tp.wyrd sisters- 第1部分

　（Starring　Three　Witches；　also　kings；　daggers；　crowns；　storms；　dwarfs；　cats；　ghosts；　spectres；　apes；　bandits；　demons；　forests；　heirs；　jesters；　tortures；　trolls；　turntables；　general　rejoicing　and　drivers　alarums。）
　












　The　wind　howled。　Lightning　stabbed　at　the　earth　erratically；　like　an　inefficient　assassin。　Thunder　rolled　back　and　forth　across　the　dark；　rain…lashed　hills。
　The　night　was　as　black　as　the　inside　of　a　cat。　It　was　the　kind　of　night；　you　could　believe；　on　which　gods　moved　men　as　though　they　were　pawns　on　the　chessboard　of　fate。　In　the　middle　of　this　elemental　storm　a　fire　gleamed　among　the　dripping　furze　bushes　like　the　madness　in　a　weasel's　eye。　It　illuminated　three　hunched　figures。　As　the　cauldron　bubbled　an　eldritch　voice　shrieked：　'When　shall　we　three　meet　again？'
　There　was　a　pause。
　Finally　another　voice　said；　in　far　more　ordinary　tones：　'Well；　I　can　do　next　Tuesday。'
　
　Through　the　fathomless　deeps　of　space　swims　the　star　turtle　Great　A'Tuin；　bearing　on　its　back　the　four　giant　elephants　who　carry　on　their　shoulders　the　mass　of　the　Discworld。　A　tiny　sun　and　moon　spin　around　them；　on　a　plicated　orbit　to　induce　seasons；　so　probably　nowhere　else　in　the　multiverse　is　it　sometimes　necessary　for　an　elephant　to　cock　a　leg　to　allow　the　sun　to　go　past。
　Exactly　why　this　should　be　may　never　be　known。　Possibly　the　Creator　of　the　universe　got　bored　with　all　the　usual　business　of　axial　inclination；　albedos　and　rotational　velocities；　and　decided　to　have　a　bit　of　fun　for　once。
　It　would　be　a　pretty　good　bet　that　the　gods　of　a　world　like　this　probably　do　not　play　chess　and　indeed　this　is　the　case。　In　fact　no　gods　anywhere　play　chess。　They　haven't　got　the　imagination。　Gods　prefer　simple；　vicious　games；　where　you　Do　Not　Achieve　Transcendence　but　Go　Straight　To　Oblivion；　a　key　to　the　understanding　of　all　religion　is　that　a　god's　idea　of　amusement　is　Snakes　and　Ladders　with　greased　rungs。
　Magic　glues　the　Discworld　together　…　magic　generated　by　the　turning　of　the　world　itself；　magic　wound　like　silk　out　of　the　underlying　structure　of　existence　to　suture　the　wounds　of　reality。
　A　lot　of　it　ends　up　in　the　Ramtop　Mountains；　which　stretch　from　the　frozen　lands　near　the　Hub　all　the　way；　via　a　lengthy　archipelago；　to　the　warm　seas　which　flow　endlessly　into　space　over　the　Rim。
　Raw　magic　crackles　invisibly　from　peak　to　peak　and　earths　itself　in　the　mountains。　It　is　the　Ramtops　that　supply　the　world　with　most　of　its　witches　and　wizards。　In　the　Ramtops　the　leaves　on　the　trees　move　even　when　there　is　no　breeze。　Rocks　go　for　a　stroll　of　an　evening。
　Even　the　land；　at　times；　seems　alive　。　。　。
　
　At　times；　so　does　the　sky。
　The　storm　was　really　giving　it　everything　it　had。　This　was　its　big　chance。　It　had　spent　years　hanging　around　the　provinces；　putting　in　some　useful　work　as　a　squall；　building　up　experience；　making　contacts；　occasionally　leaping　out　on　unsuspecting　shepherds　or　blasting　quite　small　oak　trees。　Now　an　opening　in　the　weather　had　given　it　an　opportunity　to　strut　its　hour；　and　it　was　building　up　its　role　in　the　hope　of　being　spotted　by　one　of　the　big　climates。
