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Three steps back, Na
“Oh, I wouldn’t like anyone to think I was spoiling anything,” said Gra
“No you won’t!” snapped Na
“They’re all —” Letice began.
“I weren’t talking to you!”
The witches behind Mrs Earwig avoided Na
Her voice trailed off. Letice looked triumphant.
“Really? I think we had better be going after all, then,” said Na
“I really don’t need ...” Gra
“Probably the best for all concerned, in the circumstances,” said Letice. Several of the witches tried not to look at her face.
There were scraps of material all over the floor in Gra
There was a row of empty pickle jars as well.
Gra
“Want a cup of tea, Esme?” said Na
“No, dear, thank you. You get on back to the Trials. Don’t you worry about me.”
“You sure?”
“I’ll just sit here quiet. Don’t you worry.”
“I’m not going back!” Agnes hissed, as they left. “I don’t like the way Letice smiles ...”
“You once told me you didn’t like the way Esme frowns,” said Na
“Yes, but you can trust a frown. Er ... you don’t think she’s losing it, do you?”
“No one’ll be able to find it if she has,” said Na
She could feel the mounting tension before they reached the field. Of course, there was always tension, that was part of the Trials, but this kind had a sour, unpleasant taste. The sideshows were still going on but ordinary folk were leaving, spooked by sensations they couldn’t put their finger on which nevertheless had them under their thumb. As for the witches themselves, they had that look worn by actors about two minutes from the end of a horror movie, when they know the monster is about to make its final leap and now it’s only a matter of which door.
Letice was surrounded by witches. Na
“What’s happening, Wi
“Oh, Reena Trump made a pig’s ear of her piece and her friends say she ought to have another go because she was so nervous.”
“That’s a shame.”
“And Virago Johnson ran off ’cos her weather spell went wrong.”
“Left under a bit of a cloud, did she?”
“And I was all thumbs when I had a go. You could be in with a chance, Gytha.”
“Oh, I’ve never been one for prizes, Wi
The other witch gave her a skewed look.
“You almost made that sound believable,” she said.
Gammer Beavis hurried over. “On you go, Gytha”, she said. “Do your best, eh? The only contender so far is Mrs Weavitt and her whistling frog, and it wasn’t as if it could even carry a tune. Poor thing was a bundle of nerves.”
Na
Unlike the magic of wizards, the magic of witches did not usually involve the application of much raw power. The difference is between hammers and levers. Witches generally tried to find the small point where a little changes made a lot of result. To make an avalanche you can either shake the mountain, or maybe you can just find exactly the right place to drop a snowflake.
This year Na
Damn! She’d been relying on that frog to beat her. She’d heard it whistling quite beautifully on the summer evenings.
She concentrated.
Pieces of straw rustled through the stubble. All she had to do was use the little bits of wind that drifted across the field, allowed to move here and here, spiral up and —
She tried to stop her hands from shaking. She’d done this a hundred times, she could tie the damn stuff in knots by now. She kept seeing the face of Esme Weatherwax, and the way she’d just sat there, looking puzzled and hurt, while for a few seconds Na
For a moment she managed to get the legs right, and a suggestion of arms and head. There was a smattering of applause from the watchers. Then an errant eddy caught the thing before she could concentrate on its first step, and it spun down, just a lot of useless straw.
She made some frantic gestures to get it to rise again. It flopped about, tangled itself, and lay still.
There was a bit more applause, nervous and sporadic.
“Sorry ... don’t seem to be able to get the hang of it today,” she muttered, walking off the field.
The judges went into a huddle.
“I reckon that frog did really well,” said Na
The wind, so contrary a little while ago, blew sharper now. What might be called the psychic darkness of the event was being enhanced by real twilight.
The shadow of the bonfire loomed on the far side of the field. No one as yet had the heart to light it. Almost all the non-witches had gone home. Anything good about the day had long drained away.
The circle of judges broke up and Mrs Earwig advanced on the nervous crowd, her smile only slightly waxen at the corners.
“Well, what a difficult decision it has been,” she said brightly. “But what a marvellous turnout, too! It really has been a most tricky choice —”
Between me and a frog that lost its whistle and got its foot stuck in its banjo, thought Na
“We all know who won, Mrs Earwig,” she said, interrupting the flow.
“What do you mean, Mrs Ogg?”
“There’s not a witch here who could get her mind right today,” said Na
“I don’t know why everyone seems so afraid of Miss Weatherwax! I certainly am not! You think she’s put a spell on you, then?”
“A pretty sharp one, by the feel of it,” said Na
“Certainly not! I paid ten dollars for this cup and I mean to present it —”
The dying leaves shivered on the trees.
The witches drew together.
Branches rattled.
“It’s the wind,” said Na
And then Gra