Wyrd Sisters Read Online Free PDF Page B

and tell Gytha to wrapthe baby up well. It’s a long time since I heard a theater played properly.”
     
    Magrat was entranced, as usual. The theater was no more than some lengths of painted sacking, a plank stage laid over a few barrels, and half a dozen benches set out in the village square. But at the same time it had also managed to become The Castle, Another Part of the Castle, The Same Part A Little Later, The Battlefield and now it was A Road Outside the City. The afternoon would have been perfect if it wasn’t for Granny Weatherwax.
    After several piercing glares at the three-man orchestra to see if she could work out which instrument the theater was, the old witch had finally paid attention to the stage, and it was beginning to become apparent to Magrat that there were certain fundamental aspects of the theater that Granny had not yet grasped.
    She was currently bouncing up and down on her stool with rage.
    “He’s killed him,” she hissed. “Why isn’t anyone doing anything about it? He’s killed him! And right up there in front of everyone!”
    Magrat held on desperately to her colleague’s arm as she struggled to get to her feet.
    “It’s all right,” she whispered. “He’s not dead!”
    “Are you calling me a liar, my girl?” snapped Granny. “I saw it all!”
    “Look, Granny, it’s not really real, d’you see?”
    Granny Weatherwax subsided a little, but still grumbled under her breath. She was beginning to feel that things were trying to make a fool of her.
    Up on the stage a man in a sheet was giving a spirited monologue. Granny listened intently for some minutes, and then nudged Magrat in the ribs.
    “What’s he on about now?” she demanded.
    “He’s saying how sorry he was that the other man’s dead,” said Magrat, and in an attempt to change the subject added hurriedly, “There’s a lot of crowns, isn’t there?”
    Granny was not to be distracted. “What’d he go and kill him for, then?” she said.
    “Well, it’s a bit complicated—” said Magrat, weakly.
    “It’s shameful!” snapped Granny. “And the poor dead thing still lying there!”
    Magrat gave an imploring look to Nanny Ogg, who was masticating an apple and studying the stage with the glare of a research scientist.
    “I reckon ,” she said slowly, “I reckon it’s all just pretendin’. Look, he’s still breathing.”
    The rest of the audience, who by now had already decided that this commentary was all part of the play, stared as one man at the corpse. It blushed.
    “And look at his boots, too,” said Nanny critically. “A real king’d be ashamed of boots like that.”
    The corpse tried to shuffle its feet behind a cardboard bush.
    Granny, feeling in some obscure way that they had scored a minor triumph over the purveyors of untruth and artifice, helped herself to an apple from the bag and began to take a fresh interest. Magrat’s nerves started to unknot, and she began to settle down to enjoy the play. But not, as it turned out, for very long. Her willing suspension of disbelief was interrupted by a voice saying:
    “What’s this bit?”
    Magrat sighed. “Well,” she hazarded, “ he thinks that he is the prince, but he’s really the other king’s daughter, dressed up as a man.”
    Granny subjected the actor to a long analytical stare.
    “He is a man,” she said. “In a straw wig. Making his voice squeaky.”
    Magrat shuddered. She knew a little about the conventions of the theater. She had been dreading this bit. Granny Weatherwax had Views.
    “Yes, but,” she said wretchedly, “it’s the Theater, see. All the women are played by men.”
    “Why?”
    “They don’t allow no women on the stage,” said Magrat in a small voice. She shut her eyes.
    In fact, there was no outburst from the seat on her left. She risked a quick glance.
    Granny was quietly chewing the same bit of apple over and over again, her eyes never leaving the action.
    “Don’t make a fuss, Esme,” said Nanny, who