Sometimes Wisdom Is Hard-Won

Jul 01, 2006 08:28

...and sometimes it just sits around, waiting for you to find it in the funny book you're reading. One of the "funny" things about this guy is that his "funny" books (which are, in fact, often quite hilarious) also contain stuff like these:


p.19

Granny flew high above the roaring treetops, under a half moon.

She distrusted a moon like that. A full moon could only wane, a new moon could only wax, but a half moon, balancing so precariously between light and dark ... well, it could do anything.

Witches always lived on the edges of things. She felt the tingle in her hands. It was not just from the frosty air. There was an edge somewhere. Something was beginning.

OK, the part up to "the edges of things" is mostly just cool. The part after it kind of describes how I feel around the equinoxes. I don't know how (I've talked to some of you about this, I know), but somehow the quality of the sunlight changes near the equinox. It's not always right on the day, and it doesn't happen every equinox, but it does happen. I've no idea what changes; it's not something I can describe, but it's unmistakeable. There's an edge somewhere...
Anyhow, on to the more wisdom-y stuff.

p.19 (Granny has been called to the bedside of a woman in labor)

"Evening, Mr. Ivy," she said. "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. The woman wasn't a witch, but she knew all the practical midwifery that can be picked up in an isolated village, be it from cows, goats, horses or humans.
"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 the burden.
"I'd better go and put it to John Ivy, then," she said.
She 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 Mr.s Ivy's damp forehead.
"Well now, Florence Ivy," she said, "let us see what might be done. But first of all ... no pain ..."
As she moved her head, she caught sight of the moon through the unglazed window. Between the light and the dark ... well, sometimes that's where you had to be.
INDEED.
Granny didn't bother to turn around.
"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.

...

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. If she's up to it, they may need a wet nurse up at the castle, and that may be good for everyone."
It was doubtful that anyone in Slice would defy Granny Weatherwax, but Granny saw the faintest gray shadow of disapproval in the midwife's expression.
"You still reckon I should have 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 hat pins.
"No!"
"Then what's he ever done to me, that I should hurt him so?"

Granny's sitting in her cottage thinking and reminiscing.

p.44
Choices. It was always about choices...
There'd been that man down in Spackle, the one that'd killed those little kids. The people'd sent for her and she'd looked at him and seen the guilt writhing in his head like a red worm, and then she'd taken them to his farm and showed them where to dig, and he'd thrown himself down and asked her for mercy, because he said he'd been drunk and it'd all been done in alcohol.
Her words came back to her. She said, in sobriety: end it in hemp.
And they'd dragged him off and hanged him in a hempen rope and she'd gone to watch because she owed him that much, and he'd cursed, which was unfair because hanging is a clean death, or at least cleaner than the one he'd have got if the villagers had dared defy her, and she'd seen the shadown of Death come for him, and then behind Death came the smaller, brighter figures, and then--
In the darkness, the rocking chair creaked as it thundered back and forth.
The villagers had said justice had been done, and she'd lost patience and told them to go home, then, and pray to whatever gods they believed in that it was never done to them. The smug mask of virtue triumphant could be almost as horrible as the face of wickedness revealed.
She shuddered at the memory. Almost as horrible, but not quite.
The odd thing was, quite a lot of villagers had turned up to his funeral, and there had been mutterings from one or two people on the lines of, yes, well, but overall he wasn't such a bad chap ... and anyway, maybe she made him say it. And she'd got the dark looks.
Supposing there was justice for all, after all? For every unheeded beggar, every harsh word, every neglected duty, every slight ... every choice ...

wisdom, weatherwax

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