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Next morning Granny took some pains over her dress, selecting a black dress with a frog and bat motif, a big velvet cloak, or at least a cloak made of the sort of stuff velvet looks like after thirty years of heavy wear, and the pointed hat of office which was crucified with hatpins.
Their first call was to the stonemason, to order a replacement hearthstone. Then they called on the smith.
It was a long and stormy meeting. Esk wandered out into the orchard and climbed up to her old place in the apple tree while from the house came her father's shouts, her mother's wails and long silent pauses which meant that Granny Weatherwax was speaking softly in what Esk thought of as her “just so” voice. The old woman had a flat, measured way of speaking sometimes. It was the kind of voice the Creator had probably used. Whether there was magic in it, or just headology, it ruled out any possibility of argument. It made it clear that whatever it was talking about was exactly how things should be.
The breeze shook the tree gently. Esk sat on a branch idly swinging her legs.
She thought about wizards. They didn't often come to Bad Ass, but there were a fair number of stories about them. They were wise, she recalled, and usually very old and they did powerful, complex and mysterious magics and almost all of them had beards. They were also, without exception, men.
She was on firmer ground with witches, because she'd trailed off with Granny to visit a couple of villages' witches further along the hills, and anyway witches figured largely in Ramtop folklore. Witches were cunning, she recalled, and usually very old, or at least they tried to look old, and they did slightly suspicious, homely and organic magics and some of them had beards. They were also, without exception, women.
There was some fundamental problem in all that which she couldn't quite resolve. Why wouldn't....
Cern and Gulta hurtled down the path and came to a pushing, shoving halt under the tree. They peered up at their sister with a mixture of fascination and scorn. Witches and wizards were objects of awe, but sisters weren't. Somehow, knowing your own sister was learning to be a witch sort of devalued the whole profession.
“You can't really do spells,” said Cern. “Can you?”
“Course you can't,” said Gulta. “What's this stick?”
Esk had left the staff leaning against the tree. Cern prodded it cautiously.
“I don't want you to touch it,” said Esk hurriedly. “Please. It's mine.”
Cern normally had all the sensitivity of a ballbearing, but his hand stopped in mid-prod, much to his surprise.
“I didn't want to anyway,” he muttered to hide his confusion. “It's only an old stick.”
“Is it true you can do spells?” asked Gulta. “We heard Granny say you could.”
“We listened at the door,” added Cern.
“You said I couldn't,” said Esk, airily.
“Well, can you or can't you?” said Gulta, his face reddening.
“Perhaps.”
“You can't!”
Esk looked down at his face. She loved her brothers, when she reminded herself to, in a dutiful sort of way, although she generally remembered them as a collection of loud noises in trousers. But there was something awfully pig-like and unpleasant about the way Gulta was staring up at her, as though she had personally insulted him.
She felt her body start to tingle, and the world suddenly seemed very sharp and clear.
“I can,” she said.
Gulta looked from her to the staff, and his eyes narrowed. He kicked it viciously.
“Old stick!”
He looked, she thought, exactly like a small angry pig.
Cern's screams brought Granny and his parents first to the back door and then running down the cinder path.
Esk was perched in the fork of the apple tree, an expression of dreamy contemplation on her face. Cern was hiding behind the tree, his face a mere rim around a red, tonsil-vibrating bawl.
Gulta was sitting rather bewildered in a pile of clothing that no longer fitted him, wrinkling his snout.
Granny strode up to the tree until her hooked nose was level with Esk's.
