‘Father’s rather proud of his work in Escrow,’ said Vlad. ‘I think you’ll be impressed. And then perhaps I could dare hope-‘
No.
‘I’m really being rather understanding about this, Agnes.’
‘You attacked Granny Weatherwax! You bit her.’
‘Symbolically. To welcome her into the family.’ ‘Oh, really? Oh, that makes it all better, does it? And she’ll be a vampire?’
‘Certainly. A good one, I suspect. But that’s only horrifying if you believe being a vampire is a bad thing. We don’t. You’ll come to see that we’re right, in time,’ said Vlad. ‘Yes, Escrow would be good for you. For us. We shall see what can be done. . .’
Agnes stared.
He does smile nicely . . . He’s a vampire! All right, but apart from that- Oh, apart from that, eh? Nanny would tell you to make the most of it. That might work for Nanny, but can you imagine kissing that? Yes, I can. I will admit, he does smile nicely, and he looks good in those waistcoats, but look at what he is- Do you notice? Notice what? There’s something different about him. He’s just trying to get round us, that’s all. No . . . there’s something . . .new. . .
‘Father says Escrow is a model community,’ said Vlad. ‘it shows what happens if ancient enmity is put aside and humans and vampires learn to live in peace. Yes. It’s not far now. Escrow is the future.’
A low ground mist drifted between the trees, curling up in little tongues as the mule’s hooves disturbed it. Rain dripped off the branches. There was even a bit of sullen thunder now, not the outgoing sort that cracks the sky but the other sort, which hangs around the horizons and gossips nastily with other storms.
Mightily Oats had tried a conversation with himself a few times, but the problem with a conversation was that the other person had to join in. Occasionally he heard a snore from behind him. When he looked around, the wowhawk on her shoulder flapped its wings in his face.
Sometimes the snoring would stop with a grunt, and a hand would tap him on a shoulder and point out a direction which looked like every other direction.
It did so now.
‘What’s that you’re singing?’ Granny
demanded.
‘I wasn’t singing very loudly.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘It’s called “Om Is In His Holy Temple”.’
‘Nice tune,’ said Granny.
‘It keeps my spirits up,’ Oats admitted. A wet twig slapped his face. After all, he thought, I may have a vampire behind me, however good she is.
‘You take comfort from it, do you?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Even that bit about “smiting evil with thy sword”? That’d worry me, if I was an Omnian. Do you get just a little sort of tap for a white lie but minced up for murder? That’s the sort of thing that’d keep me awake o’ nights.’
‘Well, actually . . . I shouldn’t be singing it at all, to be honest. The Convocation of Ee struck it from the songbook as being incompatible with the ideals of modern Omnianism.’
‘That line about crushing infidels?’
‘That’s the one, yes.’
‘You sung it anyway, though.’
‘It’s the version my grandmother taught me,’ said oats.
‘She was keen on crushing infidels?’
‘Well, mainly I think she was in favour of crushing Mrs Ahrim next door, but you’ve got the right idea, yes. She thought the world would be a better place with a bit more crushing and smiting.’
‘Prob’ly true.’
‘Not as much smiting and crushing as she’d like, though, I think,’ said Oats. ‘A bit judgemental, my grandmother.’
‘Nothing wrong with that. Judging is human.’
‘We prefer to leave it ultimately to Om,’ said Oats and, out here in the dark, that statement sounded lost and all alone.
‘Bein’ human means judgin’ all the time,’ said the voice behind him. ‘This and that, good and bad, making choices every day . . . that’s human.’
‘And are you so sure you make the right decisions?’
‘No. But I do the best I can.’
‘And hope for mercy, eh?’
A bony finger prodded him in the back.
‘Mercy’s a fine thing, but judgin’ comes first. Otherwise you don’t know what you’re bein’ merciful about. Anyway, I always heard you Omnians were keen on smitin’ and crushin’.’
‘Those were . . . different days. We use crushing arguments now.’
‘And long pointed debates, I suppose?’
‘Well, there are two sides to every question. . .’
