But still, he mused, it did say in Brutha’s Letter to the Simonites that if you wished the light to be seen you had to take it into dark places. And this was certainly a dark place.
He said a small prayer and stepped out into the muddy, windy darkness.
Granny flew high above the roaring treetops, under a half moon.-
She distrusted a moon like that. A full moon could only wane, a new moon could only wax, but a half moon, balancing so precariously between light and dark . . . well, it could do anything.
Witches always lived on the edges of things. She felt the tingle in her hands. It was not just from the frosty air. There was an edge somewhere. Something was beginning.
On the other side of the sky the Hublights were burning around the mountains at the centre of the world, bright enough even to fight the pale light of the moon. Green and gold flames danced in the air over the central mountains. It was rare to see them at this time of the year, and Granny wondered what that might signify.
Slice was perched along the sides of a cleft in the mountains that couldn’t be dignified by the name of valley. In the moonlight she saw the pale upturned face waiting in the shadows of the garden as she came in to land.
‘Evening, Mr Ivy,’ she said, leaping off. ‘Upstairs, is she?’
‘In the barn,’ said Ivy flatly. ‘The cow kicked her . . . hard.’
Granny’s expression stayed impassive.
‘We shall see,’ she said, ‘what may be done.’
In the barn, one look at Mrs Patternoster’s face told her how little that might now be. The woman wasn’t a witch, but she knew all the practical midwifery that can be picked up in an isolated village, be it from cows, goats, horses or humans.
‘It’s bad,’ she whispered, as Granny looked at the moaning figure on the straw. ‘I reckon we’ll lose both of them . . . or maybe just one . . .’
There was, if you were listening for it, just the suggestion of a question in that sentence. Granny focused her mind.
‘It’s a boy,’ she said.
Mrs Patternoster didn’t bother to wonder how Granny knew, but her expression indicated that a little more weight had been added to a burden.
‘I’d better go and put it to John Ivy, then,’ she said.
She’d barely moved before Granny Weatherwax’s hand locked on her arm.
‘He’s no part in this,’ she said.
‘But after all, he is the-‘
‘He’s no part in this.’
Mrs Pattemoster looked into the blue stare and knew two things. One was that Mr Ivy had no part in this, and the other was that anything that happened in this barn was never, ever, going to be mentioned again.
‘I think I can bring ’em to mind,’ said Granny, letting go and rolling up her sleeves. ‘Pleasant couple, as I recall. He’s a good husband, by all accounts.’ She poured warm water from its jug
into the bowl that the midwife had set up on a manger.
Mrs Patternoster nodded.
‘Of course, it’s difficult for a man working these steep lands alone,’ Granny went on, washing her hands. Mrs Pattemoster nodded again, mournfully.
‘Well, I reckon you should take him into the cottage, Mrs Patternoster, and make him a cup of tea,’ Granny commanded. ‘You can tell him I’m doing all I can.’
This time the midwife nodded gratefully.
When she had fled, Granny laid a hand on Mrs Ivy’s damp forehead.
‘Well now, Florence Ivy,’ she said, ‘let us see what might be done. But first of all . . . no pain. . .’
As she moved her head she caught sight of the moon through the unglazed window. Between the light and the dark . . . well, sometimes that’s where you had to be.
INDEED.
Granny didn’t bother to turn round.
‘I thought you’d be here,’ she said, as she knelt down in the straw.
WHERE ELSE? Said Death.
‘Do you know who you’re here for?’
THAT IS NOT MY CHOICE. ON THE VERY EDGE YOU WILL ALWAYS FIND SOME UNCERTAINTY.
Granny felt the words in her head for several seconds, like little melting cubes of ice. On the very, very edge, then, there had to be . . . judgement.
‘There’s too much damage here,’ she said, at last. ‘Too much.’
A few minutes later she felt the life stream past her. Death had the decency to leave without a word.
When Mrs Patternoster tremulously knocked on the door and pushed it open, Granny was in the cow’s stall. The midwife saw her stand up, holding a piece of thorn.
