'It's just that you mentioned it,' said Hwel.
'Well, it isn't important. Lawks. I expect you're looking for Lancre,' said Granny testily, in a hurry to get to the point.
'Well, yes,' said Tomjon. 'All day.'
'You've come too far,' said Granny. 'Go back about two miles, and take the track on the right, past the stand of pines.'
Wimsloe tugged at Tomjon's shirt.
'When you m-meet a m-mysterious old lady in the road,' he said, 'you've got to offer to s- share your lunch. Or help her across the r-river.'
'You have?'
'It's t-terribly b-bad luck not to.'
Tomjon gave Granny a polite smile.
'Would you care to share our lunch, good mo – old wo – ma'am?'
Granny looked doubtful.
'What is it?'
'Salt pork.'
She shook her head. 'Thanks all the same,' she said graciously. 'But it gives me wind.'
She turned on her heel and set off through the bushes.
'We could help you across the river if you like,' shouted Tomjon after her.
'What river?' said Hwel. 'We're on the moor, there can't be a river in miles.'
'Y-you've got to get them on y-your side,' said Wimsloe. 'Then t-they help you.'
'Perhaps we should have asked her to wait while we went and looked for one,' said Hwel sourly.
They found the turning. It led into a forest criss-crossed with as many tracks as a marshalling yard, the sort of forest where the back of your head tells you the trees are turning around to watch you as you go past and the sky seems to be very high up and a long way off. Despite the heat of the day a dank, impenetrable gloom hovered among the tree trunks, which crowded up to the track as if intending to obliterate it completely.
They were soon lost again, and decided that being lost somewhere where you didn't know where you were was even worse than being lost in the open.
'She could have given more explicit instructions,' said Hwel.
'Like ask at the next crone,' said Tomjon. 'Look over there.'
He stood up in the seat.
'Ho there, old . . . good . . .' he hazarded.
Magrat pushed back her shawl.
'Just a humble wood gatherer,' she snapped. She held up a twig for proof. Several hours waiting with nothing but trees to talk to hadn't improved her temper.
Wimsloe nudged Tomjon, who nodded and fixed his face in an ingratiating smile.
'Would you care to share our lunch, old . . . good wo . . . miss?' he said. 'It's only salt pork, I'm afraid.'
Вы читаете Wyrd Sisters
