　of　a　bundle；　she　still　had　in　sufficiency；　pointed　out　that　few　demons　tinkled　pathetically　and　appeared　to　be　quite　so　breathless。
　'Hallo；'　she　said。
　The　Fool's　mind　was　also　working　hard。　He　was　beginning　to　panic。
　Magrat　shunned　the　traditional　pointed　hat；　as　worn　by　the　older　witches；　but　she　still　held　to　one　of　the　most　iundamental　rules　of　witchcraft。　It's　not　much　use　being　a　witch　unless　you　look　like　one。　In　her　case　this　meant　lots　of　silver　jewellery　with　octograms；　bats；　spiders；　dragons　and　other　symbols　of　everyday　mysticism；　Magrat　would　have　painted　her　fingernails　black；　except　that　she　didn't　think　she　would　be　able　to　face　Granny's　withering　scorn。
　It　was　dawning　on　the　Fool　that　he　had　surprised　a　witch。
　'Whoops；'　he　said；　and　turned　to　run　for　it。
　'Don't…'　Magrat　began；　but　the　Fool　was　already　pounding　down　the　forest　path　that　led　back　to　the　castle。
　Magrat　stood　and　stared　at　the　wilting　posy　in　her　hands。　She　ran　her　fingers　through　her　hair　and　a　shower　of　wilted　petals　fell