Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth

In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.

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What Witches Are For: A Tale of Granny Weatherwax

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It was past midnight when the boy knocked on Granny Weatherwax's door.

“Come quick,” said the boy. “The cow kicked Mrs. Brown, and she's gone into labor early.”

“What about the midwife?” asked Granny.

“It's the midwife that sent me,” said the boy.

Granny was on her broom so fast that she didn't even stop to close the door behind her.

She found the midwife in the barn beside Mrs. Brown. The straw was bloody. “Where's Mr. Brown?” Granny asked.

“In the house, boiling water,” said the midwife.

“Good,” said Granny, and crouched down to take a look.

Her face was hard when she looked up some time later. “You thinkin' what I thinkin'?” she asked.

“That we can save one, but not the other,” said the midwife.

Granny nodded, then frowned.

“Where you goin'?”

“To ask Mr. Brown what we should do,” said the midwife. When she saw Granny's look, she took a step backward.

When Granny spoke, her whisper was loud as thunder.

“Now what did that man ever do to you that you would lay on him a decision where any choice he makes will be the wrong one?” she hissed.

“So what are we going to do?” the midwife hazarded, after a time.

Granny Weatherwax turned back to Mrs. Brown. “A farm's too big an operation for one,” she said.

“But Mr. Brown has always wanted an heir to leave the farm to,” said the midwife. You can't fault her courage, at least.

“You go back to that house and you tell Mr. Brown that I'm doing what I can,” said Granny Weatherwax over her shoulder.

“And don't let him kill the cow: they'll need it,” she added, as the midwife went out.

Some decisions are so terrible that no one should ever have to make them.

That's what witches are for.

 

 

 

Retold from Terry Pratchett

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Poet, scholar and storyteller Steven Posch was raised in the hardwood forests of western Pennsylvania by white-tailed deer. (That's the story, anyway.) He emigrated to Paganistan in 1979 and by sheer dint of personality has become one of Lake Country's foremost men-in-black. He is current keeper of the Minnesota Ooser.

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