Equal Rites

tree-trunk.
    There was silence.
    Granny pushed her way between the snow-covered branches.
    She could see that the snow was flattened in a white circle. A few wolves lay at its edges, either dead or wisely deciding to make no move.
    The staff stood upright in the snow and Granny got the feeling it was turning to face her as she walked carefully past it.
    There was also a small heap in the center of the circle, curled tightly up inside itself. Granny knelt down with some effort and reached out gently.
    The staff moved. It was little more than a tremble, but her hand stopped just before it touched Esk’s shoulder. Granny glared up at the wooden carvings, and dared it to move again.
    The air thickened. Then the staff seemed to back away while not moving, while at the same time something quite indefinable made it absolutely clear to the old witch that as far as the staff was concerned this wasn’t a defeat, it was merely a tactical consideration, and it wouldn’t like her to think she had won in any way, because she hadn’t.
    Esk gave a shudder. Granny patted her vaguely.
    “It’s me, little one. It’s only old Granny.”
    The hump didn’t uncurl.
    Granny bit her lip. She was never quite certain about children, thinking of them—when she thought about them at all—as coming somewhere between animals and people. She understood babies. You put milk in one end and kept the other end as clean as possible. Adults were even easier, because they did the feeding and cleaning themselves. But in between was a world of experience that she had never really inquired about. As far as she was aware, you just tried to stop them catching anything fatal and hoped that it would all turn out all right.
    Granny, in fact, was at a loss, but she knew she had to do something.
    “Didda nasty wolfie fwiten us, den?” she hazarded.
    For quite the wrong reasons, this seemed to work. From the depths of the ball a muffled voice said: “I am eight, you know.”
    “People who are eight don’t curl up in the middle of the snow,” said Granny, feeling her way through the intricacies of adult-child conversation.
    The ball didn’t answer.
    “I’ve probably got some milk and biscuits at home,” Granny ventured.
    There was no perceptible effect.
    “Eskarina Smith, if you don’t behave this minute I will give you such a smack!”
    Esk poked her head out cautiously.
    “There’s no need to be like that,” she said.
    When Smith reached the cottage Granny had just arrived, leading Esk by the hand. The boys peered around from behind him.
    “Um,” said Smith, not quite aware of how to begin a conversation with someone who was supposed to be dead. “They, um, told me you were—ill.” He turned and glared at his sons.
    “I was just having a rest and I must have dozed off. I sleeps very sound.”
    “Yes,” said Smith, uncertainly. “Well. All’s well, then. What’s up with Esk?”
    “She took a bit of a fright,” said Granny, squeezing the girl’s hand. “Shadows and whatnot. She needs a good warm. I was going to put her in my bed, she’s a bit mazed, if that’s all right with you.”
    Smith wasn’t absolutely sure that it was all right with him. But he was quite sure that his wife, like every other woman in the village, held Granny Weatherwax in solemn regard, even in awe, and that if he started to object he would rapidly get out of his depth.
    “Fine, fine,” he said, “if it’s no trouble. I’ll send along for her in the morning, shall I?”
    “That’s right,” said Granny. “I’d invite you in, but there’s me without a fire—”
    “No, no, that’s all right,” said Smith hurriedly. “I’ve got my supper waiting. Drying up,” he added, looking down at Gulta, who opened his mouth to say something and wisely thought better of it.
    When they had gone, with the sound of the two boys’ protests ringing out among the trees, Granny opened the door, pushed Esk inside, and bolted it behind them. She took a couple of candles from her store above the dresser and lit them. Then she pulled some old but serviceable wool blankets, still smelling of anti-moth herbs, from an old chest, wrapped Esk in them and sat her in the rocking chair.
    She got down on her knees, to an accompaniment of clicks and grunts, and started to lay the fire. It was a complicated business involving dry fungus punk, wood shavings, bits of split twig and much puffing and swearing.
    Esk said: “You don’t have to do it like that,