Witches Abroad - Terry Pratchett [108]
In the swamp Mrs. Gogol the voodoo witch draped the tail coat over its crude stand, stuck the hat on the top of the pole and fastened the cane to one end of the crosspiece with a bit of twine.
She stood back.
There was a fluttering of wings. Legba dropped out of the sky and perched on the hat. Then he crowed. Usually he only crowed at nightfall, because he was a bird of power, but for once he was inclined to acknowledge the new day.
It was said afterward that, every year on Samedi Nuit Mort, when the carnival was at its height and the drums were loudest and the rum was nearly all gone, a man in a tail coat and a top hat and with the energy of a demon would appear out of nowhere and lead the dance.
After all, even stories have to start somewhere.
There was a splash, and then the waters of the river closed again.
Magrat walked away.
The wand settled into the rich mud, where it was touched only by the feet of the occasional passing crawfish, who don’t have fairy godmothers and aren’t allowed to wish for anything. It sank down over the months and passed, as most things do, out of history. Which was all anyone could wish for.
The three broomsticks rose over Genua, with the mists that curled toward the dawn.
The witches looked down at the green swamps around the city. Genua dozed. The days after Fat Lunchtime were always quiet, as people slept it off. Currently they included Greebo, curled up in his place among the bristles. Leaving Mrs. Pleasant had been a real wrench.
“Well, so much for la douche vita,” said Nanny philosophically.
“We never said goodbye to Mrs. Gogol,” said Magrat.
“I reckon she knows we’re going right enough,” said Nanny. “Very knowin’ woman, Mrs. Gogol.”
“But can we trust her to keep her word?” said Magrat.
“Yes,” said Granny Weatherwax.
“She’s very honest, in her way,” said Nanny Ogg.
“Well, there’s that,” Granny conceded. “Also, I said I might come back.”
Magrat looked across at Granny’s broomstick. A large round box was among the baggage strapped to the bristles.
“You never tried on that hat she gave you,” she said.
“I had a look at it,” said Granny coldly. “It don’t fit.”
“I reckon Mrs. Gogol wouldn’t give anyone a hat that didn’t fit,” said Nanny. “Let’s have a look, eh?”
Granny sniffed, and undid the lid of the box. Balls of tissue paper tumbled down toward the mists as she lifted the hat out.
Magrat and Nanny Ogg stared at it.
They were of course used to the concept of fruit on a hat—Nanny Ogg herself had a black straw hat with wax cherries on for special family feuding occasions. But this one had rather more than just cherries. About the only fruit not on it somewhere was a melon.
“It’s definitely very…foreign,” said Magrat.
“Go on,” said Nanny. “Try it on.”
Granny did so, a bit sheepishly, increasing her apparent height by two feet, most of which was pineapple.
“Very colorful. Very…stylish,” said Nanny. “Not everyone could wear a hat like that.”
“The pomegranates suit you,” said Magrat.
“And the lemons,” said Nanny Ogg.
“Eh. You two ain’t laughing at me, are you?” said Granny Weatherwax suspiciously.
“Would you like to have a look?” said Magrat. “I have a mirror somewhere…”
The silence descended like an axe. Magrat went red. Nanny Ogg glared at her.
They watched Granny carefully.
“Ye-ess,” she said, after what seemed a long time, “I think I should look in a mirror.”
Magrat unfroze, fumbled in her pockets and produced a small, wooden-framed hand-mirror. She passed it across.
Granny Weatherwax looked at her reflection. Nanny Ogg surreptitiously maneuverd her broomstick a bit closer.
“Hmm,” said Granny, after a while.
“It’s the way the grapes hang over your ear,” said Nanny, encouragingly. “You know, that’s a hat of authority if ever I saw one.”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t you think?” said Magrat.
“Well,” said Granny, grudgingly, “maybe it’s fine for foreign parts. Where I ain’t going to be seen by anyone