The other was Greebo deciding that he was as mad as hell and wasn't going to take it any more. He'd been shaken around in the wheely thing and then sat on by Nanny, and he was angry about that because he knew, in a dim, animal way, that scratching Nanny might be the single most stupid thing he could do in the whole world, since no one else was prepared to feed him. This hadn't helped his temper.
Then he'd encountered a dog, which had tried to lick him. He'd scratched and bitten it a few times, but this had had no effect apart from encouraging it to try to be more friendly.
He'd finally found a comfy resting place and had curled up into a ball, and now someone was using him as a cushion-
There wasn't a great deal of noise. The coffin rocked a few times, and then pivoted around.
Greebo sheathed his claws and went back to sleep.
'-burn, with a dear bright light-'
Splash, suck, splash.
'-and I in mine... Om be praised.'
Squelch, splash.
Oats had worked his way though most of the hymns he knew, even the old ones you shouldn't really sing any more but you nevertheless remembered because the words were so good. He sang them loudly and defiantly, to hold back the night and the doubts. They helped take his mind off the weight of Granny Weatherwax. It was amazing how she'd apparently gained in the last mile or so, especially whenever he fell over and she landed on top of him.
He'd lost one of his own boots in a mire. His hat was floating in a pool somewhere. Thorns had ripped his coat to tatters-
He slipped and fell once again as the mud shifted under his feet. Granny rolled off and landed in a clump of sedge.
If Brother Melchio could only see him now...
The wowhawk swooped past and landed on the branch of a dead tree a few yards away. Oats hated the thing. It appeared demonic. It flew even though it surely couldn't see through the hood. Worse, whenever he thought about it, as now, the hooded head turned to fix him with an invisible stare. He took off his other useless shoe, its shiny leather all stained and cracked, and flung it inexpertly.
'Go away, you wicked creature!'
The bird didn't stir. The shoe flew past it.
Then, as he tried to get to his feet, he smelled burning leather.
Two wisps of smoke were curling up from either side of the hood.
Oats reached to his neck for the security of the turtle, and it wasn't there. It had cost him five obols in the Citadel, and it was too late now to reflect that perhaps he shouldn't have hung it from a chain worth a tenth of an obol. It was probably lying in some pool, or buried in some muddy, squelching marsh...
Now the leather burned away, and the yellow glow from the holes was so bright he could barely see the outline of the bird. It turned the dank landscape into lines and shadows, put a golden edge on every tuft of grass and stricken tree - and winked out so quickly that it left Oats's eyes full of purple explosions.
When he'd recovered his breath and his balance, the bird was swooping away down the moor.
He picked up Granny Weatherwax's unconscious body and ran after it.
The track did lead downhill, at least. Mud and bracken slipped under his feet. Rivulets were running from every hole and gully. Half the time it seemed to him that he wasn't walking, merely controlling a slide, bouncing off rocks, slithering through puddles of mud and leaves.
And then there was the castle, seen through a gap in the trees, lit by a flash of lightning. Oats staggered through a clump of thorn bushes, managed to keep upright down a slope of loose boulders, and collapsed on the road with Granny Weatherwax on top of him.
She stirred.
'... holiday from reason... kill them all... can't be havin' with this...' she murmured.
The wind blew a branchful of raindrops on her face, and she opened her eyes. For a moment they seemed to Oats to have red pupils, and then the icy blue gaze focused on him.
'Are we here, then?'
'Yes.'
'What happened to your holy hat?'