Disc(world)laimer: (HA! See what I did there?)
All hail, the Pratchettmeister, for he is purveyor of all things Discworld. Which means I have no rights over any of the characters and I get no royalties whatsoever for this load of hooey. The old, 'ah, I've got an hour to kill before Numb3rs comes on, what the hell?' argument for writing this drivel (sorry, typo, I meant drabble) is now looking pretty damn flimsy if I'm honest…
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Glare.
A laser-beam glare that would take the paint off a door at fifty paces. Granny Weatherwax stood like an immovable monolith, her jaw set so hard you could bounce rocks off it.
Hence the glare.
Three very embarrassed gnomes stood in front of her, doing everything they could to avoid eye contact with a stare that could cut a spy in half better than a Doomsday device in a hollowed out volcano any day of the week. What had started out as a childish prank, a simple dare, a good idea at the time was now turning into the Inquisition of a (very short) lifetime. The gnomes were realising that it was never a good idea to actually transpose a metaphor into real life, especially if the metaphor involved testing methods that included hurling projectiles at an irate witch…
"I'm waiting…"
Mumbled excuses consisting of "It was only a joke", "I didn't think Gumbwold would actually do it!" and "He's not bright, that one" fell on stony ground. The damning evidence being tossed up and down in Granny Weatherwax's hand and a gap in the line where a fourth gnome should have been standing were testament to the fact that Gumbwold probably wasn't the brightest gnome in Lancre forest, but he was certainly the fastest…
Granny Weatherwax held up a hand and silence descended on the forest. All eyes were on the three not-so-wise gnomes in the centre of the arena that was Granny Weatherwax's Garden. Even the trees seemed to shuffle in closer to catch every word on the breeze and telegraph it around the forest. All units, be advised: Four gnomes involved in run-by stoning of witch. Three in custody, one still at large, last seen running like a bastard and screaming like a little girl northwards towards the Hub. LFPD in attendance, paramedics may be required…
"A lack of respect, that's what it is. Time was a witch was a figure of respect around these parts!" Esme began to pace, the left boot squeaking like a dolphin with each step. She stopped in mid-stride and glared at the boot. If leather could apologise, that boot was sending flowers and booking a nice meal at a fancy restaurant to say sorry for the inconvenience. Esme harrumphed and carried on pacing, sans squeak, footloose and fancy-free. "Unheard of. Throwing stones at a witch. Unheard of!" She stopped abruptly and spun around, fixing the oldest of the three gnomes with eyes like ball bearings. "Well? Still waiting here…"
The forest took a sharp breath in and leaned back, away from the glare. The gnome, a young whippersnapper of only two hundred years spun his cap in his fingers like a Greek waiter spinning a plate. His mouth opened and closed as he desperately forced his brain into gear to say something, anything to break the silence.
"I…I…I got nothin'…"
Granny Weatherwax exploded. In that quiet, dangerous way that's much more frightening than all that unnecessary shouting and screaming business that most people do. She leaned in until her nose was touching the long, thin proboscis that passed for the gnome's nasal passage. Gnome perp number one's eyes crossed slowly as he focused on the end of Granny Weatherwax's flared nostrils, waiting for the inevitable death blow… "I got nothin'? Did you actually go to school, Flaxstaff Weeble? It's I hasn't got anythin', you illiterate little…well, gnome!"
"I…I meant I hasn't got anything, mistress Weatherwax!"
"Oh, so it's mistress now is it? Implying what, exactly?"
