Equal Rites Read Online Free PDF

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    “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, Granny.”
    Granny stiffened, and looked at the fireback. It was a rather nice one Smith had cast for her, years ago, with an owl-and-bat motif. Currently, though, she wasn’t interested in the design.
    “Oh yes?” she said, her voice dead-level. “You know of a better way, do you?”
    “You could magic it alight.”
    Granny paid great attention to arranging bits of twig on the reluctant flames.
    “How would I do that, pray?” she said, apparently addressing her remarks to the fireback.
    “Er,” said Esk, “I…I can’t remember. But you must know anyway, don’t you? Everyone knows you can do magic.”
    “There’s magic,” said Granny, “and then again, there’s magic. The important thing, my girl, is to know what magic is for and what it isn’t for. And you can take it from me, it was never intended for lighting fires, you can be absolutely certain of that. If the Creator had meant us to use magic for lighting fires, then he wouldn’t have given us—er, matches.”
    “But could you light a fire with magic?” said Esk, as Granny slung an ancient black kettle on its hook. “I mean, if you wanted to. If it was allowed.”
    “Maybe,” said Granny, who couldn’t: fire had no mind, it wasn’t alive, and they were two of the three reasons.
    “You could light it much better.”
    “If a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing badly,” said Granny, fleeing into aphorisms, the last refuge of an adult under siege.
    “Yes, but—”
    “But me no buts.”
    Granny rummaged in a dark wooden box on the dresser. She prided herself on her unrivaled knowledge of the properties of Ramtops herbage—none knew better than she the many uses of Earwort, Maiden’s Wish and Love-Lies-Oozing—but there were times when she had to resort to her small stock of jealously traded and carefully hoarded medicines from Forn Parts (which as far as she was concerned was anywhere farther than a day’s journey) to achieve the desired effect.
    She shredded some dry red leaves into a mug, topped it up with honey and hot water from the kettle, and pushed it into Esk’s hands. Then she put a large round stone under the grate—later on, wrapped in a scrap of blanket, it would make a bedwarmer—and, with a stern injunction to the girl not to stir from the chair, went out into the scullery.
    Esk drummed her heels on the chair legs and sipped the drink. It had a strange, peppery taste. She wondered what it was. She’d tasted Granny’s brews before, of course, with a greater or lesser amount of honey in them depending on whether she thought you were making too much of a fuss, and Esk knew that she was famous throughout the mountains for special potions for illnesses that her mother—and some young women too, once in a while—just hinted at with raised eyebrows and lowered voices…
    When Granny came back she was asleep. She didn’t remember being put to bed, or Granny bolting the windows.
    Granny Weatherwax went back downstairs and pulled her rocking chair closer