tp.wyrd sisters-第45节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


at？'
　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；　one　thickness　of　leather　and　two　thicknesses　of　sock。　She　felt　it　waiting。
　She　heard　the　king　say；　'My　own　flesh　and　blood？　Why　has　he　done　this　to　me？　I'm　going　to　confront　him！'
　She　gently　took　Nanny　Ogg's　hand。
　'e；　Gytha；'　she　said。
　
　Lord　Felmet　sat　back　in　his　throne　and　beamed　madly　at　the　world；　which　was　looking　good　right　at　the　moment。　Things　were　working　out　better　than　he　had　dared　to　hope。　He　could　feel　the　past　melting　behind　him；　like　ice　in　the　spring　thaw。
　On　an　impulse　he　called　the　footman　back。
　'Call　the　captain　of　the　guard；'　he　said；　'and　tell　him　to　find　the　witches　and　arrest　them。'
　The　duchess　snorted。
　'Remember　what　happened　last　time；　foolish　man？'
　'We　left　two　of　them　loose；'　said　the　duke。　'This　time　。　。　。　all　three。　The　tide　of　public　feeling　is　on　our　side。　That　sort　of　thing　affects　witches；　depend　upon　it。'
　The　duchess　cracked　her　knuckles　to　indicate　her　view　of　public　opinion。
　'You　must　admit；　my　treasure；　that　the　experiment　seems　to　be　working。'
　'It　would　appear　so。'
　'Very　well。　Don't　just　stand　there；　man。　Before　the　play　ends；　tell　him。　Those　witches　are　to　be　under　lock　and　key。'
　
　Death　adjusted　his　cardboard　skull　in　front　of　the　mirror；　twitched　his　cowl　into　a　suitable　shape；　stood　back　and　considered　the　general　effect。　It　was　going　to　be　his　first　speaking　part。　He　wanted　to　get　it　right。
　'Cower　now；　Brief　Mortals；'　he　said。　'For　I　am　Death；　'Gainst　Whom　No　。　。　。　no　。　。　。　no　。　。　。　Hwel；　'gainst　whom　no？'
　'Oh；　good　grief；　Dafe。　〃　'Gainst　whom　no　lock　will　hold　nor　fasten'd　portal　bar〃；　I　really　don't　see　why　you　have　difficulty　with　。　。　。　not　that　way　up；　you　idiots！'　Hwel　strode　off　through　the　backstage　melee　in　pursuit　of　a　pair　of　importunate　scene　shifters。
　'Right；'　said　Death；　to　no…one　in　particular。　He　turned　back　to　the　mirror。
　'　'Gainst　Whom　No　。　。　。　Tumpty…Tum　。　。　。　nor　Tumpty…Tumpty　bar；'　he　said；　uncertainly；　and　flourished　his　scythe。　The　end　fell　off。
　'Do　you　think　I'm　fearsome　enough？'　he　said；　as　he　tried　to　fix　it　on　again。
　Tomjon；　who　was　sitting　on　his　hump　and　trying　to　drink　some　tea；　gave　him　an　encouraging　nod。
　'No　problem；　my　friend；'　he　said。　'pared　to　a　visit　from　you；　even　Death　himself　would　hold　no　fears。　But　you　could　try　a　bit　more　hollowness。'
　'How　d'you　mean？'
　Tomjon　put　down　his　cup。　Shadows　seemed　to　move　across　his　face；　his　eyes　sank；　his　lips　drew　back　from　his　teeth；　his　skin　stretched　and　paled。
　'I　HAVE　E　TO　GET　YOU；　YOU　TERRIBLE　ACTOR；'　he　intoned；　each　syllable　falling　into　place　like　a　coffin　lid。　His　features　sprang　back　into　shape。
　'Like　that；'　he　said。
　Dafe；　who　had　flattened　himself　against　the　wall；　relaxed　a　bit　and　gave　a　nervous　giggle。
　'Gods；　I　don't　know　how　you　do　it；'　he　said。　'Honestly；　I'll　never　be　as　good　as　you。'
　'There　really　isn't　anything　to　it。　Now　run　along；　Hwel's　fit　to　be　tied　as　it　is。'
　Dafe　gave　him　a　look　of　gratitude　and　ran　off　to　help　with　the　scene　shifting。
　Tomjon　sipped　his　tea　uneasily；　the　backstage　noises　whirring　around　him　like　so　much　fog。　He　was　worried。
　Hwel　had　said　that　everything　about　the　play　was　fine；　except　for　the　play　itself。　And　Tomjon　kept　thinking　that　the　play　itself　was　trying　to　force　itself　into　a　different　shape。　His　mind　had　been　hearing　other　words；　just　too　faint　for　hearing。　It　was　almost　like　eavesdropping　on　a　conversation。　He'd　had　to　shout　more　to　drown　out　the　buzzing　in　his　head。
　This　wasn't　right。　Once　a　play　was　written　it　was；　well；　written。　It　shouldn't　e　alive　and　start　twisting　itself　around。
　No　wonder　everyone　needed　prompting　all　the　time。　The　play　was　writhing　under　their　hands；　trying　to　change　itself。
　Ye　gods；　he'd　be　glad　to　get　out　of　this　spooky　castle；　and　away　from　this　mad　duke。　He　glanced　around；　decided　that　it　would　be　some　time　before　the　next　act　was　called；　and　wandered　aimlessly　in　search　of　fresher　air。
　A　door　yielded　to　his　touch　and　he　stepped　out　on　to　the　battlements。　He　pushed　it　shut　behind　him；　cutting　off　the　sounds　of　the　stage　and　replacing　them　by　a　velvet　hush。　There　was　a　livid　sunset　imprisoned　behind　bars　of　cloud；　but　the　air　was　as　still　as　a　mill　pond　and　as　hot　as　a　furnace。　In　the　forest　below　some　night　bird　screamed。
　He　walked　to　the　other　end　of　the　battlements　and　peered　down　into　the　sheer　depths　of　the　gorge。　Far　beneath；　the　Lancre　boiled　in　its　eternal　mists。
　He　turned；　and　walked　into　a　draught　of　such　icy　coldness　that　he　gasped。
　Unusual　breezes　plucked　at　his　clothing。　There　was　a　strange　muttering　in　his　ear；　as　though　someone　was…trying　to　talk　to　him　but　couldn't　get　the　speed　right。　He　stood　rigid　for　a　moment；　getting　his　breath；　and　then　fled　for　the　door。
　
　'But　we're　not　witches！'
　'Why　do　you　look　like　them；　then？　Tie　their　hands；　lads。'
　'Yes；　excuse　me；　but　we're　not　really　witches！'
　The　captain　of　the　guard　looked　from　face　to　face。　His　gaze　took　in　the　pointy　hats；　the　disordered　hair　smelling　of　damp　haystacks；　the　sickly　green　plexions　and　the　herd　of　warts。　Guard　captain　for　the