Ridcully riposted with, ‘Oh yes, it is!’ Rules were for other people. Not for him. Nor, he thought with a pang, had they been for Esme Weatherwax . . . ‘How long have you been working for the University, young man?’ he boomed at Stibbons. ‘Dissembling is our stock in trade. Now I am going to get on my broomstick, Mr Stibbons, and I will leave the place in your very capable hands.’
And in that . . . other world, that parasite with its evil little hooks in the gateways of stone, an elf was hatching his plans. Plotting to seize Fairyland from the control of a Queen who had never fully recovered her powers after her humiliating defeat at the hands of a young girl named Tiffany Aching. Plotting to pounce, to spring through a gateway that – for a time, at least – would be gossamer-thin. For a powerful hag no longer stood in their way. And those in that world would be vulnerable.
The Lord Peaseblossom’s eyes gleamed and his mind filled with glorious images of victims, of the pleasures of cruelty, the splendours of a land where the elves could toy once more with new playthings.
When the moment was right . . .
fn1 She did not know it, but a keen young philosopher in Ephebe had pondered exactly that same conundrum, until he was found one morning – most of him, anyway – surrounded by a number of purring, and very well fed, cats. No one had seemed keen to continue his experiments after that.
fn2 And its meals. It’s amazing how a night as an owl, snacking on voles, can really leave a nasty taste in your mouth.
fn3 She hadn’t ever needed to. Granny Weatherwax was like the prow of a ship. Seas parted when she turned up.
fn4 Pronounced Ah-wij.
fn5 The only known instance of the Feegles rebuilding a pub they had drunk dry and demolished. The rebuilt version, however, turned out back to front. Complete with a big ripe boil on the neck in question.
fn6 Thus proving that dreams that come true are not always the right dreams. Does wearing a glass slipper lead to a comfortable life? If everything you touch turns into marshmallows, won’t that make things a bit . . . sticky?
CHAPTER 4
A Farewell – and a Welcome
GETTING GRANNY WEATHERWAX’S corpse down the winding stair with its tiny little steps in the tiny little cottage the following morning was not helped by the big jug of cider which Nanny Ogg was emptying speedily, but nevertheless they got it done without a bump.
They laid Granny’s body carefully in the wicker casket, and Tiffany went out to the barn to fetch the wheelbarrow and shovels while Nanny Ogg caught her breath. Then, together, they gently lifted the basket into the wheelbarrow, and placed the shovels on either side of her.
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.