‘The young lady is also known to be thoughtful, helpful and clever.’
‘Without being insufferable? I wish I could say the same of Mrs Earwig. Hmm,’ said Vetinari, ‘we should keep a careful eye on her …’
Mustrum Ridcully, Archchancellor of Unseen University, stared at his bedroom wall, and cried again, and once he’d pulled himself together he sent for Ponder Stibbons, his right-hand wizard.
‘The clacks confirms what Hex told you, Mr Stibbons,’ he said sadly. ‘The witch Esme Weatherwax of Lancre, known to many as Granny Weatherwax, has died.’ The Archchancellor looked slightly embarrassed. There was a bundle of letters on his lap, which he was turning over and over. ‘There was a bond, you see, when we were both young, but she wanted to be the best of all witches and I hoped one day to be Archchancellor. Alas for us, our dreams came true.’[16]
‘Oh dear, sir. Would you like me to arrange your schedule so that you can attend the funeral? There will be a funeral, I assume …’
‘Mr Stibbons, schedules be damned. I am leaving now. Right now.’
‘With respect, Archchancellor, I must tell you, sir, that you promised to go to a meeting with the Guild of Accountants and Usurers.’
‘Those penny-pinchers! Tell them that I have got an urgent matter of international affairs to deal with.’
Ponder hesitated. ‘That is not strictly true, is it, Archchancellor.’
Ridcully riposted with, ‘Oh yes, it is!’ Rules were for other people. Not for him. Nor, he thought with a pang, had they been for Esme Weatherwax … ‘How long have you been working for the University, young man?’ he boomed at Stibbons. ‘Dissembling is our stock in trade. Now I am going to get on my broomstick, Mr Stibbons, and I will leave the place in your very capable hands.’
And in that … other world, that parasite with its evil little hooks in the gateways of stone, an elf was hatching his plans. Plotting to seize Fairyland from the control of a Queen who had never fully recovered her powers after her humiliating defeat at the hands of a young girl named Tiffany Aching. Plotting to pounce, to spring through a gateway that — for a time, at least — would be gossamer-thin. For a powerful hag no longer stood in their way. And those in that world would be vulnerable.
The Lord Peaseblossom’s eyes gleamed and his mind filled with glorious images of victims, of the pleasures of cruelty, the splendours of a land where the elves could toy once more with new playthings.
When the moment was right …
Chapter 4
A Farewell — and a Welcome
Getting Granny Weatherwax’s corpse down the winding stair with its tiny little steps in the tiny little cottage the following morning was not helped by the big jug of cider which Nanny Ogg was emptying speedily, but nevertheless they got it done without a bump.
They laid Granny’s body carefully in the wicker casket, and Tiffany went out to the barn to fetch the wheelbarrow and shovels while Nanny Ogg caught her breath. Then, together, they gently lifted the basket into the wheelbarrow, and placed the shovels on either side of her.
Tiffany picked up the handles of the barrow. ‘Ye stay here now, Rob,’ she said to the Feegle as he and his little band appeared from their varied hiding places and lined up behind her. ‘This is a hag thing, ye ken. Ye cannot help me.’
Rob Anybody shuffled his feet. ‘But ye are oor hag, and ye ken that Jeannie—’ he began.
‘Rob Anybody.’ Tiffany’s steely gaze pinned him to the ground. ‘Ye remember the chief hag? Granny Weatherwax? Do ye want her shade to come back and … tell ye what tae do for ever and ever?’ There was a group moan and Daft Wullie backed away, whimpering. ‘Then understand this: this is something we hags must do by ourselves.’ She turned to Nanny Ogg, resolute. ‘Where are we going, Nanny?’
‘Esme marked a spot in the woods, Tiff, where she wanted to be planted,’ Nanny replied. ‘Follow me, I know where it is.’
Granny Weatherwax’s garden was cheek by jowl with the woodland beyond, but the journey felt a long way to Tiffany before they arrived at the heart of the forest where a stick was pushed into the ground, a red ribbon tied to the top of it.
Nanny passed Tiffany a shovel and the two of them started digging in the cool early morning air. It was hard work, but Granny had chosen her place well and the soil was soft and friable.
The hole finally dug — mostly, it has to be said, by Tiffany — Nanny Ogg, sweating cobs (according to her), rested on the handle of her shovel and took a swig from her flagon as Tiffany brought the wheelbarrow over. They laid the wicker basket gently in the hole and then stood back for a moment.
Without a word being said, together, solemnly, they bowed to Granny’s grave. And then they picked up the shovels again and started to fill it back in. Ker-thunk! Ker-thunk! The earth built up over the wicker until all that could be seen was soil, and Tiffany watched it flow in until the last crumb had stopped moving.
As they smoothed the fresh mound of earth, Nanny told Tiffany that Granny had said she wanted no urns, no shrines and definitely no gravestone.
‘Surely there should be a stone,’ said Tiffany. ‘You know how badgers and mice and other creatures can lift the earth. Even though we know the bones are not her, I for one would want to be sure that nothing is dug up until …’ She hesitated.
‘The ends of time?’ said Nanny. ‘Look, Tiff, Esme tol’ me to say, if you wants to see Esmerelda Weatherwax, then just you look around. She is here. Us witches don’t mourn for very long. We are satisfied with happy memories — they’re there to be cherished.’
The memory of Granny Aching suddenly shone in Tiffany’s mind. Her own granny had been no witch — though Weatherwax had been very interested in hearing about her — but when Granny Aching had died, her shepherding hut had been burned and her bones had gone down into the hills, six feet deep in the chalk. Then the turf had been put back with the spot marked only by the iron wheels of the hut. But it was a sacred spot now, a place for memories. And not only for Tiffany. No shepherd ever passed without a glance at the skies and a thought for Granny Aching, who had tramped those hills night after night, her light zigzagging in the darkness. Her nod of approval had meant the world on the Chalk.
This spot in the woods, Tiffany realized, would be the same. Blessed. It had been a nice day for it, she thought, if there ever was such a thing as a good day to die, a good day to be buried.
And now the birds were singing overhead, and there was a soft rustling in the undergrowth, and all the sounds of the forest which showed that life was still being lived blended with the souls of the dead in a woodland requiem.
The whole forest now sang for Granny Weatherwax.
Tiffany saw a fox sidle up, bow and then run away because a wild boar had arrived, with its family of piglets. Then there was a badger, paying no heed to those who had come earlier, and it remained, and Tiffany was astounded when creature after creature settled down near the grave and sat there as if they were domestic pets.
Where is Granny now? Tiffany wondered. Could a part of her still be … here? She jumped as something touched her on the shoulder; but it was just a leaf. Then, deep inside, she knew the answer to her question: Where is Granny Weatherwax?
It was: She is here — and everywhere.
To Tiffany’s surprise, Nanny Ogg was weeping gently. Nanny took another swig from her flagon and wiped her eyes. ‘Cryin’ helps sometimes,’ she said. ‘No shame in tears for them as you’ve loved. Sometimes I remember one of my husbands and shed a tear or two. The memories’re there to be treasured, and it’s no good to get morbid-like about it.’
16
Thus proving that dreams that come true are not always the