tp.wyrd sisters-第50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！


　He　spun　the　crown　in　his　fingers　and　listened　glumly　to　the　talk　flowing　back　and　forth　over　his　head。
　'Fifteen　years？'　said　the　Mayor　of　Lancre。
　'We　had　to；'　said　Granny　Weatherwax。
　'I　thought　the　baker　was　a　bit　early　last　week。'
　'No；　no；'　said　the　witch　impatiently。　'It　doesn't　work　like　that。　No…one's　lost　anything。'
　'According　to　my　figuring；'　said　the　man　who　doubled　as　Lancre's　beadle；　town　clerk　and　gravedigger；　'we've　all　lost　fifteen　years。'
　'No；　we've　all　gained　them；'　said　the　mayor。　'It　stands　to　reason。　Time's　like　this　sort　of　wiggly　road；　see；　but　we　took　a　short　cut　across　the　fields。'
　'Not　at　all；'　said　the　clerk；　sliding　a　sheet　of　paper　across　the　table。　'Look　here　。　。　。'
　Tomjon　let　the　waters　of　debate　close　over　him　again。
　Everyone　wanted　him　to　be　king。　No…one　thought　twice　about　what　he　wanted。　His　views　didn't　count。
　Yes；　that　was　it。　No…one　wanted　him　to　be　king；　not　precisely　him。　He　just　happened　to　be　convenient。
　Gold　does　not　tarnish；　at　least　physically；　but　Tomjon　felt　that　the　thin　band　of　metal　in　his　hands　had　an　unpleasant　depth　to　its　lustre。　It　had　sat　on　too　many　troubled　heads。　If　you　held　it　to　your　ear；　you　could　hear　the　screams。
　He　became　aware　of　someone　else　looking　at　him；　their　gaze　playing　across　his　face　like　a　blowlamp　on　a　lolly。　He　looked　up。
　It　was　the　third　witch；　the　young　。　。　。　the　youngest　one；　with　the　intense　expression　and　the　hedgerow　hairstyle。　Sitting　next　to　old　Fool　as　though　she　owned　a　controlling　interest。
　It　wasn't　his　face　she　was　examining。　It　was　his　features。　Her　eyeballs　were　tracking　him　from　nape　to　nose　like　a　pair　of　calipers。　He　gave　her　a　little　brave　smile；　which　she　ignored。　Just　like　everyone　else；　he　thought。
　Only　the　Fool　noticed　him；　and　returned　the　smile　with　an　apologetic　grin　and　a　tiny　conspiratorial　wave　of　the　fingers　that　said：　'What　are　we　doing　here；　two　sensible　people　like　us？'　The　woman　was　looking　at　him　again；　turning　her　head　this　way　and　that　and　narrowing　her　eyes。　She　kept　glancing　at　Fool　and　back　to　Tomjon。　Then　she　turned　to　the　oldest　witch；　the　only　person　in　the　entire　hot；　damp　room　who　seemed　to　have　acquired　a　mug　of　beer；　and　whispered　in　her　ear。
　The　two　started　a　spirited；　whispered　conversation。　It　was；　thought　Tomjon；　a　particularly　feminine　way　of　talking。　It　normally　took　place　on　doorsteps；　with　all　the　participants　standing　with　their　arms　folded　and；　if　anyone　was　so　ungracious　as　to　walk　past；　they'd　stop　abruptly　and　watch　them　in　silence　until　they　were　safely　out　of　earshot。
　He　became　aware　that　Granny　Weatherwax　had　stopped　talking；　and　that　the　entire　hall　was　staring　at　him　expectantly。
　'Hallo？'　he　said。
　'It　might　be　a　good　idea　to　hold　the　coronation　tomorrow；'　said　Granny。　'It's　not　good　for　a　kingdom　to　be　without　a　ruler。　It　doesn't　like　it。'
　She　stood　up；　pushed　back　her　chair；　and　came　and　took　Tomjon's　hand。　He　followed　her　unprotestingly　across　the　flagstones　and　up　the　steps　to　the　throne；　where　she　put　her　hands　on　his　shoulders　and　pressed　him　gently　down　on　to　the　threadbare　red　plush　cushions。
