tp.wyrd sisters-第39节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　2ND　MURDERER：　Thou　speakest　truth；　sire。　Oh；　yes　it　is！
　
　Judging　by　the　creases　in　the　paper；　this　one　had　been　thrown　at　the　wall　particularly　hard。　Hwel　had　once　explained　to　Tomjon　his　theory　about　inspirations；　and　by　the　look　of　it　a　whole　shower　had　fallen　last　night。
　Fascinated　by　this　insight　into　the　creative　processes；　however；　Tomjon　tried　a　third　discarded　attempt：
　
　QUEEN：　Faith；　there　is　a　sound　without！　Mayhap　it　is　my　husband　returning！　Quick；　into　the　garderobe；　and　wait　not　upon　the　order　of　your　going！
　MURDERER：　Marry；　but　your　maid　still　has　my　pantoufles！
　MAID　（opening　door）：　The　Archbishop；　your　majesty。
　PRIEST　（under　bed）：　Bless　my　soul！
　（Divers　alarums）
　
　Tomjon　wondered　vaguely　what　divers　alarums；　which　Hwel　always　included　somewhere　in　the　stage　directions；　actually　were。　Hwel　always　refused　to　say。　Perhaps　they　referred　to　dangerous　depths；　or　lack　of　air　pressure。
　He　sidled　towards　the　table　and；　with　great　care；　pulled　the　sheaf　of　paper　from　under　the　sleeping　dwarfs　head；　lowering　it　gently　on　to　a　cushion。
　The　top　sheet　read：
　
　Verence　Felmet　Small　God's　Eve　A　Night　Of　Knives　Daggers　Kings；　by；　Hwel　of　Vitoller's　Men。　A　edy　Tragedy　in　Eight　Five　Six　Three　Nine　Acts。
　Characters：　Felmet；　A　Good　King。
　Verence；　A　Bad　King。
　Wethewacs；　Ane　Evil　Witch
　Hogg；　Ane　Likewise　Evil　Witch
　Magerat；　Ane　Sirene　。　。　。
　
　Tomjon　flicked　over　the　page。
　
　Scene：　A　Drawing　Room　Ship　at　See　Street　in　Pseudopolis　Blasted　Moor。　Enter　Three　Witches　。　。　。
　
　The　boy　read　for　a　while　and　then　turned　to　the　last　page。
　
　Gentles；　leave　us　dance　and　sing；　and　wish　good　health　unto　the　king　（Exeunt　all；　singing　falala；　etc。　Shower　of　rose　petals。　Ringing　of　bells。　Gods　descend　from　heaven；　demons　rise　from　hell；　much　ado　with　turntable；　etc。）　The　End。
　
　Hwel　snored。
　In　his　dreams　gods　rose　and　fell；　ships　moved　with　cunning　and　art　across　canvas　oceans；　pictures　jumped　and　ran　together　and　became　flickering　images；　men　flew　on　wires；　flew　without　wires；　great　ships　of　illusion　fought　against　one　another　in　imaginary　skies；　seas　opened；　ladies　were　sawn　in　half；　a　thousand　special　effects　men　giggled　and　gibbered。　Through　it　all　he　ran　with　his　arms　open　in　desperation；　knowing　that　none　of　this　really　existed　or　ever　would　exist　and　all　he　really　had　was　a　few　square　yards　of　planking；　some　canvas　and　some　paint　on　which　to　trap　the　beckoning　images　that　invaded　his　head。
　Only　in　our　dreams　are　we　free。　The　rest　of　the　time　we　need　wages。
　
　'It's　a　good　play；'　said　Vitoller；　'apart　from　the　ghost。'
　'The　ghost　stays；'　said　Hwel　sullenly。
　'But　people　always　jeer　and　throw　things。　Anyway；　you　know　how　hard　it　is　to　get　all　the　chalk　dust　out　of　the　clothes。'
　'The　ghost　stays。　It's　a　dramatic　necessity。'
　'You　said　it　was　a　dramatic　necessity　in　the　last　play。'
　'Well；　it　was。'
　'And　in　Please　Yourself；　and　in　A　Wizard　of　Ankh；　and　all　the　rest　of　them。'
　'I　like　ghosts。'
