Part 41 (1/2)

”Not far now Mrs. Ogg!”

Keys jingled in the darkness, and some hinges creaked.

”I found this Mrs. Ogg! It's the Ghost's secret cave!”

”Secret cave, eh?”

”You got to shut your eyes! You got to shut your eyes!” said Walter urgently.

Nanny did so, but to her shame kept a grip on the torch, just in case. She said: ”And is the Ghost in there, Walter?”

”No!”

There was the rattle of a matchbox and some scuffling, and then- ”You can open them now Mrs. Ogg!”

Nanny did so.

Color and light blurred and then swam into focus, first in her eyes and then, eventually, in her brain. ”Oh, my,” she murmured. ”Oh, my, my...”

There were candles, the big flat ones used to illuminate the stage, floating in shallow bowls. The light they gave was soft, and it rippled over the room like the soul of water.

It glinted off the beak of a huge swan. It glittered in the eye of a vast, sagging dragon.

Nanny Ogg turned slowly. Her experience of opera had not been a lengthy one but witches pick things up quickly, and there there was the winged helmet worn by Hildabrun in was the winged helmet worn by Hildabrun in The Ring of the Nibelungingung The Ring of the Nibelungingung, and here here was the striped pole from was the striped pole from The Barber of Pseudopolis The Barber of Pseudopolis, and there there was the pantomime horse with the humorous trapdoor from was the pantomime horse with the humorous trapdoor from The Enchanted Piccolo The Enchanted Piccolo, and here...

...here was opera, all piled in a heap. Once the eye had taken it all in, it had time to notice the peeling paint and rotting plaster and the general air of gentle moldering. The decrepit props and threadbare costumes had been dumped in here because people didn't want them anywhere else.

But someone did did want them here. After the eye had seen the ruin, then there was time for it to see the little patches of recent repair, the careful areas of fresh paint. want them here. After the eye had seen the ruin, then there was time for it to see the little patches of recent repair, the careful areas of fresh paint.

There was something like a desk in the tiny area of floor not occupied by the props. And then Nanny realized that it had a keyboard and a stool, and there were neat piles of paper on top of it.

Walter was watching her with a big, proud grin.

Nanny ambled over to the thing. ”It's a harmonium, ain't it? A tiny organ?”

”That's right Mrs. Ogg!”

Nanny picked up one of the sheaves of paper. Her lips moved as she read the meticulous copperplate writing.

”An opera about cats cats?” she said. ”Never heard of an opera about cats... cats...”

She thought for a moment, and then added to herself: But why not? It's a d.a.m.n good idea. The lives of cats are just like operas, when you come to think about it.

She leafed through the other piles. ”Guys and Trolls? Hubward Side Story? Miserable Les? Who's he? Who's he? Seven Dwarfs for Seven Other Dwarfs? Seven Dwarfs for Seven Other Dwarfs? What're all these, Walter?” What're all these, Walter?”

She sat down on the stool and pressed a few of the cracked yellow keys, which moved with an audible creak. There were a couple of large pedals under the harmonium. You pedaled these and that worked the bellows and these spongy keys produced something which was to organ music what ”poot” was to cursing.

So this was where Wal...where the Ghost sat, thought Nanny, down under the stage, among the discarded wreckage of old performances; down under the huge windowless room where, night after night, music and songs and rampant emotion echoed back and forth and never escaped or entirely died away. The Ghost worked down here, with a mind as open as a well, and it filled up with opera. Opera went in at the ears, and something else came out of the mind.

Nanny pumped the pedals a few times. Air hissed from inefficient seams. She tried a few notes. They were reedy. But, she considered, sometimes the old lie was true, and size really did not matter. It really was what you did with it that counted.

Walter watched her expectantly.

She took down another wad of paper and peered at the first page. But Walter leaned over and s.n.a.t.c.hed at the script.

”That one's not finished Mrs. Ogg!”

The Opera House was still in uproar. Half the audience had gone outside and the other half was hanging around in case further interesting events were going to transpire. The orchestra was in a huddle in the pit, preparing its request for a special Being Upset By A Ghost Allowance. The curtains were closed. Some of the chorus had stayed onstage; others had hurried off to take part in the chase. The air had the excited electric feel it gets when normal civilized life is temporarily short-circuited.

Agnes bounced frantically from rumor to rumor. The Ghost had been caught, and it was Walter Plinge. The Ghost had been caught by by Walter Plinge. The Ghost had been caught by someone else. The Ghost had escaped. The Ghost was dead. Walter Plinge. The Ghost had been caught by someone else. The Ghost had escaped. The Ghost was dead.

There were arguments breaking out everywhere.

”I still can't believe it was Walter! I mean, good grief...Walter?”

”What about the show? We can't just stop! You never never stop the show, not even if someone dies!” stop the show, not even if someone dies!”

”Oh, we have stopped when people died...”

”Yes, but only as long as it took to get the body offstage!”

Agnes stepped back into the wings, and trod on something. ”Sorry,” she said automatically.

”It was only my foot,” said Granny Weatherwax. ”So...how is life in the big city, Agnes Nitt?”

Agnes turned. ”Oh...h.e.l.lo, Granny...” she mumbled. ”And I'm not Agnes here, thank you,” she added, a shade more defiantly.

”It's a good job, is it, bein' someone else's voice?”

”I'm doing what I want to do,” said Agnes. She drew herself up to her full width. ”And you can't stop me!”

”But you ain't part of it, are you?” said Granny conversationally. ”You try, but you always find yourself watchin' yourself watchin' people, eh? Never quite believin' anything? Thinkin' the wrong thoughts?”

”Shut up!”

”Ah. Thought so.”

”I have no intention of becoming a witch, thank you very much!”

”Now, don't go getting upset just because you know it's going to happen. A witch you're going to be because a witch you are, and if you turn your back on him now then I don't know what's going to happen to Walter Plinge.”

”He's not dead?”

”No.”

Agnes hesitated. ”I knew knew he was the Ghost,” she began. ”But then I saw he couldn't be.” he was the Ghost,” she began. ”But then I saw he couldn't be.”