　There　was　a　scraping　of　benches　and　chairs。　He　looked　around　in　panic。
　'What's　happening　now？'　he　said。
　'Don't　worry；'　said　Granny　firmly。　'Everyone　wants　to　e　and　swear　loyalty　to　you。　You　just　nod　graciously　and　ask　everyone　what　they　do　and　if　they　enjoy　it。　Oh；　and　you'd　better　give　them　the　crown　back。'
　Tomjon　removed　it　quickly。
　'Why？'　he　said。
　'They　want　to　present　it　to　you。'
　'But　I've　already　got　it！'　said　Tomjon　desperately。
　Granny　gave　a　patient　sigh。
　'Only　in　the　wossname；　real　sense；'　she　said。　'This　is　more　ceremonial。'
　'You　mean　unreal？'
　'Yes；'　said　Granny。　'But　much　more　important。'
　Tomjon　gripped　the　arms　of　the　throne。
　'Fetch　me　Hwel；'　he　said。'
　'No；　you　must　do　it　like　that。　It's　precedent；　you　see；　first　you　meet　the…'
　'I　said；　fetch　me　the　dwarf。　Didn't　you　hear　me；　woman？'　This　time　Tomjon　got　the　spin　and　pitch　of　his　voice　just　right；　but　Granny　rallied　magnificently。
　'I　don't　think　you　quite　realise　who　you　are　talking　to；　young　man；'　she　said。
　Tomjon　half　rose　in　his　seat。　He　had　played　a　great　many　kings；　and　most　of　them　weren't　the　kind　of　kings　who　shook　hands　graciously　and　asked　people　whether　they　enjoyed　their　work。　They　were　far　more　the　type　of　kings　who　got　people　to　charge　into　battle　at　five　o'clock　on　a　freezing　morning　and　still　managed　to　persuade　them　that　this　was　better　than　being　in　bed。　He　summoned　them　all；　and　treated　Granny　Weatherwax　to　a　blast　of　royal　hauteur；　pride　and　arrogance。
　'We　thought　we　were　talking　to　a　subject；'　he　said。　'Now　do　as　we　say！'
　Granny's　face　was　immobile　for　several　seconds　as　she　worked　out　what　to　do　next。　Then　she　smiled　to　herself；　said　lightly；　'As　you　wish；'　and　went　and　dislodged　Hwel；　who　was　still　writing。
　The　dwarf　gave　a　stiff　bow。
　'None　of　that；'　snapped　Tomjon。　'What　do　I　do　next？'
　'I　don't　know。　Do　you　want　me　to　write　an　acceptance　speech？'
　'I　told　you。　I　don't　want　to　be　king！'
　'Could　be　a　problem　with　an　acceptance　speech；　then；'　the　dwarf　agreed。　'Have　you　really　thought　about　this？　Being　king　is　a　great　role。'
　'But　it's　the　only　one　you　get　to　play！'
　'Hmm。　Well；　just　tell　them　〃no〃；　then。'
　'Just　like　that？　Will　it　work？'
　'It's　got　to　be　worth　a　try。'
　A　group　of　Lancre　dignitaries　were　approaching　with　the　crown　on　a　cushion。　They　wore　expressions　of　constipated　respect　coupled　with　just　a　hint　of　self…satisfaction。　They　carried　the　crown　as　if　it　was　a　Present　for　a　Good　Boy。
　The　Mayor　of　Lancre　coughed　behind　his　hand。
　'A　proper　coronation　will　take　some　time　to　arrange；'　he　began；　'but　we　would　like…'
　'No；'　said　Tomjon。
　The　mayor　hesitated。　'Pardon？'　he　said。
　'I　won't　accept　it。'
　The　mayor　hesitated　again。　His　lips　moved　and　his　eyes　glazed　slightly。　He　felt　that　he　had　got　lost　somewhere；　and　decided　it　would　be　best　to　start　again。
　'A　proper　coronation　will　take…'　he　ventured。
　'It　won't；'　said　Tomjon。　'I　will　not　be　king。'
　The　mayor　was　mouthing　like　a　carp。
