Yecannot 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 issomething 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 astick 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 shoveland 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 wassoil, 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 onewould 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. Herown 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 forTiffany. 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 todie, 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, withits 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
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 issomething 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 astick 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 shoveland 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 wassoil, 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 onewould 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. Herown 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 forTiffany. 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 todie, 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, withits 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
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