Equal Rites

stags, hunting with the foxes, learning the strange dark ways of the moles, hardly spending a night in her own body. But it was getting harder now, especially coming back. Maybe the time would come when she couldn’t get back, maybe the body back home would be so much dead flesh, and maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad way of it, at that.
    This was the sort of thing wizards could never know. If it occurred to them to enter a creature’s mind they’d do it like a thief, not out of wickedness but because it simply wouldn’t occur to them to do it any other way, the daft buggers. And what good would it do to take over an owl’s body? You couldn’t fly, you needed to spend a lifetime learning. But the gentle way was to ride in its mind, steering it as gently as a breeze stirs a leaf.
    The owl stirred, fluttered up on to the little windowsill, and glided silently into the night.
    The clouds had cleared and the thin moon made the mountains gleam. Granny peered out through owl eyes as she sped silently between the ranks of trees. This was the only way to travel, once a body had the way of it! She liked Borrowing birds best of all, using them to explore the high, hidden valleys where no one went, the secret lakes between black cliffs, the tiny walled fields on the scraps of flat ground, tucked on the sheer rock faces, that were the property of hidden and secretive beings. Once she had ridden with the geese that passed over the mountains every spring and autumn, and had got the shock of her life when she nearly went beyond range of returning.
    The owl broke out of the forest and skimmed across the rooftops of the village, alighting in a shower of snow on the biggest apple tree in Smith’s orchard. It was heavy with mistletoe.
    She knew she was right as soon as her claws touched the bark. The tree resented her, she could feel it trying to push her away.
    I’m not going , she thought.
    In the silence of the night the tree said, Bully me, then, just because I’m a tree. Typical woman .
    At least you’re useful now , thought Granny. Better a tree than a wizard, eh?
    It’s not such a bad life , thought the tree. Sun . Fresh air. Time to think. Bees, too, in the spring .
    There was something lascivious about the way the tree said “bees” that quite put Granny, who had several hives, off the idea of honey. It was like being reminded that eggs were unborn chickens.
    I’ve come about the girl, Esk , she hissed.
    A promising child , thought the tree, I’m watching her with interest. She likes apples, too .
    You beast , said Granny, shocked.
    What did I say? Pardon me for not breathing, I’m sure.
    Granny sidled closer to the trunk.
    You must let her go , she thought. The magic is starting to come through .
    Already? I’m impressed , said the tree.
    It’s the wrong sort of magic! screeched Granny. It’s wizard magic, not women’s magic! She doesn’t know what it is yet, but it killed a dozen wolves tonight!
    Great! said the tree. Granny hooted with rage.
    Great? Supposing she had been arguing with her brothers, and lost her temper, eh?
    The tree shrugged. Snowflakes cascaded from its branches.
    Then you must train her , it said.
    Train? What do I know from training wizards!
    Then send her to the University .
    She’s female! hooted Granny, bouncing up and down on her branch.
    Well? Who says women can’t be wizards?
    Granny hesitated. The tree might as well have asked why fish couldn’t be birds. She drew a deep breath, and started to speak. And stopped. She knew a cutting, incisive, withering and above all a self-evident answer existed. It was just that, to her extreme annoyance, she couldn’t quite bring it to mind.
    Women have never been wizards. It’s against nature. You might as well say that witches can be men.
    If you define a witch as one who worships the pancreative urge, that is, venerates the basic —the tree began, and continued for several minutes. Granny Weatherwax listened in impatient annoyance to phrases like Mother Goddesses and primitive moon worship and told herself that she was well aware of what being a witch was all about, it was about herbs and curses and flying around of nights and generally keeping on the right side of tradition, and it certainly didn’t involve mixing with goddesses, mothers or otherwise, who apparently got up to some very questionable tricks. And when the tree started talking about dancing naked she tried not to listen, because although she was aware that somewhere