The Wit & Wisdom of Discworld - By Terry Pratchett Page 0,60

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Sometimes witches have to be the ones that make the difficult decisions for people. Life and death. Choosing between saving a mother or her new-born son.

‘You got to come to Mrs Ivy and her baby missus!’

‘I thought old Mrs Patternoster was seeing to her,’ said Granny, ramming her hatpins into place with the urgency of a warrior preparing for sudden battle.

‘She says it’s all gone wrong miss!’

…

Slice was perched along the sides of a cleft in the mountains that couldn’t be dignified by the name of valley. In the moonlight Granny saw the pale upturned face waiting in the shadows of the garden as she came in to land.

‘Evening, Mr Ivy’ she said, leaping off. ‘Upstairs, is she?’

‘In the barn,’ said Ivy flatly. ‘The cow kicked her … hard.’

Granny’s expression stayed impassive.

‘We shall see,’ she said, ‘what may be done.’

In the barn, one look at Mrs Patternoster’s face told her how little that might now be.

‘It’s bad,’ she whispered, as Granny looked at the moaning figure on the straw. ‘I reckon we’ll lose both of them … or maybe just one …’

There was, if you were listening for it, just the suggestion of a question in that sentence. Granny focused her mind.

‘It’s a boy’ she said.

Mrs Patternoster didn’t bother to wonder how Granny knew, but her expression indicated that a little more weight had been added to a burden.

‘I’d better go and put it to John Ivy, then,’ she said.

She’d barely moved before Granny Weatherwax’s hand locked on her arm.

‘He’s no part in this,’ she said.

‘But after all, he is the—’

‘He’s no part in this.’

Mrs Patternoster looked into the blue stare and knew two things. One was that Mr Ivy had no part in this, and the other was that anything that happened in this barn was never, ever, going to be mentioned again.

‘I think I can bring ‘em to mind,’ said Granny, letting go and rolling up her sleeves. ‘Pleasant couple, as I recall. He’s a good husband, by all accounts.’ She poured warm water from its jug into the bowl that the midwife had set up on a manger.

Mrs Patternoster nodded.

‘Of course, it’s difficult for a man working these steep lands alone,’ Granny went on, washing her hands. Mrs Patternoster nodded again, mournfully.

‘Well, I reckon you should take him into the cottage, Mrs Patternoster, and make him a cup of tea,’ Granny commanded. ‘You can tell him I’m doing all I can.’

This time the midwife nodded gratefully.

When she had fled, Granny laid a hand on Mrs Ivy’s damp forehead.

‘Well now, Florence Ivy,’ she said, ‘let us see what might be done. But first of all … no pain …’

INDEED.

Granny didn’t bother to turn round.

‘I thought you’d be here,’ she said, as she knelt down in the straw.

WHERE ELSE? said Death.

‘Do you know who you’re here for?’

THAT IS NOT MY CHOICE. ON THE VERY EDGE YOU WILL ALWAYS FIND SOME UNCERTAINTY.

Granny felt the words in her head for several seconds, like little melting cubes of ice. On the very, very edge, then, there had to be … judgement.

‘There’s too much damage here,’ she said, at last. ‘Too much.’

A few minutes later she felt the life stream past her. Death had the decency to leave without a word.

When Mrs Patternoster tremulously knocked on the door and pushed it open, Granny was in the cow’s stall. The midwife saw her stand up, holding a piece of thorn.

‘Been in the beast’s leg all day’ she said. ‘No wonder it was fretful. Try and make sure he doesn’t kill the cow, you understand? They’ll need it.’

Mrs Patternoster glanced down at the rolled-up blanket in the straw. Granny had tactfully placed it out of sight of Mrs Ivy, who was sleeping now.

‘I’ll tell him,’ said Granny, brushing off her dress. ‘As for her, well, she’s strong and young and you know what to do. You keep an eye on her, and me or Nanny Ogg will drop in when we can.’

It was doubtful that anyone in Slice would defy Granny Weatherwax, but Granny saw the faintest grey shadow of disapproval in the midwife’s expression.

‘You still reckon I should’ve asked Mr Ivy?’ she said.

‘That’s what I would have done …’ the woman mumbled.

‘You don’t like him? You think he’s a bad man?’ said Granny, adjusting her hatpins.

‘No!’

‘Then what’s he ever done to me, that I should hurt him so?’

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The people of Lancre wouldn’t dream of living in anything other than a monarchy. They’d done so for thousands of years and