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“Because witches have got to be different, and that's part of the secret,” said Granny.
They sat on a bleached bench in front of the rimward wall of the cottage. In front of them the Herbs were already a foot high, a sinister collection of pale green leaves.
“Right,” said Granny, settling herself down. “You know the hat on the hook by the door? Go and fetch it.”
Esk obediently went inside and unhooked Granny's hat. It was tall, pointed and, of course, black.
Granny turned it over in her hands and regarded it carefully.
“Inside this hat,” she said solemnly, “is one of the secrets of witchcraft. If you cannot tell me what it is, then I might as well teach you no more, because once you learn the secret of the hat there is no going back. Tell me what you know about the hat.”
“Can I hold it?”
“Be my guest.”
Esk peered inside the hat. There was some wire stiffening to give it a shape, and a couple of hatpins. That was all.
There was nothing particularly strange about it, except that no one in the village had one like it. But that didn't make it magical. Esk bit her lip; she had a vision of herself being sent home in disgrace.
It didn't feel strange, and there were no hidden pockets. It was just a typical witch's hat. Granny always wore it when she went into the village, but in the forest she just wore a leather hood.
She tried to recall the bits of lessons that Granny grudgingly doled out. It isn't what you know, it's what other people don't know. Magic can be something right in the wrong place, or something wrong in the right place. It can be
Granny always wore it to the village. And the big black cloak, which certainly wasn't magical, because for most of the winter it had been a goat blanket and Granny washed it in the spring.
Esk began to feel the shape of the answer and she didn't like it much. It was like a lot of Granny's answers. Just a word trick. She just said things you knew all the time, but in a different way so they sounded important.
“I think I know,” she said at last.
“Out with it, then.”
“It's in sort of two parts.”
“Well?”
“It's a witch's hat because you wear it. But you're a witch because you wear the hat. Um.”
“So -”prompted Granny.
“So people see you coming in the hat and the cloak and they know you're a witch and that's why your magic works?” said Esk.
“That's right,” said Granny. “It's called headology.” She tapped her silver hair, which was drawn into a tight bun that could crack rocks.
“But it's not real!” Esk protested. “That's not magic, it's it's -”
“Listen,” said Granny, “If you give someone a bottle of red jollop for their wind it may work, right, but if you want it to work for sure then you let their mind make it work for them. Tell 'em it's moonbeams bottled in fairy wine or something. Mumble over it a bit. It's the same with cursing.”
“Cursing?” said Esk, weakly.
“Aye, cursing, my girl, and no need to look so shocked! You'll curse, when the need comes. When you're alone, and there's no help to hand, and -”
She hesitated and, uncomfortably aware of Esk's questioning eyes, finished lamely: “- and people aren't showing respect. Make it loud, make it complicated, make it long, and make it up if you have to, but it'll work all right. Next day, when they hit their thumb or they fall off a ladder or their dog drops dead, they'll remember you. They'll behave better next time.”
“But it still doesn't seem like magic,” said Esk, scuffing the dust with her feet.
“I saved a man's life once,” said Granny. “Special medicine, twice a day. Boiled water with a bit of berry juice in it. Told him I'd bought it from the dwarves. That's the biggest part of doct'rin, really. Most people'll get over most things if they put their minds to it, you just have to give them an interest.”
She patted Esk's hand as nicely as possible. “You're a bit young for this,” she said, “but as you grow older you'll find most people don't set foot outside their own heads much. You too,” she added gnomically.
