Magrat caught the stick by what she hoped Granny was imagining as the handle, and smiled.
'Certainly. Right. Okay. Um. Begone, foul fiend, unto the blackest pit—'
The head smiled contentedly as the words rolled over it. This was more like it.
It melted back into the waters of the copper like candlewax under a flame. Its last contemptuous comment, almost lost in the swirl, was, 'Run aaaalonggg . . .'
Granny went home alone as the cold pink light of dawn glided across the snow, and let herself into her cottage.
The goats were uneasy in their outhouse. The starlings muttered and rattled their false teeth under the roof. The mice were squeaking behind the kitchen dresser.
She made a pot of tea, conscious that every sound in the kitchen seemed slightly louder than it ought to be. When she dropped the spoon into the sink it sounded like a bell being hit with a hammer.
She always felt uncomfortable after getting involved in organised magic or, as she would put it, out of sorts with herself. She found herself wandering around the place looking for things to do and then forgetting them when they were half-complete. She paced back and forth across the cold flagstones.
It is at times like this that the mind finds the oddest jobs to do in order to avoid its primary purpose, i.e., thinking about things. If anyone had been watching they would have been amazed at the sheer dedication with which Granny tackled such tasks as cleaning the teapot stand, rooting ancient nuts out of the fruit bowl on the dresser, and levering fossilised bread crusts out of the cracks in the flagstones with the back of a teaspoon.
Animals had minds. People had minds, although human minds were vague foggy things. Even insects had minds, little pointy bits of light in the darkness of non-mind.
Granny considered herself something of an expert on minds. She was pretty certain things like countries didn't have minds.
They weren't even alive, for goodness sake. A country was, well, was—
Hold on. Hold on . . . A thought stole gently into Granny's mind and sheepishly tried to attract her attention.
There was a way in which those brooding forests could have a mind. Granny sat up, a piece of antique loaf in her hand, and gazed speculatively at the fireplace. Her mind's eye looked through it, out at the snow-filled aisles of trees. Yes. It had never occurred to her before. Of course, it'd be a mind made up of all the other little minds inside it; plant minds, bird minds, bear minds, even the great slow minds of the trees themselves . . .
She sat down in her rocking chair, which started to rock all by itself.
She'd often thought of the forest as a sprawling creature, but only metterforicaily, as a wizard would put it; drowsy and purring with bumblebees in the summer, roaring and raging in autumn gales, curled in on itself and sleeping in the winter. It occurred to her that in addition to being a collection of other things, the forest was a thing in itself. Alive, only not alive in the way that, say, a shrew was alive.
And much slower.
That would have to be important. How fast did a forest's heart beat? Once a year, maybe. Yes, that sounded about right. Out there the forest was waiting for the brighter sun and longer days that would pump a million gallons of sap several hundred feet into the sky in one great systolic thump too big and loud to be heard.
And it was at about this point that Granny bit her lip.
She'd just thought the word 'systolic', and it certainly wasn't in her vocabulary.
Somebody was inside her head with her.
Some thing.
Had she just thought all those thoughts, or had they been thought through her?
She glared at the floor, trying to keep her ideas to herself. But her mind was being watched as easily as if her head was made of glass.
Granny Weatherwax got to her feet and opened the curtains.
And they were out there on what – in warmer months -was the lawn. And every single one of them was staring at her.
are you going to try?' said Granny. Since they were on Nanny's territory, the choice was entirely up to her.
'I always say you can't go wrong with a good Invocation,' said Nanny. 'Haven't done one for years.'
Granny Weatherwax frowned. Magrat said, 'Oh, but you can't. Not here. You need a cauldron, and a magic sword. And an octogram. And spices, and all sorts of stuff.'
Granny and Nanny exchanged glances.