Eventually they turned out to be the eyes of a small gray creature, vaguely froglike, paddling toward them on a log.
It reached the boat. Long clammy fingers grabbed the side, and a lugubrious face rose level with Nanny Ogg’s.
“’ullo,” it said. “It’sss my birthday.”
All three of them stared at it for a while. Then Granny Weatherwax picked up an oar and hit it firmly over the head. There was a splash, and a distant cursing.
“Horrible little bugger,” said Granny, as they rowed on. “Looked like a troublemaker to me.”
“Yeah,” said Nanny Ogg. “It’s the slimy ones you have to watch out for.”
“I wonder what he wanted?” said Magrat.
After half an hour the boat drifted out through a cave mouth and into a narrow gorge between cliffs. Ice glistened on the walls, and there were drifts of snow on some of the outcrops.
Nanny Ogg looked around guilelessly, and then fumbled somewhere in the depths of her many skirts and produced a small bottle. There was a glugging noise.
“I bet there’s a fine echo here,” she said, after a while.
“Oh no you don’t,” said Granny firmly.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t sing That Song.”
“Pardon, Esme?”
“I ain’t going,” said Granny, “if you insists on singing That Song.”
“What song would that be?” said Nanny innocently.
“You know the song to whom I am referring,” said Granny icily. “You always get drunk and let me down and sing it.”
“Can’t recall any song like that, Esme,” said Nanny Ogg meekly.
“The one,” said Granny, “about the rodent that can’t—that can’t ever be persuaded to care about anything.”
“Oh,” said Nanny, beaming as light dawned, “ you mean The Hedgehog Can Never Be Bugg—”
“That’s the one!”
“But it’s traditional ,” said Nanny. “Anyway, in foreign parts people won’t know what the words mean.”
“They will the way you sings them,” said Granny. “The way you sings them, creatures what lives on the bottoms of ponds ’d know what they mean.”
Magrat looked over the side of the boat. Here and there the ripples were edged with white. The current was running a bit faster, and there were lumps of ice in it.
“It’s only a folk song, Esme,” said Nanny Ogg.
“Hah!” said Granny Weatherwax. “I should just say it is a folk song! I knows all about folk songs. Hah! You think you’re listenin’ to a nice song about…about cuckoos and fiddlers and nightingales and whatnot, and then it turns out to be about…about something else entirely,” she added darkly. “You can’t trust folk songs. They always sneak up on you.”
Magrat fended them off a rock. An eddy spun them around slowly.
“I know one about two little bluebirds,” said Nanny Ogg.
“Um,” said Magrat.
“They may start out by being bluebirds, but I bet they ends up some kind of mettyfor,” said Granny.
“Er, Granny,” said Magrat.
“It was bad enough Magrat telling me about maypoles and what’s behind ’em,” said Granny. She added, wistfully, “I used to enjoy looking at a maypole of a spring morning.”
“I think the river’s getting a bit sort of rough,” said Magrat.
“I don’t see why people can’t just let things be,” said Granny.
“I mean really quite rough, really…” said Magrat, pushing them away from a jagged rock.
“She’s right, you know,” said Nanny Ogg. “It’s a bit on the choppy side.”
Granny looked over Magrat’s shoulder at the river ahead. It had a cut-off look, such as might be associated with, for example, an imminent waterfall. The boat was now surging along. There was a muted roar.
“They never said anything about a waterfall,” she said.
“I ’spect they thought we’d find out for ourselves,” said Nanny Ogg, gathering up her possessions and hauling Greebo out of the bottom of the boat by the scruff of his neck. “Very sparin’ with information, your average dwarf. Thank goodness witches float. Anyway, they knew
It reached the boat. Long clammy fingers grabbed the side, and a lugubrious face rose level with Nanny Ogg’s.
“’ullo,” it said. “It’sss my birthday.”
All three of them stared at it for a while. Then Granny Weatherwax picked up an oar and hit it firmly over the head. There was a splash, and a distant cursing.
“Horrible little bugger,” said Granny, as they rowed on. “Looked like a troublemaker to me.”
“Yeah,” said Nanny Ogg. “It’s the slimy ones you have to watch out for.”
“I wonder what he wanted?” said Magrat.
After half an hour the boat drifted out through a cave mouth and into a narrow gorge between cliffs. Ice glistened on the walls, and there were drifts of snow on some of the outcrops.
Nanny Ogg looked around guilelessly, and then fumbled somewhere in the depths of her many skirts and produced a small bottle. There was a glugging noise.
“I bet there’s a fine echo here,” she said, after a while.
“Oh no you don’t,” said Granny firmly.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t sing That Song.”
“Pardon, Esme?”
“I ain’t going,” said Granny, “if you insists on singing That Song.”
“What song would that be?” said Nanny innocently.
“You know the song to whom I am referring,” said Granny icily. “You always get drunk and let me down and sing it.”
“Can’t recall any song like that, Esme,” said Nanny Ogg meekly.
“The one,” said Granny, “about the rodent that can’t—that can’t ever be persuaded to care about anything.”
“Oh,” said Nanny, beaming as light dawned, “ you mean The Hedgehog Can Never Be Bugg—”
“That’s the one!”
“But it’s traditional ,” said Nanny. “Anyway, in foreign parts people won’t know what the words mean.”
“They will the way you sings them,” said Granny. “The way you sings them, creatures what lives on the bottoms of ponds ’d know what they mean.”
Magrat looked over the side of the boat. Here and there the ripples were edged with white. The current was running a bit faster, and there were lumps of ice in it.
“It’s only a folk song, Esme,” said Nanny Ogg.
“Hah!” said Granny Weatherwax. “I should just say it is a folk song! I knows all about folk songs. Hah! You think you’re listenin’ to a nice song about…about cuckoos and fiddlers and nightingales and whatnot, and then it turns out to be about…about something else entirely,” she added darkly. “You can’t trust folk songs. They always sneak up on you.”
Magrat fended them off a rock. An eddy spun them around slowly.
“I know one about two little bluebirds,” said Nanny Ogg.
“Um,” said Magrat.
“They may start out by being bluebirds, but I bet they ends up some kind of mettyfor,” said Granny.
“Er, Granny,” said Magrat.
“It was bad enough Magrat telling me about maypoles and what’s behind ’em,” said Granny. She added, wistfully, “I used to enjoy looking at a maypole of a spring morning.”
“I think the river’s getting a bit sort of rough,” said Magrat.
“I don’t see why people can’t just let things be,” said Granny.
“I mean really quite rough, really…” said Magrat, pushing them away from a jagged rock.
“She’s right, you know,” said Nanny Ogg. “It’s a bit on the choppy side.”
Granny looked over Magrat’s shoulder at the river ahead. It had a cut-off look, such as might be associated with, for example, an imminent waterfall. The boat was now surging along. There was a muted roar.
“They never said anything about a waterfall,” she said.
“I ’spect they thought we’d find out for ourselves,” said Nanny Ogg, gathering up her possessions and hauling Greebo out of the bottom of the boat by the scruff of his neck. “Very sparin’ with information, your average dwarf. Thank goodness witches float. Anyway, they knew
Similar Books