‘Been in the beast’s leg all day,’ she said. ‘No wonder it was fretful. Try and make sure he doesn’t kill the cow, you understand? They’ll need it.’
Mrs Patternoster glanced down at the rolled-up blanket in the straw. Granny had tactfully placed it out of sight of Mrs Ivy, who was sleeping now.
‘I’ll tell him,’ said Granny, brushing off her dress. ‘As for her, well, she’s strong and young and you know what to do. You keep an eye on her, and me or Nanny Ogg will drop in when we can. If she’s up to it, they may need a wet nurse up at the castle, and that may be good for everyone.’
It was doubtful that anyone in Slice would defy Granny Weatherwax, but Granny saw the faintest grey shadow of disapproval in the midwife’s expression.
‘You still reckon I should’ve asked Mr Ivy?’ she said.
‘That’s what I would have done . . .’the woman mumbled.
‘You don’t like him? You think he’s a bad man?’ said Granny, adjusting her hatpins.
‘No!’
‘Then what’s he ever done to me, that I should hurt him so?’
Agnes had to run to keep up. Nanny Ogg, when roused, could move as though powered by pistons.
‘But we get a lot of priests up here, Nanny!’
‘Not like the Omnians!’ snapped Nanny. ‘We had ’em up here last year. A couple of ’em knocked at my door!’
‘Well, that is what a door is f-‘
‘And they shoved a leaflet under it saying “Repent!”‘ Nanny Ogg went on. ‘Repent? Me? Cheek! I can’t start repenting at my time of life. I’d never get any work done. Anyway,’ she added, ‘I ain’t sorry for most of it.’
‘You’re getting a bit excited, I think-‘
‘They set fire to people!’ said Nanny.
‘I think I read somewhere that they used to, yes,’ said Agnes, panting with the effort of keeping up. ‘But that was a long time ago, Nanny! The ones I saw in Ankh-Morpork just handed out leaflets and preached in a big tent and sang rather dreary songs-‘
‘Hah! The leopard does not change his shorts, my girl!’
They ran along a corridor and out from behind a screen into the hubbub of the Great Hall.
‘Knee-deep in nobs,’ said Nanny, craning. ‘Ah, there’s our Shawn. . .’
Lancre’s standing army was lurking by a pillar, probably in the hope that no one would see him
in his footman’s powdered wig, which had been made for a much bigger footman.
The kingdom didn’t have much of an executive arm of government, and most of its actual hands belonged to Nanny Ogg’s youngest son. Despite the earnest efforts of King Verence, who was quite a forward-looking ruler in a nervous kind of way, the people of Lancre could not be persuaded to accept a democracy at any price and the place had not, regrettably, attracted much in the way of government. A lot of the bits it couldn’t avoid were done by Shawn. He emptied the palace privies, delivered its sparse mail, guarded the walls, operated the Royal Mint, balanced the budget, helped out the gardener in his spare time and, on those occasions these days when it was felt necessary to man the borders, and Verence felt that yellow and black striped poles did give a country such a professional look, he stamped passports, or at a pinch any other pieces of paper the visitor could produce, such as the back of an envelope, with a stamp he’d carved quite nicely out of half a potato. He took it all very seriously. At times like this, he buttled when Spriggins the butler was not on duty, or if an extra hand was needed he footed as well.
‘Evening, our Shawn,’ said Nanny Ogg. ‘I see you’ve got that dead lamb on your head again.’
‘Aoow, Mum,’ said Shawn, trying to adjust the wig.
‘Where’s this priest that’s doing the Naming?’ said Nanny.
‘What, Mum? Dunno, Mum. I stopped shouting out the names half an hour ago and got on to serving the bits of cheese on sticks – aoow, Mum, you shouldn’t take that many, Mum!'[3]
Nanny Ogg sucked the cocktail goodies off four sticks in one easy movement, and looked speculatively at the throng.