Despair overwhelmed the gnome and he let the clutch out on his mouth before his brain was fully engaged. "Nuffin! I didn't mean nuffin by that! It's just that we was bored and there was nuffin to do, what with it being half term and all and Gumbwold said hey here's an idea let's see if we can sneak into the Herbs and not get seen and then you was in the garden like and then he said that he betted he could chuck a pebble and knock yer hat off and we said don't be daft even we're not stupid enough to do that and then he just picked up this…rock…and…it…all…kinda…went…on from…there…" Flaxstaff's voice trailed off into nothing and the other two gnomes, who had been nodding furiously in all the right bits* decided that looking in different directions was probably the best course of action right now. Disassociation, their Headology teacher had called it and boy, did it work…
"Esme, they're only kids. Just havin' a bit o' fun, weren't you lads?" Gytha Ogg leaned against the door of the cottage, her arm's crossed. Nice witch, nasty witch. It was her turn to do the nice witch part. Actually, it was always her turn to do the nice witch part. Just once, just once, she'd like the opportunity to smack down on a perp… "No harm, Esme. They didn't even dislodge yer hat…"
"'S'not the point! It's disrespectful!" Esme rounded on her friend and even Gytha took a step back from that glare.
"Turn it down, Esme…"
"You think that this is funny?"
"Well…"
"Gytha Ogg!"
"Maybe not funny per sae, but you know what little'uns are like! They don't know boundaries! Is what makes 'em special. Speaking as a mother. I know. Experience and all."
"And of course you knows all about boundaries, don't you? What was it they used to say about you? That the drawbridge at the castle goes up and down like a pair of your…"
"Boundaries, Esme!" Gytha's eyebrows shot upwards and she pointed at the gnomes who were watching with fascination as the two witches spatted. "Not in front of the children, huh?"
"Hmm." Granny Weatherwax suddenly spun back on her heels and refocused on the usual suspects. "Thought I'd forgot about you, did you?" A chorus of "No, mistress Weatherwax!" and "You kidding? A'Tuin's memory is shorter than yours!" and "Bugger…" washed back.
"Enough! Punishment time."
A flood of groans and another very passionate "BUGGER!" greeted the P-word. Granny Weatherwax took pride in making sure that the punishment fitted the crime like a well-tailored suit. She scratched idly at her chin and her eyes stared off into the distance. "Now. Let me think. What would be the best way to teach you little sods a bit of respect? What mindless, repetitive task would so sap your exuberance that you'd learn the error of your ways and show witches the respect they deserve?"
"A playful clip around the ear and a merry on yer way, you little guttersnipes?"
"How about a stern, 'don't do it again' and a playful ruffle in the hair department?"
"Technically, we didn't actually do anyfink. It was Gumbwold!"
"I'm thinking!" The gnomes' helpful suggestions stopped abruptly. Another silence descended… Slowly, agonisingly slowly, Granny Weatherwax smiled. It wasn't a nice smile by any stretch of the imagination… "Got it!"
"Crap…"
"You know the lone Sentinel stone up on the way to the Dancers?"
"What, the one that buggers off any time anyone looks at it?"
Granny Weatherwax nodded, still smiling that lazy, nasty smile. Gytha had seen the exact same smile on Greebo last time the bastard had been tormenting a captured mouse by breaking each leg in turn, slowly… "Yup, that's the one."
Flaxstaff nodded slowly, wondering what was coming next… "Aaaaand?"
"Your punishment is…"
"Yes?"
"Is…"
The entire forest held its breath…
"Is…"
"Oh, for the love of Om Esme! Just tell them!"
Granny Weatherwax took a deep breath for dramatic effect and… "I wants you to count it! And when you know how many of it there is, youse is to come back here and tell me and I'll tell you if you're right." She leaned back in. "You do know how to count, don't you Flaxstaff Weeble?" She held up a finger, then two, then three. "One, two, three…"
"Many?"
Granny leaned back and smiled benignly. "That's the stuff!" There was a brief pause. "You still here?"
The gnomes set a forest record for exiting the Herbs and the two witches watched the gnomes cut a swathe through the tall grass as they sprinted off towards the Dancers.
"How long d'ya think it'll take 'em to remember that nobody's ever managed to count that bugger?"
"Oh, 'bout as long as it'll take 'em to realise not to be disrespectful to witches, Gytha." Granny Weatherwax turned and grinned at her friend. "Lucky for them I was in a good mood today, huh?"
The end…
*Those that involved placing the blame squarely on the shoulders of someone else who, conveniently, is elsewhere at the time and therefore unable to protest their innocence.