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The owl broke out of the forest and skimmed across the rooftops of the village, alighting in a shower of snow on the biggest apple tree in Smith's orchard. It was heavy with mistletoe.
She knew she was right as soon as her claws touched the bark. The tree resented her, she could feel it trying to push her away.
I'm not going, she thought.
In the silence of the night the tree said, Bully me, then, just because I'm a tree. Typical woman.
At least you're useful now, thought Granny. Better a tree than a wizard, eh?
It's not such a bad life, thought the tree. Sun. Fresh air. Time to think. Bees, too, in the spring.
There was something lascivious about the way the tree said “bees” that quite put Granny, who had several hives, off the idea of honey. It was like being reminded that eggs were unborn chickens.
I've come about the girl, Esk, she hissed.
A promising child, thought the tree, I'm watching her with interest. She likes apples, too.
You beast, said Granny, shocked.
What did I say? Pardon me for not breathing, I'm sure.
Granny sidled closer to the trunk.
You must let her go, she thought. The magic is starting to come through.
Already? I'm impressed, said the tree.
It's the wrong sort of magic!, screeched Granny. It's wizard magic, not women's magic! She doesn't know what it is yet, but it killed a dozen wolves tonight!
Great! said the tree. Granny hooted with rage.
Great? Supposing she had been arguing with her brothers, and lost her temper, eh?
The tree shrugged. Snowflakes cascaded from its branches.
Then you must train her, it said.
Train? What do I know from training wizards!
Then send her to university.
She's female!, hooted Granny, bouncing up and down on her branch.
Well? Who says women can't be wizards?
Granny hesitated. The tree might as well have asked why fish couldn't be birds. She drew a deep breath, and started to speak. And stopped. She knew a cutting, incisive, withering and above all a self-evident answer existed. It was just that, to her extreme annoyance, she couldn't quite bring it to mind.
Women have never been wizards. It's against nature. You might as well say that witches can be men.
If you define a witch as one who worships the pancreative urge, that is, venerates the basic - the tree began, and continued for several minutes. Granny Weatherwax listened in impatient annoyance to phrases like Mother Goddesses and primitive moon worship and told herself that she was well aware of what being a witch was all about, it was about herbs and curses and flying around of nights and generally keeping on the right side of tradition, and it certainly didn't involve mixing with goddesses, mothers or otherwise, who apparently got up to some very questionable tricks. And when the tree started talking about dancing naked she tried not to listen, because although she was aware that somewhere under her complicated strata of vests and petticoats there was some skin, that didn't mean to say she approved of it.
The tree finished its monologue.
Granny waited until she was quite sure that it wasn't going to add anything, and said, That's witchcraft, is it?
Its theoretical basis, yes.
You wizards certainly get some funny ideas.
