Maskerade - Terry Pratchett [105]
Granny nodded.
“He found out about the Ghost, didn’t he?” she said. “The Ghost who comes out when he has a mask on…doesn’t he, Walter Plinge? And the man thought: I can use that. And when it’s time for the Ghost to be caught…well, there is a Ghost that can be caught. And the best thing is that everyone will believe it. They’ll feel bad about themselves, maybe, but they’ll believe it. Even Walter Plinge won’t be certain, ’cos his mind’s all tangled up.”
Granny took a deep breath. “It’s tangled, but it ain’t twisted.” There was a sigh. “Well, matters will have to resolve themselves. There’s nothing else for it.”
She removed her hat and fished around in the point. “I don’t mind tellin’ you this, Walter,” she said, “because you won’t understand and you won’t remember. There was a wicked ole witch once called Black Aliss. She was an unholy terror. There’s never been one worse or more powerful. Until now. Because I could spit in her eye and steal her teeth, see. Because she didn’t know Right from Wrong, so she got all twisted up and that was the end of her.
“The trouble is, you see, that if you do know Right from Wrong you can’t choose Wrong. You just can’t do it and live. So…if I was a bad witch I could make Mister Salzella’s muscles turn against his bones and break them where he stood…if I was bad. I could do things inside his head, change the shape he thinks he is, and he’d be down on what’d been his knees and begging to be turned into a frog…if I was bad. I could leave him with a mind like a scrambled egg, listening to colors and hearing smells…if I was bad. Oh, yes.” There was another sigh, deeper and more heartfelt. “But I can’t do none of that stuff. That wouldn’t be Right.”
She gave a deprecating little chuckle. And if Nanny Ogg had been listening, she would have resolved as follows: that no maddened cackle from Black Aliss of infamous memory, no evil little giggle from some crazed vampyre whose morals were worse than his spelling, no side-splitting guffaw from the most inventive torturer, was quite so unnerving as a happy little chuckle from a Granny Weatherwax about to do what’s best.
From the point of her hat Granny withdrew a paper-thin mask. It was a simple face—smooth, white, basic. There were semicircular holes for the eyes. It was neither happy nor sad.
She turned it over in her hands. Walter seemed to stop breathing.
“Simple thing, ain’t it?” said Granny. “Looks beautiful, but it’s really just a simple bit of stuff, just like any other mask. Wizards could poke at this for a year and still say there was nothing magic about it, eh? Which just shows how much they know, Walter Plinge.”
She tossed it to him. He caught it hungrily and pulled it over his face.
Then he stood up in one flowing movement, moving like a dancer.
“I don’t know what you are when you’re behind the mask,” said Granny, “but ‘ghost’ is just another word for ‘spirit’ and ‘spirit’ is just another word for ‘soul.’ Off you go, Walter Plinge.”
The masked figure did not move.
“I meant…off you go, Ghost. The show must go on.”
The mask nodded, and darted away.
Granny slapped her hands together like the crack of doom.
“Right! Let’s do some good!” she said, to the universe at large.
Everyone was looking at her.
This was a moment in time, a little point between the past and future, when a second could stretch out and out…
Agnes felt the blush begin. It was heading for her face like the revenge of the volcano god. When it got there, she knew, it would be all over for her.
You’ll apologize, Perdita jeered.
“Shut up!” shouted Agnes.
She strode forward before the echo had had time to come back from the farther ends of the auditorium, and wrenched at the red mask.
The entire chorus came in on cue. This was opera, after all. The show had stopped, but opera continued…
“Salzella!”
He grabbed Agnes, clamping his hand over her mouth. His other hand flew to his