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Tiffany picked up the handles of the barrow. ‘Ye stay here now, Rob,’ she said to the Feegle as he and his little band appeared from their varied hiding places and lined up behind her. ‘This is a hag thing, ye ken. Ye cannot help me.’
Rob Anybody shuffled his feet. ‘But ye are oor hag, and ye ken that Jeannie—’ he began.
‘Rob Anybody.’ Tiffany’s steely gaze pinned him to the ground. ‘Ye remember the chief hag? Granny Weatherwax? Do ye want her shade to come back and . . . tell ye what tae do for ever and ever?’ There was a group moan and Daft Wullie backed away, whimpering. ‘Then understand this: this is something we hags must do by ourselves.’ She turned to Nanny Ogg, resolute. ‘Where are we going, Nanny?’
‘Esme marked a spot in the woods, Tiff, where she wanted to be planted,’ Nanny replied. ‘Follow me, I know where it is.’
Granny Weatherwax’s garden was cheek by jowl with the woodland beyond, but the journey felt a long way to Tiffany before they arrived at the heart of the forest where a stick was pushed into the ground, a red ribbon tied to the top of it.
Nanny passed Tiffany a shovel and the two of them started digging in the cool early morning air. It was hard work, but Granny had chosen her place well and the soil was soft and friable.
The hole finally dug – mostly, it has to be said, by Tiffany – Nanny Ogg, sweating cobs (according to her), rested on the handle of her shovel and took a swig from her flagon as Tiffany brought the wheelbarrow over. They laid the wicker basket gently in the hole and then stood back for a moment.
Without a word being said, together, solemnly, they bowed to Granny’s grave. And then they picked up the shovels again and started to fill it back in. Ker-thunk! Ker-thunk! The earth built up over the wicker until all that could be seen was soil, and Tiffany watched it flow in until the last crumb had stopped moving.
As they smoothed the fresh mound of earth, Nanny told Tiffany that Granny had said she wanted no urns, no shrines and definitely no gravestone.
‘Surely there should be a stone,’ said Tiffany. ‘You know how badgers and mice and other creatures can lift the earth. Even though we know the bones are not her, I for one would want to be sure that nothing is dug up until . . .’ She hesitated.
‘The ends of time?’ said Nanny. ‘Look, Tiff, Esme tol’ me to say, if you wants to see Esmerelda Weatherwax, then just you look around. She is here. Us witches don’t mourn for very long. We are satisfied with happy memories – they’re there to be cherished.’
The memory of Granny Aching suddenly shone in Tiffany’s mind. Her own granny had been no witch – though Weatherwax had been very interested in hearing about her – but when Granny Aching had died, her shepherding hut had been burned and her bones had gone down into the hills, six feet deep in the chalk. Then the turf had been put back with the spot marked only by the iron wheels of the hut. But it was a sacred spot now, a place for memories. And not only for Tiffany. No shepherd ever passed without a glance at the skies and a thought for Granny Aching, who had tramped those hills night after night, her light zigzagging in the darkness. Her nod of approval had meant the world on the Chalk.
This spot in the woods, Tiffany realized, would be the same. Blessed. It had been a nice day for it, she thought, if there ever was such a thing as a good day to die, a good day to be buried.
And now the birds were singing overhead, and there was a soft rustling in the undergrowth, and all the sounds of the forest which showed that life was still being lived blended with the souls of the dead in a woodland requiem.
The whole forest now sang for Granny Weatherwax.
Tiffany saw a fox sidle up, bow and then run away because a wild boar had arrived, with its family of piglets. Then there was a badger, paying no heed to those who had come earlier, and it remained, and Tiffany was astounded when creature after creature settled down near the grave and sat there as if they were domestic pets.
Where is Granny now? Tiffany wondered. Could a part of her still be . . . here? She jumped as something touched her on the shoulder; but it was just a leaf. Then, deep inside, she knew the answer to her question: Where is Granny Weatherwax?
It was: She is here – and everywhere.
To Tiffany’s surprise, Nanny Ogg was weeping gently. Nanny took another swig from her flagon and wiped her eyes. ‘Cryin’ helps some
times,’ she said. ‘No shame in tears for them as you’ve loved. Sometimes I remember one of my husbands and shed a tear or two. The memories’re there to be treasured, and it’s no good to get morbid-like about it.’
‘How many husbands have you actually had, Nanny?’ asked Tiffany.
Nanny appeared to be counting. ‘Three of my own, and let’s just say I’ve run out of fingers on the rest, as it were.’ But she was smiling now, perhaps remembering a very treasured husband, and then, bouncing back from the past, she was suddenly her normal cheerful self again. ‘Come on, Tiff,’ she said, ‘let’s go back to your cottage. Like I always says, a decent wake don’t happen by itself.’
As they made their way back to the cottage, Tiffany asked Nanny the question which had been burning in her mind. ‘What do you think will happen next?’
Nanny looked at Tiffany. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, Granny wasn’t exactly the head witch . . . except that most people thought she was . . .’
‘There ain’t no such thing as a head witch, Tiff, you know that.’
‘Yes, but . . . if Granny’s not here any more, do you become the not-head-witch?’
‘Me?’ Nanny Ogg laughed. ‘Oh no, dear, I’ve had a very good life, me, lots of children, lots of men, lots of fun and, yes, as witches go, I’m pretty good. But I never thought of steppin’ into Esme’s shoes. Ever.’
‘Well, who is, then? Someone’s got to.’
Nanny Ogg scowled and said, ‘Granny never said as she was better than others. She just got on with it and showed ’em and people worked it out for themselves. You mark my words, the senior witches will get together soon enough to talk about this, but I know who Granny would choose – and it’s as I would too.’ She stopped and looked serious for a moment. ‘It’s you, Tiff. Esme’s left you her cottage. But more’n that. You must step into the shoes of Granny Weatherwax or else’n someone less qualified will try an’ do it!’
