Free Equal Rites by Terry Pratchett Page A

of lava. She jerked back as another cloud of superheated steam mushroomed up.
    “They say there’s dwarf mines under the Ramtops,” she said inconsequentially. “My, but them little buggers is in for a surprise.”
    She prodded the little puddle of cooling iron where the kettle had been, and added, “Shame about the fireback. It had owls on it, you know.”
    She patted her singed hair gingerly with a shaking hand. “I think this calls for a nice cup of, a nice cup of cold water.”
    Esk sat looking in wonder at her hand.
    “That was real magic.” she said at last, “And I did it.”
    “ One type of real magic,” corrected Granny. “Don’t forget that. And you don’t want to do that all the time, neither. If it’s in you, you’ve got to learn to control it.”
    “Can you teach me?”
    “Me? No!”
    “How can I learn if no one will teach me?”
    “You’ve got to go where they can. Wizard school.”
    “But you said—”
    Granny paused in the act of filling a jug from the water bucket.
    “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