　They　stood　to　one　side　and　watched　the　dwarf　artificers　assembling　the　wave　machine。　It　consisted　of　half　a　dozen　long　spindles；　covered　in　plex　canvas　spirals　painted　in　shades　of　blue　and　green　and　white；　and　stretching　the　plete　width　of　the　stage。　An　arrangement　of　cogs　and　endless　belts　led　to　a　treadmill　in　the　wings。　When　the　spirals　were　all　turning　at　once　people　with　weak　stomachs　had　to　look　away。
　'Sea　battles；'　breathed　Hwel。　'Shipwrecks。　Tritons。　Pirates！'
　'Squeaky　bearings；　laddie；'　groaned　Vitoller；　shifting　his　weight　on　his　stick。　'Maintenance　expenses。　Overtime。'
　'It　does　look　extremely　。　。　。　intricate；'　Hwel　admitted。　'Who　designed　it？'
　'A　daft　old　chap　in　the　Street　of　Cunning　Artificers；'　said　Vitoller。　'Leonard　of　Quirm。　He's　a　painter　really。　He　just　does　this　sort　of　thing　for　a　hobby。　I　happened　to　hear　that　he's　been　working　on　this　for　months。　I　just　snapped　it　up　quick　when　he　couldn't　get　it　to　fly。'
　They　watched　the　mock　waves　turn。
　'You're　bent　on　going？'　said　Vitoller；　at　last。
　'Yes。　Tomjon's　still　a　bit　wild。　He　needs　an　older　head　around　the　place。'
　'I'll　miss　you；　laddie。　I　don't　mind　telling　you。　You've　been　like　a　son　to　me。　How　old　are　you；　exactly？　I　never　did　know。'
　'A　hundred　and　two。'
　Vitoller　nodded　gloomily。　He　was　sixty；　and　his　arthritis　was　playing　him　up。
　'You've　been　like　a　father　to　me；　then；'　he　said。
　'It　evens　out　in　the　end；'　said　Hwel　diffidently。　'Half　the　height；　twice　the　age。　You　could　say　that　on　the　overall　average　we　live　about　the　same　length　of　time　as　humans。'
　The　playmaster　sighed。　'Well；　I　don't　know　what　I　will　do　without　you　and　Tomjon　around；　and　that's　a　fact。'
　'It's　only　for　the　summer；　and　a　lot　of　the　lads　are　staying。　In　fact　it's　mainly　the　apprentices　that　are　going。　You　said　yourself　it'd　be　good　experience。'
　Vitoller　looked　wretched　and；　in　the　chilly　air　of　the　half…finished　theatre；　a　good　deal　smaller　than　usual；　like　a　balloon　two　weeks　after　the　party。　He　prodded　some　wood　shavings　distractedly　with　his　stick。
　'We　grow　old；　Master　Hwel。　At　least；'　he　corrected　himself；　'I　grow　old　and　you　grow　older。　We　have　heard　the　gongs　at　midnight。'
　'Aye。　You　don't　want　him　to　go；　do　you？'
　'I　was　all　for　it　at　first。　You　know。　Then　I　thought；　there's　destiny　afoot。　Just　when　things　are　going　well；　there's　always　bloody　destiny。　I　mean；　that's　where　he　came　from。
　Somewhere　up　in　the　mountains。　Now　fate　is　calling　him　back。　I　shan't　see　him　again。'
　'It's　only　for　the　summer…'
　Vitoller　held　up　a　hand。　'Don't　interrupt。　I'd　got　the　right　dramatic　flow　there。'
　'Sorry。'
　Flick；　flick；　went　the　stick　on　the　wood　shavings；　knocking　them　into　the　air。
　'I　mean；　you　know　he's　not　my　flesh　and　blood。'
　'He's　your　son；　though；'　said　Hwel。　'This　hereditary　business　isn't　all　it's　cracked　up　to　be。'
　'It's　fine　of　you　to　say　that。'
　'I　mean　it。　Look　at　me。　I　wasn't　supposed　to　be　writing　plays。　Dwarfs　aren't　even　supposed　to　be　able　to　read。　I　shouldn't　worry　too　much　about　destiny；　if　I　was　you。　I　was　destined　to　be　a　miner。　Destiny　gets　it　wrong　half　the　time。'
