Maskerade - Terry Pratchett [27]
“You’ve sat up with the dyin’ often enough, Gytha.”
“Oh, yes, it’s…” Nanny’s face fell. “Oh, Esme…you’re not going to…”
“Enjoy your supper, Gytha.”
Granny closed the door.
She spent some time arranging boxes and barrels so that she had a crude table and something to sit on. The air was warm and smelled of bovine flatulence. Periodically she checked the health of both patients, although there was little enough to check.
In the distance the sounds of the inn gradually subsided. The last one was the clink of the innkeeper’s keys as he locked the doors. Granny heard him walk across to the cowshed door and hesitate. Then he went away, and began to climb the stairs.
She waited a little longer and then lit the candle. Its cheery flame gave the place a warm and comforting glow.
On the plank table she laid out the cards and attempted to play Patience, a game she’d never been able to master.
The candle burned down. She pushed the cards away, and sat watching the flame.
After some immeasurable piece of time the flame flickered. It would have passed unnoticed by anyone who hadn’t been concentrating on it for some while.
She took a deep breath and—
“Good morning,” said Granny Weatherwax.
GOOD MORNING, said a voice by her ear.
Nanny Ogg had long ago polished off the chops and the beer, but she hadn’t got into bed. She lay on it, fully clothed, with her arms behind her head, staring at the dark ceiling.
After a while there was a scratching on the shutters. She got up and opened them.
A huge figure leapt into the room. For a moment the moonlight lit a glistening torso and a mane of black hair. Then the creature dived under the bed.
“Oh, deary deary me,” said Nanny.
She waited for a while, and then fished a chop bone off her tray. There was still a bit of meat on it. She lowered it toward the floor.
A hand shot out and grabbed it.
Nanny sat back.
“Poor little man,” she said.
It was only on the subject of Greebo that Nanny’s otherwise keen sense of reality found itself all twisted. To Nanny Ogg he was merely a larger version of the little fluffy kitten he had once been. To everyone else he was a scarred ball of inventive malignancy.
But now he had to deal with a problem seldom encountered by cats. The witches had, a year ago, turned him into a human, for reasons that had seemed quite necessary at the time. It had taken a lot of effort, and his morphogenic field had reasserted itself after a few hours, much to everyone’s relief.
But magic is never as simple as people think. It has to obey certain universal laws. And one is that, no matter how hard a thing is to do, once it has been done it’ll become a whole lot easier and will therefore be done a lot. A huge mountain might be scaled by strong men only after many centuries of failed attempts, but a few decades later grandmothers will be strolling up it for tea and then wandering back afterward to see where they left their glasses.
In accordance with this law, Greebo’s soul had noted that there was one extra option for use in a tight corner (in addition to the usual cat assortment of run, fight, crap or all three together) and that was: Become Human.
It tended to wear off after a short time, most of which he spent searching desperately for a pair of pants.
There were snores from under the bed. Gradually, to Nanny’s relief, they turned into a purr.
Then she sat bolt upright. She was some way from the cowshed but…
“He’s here,” she said.
Granny breathed out, slowly.
“Come and sit where I can see you. That’s good manners. And let me tell you right now that I ain’t at all afraid of you.”
The tall, black-robed figure walked across the floor and sat down on a handy barrel, leaning its scythe against the wall. Then it pushed back its hood.
Granny folded her arms and stared calmly at the visitor, meeting his gaze eye-to-socket.
I AM IMPRESSED.
“I have faith.”
REALLY? IN WHAT PARTICULAR DEITY?
“Oh, none of them.”
THEN FAITH IN WHAT?
“Just