Equal Rites

“Yes, yes,” she snapped, “Never mind what I said, or common sense or anything. Sometimes you just have to go the way things take you, and I reckon you’re going to wizard school one way or the other.”

Esk considered this.

“You mean it’s my destiny?” she said at last.

Granny shrugged. “Something like that. Probably. Who knows?”

That night, long after Esk had been sent to bed, Granny put on her hat, lit a fresh candle, cleared the table, and pulled a small wooden box from its secret hiding place in the dresser. It contained a bottle of ink, an elderly quill pen, and a few sheets of paper.

Granny was not entirely happy when faced with the world of letters. Her eyes protruded, her tongue stuck out, small beads of sweat formed on her forehead, but the pen scratched its way across the page to the accompaniment of the occasional quiet “drat” or “bugger the thing”.

The letter read as follows, although this version lacks the candle-wax, blots, crossings-out and damp patches of the original.

To ther Hed Wizzard,

Unsene Universety,

Greatings, I hop you ar well, I am sending to you won Escarrina Smith, shee hath thee maekings of wizzardery but whot may be ferther dun wyth hyr I knowe not shee is a gode worker and clene about hyr person allso skilled in diuerse arts of thee howse, I will send Monies wyth hyr

May you liv longe and ende youre days in pese,

And oblije, Esmerelder Weatherwaxe (Mss) Wytch.

Granny held it up to the candlelight and considered it critically. It was a good letter. She had got “diuerse” out of the Almanack, which she read every night. It was always predicting “diuerse plagues” and “diuerse ill-fortune”. Granny wasn’t entirely sure what it meant, but it was a damn good word all the same.

She sealed it with candle-wax and put it on the dresser. She could leave it for the carrier to take when she went into the village tomorrow, to see about a new kettle.

* * *

Next morning Granny took some pains over her dress, selecting a black dress with a frog and bat motif, a big velvet cloak, or at least a cloak made of the sort of stuff velvet looks like after thirty years of heavy wear, and the pointed hat of office which was crucified with hatpins.

Their first call was to the stonemason, to order a replacement hearthstone. Then they called on the smith.

It was a long and stormy meeting. Esk wandered out into the orchard and climbed up to her old place in the apple tree while from the house came her father’s shouts, her mother’s wails and long silent pauses which meant that Granny Weatherwax was speaking softly in what Esk thought of as her “just so” voice. The old woman had a flat, measured way of speaking sometimes. It was the kind of voice the Creator had probably used. Whether there was magic in it, or just headology, it ruled out any possibility of argument. It made it clear that whatever it was talking about was exactly how things should be.

The breeze shook the tree gently. Esk sat on a branch idly swinging her legs.

She thought about wizards. They didn’t often come to Bad Ass, but there were a fair number of stories about them. They were wise, she recalled, and usually very old and they did powerful, complex and mysterious magics and almost all of them had beards. They were also, without exception, men.

She was on firmer ground with witches, because she’d trailed off with Granny to visit a couple of villages’ witches farther along the hills, and anyway witches figured largely in Ramtop folklore. Witches were cunning, she recalled, and usually very old, or at least they tried to look old, and they did slightly suspicious, homely and organic magics and some of them had beards. They were also, without exception, women.

There was some fundamental problem in all that which she couldn’t quite resolve. Why wouldn’t…

Cern and Gulta hurtled down the path and came to a pushing, shoving halt under the tree. They peered up at their sister with a mixture of fascination and scorn. Witches and wizards were objects of awe, but sisters weren’t. Somehow, knowing your own sister was learning to be a witch sort of devalued the whole profession.

“You can’t really do spells,” said Cern. “Can you?”

“Course you can’t,” said Gulta. “What’s this stick?”

Esk had left the staff leaning against the tree. Cern prodded it cautiously.

“I don’t want you to touch it,” said Esk hurriedly. “Please. It’s mine.”

Cern normally had all the sensitivity of a ball bearing, but his hand stopped in mid-prod, much to his surprise.

“I didn’t want to anyway,” he muttered to hide his confusion. “It’s only an old stick.”