Discworld 12 - Witches Abroad by Pratchett Terry

Author:Pratchett, Terry [Terry, Pratchett,]
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Published: 1970-01-07T05:00:00+00:00

Discworld 12 - Witches Abroad

Everyone bar one, Magrat thought. No-one ever tells me...

Aloud, she said: 'Well, it shouldn't be too much to arrange. I mean, normally it's marrying princes that's the hard bit.'

'Not for me it isn't,' said Embers. 'It's all been arranged. My other godmother says I've got to do it. She says it's my destiny.'

'Other godmother?' said Magrat.

'Everyone gets two,' said Ella. 'The good one and the bad one. You know that. Which one are you?'

Magrat's mind raced.

'Oh, the good one,' she said. 'Definitely.'

'Funny thing,' said Ella. 'That's just what the other one said, too.'

Granny Weatherwax sat in her special knees-clenched, elbows-in way that put as little as possible of herself in contact with the outside world.

'By gor', this is good stuff,' said Nanny Ogg, polishing her plate with what Granny could only hope was bread. 'You ought to try a drop, Esme.'

'Another helping, Mrs Ogg?' said Mrs Gogol.

'Don't mind if I do, Mrs Gogol.' Nanny nudged Granny in the ribs. 'It's really good, Esme. Just like stew.'

Mrs Gogol looked at Granny with her head on one side.

'I think perhaps Mistress Weatherwax isn't worried about the food,' she said. 'I think Mistress Weatherwax is worried about the service.'

A shadow loomed over Nanny Ogg. A grey hand took her plate away.

Granny Weatherwax gave a little cough.

'I've got nothing against dead people,' she said. 'Some of my best friends are dead. It just don't seem right, though, dead people walking about.'

Nanny Ogg looked up at the figure even now ladling a third helping of mysterious liquid on to her plate.

'What d'you think about it, Mr Zombie?'

'It's a great life, Mrs Ogg,' said the zombie.

'There. See, Esme? He don't mind. Better than being shut up in a stuffy coffin all day, I'll be bound.'

Granny looked up at the zombie. He was - or, technically, had been - a tall, handsome man. He still was, only now he looked like someone who had walked through a room full of cobwebs.

'What's your name, dead man?' she said.

'I am called Saturday.'

'Man Saturday, eh?' said Nanny Ogg.

'No. Just Saturday, Mrs Ogg. Just Saturday.'

Granny Weatherwax looked into his eyes. They were more sentient than most eyes she had seen that belonged to people who were, technically, alive.

She was vaguely aware that there were things you had to do to a dead person to turn them into a zombie, although it was a branch of magic she'd never wanted to investigate.

Yet you needed more than just a lot of weird fish innards and foreign roots - the person had to want to come back. They had to have some terrible dream or desire or purpose that would enable them to overcome the grave itself. . .

Saturday's eyes burned.

She reached a decision. She held out a hand.

'Very pleased to meet you, Mister Saturday,' she said. 'And I'm sure I'd enjoy your lovely stew.'

'It's called gumbo,' said Nanny. 'It's got lady's fingers in it.'

'I know well enough that lady's fingers is a kind of plant, thank you very much,' said Granny.

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