　It　was　a　good　storm。　There　was　quite　effective　projection　and　passion　there；　and　critics　agreed　that　if　it　would　only　learn　to　control　its　thunder　it　would　be；　in　years　to　e；　a　storm　to　watch。
　The　woods　roared　their　applause　and　were　full　of　mists　and　flying　leaves。
　On　nights　such　as　these　the　gods；　as　has　already　been　pointed　out；　play　games　other　than　chess　with　the　fates　of　mortals　and　the　thrones　of　kings。　It　is　important　to　remember　that　they　always　cheat；　right　up　to　the　end　。　。　。
　And　a　coach　came　hurtling　along　the　rough　forest　track；　jerking　violently　as　the　wheels　bounced　off　tree　roots。　The　driver　lashed　at　the　team；　the　desperate　crack　of　his　whip　providing　a　rather　neat　counterpoint　to　the　crash　of　the　tempest　overhead。
　Behind　…　only　a　little　way　behind；　and　getting　closer　…were　three　hooded　riders。
　On　nights　such　as　this；　evil　deeds　are　done。　And　good　deeds；　of　course。　But　mostly　evil；　on　the　whole。
　
　On　nights　such　as　this；　witches　are　abroad。
　Well；　not　actually　abroad。　They　don't　like　the　food　and　you　can't　trust　the　water　and　the　shamans　always　hog　the　deckchairs。　But　there　was　a　full　moon　breasting　the　ragged　clouds　and　the　rushing　air　was　full　of　whispers　and　the　very　broad　hint　of　magic。
　In　their　clearing　above　the　forest　the　witches　spoke　thus：
　'I'm　babysitting　on　Tuesday；'　said　the　one　with　no　hat　but　a　thatch　of　white　curls　so　thick　she　might　have　been　wearing　a　helmet。　'For　our　Jason's　youngest。　I　can　manage　Friday。　Hurry　up　with　the　tea；　luv。　I'm　that　parched。'
　The　junior　member　of　the　trio　gave　a　sigh；　and　ladled　some　boiling　water　out　of　the　cauldron　into　the　teapot。
　The　third　witch　patted　her　hand　in　a　kindly　fashion。
　'You　said　it　quite　well；'　she　said。　'Just　a　bit　more　work　on　the　screeching。　Ain't　that　right；　Nanny　Ogg？'
　'Very　useful　screeching；　I　thought；'　said　Nanny　Ogg　hurriedly。　'And　I　can　see　Goodie　Whemper；　maysherestinpeace；　gave　you　a　lot　of　help　with　the　squint。'
　'It's　a　good　squint；'　said　Granny　Weatherwax。
　The　junior　witch；　whose　name　was　Magrat　Garlick；　relaxed　considerably。　She　held　Granny　Weatherwax　in　awe。　It　was　known　throughout　the　Ramtop　Mountains　that　Mss　Weatherwax　did　not　approve　of　anything　very　much。　If　she　said　it　was　a　good　squint；　then　Magrat's　eyes　were　probably　staring　up　her　own　nostrils。
　Unlike　wizards；　who　like　nothing　better　than　a　plicated　hierarchy；　witches　don't　go　in　much　for　the　structured　approach　to　career　progression。　It's　up　to　each　individual　witch　to　take　on　a　girl　to　hand　the　area　over　to　when　she　dies。　Witches　are　not　by　nature　gregarious；　at　least　with　other　witches；　and　they　certainly　don't　have　leaders。
　Granny　Weatherwax　was　the　most　highly…regarded　of　the　leaders　they　didn't　have。
　Magrat's　hands　shook　slightly　as　they　made　the　tea。　Of　course；　it　was　all　very　gratifying；　but　it　was　a　bit　nerve…racking　to　start　one's　working　life　as　village　witch　between　Granny　and；　on　the　other　side　of　the　forest；　Nanny　Ogg。　It'd　been　her　idea　to　form　a　local　coven。　She　felt　it　was　more；　well；　occult。　To　her　amazement　the　other　two　had　agreed　or；　at　least；　hadn't　disagreed　much。
