Maskerade

He slid down and rolled into a twitching heap on the floor, clapping his hands over his ears to shut out the sudden, unnatural silence.

A shape stepped out of the shadows.

Granny Weatherwax had never heard of psychiatry and would have had no truck with it even if she had. There are some arts too black even for a witch. She practised headology–practised, in fact, until she was very good at it. And though there may be some superficial similarities between a psychiatrist and a headologist, there is a huge practical difference. A psychiatrist, dealing with a man who fears he is being followed by a large and terrible monster, will endeavour to convince him that monsters don't exist. Granny Weatherwax would simply give him a chair to stand on and a very heavy stick.

'Stand up, Walter Plinge,' she said.

Walter stood up, staring straight ahead of him. 'It's stopped! It's stopped! It's bad luck to stop the show!' he said hoarsely.

'Someone better start it again,' said Granny.

'You can't stop the show! It's the show!'

'Yes. Someone better start it again, Walter Plinge.'

Walter didn't appear to notice her. He pawed aimlessly through his stack of music and ran his hands through the drifts of old programmes. One hand touched the keyboard of the harmonium and played a few neurotic notes.

'Wrong to stop. Show must go on...'

'Mr Salzella is trying to stop the show, isn't he, Walter?'

Walter's head shot up. He stared straight ahead of him.

'You haven't seen anything, Walter Plinge!' he said, in a voice so like Salzella's that even Granny raised an eyebrow. 'And if you tell lies, you will be locked up and I'll see to it that there's big trouble for your mother!'

Granny nodded.

'He found out about the Ghost, didn't he?' she said. 'The Ghost who comes out when he has a mask on... doesn't he, Walter Plinge? And the man thought: I can use that. And when it's time for the Ghost to be caught... well, there is a Ghost that can be caught. And the best thing is that everyone will believe it. They'll feel bad about themselves, maybe, but they'll believe it. Even Walter Plinge won't be certain, 'cos his mind's all tangled up.'

Granny took a deep breath. 'It's tangled, but it ain't twisted.' There was a sigh. 'Well, matters will have to resolve themselves. There's nothing else for it.'

She removed her hat and fished around in the point. 'I don't mind tellin' you this, Walter,' she said, 'because you won't understand and you won't remember. There was a wicked ole witch once called Black Aliss. She was an unholy terror. There's never been one worse or more powerful. Until now. Because I could spit in her eye and steal her teeth, see. Because she didn't know Right from Wrong, so she got all twisted up and that was the end of her.

'The trouble is, you see, that if you do know Right from Wrong you can't choose Wrong. You just can't do it and live. So... if I was a bad witch I could make Mister Salzella's muscles turn against his bones and break them where he stood... if I was bad. I could do things inside his head, change the shape he thinks he is, and he'd be down on what'd been his knees and begging to be turned into a frog... if I was bad. I could leave him with a mind like a scrambled egg, listening to colours and hearing smells... if I was bad. Oh, yes.' There was another sigh, deeper and more heartfelt. 'But I can't do none of that stuff: That wouldn't be Right.'

She gave a deprecating little chuckle. And if Nanny Ogg had been listening, she would have resolved as follows: that no maddened cackle from Black Aliss of infamous memory, no evil little giggle from some crazed vampyre whose morals were worse than his spelling, no side­splitting guffaw from the most inventive torturer, was quite so unnerving as a happy little chuckle from a Granny Weatherwax about to do what's best.

From the point of her hat Granny withdrew a paper‑thin mask. It was a simple face–smooth, white, basic. There were semi‑circular holes for the eyes. It was neither happy nor sad.

She turned it over in her hands. Walter seemed to stop breathing.

'Simple thing, ain't it?' said Granny. 'Looks beautiful, but it's really just a simple bit of stuff, just like any other mask. Wizards could poke at this for a year and still say there was nothing magic about it, eh? Which just shows how much they know, Walter Plinge. '

She tossed it to him. He caught it hungrily and pulled it over his face.

Then he stood up in one flowing movement, moving like a dancer.

'I don't know what you are when you're behind the mask,' said Granny, 'but "ghost" is just another word for "spirit" and "spirit" is just another word for "soul". Off you go, Walter Plinge.'

The masked figure did not move.

'I meant... off you go, Ghost. The show must go on.'

The mask nodded, and darted away.

Granny slapped her hands together like the crack of doom.

'Right! Let's do some good!' she said, to the universe at large.

Everyone was looking at her.