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“Not right now,” she admitted. “But you just give me time -”
“All right, all right. Anyway, I've got things to do, wizards to bury, you know how it is.”
Smith took a spade from beside the back door and hesitated.
“Granny.”
“What?”
“Do you know how wizards like to be buried?”
“Yes! ”
“Well, how?”
Granny Weatherwax paused at the bottom of the stairs.
“Reluctantly.”
Later, night fell gently as the last of the world's slow light flowed out of the valley, and a pale, rain-washed moon shone down in a night studded with stars. And in a shadowy orchard behind the forge there was the occasional clink of a spade or a muffled curse.
In the cradle upstairs the world's first female wizard dreamed of nothing much.
The white cat lay half-asleep on its private ledge near the furnace. The only sound in the warm dark forge was the crackle of the coals as they settled down under the ash.
The staff stood in the corner, where it wanted to be, wrapped in shadows that were slightly blacker than shadows normally are.
Time passed, which, basically, is its job.
There was a faint tinkle, and a swish of air. After a while the cat sat up and watched with interest.
Dawn came. Up here in the Ramtops dawn was always impressive, especially when a storm had cleared the air. The valley occupied by Bad Ass overlooked a panorama of lesser mountains and foothills, coloured purple and orange in the early morning light that flowed gently over them (because light travels at a dilatory pace in the Disc's vast magical field) and far off the great plains were still a puddle of shadows. Even further off the sea gave an occasional distant sparkle.
In fact, from here you could see right to the edge of the world.
That wasn't poetic imagery but plain fact, since the world was quite definitely flat and was, furthermore, known to be carried through space on the backs of four elephants that in turn stood on the shell of Great A'Tuin, the Great Sky Turtle.
Back down there in Bad Ass the village is waking up. The smith has just gone into the forge and found it tidier than it has been for the last hundred years, with all the tools back in their right places, the floor swept and a new fire laid in the furnace. He is sitting on the anvil, which has been moved right across the room, and is watching the staff and is trying to think.
Nothing much happened for seven years, except that one of the apple trees in the smithy orchard grew perceptibly taller than the others and was frequently climbed by a small girl with brown hair, a gap in her front teeth, and the sort of features that promised to become, if not beautiful, then at least attractively interesting.
She was named Eskarina, for no particular reason other than that her mother liked the sound of the word, and although Granny Weatherwax kept a careful watch on her she failed to spot any signs of magic whatsoever. It was true that the girl spent more time climbing trees and running around shouting than little girls normally did, but a girl with four older brothers still at home can be excused a lot of things. In fact, the witch began to relax and started to think the magic had not taken hold after all.
But magic has a habit of lying low, like a rake in the grass.
Winter came round again, and it was a bad one. The clouds hung around the Ramtops like big fat sheep, filling the gulleys with snow and turning the forests into silent, gloomy caverns. The high passes were closed and the caravans wouldn't come again until spring. Bad Ass became a little island of heat and light.
Over breakfast Esk's mother said: “I'm worried about Granny Weatherwax. She hasn't been around lately.”
Smith looked at her over his porridge spoon.
“I'm not complaining,” he said. “She -”
“She's got a long nose,” said Esk.
Her parents glared at her.
“There's no call to make that kind of remark,” said her mother sternly.