　'An　oven？'　Nanny　Ogg　had　said。　'What'd　we　want　to　join　an　oven　for？'
　'She　means　a　coven；　Gytha；'　Granny　Weatherwax　had　explained。　'You　know；　like　in　the　old　days。　A　meeting。'
　'A　knees　up？'　said　Nanny　Ogg　hopefully。
　'No　dancing；'　Granny　had　warned。　'I　don't　hold　with　dancing。　Or　singing　or　getting　over…excited　or　all　that　messing　about　with　ointments　and　similar。'
　'Does　you　good　to　get　out；'　said　Nanny　happily。
　Magrat　had　been　disappointed　about　the　dancing；　and　was　relieved　that　she　hadn't　ventured　one　or　two　other　ideas　that　had　been　on　her　mind。　She　fumbled　in　the　packet　she　had　brought　with　her。　It　was　her　first　sabbat；　and　she　was　determined　to　do　it　right。
　'Would　anyone　care　for　a　scone？'　she　said。
　Granny　looked　hard　at　hers　before　she　bit。　Magrat　had　baked　bat　designs　on　it。　They　had　little　eyes　made　of　currants。
　
　The　coach　crashed　through　the　trees　at　the　forest　edge；　ran　on　two　wheels　for　a　few　seconds　as　it　hit　a　stone；　righted　itself　against　all　the　laws　of　balance；　and　rumbled　on。　But　it　was　going　slower　now。　The　slope　was　dragging　at　it。
　The　coachman；　standing　upright　in　the　manner　of　a　charioteer；　pushed　his　hair　out　of　his　eyes　and　peered　through　the　murk。　No…one　lived　up　here；　in　the　lap　of　the　Ramtops　themselves；　but　there　was　a　light　ahead。　By　all　that　was　merciful；　there　was　a　light　there。
　An　arrow　buried　itself　in　the　coach　roof　behind　him。
　
　Meanwhile　King　Verence；　monarch　of　Lancre；　was　making　a　discovery。
　Like　most　people　…　most　people；　at　any　rate；　below　the　age　of　sixty　or　so　…　Verence　hadn't　exercised　his　mind　much　about　what　happened　to　you　when　you　died。　Like　most　people　since　the　dawn　of　time；　he　assumed　it　all　somehow　worked　out　all　right　in　the　end。
　And；　like　most　people　since　the　dawn　of　time；　he　was　now　dead。
　He　was　in　fact　lying　at　the　bottom　of　one　of　his　own　stairways　in　Lancre　Castle；　with　a　dagger　in　his　back。
　He　sat　up；　and　was　surprised　to　find　that　while　someone　he　was　certainly　inclined　to　think　of　as　himself　was　sitting　up；　something　very　much　like　his　body　remained　lying　on　the　floor。
　It　was　a　pretty　good　body；　incidentally；　now　he　came　to　see　it　from　outside　for　the　first　time。　He　had　always　been　quite　attached　to　it　although；　he　had　to　admit；　this　did　not　now　seem　to　be　the　case。
　It　was　big　and　well…muscled。　He'd　looked　after　it。　He'd　allowed　it　a　moustache　and　long…flowing　locks。　He'd　seen　it　got　plenty　of　healthy　outdoor　exercise　and　lots　of　red　meat。　Now；　just　when　a　body　would　have　been　useful；　it　had　let　him　down。　Or　out。
　On　top　of　that；　he　had　to　e　to　terms　with　the　tall；　thin　figure　standing　beside　him。　Most　of　it　was　hidden　in　a　hooded　black　robe；　but　the　one　arm　which　extended　from　the　folds　to　grip　a　large　scythe　was　made　of　bone。
　When　one　is　dead；　there　are　things　one　instinctively　recognises。
　HALLO。
　Verence　drew　himself　up　to　his　full　height；　or　what　would　have　been　his　full　height　if　that　part　of　him　to