Witches Abroad by Terry Pratchett Page B

with a certain amount of urgency.
    “I think he wants us to go inside,” said Magrat.
    “I likes it out here,” said Granny. “I LIKES IT OUT HERE, THANK YOU,” she repeated. Granny Weatherwax’s approach to foreign tongues was to repeat herself loudly and slowly.
    “’Ere, you stop trying to take our table away!” snapped Nanny, thumping his hands.
    The innkeeper spoke hurriedly and pointed up the street.
    Granny and Magrat glanced inquiringly at Nanny Ogg. She shrugged.
    “Didn’t understand any of that,” she admitted.
    “WE’RE STOPPIN’ WHERE WE ARE, THANK YOU,” said Granny. The innkeeper’s eyes met hers. He gave in, waved his hands in the air in exasperation, and went inside.
    “They think they can take advantage of you when you’re a woman,” said Magrat. She stifled a burp, discreetly, and picked up the green bottle again. Her stomach was feeling a lot better already.
    “That’s very true. D’you know what?” said Nanny Ogg, “I barricaded meself in my room last night and a man didn’t even try to break in.”
    “Gytha Ogg, sometimes you—” Granny stopped as she caught sight of something over Nanny’s shoulder.
    “There’s a load of cows coming down the street,” she said.
    Nanny turned her chair around.
    “It must be that bull thing Magrat mentioned,” she said. “Should be worth seein’.”
    Magrat glanced up. All along the street people were craning out of every second-story window. A jostle of horns and hooves and steaming bodies was approaching rapidly.
    “There’s people up there laughing at us,” she said accusingly.
    Under the table Greebo stirred and rolled over. He opened his good eye, focused on the approaching bulls, and sat up. This looked like being fun.
    “Laughin’?” said Granny. She looked up. The people aloft did indeed appear to be enjoying a joke.
    Her eyes narrowed.
    “We’re just goin’ to carry on as if nothin’ is happening,” she declared.
    “But they’re quite big bulls,” said Magrat nervously.
    “They’re nothing to do with us ,” said Granny. “It’s nothin’ to do with us if a lot of foreigners want to get excited about things. Now pass me the herbal wine.”

    As far as Lagro te Kabona, innkeeper, could remember the events of that day, they seemed to happen like this:
    It was the time of the Thing with the Bulls. And the mad women just sat there, drinking absinthe as if it was water! He tried to get them to come indoors, but the old one, the skinny one, just shouted at him. So he let them bide, but left the door open—people soon got the message when the bulls came down the street with the young men of the village after them. Whoever snatched the big red rosette from between the horns of the biggest bull got the seat of honor at that night’s feast plus—Lagro smiled a smile of forty years remembrance—a certain informal but highly enjoyable relationship with the young women of the town for quite some time after…
    And the mad women just sat there.
    The leading bull had been a bit uncertain about this. Its normal course of action would be to roar and paw the ground a bit to get the targets running in an interesting way and its mind wasn’t able to cope with this lack of attention, but that hadn’t been its major problem, because its major problem had been twenty other bulls right behind it.
    And even that ceased to be its major problem, because the terrible old woman, the one all in black, had stood up, muttered something at it and smacked it between the eyes. Then the horrible dumpy one whose stomach had the resilience and capacity of a galvanized water tank fell backward off her chair, laughing, and the young one—that is, the one who was younger than the other two—started flapping at the bulls as if they were ducks.
    And then the street was full of angry, bewildered bulls, and a lot of shouting, terrified young men. It’s one thing to chase a lot of panicking bulls, and quite another to find that they’re