‘What do you do when one of ’em’s wrong?’
The reply came back like an arrow.
‘I meant that we are enjoined to see things from the other person’s point of view,’ said Oats patiently.
‘You mean that from the point of view of a torturer, torture is all right?’
‘Mistress Weatherwax, you are a natural disputant.’
‘No, I ain’t!’
‘You’d certainly enjoy yourself at the Synod, anyway. They’ve been known to argue for days about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.’
He could almost feel Granny’s mind working. At last she said, ‘What size pin?’
‘I don’t know that, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, if it’s a ordinary household pin, then there’ll be sixteen.’
‘Sixteen angels?’
‘That’s right.’
,Why?,
‘I don’t know. Perhaps they like dancing.’
The mule picked its way down a bank. The mist was getting thicker here.
‘You’ve counted sixteen?’ said Oats eventually.
‘No, but it’s as good an answer as any you’ll get. And that’s what your holy men discuss, is it?’
‘Not usually. There is a very interesting debate raging at the moment about the nature of sin, for example.’
‘And what do they think? Against it, are they?’
‘It’s not as simple as that. It’s not a black and white issue. There are so many shades of grey.’
‘Nope.’
‘Pardon?’
‘There’s no greys, only white that’s got grubby. I’m surprised you don’t know that. And sin, young man, is when you treat people as things. Including yourself. That’s what sin is.’
‘It’s a lot more complicated than that-‘
‘No. It ain’t. When people say things are a lot more complicated than that, they means they’re getting worried that they won’t like the truth. People as things, that’s where it starts.’
‘Oh, I’m sure there are worse crimes-‘
‘But they starts with thinking about people as things. . .’
Granny’s voice tailed off. Oats let the mule walk on for a few minutes, and then a snort told him that Granny had awoken again.
‘You strong in your faith, then?’ she said, as if she couldn’t leave things alone.
Oats sighed. ‘I try to be.’
‘But you read a lot of books, I’m thinking. Hard to have faith, ain’t it, when you read too many books?’
Oats was glad she couldn’t see his face. Was the old woman reading his mind through the back of his head?
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Still got it, though?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have anything.’
He waited for a while, and then tried a counterattack.
‘You’re not a believer yourself, then, Mistress Weatherwax?’
There were a few moments’ silence as the mule picked its way over the mossy tree roots. Oats thought he heard, behind them, the sound of a horse, but then it was lost in the sighing of the wind.
‘Oh, I reckon I believes in tea, sunrises, that sort of thing,’ said Granny.
‘I was referring to religion.’
‘I know a few gods in these parts, if that’s what you mean.’
Oats sighed. ‘Many people find faith a great solace,’ he said. He wished he was one of them.
‘Good.’
‘Really? Somehow I thought you’d argue.’
‘It’s not my place to tell ’em what to believe, if they act decent.’
‘But it’s not something that you feel drawn to, perhaps, in the darker hours?’
‘No. I’ve already got a hot water bottle.’
The wowhawk fluttered its wings. Oats stared into the damp, dark mist. Suddenly he was angry.
‘And that’s what you think religion is, is it?’ he said, trying to keep his temper.
‘I gen’rally don’t think about it at all,’ said the voice behind him.
It sounded fainter. He felt Granny clutch his arm to steady herself . . .
‘Are you all right?’ he said.
‘I wish this creature would go faster . . . I ain’t entirely myself.’
‘We could stop for a rest.’
‘No! Not far now! Oh, I’ve been so stupid. . .’
The thunder grumbled. He felt her grip lessen, and heard her hit the ground.
Oats leapt down. Granny Weatherwax was lying awkwardly on the moss, her eyes closed. He took her wrist. There was a pulse there, but it was horribly weak. She felt icy cold.
When he patted her face she opened her eyes.
‘If you raise the subject of religion at this point,’ she wheezed, ‘I’ll give you such a hidin’. . .’ Her eyes shut again.
Oats sat down to get his breath back. Icy cold . . . yes, there was something cold about all of her, as though she always pushed heat away. Any kind of warmth.