　'But　you　said　he　looks　like　the　Fool　person。　I　can't　see　it　myself；　mark　you。'
　'The　light's　got　to　be　right。'
　'Could　be　some　destiny　at　work　there。'
　Hwel　shrugged。　Destiny　was　funny　stuff；　he　knew。　You　couldn't　trust　it。　Often　you　couldn't　even　see　it。　Just　when　you　knew　you　had　it　cornered；　it　turned　out　to　be　something　else　…　coincidence；　maybe；　or　providence。　You　barred　the　door　against　it；　and　it　was　standing　behind　you。　Then　just　when　you　thought　you　had　it　nailed　down　it　walked　away　with　the　hammer。
　He　used　destiny　a　lot。　As　a　tool　for　his　plays　it　was　even　better　than　a　ghost。　There　was　nothing　like　a　bit　of　destiny　to　get　the　old　plot　rolling。　But　it　was　a　mistake　to　think　you　could　spot　the　shape　of　it。　And　as　for　thinking　it　could　be　controlled　。　。　。
　
　Granny　Weatherwax　squinted　irritably　into　Nanny　Ogg's　crystal　ball。　It　wasn't　a　particularly　good　one；　being　a　greenish　glass　fishing　float　brought　back　from　forn　seaside　parts　by　one　of　her　sons。　It　distorted　everything　including；　she　suspected；　the　truth。
　'He's　definitely　on　his　way；'　she　said；　at　last。　'In　a　cart。'
　'A　fiery　white　charger　would　have　been　favourite；'　said　Nanny　Ogg。　'You　know。　Caparisoned；　and　that。'
　'Has　he　got　a　magic　sword？'　said　Magrat；　craning　to　see。
　Granny　Weatherwax　sat　back。
　'You're　a　disgrace；　the　pair　of　you；'　she　said。　'I　don't　know　…　magic　chargers；　fiery　swords。　Ogling　away　like　a　couple　of　milkmaids。'
　'A　magic　sword　is　important；'　said　Magrat。　'You've　got　to　have　one。　We　could　make　him　one；'　she　added　wistfully。　'Out　of　thunderbolt　iron。　I've　got　a　spell　for　that。　You　take　some　thunderbolt　iron；'　she　said　uncertainly；　'and　then　you　make　a　sword　out　of　it。'
　'I　can't　be　having　with　that　old　stuff；'　said　Granny。　'You　can　wait　days　for　the　damn　things　to　hit　and　then　they　nearly　take　your　arm　off。'
　'And　a　strawberry　birthmark；'　said　Nanny　Ogg；　ignoring　the　interruption。
　The　other　two　looked　at　her　expectantly。
　'A　strawberry　birthmark；'　she　repeated。　'It's　one　of　those　things　you've　got　to　have　if　you're　a　prince　ing　to　claim　your　kingdom。　That's　so's　everyone　will　know。　O'course；　I　don't　know　how　they　know　it's　strawberry。'
　'Can't　abide　strawberries；'　said　Granny　vaguely；　quizzing　the　crystal　again。
　In　its　cracked　green　depths；　smelling　of　bygone　lobsters；　a　minute　Tomjon　kissed　his　parents；　shook　hands　or　hugged　the　rest　of　the　pany；　and　climbed　aboard　the　leading　latty。
　It　must　of　worked；　she　told　herself。　Else　he　wouldn't　be　ing　here；　would　he？　All　those　others　must　be　his　trusty　band　of　good　panions。　After　all；　mon　sense；　he's　got　to　e　five　hundred　miles　across　difficult　country；　anything　could　happen。
　I　daresay　the　armour　and　swords　is　in　the　carts。
　She　detected　a　twinge　of　doubt；　and　set　out　to　quell　it　instantly。　There　isn't　any　other　reason　for　him　to　e；　stands　to　reason。　We　got　the　spell　exactly　right。　Except　for　the　ingredients。　And　most　of　the　poetry。　And　it　probably　wasn't　the　right　time。　And　Gytha　took　most　of　it　home　for　the　cat；　which　couldn't　of　been　proper。
　But　he's　on　his　way。　What　can't　speak；　can't　lie