　'Hwel？'　said　Tomjon　desperately。　'You're　good　with　words。'
　The　problem　we've　got　here；'　said　the　dwarf；　'is　that　〃no〃　is　apparently　not　among　the　options　when　you　are　offered　a　crown。　I　think　he　could　cope　with　〃maybe〃。'
　Tomjon　stood　up；　and　grabbed　the　crown。　He　held　it　above　his　head　like　a　tambourine。
　'Listen　to　me；　all　of　you；'　he　said。　'I　thank　you　for　your　offer；　it's　a　great　honour。　But　I　can't　accept　it。　I've　worn　more　crowns　than　you　can　count；　and　the　only　kingdom　I　know　how　to　rule　has　got　curtains　in　front　of　it。　I'm　sorry。'
　Dead　silence　greeted　this。　They　did　not　appear　to　have　been　the　right　words。
　'Another　problem；'　said　Hwel　conversationally；　'is　that　you　don't　actually　have　a　choice。　You　are　the　king；　you　see。　It's　a　job　you　are　lined　up　for　when　you're　born。'
　'I'd　be　no　good　at　it！'
　'That　doesn't　matter。　A　king　isn't　something　you're　good　at；　it's　something　you　are。'
　'You　can't　leave　me　here！　There's　nothing　but　forests！'
　Tomjon　felt　the　suffocating　cold　sensation　again；　and　the　slow　buzzing　in　his　ears。　For　a　moment　he　thought　he　saw；　faint　as　a　mist；　a　tall　sad　man　in　front　of　him；　stretching　out　a　hand　in　supplication。
　'I'm　sorry；'　he　whispered。　'I　really　am。'
　Through　the　fading　shape　he　saw　the　witches；　watching　him　intently。
　Beside　him　Hwel　said；　'The　only　chance　you'd　have　is　if　there　was　another　heir。　You　don't　remember　any　brothers　and　sisters；　do　you？'
　'I　don't　remember　anyone！　Hwel；　I…'
　There　was　another　ferocious　argument　among　the　witches。　And　then　Magrat　was　striding；　striding　across　the　hall；　moving　like　a　tidal　wave；　moving　like　a　rush　of　blood　to　the　head；　shaking　off　Granny　Weatherwax's　restraining　hand；　bearing　down　on　the　throne　like　a　piston；　and　dragging　the　Fool　behind　her。
　
　'I　say？'
　'Er。　Halloee！'
　'Er；　I　say；　excuse　me；　can　anyone　hear　us？'
　The　castle　up　above　was　full　of　hubbub　and　general　rejoicing；　and　there　was　no…one　to　hear　the　polite　and　frantic　voices　that　echoed　along　the　dungeon　passages；　getting　politer　and　more　frantic　with　each　passing　hour。
　'Um；　I　say？　Excuse　me？　Billem's　got　this　terrible　thing　about　rats；　if　you　don't　mind。　Cooeee！'
　Let　the　camera　of　the　mind's　eye　pan　slowly　back　along　the　dim；　ancient　corridors；　taking　in　the　dripping　fungi；　the　rusting　ehains；　the　damp；　the　shadows　。　。　。
　'Can　anyone　hear　us？　Look；　it's　really　too　much。　There's　been　some　laughable　mistake；　look；　the　wigs　e　right　off。　。　。'
　Let　the　plaintive　echoes　dwindle　among　the　cobwebbed　corners　and　rodent…haunted　tunnels；　until　they're　no　more　than　a　reedy　whisper　on　the　cusp　of　hearing。
　'I　say？　I　say；　excuse　me；　help？'
　Someone　is　bound　to　e　down　here　again　one　of　these　days。
　Some　time　afterwards　Magrat　asked　Hwel　if　he　believed　in　long　engagements。　The　dwarf　paused　in　the　task　of　loading　up　the　latty。＇22＇
　'About　a　week；　maximum；'　he　said　at　last。　'With　matinees；　of　course。'
　
　A　month　went　past。　The　early　damp…earth　odours　of　autumn　drifted　over　the　velvety…dark　moors；　where　the　watery　starlight　was　echoed　by　one　spark　of　a　fire。
　The　standing　stone　was　back　in　its