She laid down her pipe, got up and opened the door on this springtime midnight.
‘You’ve come a long way, I’m thinking,’ she said, showing no surprise at the dark figure.
‘That is true, Mrs Ogg.’
‘Everyone who knows me calls me Nanny.’
She looked down at the melting snow dripping off the cloak. It hadn’t snowed up here for a month.
‘And it’s urgent, I expect?’ she said, as memory unrolled.
‘Indeed.’
‘And now you got to say, “You must come at once.”’
‘You must come at once.’
‘Well, now,’ she said. ‘I’d say, yes, I’m a pretty good midwife, though I do say it myself. I’ve seen hundreds into the world. Even trolls, which is no errand for the inexperienced. I know birthing backwards and forwards and damn near sideways at times. Always been ready to learn something new, though.’ She looked down modestly. ‘I wouldn’t say I’m the best,’ she said, ‘but I can’t think of anyone better, I have to say.’
‘You must leave with me now.’
‘Oh, I must, must I?’ said Nanny Ogg.
‘Yes!’
An edge witch thinks fast, because edges can shift so quickly. And she learns to tell when a mythology is unfolding, and when the best you can do is put yourself in its path and run to keep up.
‘I’ll just go and get—’
‘There is no time.’
‘But I can’t just walk right out and—’
‘Now.’
Nanny reached behind the door for her birthing bag, always kept there for just such occasions as this, full of the things she knew she’d want and a few of the things she always prayed she’d never need.
‘Right,’ she said.
She left.
Tick
The kettle was just boiling when Nanny walked back into her kitchen. She stared at it for a moment and then moved it off the fire.
There was still a drop of brandy left in the glass by her chair. She drained that, then refilled the glass to the brim from the bottle.
She picked up her pipe. The bowl was still warm. She pulled on it, and the coals crackled.
Then she took something out of her bag, which was now a good deal emptier, and, brandy glass in her hand, sat down to look at it.
‘Well,’ she said at last. ‘That was … very unusual …’
Tick
Death watched the image fade. A few flakes of snow that had blown out of the mirror had already melted on the floor, but there was still a whiff of pipe smoke in the air.
AH, I SEE, he said. A BIRTHING, IN STRANGE CIRCUMSTANCES. BUT IS THAT WHAT THE PROBLEM WAS OR WAS THAT WHAT THE SOLUTION WILL BE?
SQUEAK, said the Death of Rats.
QUITE SO, said Death. YOU MAY VERY WELL BE RIGHT. I DO KNOW THAT THE MIDWIFE WILL NEVER TELL ME.
The Death of Rats looked surprised. SQUEAK?
Death smiled. DEATH? ASKING AFTER THE LIFE OF A CHILD? NO. SHE WOULD NOT.
‘’Scuse me,’ said the raven, ‘but how come Miss Ogg became Mrs Ogg? Sounds like a bit of a rural arrangement, if you catch my meaning.’
WITCHES ARE MATRILINEAL, said Death. THEY FIND IT MUCH EASIER TO CHANGE MEN THAN TO CHANGE NAMES.
He went back to his desk and opened a drawer.
There was a thick book there, bound in night. On the cover, where a book like this might otherwise say ‘Our Wedding’ or ‘Acme Photo Album’, it said ‘MEMORIES’.
Death turned the heavy pages carefully. Some of the memories escaped as he did so, forming brief pictures in the air before the page turned, and they went flying and fading into the distant, dark corners of the room. There were snatches of sound, too, of laughter, tears, screams and for some reason a brief burst of xylophone music, which caused him to pause for a moment.{3}
An immortal has a great deal to remember. Sometimes it’s better to put things where they will be safe.
One ancient memory, brown and cracking round the edges, lingered in the air over the desk. It showed five figures, four on horseback, one in a chariot, all apparently riding out of a thunderstorm. The horses were at a flat gallop. There was a lot of smoke and flame and general excitement.
AH, THE OLD DAYS, said Death. BEFORE THERE WAS THIS FASHION FOR HAVING A SOLO CAREER.
SQUEAK? the Death of Rats enquired.
OH, YES, said Death. ONCE THERE WERE FIVE OF US. FIVE HORSEMEN. BUT YOU KNOW HOW THINGS ARE. THERE’S ALWAYS A ROW. CREATIVE DISAGREEMENTS, ROOMS BEING TRASHED, THAT SORT OF THING. He sighed. AND THINGS SAID THAT PERHAPS SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN SAID.
He turned a few more pages and sighed again. When you needed an ally, and you were Death, on whom could you absolutely rely?
His thoughtful gaze fell on the teddy bear mug.
Of course, there was always family. Yes. He’d promised not to do this again, but he’d never got the hang of promises.
He got up and went back to the mirror. There was not a lot of time. Things in the mirror were closer than they appeared.
There was a slithering noise, a breathless moment of silence, and a crash like a bag of skittles being dropped.
The Death of Rats winced. The raven took off hurriedly.
HELP ME UP, PLEASE, said a voice from the shadows. AND THEN PLEASE CLEAN UP THE DAMN BUTTER.
Tick
This desk was a field of galaxies.
Things twinkled. There were complex wheels and spirals, brilliant against the blackness …
Jeremy always liked the moment when he had a clock in pieces, with every wheel and spring carefully laid out on the black velvet cloth in front of him. It was like looking at Time, dismantled, controllable, every part of it understood …
He wished his life was like that. It would be nice to reduce it to bits, spread them all out on the table, clean and oil them properly and put them together so that they coiled and spun as they ought to. But sometimes it seemed that the life of Jeremy had been assembled by a not very competent craftsman, who had allowed a number of small but important things to go ping into the corners of the room.
He wished he liked people more, but somehow he could never get on with them. He never knew what to say. If life was a party, he wasn’t even in the kitchen. He envied the people who made it as far as the kitchen. There would probably be the remains of the dip to eat, and a bottle or two of cheap wine that someone had brought along that’d probably be OK if you took out the drowned cigarette stubs. There might even be a girl in the kitchen, although Jeremy knew the limits of his imagination.
But Jeremy never even got an invitation.
Clocks, now … clocks were different. He knew what made clocks tick.
His full name was Jeremy Clockson, and that was no accident. He’d been a member of the Guild of Clockmakers since he was a few days old, and everyone knew what that meant. It meant his life had begun in a basket, on a doorstep. Everyone knew how it worked. All the Guilds took in the foundlings that arrived with the morning milk. It was an ancient form of charity, and there were far worse fates. The orphans got a life, and an upbringing of a sort, and a trade, and a future, and a name. Many a fine lady or master craftsman or city dignitary had a telltale surname like Ludd or Doughy or Pune or Clockson. They’d been named after trade heroes or patron deities, and this turned them into a family, of a sort. The older ones remembered where they came from, and at Hogswatch they were free with donations of food and clothing to the various younger brothers and sisters of the basket. It wasn’t perfect, but, then, what is?