Father Thyme

This is a story based on the Discworld, invented by Sir Terry Pratchett. I and many, many others are grateful to him for bringing us his wit, intelligence and humour. I am just borrowing the characters, hoping to provide a little entertainment to those who love the witches of Lancre.

If you like my work, please leave a review. If you don't, please also leave a review, but remember that I am not a professional writer, so be kind! Above all, enjoy the story.

Chapter 1

Mostly, time just passes. Most people don't notice it passing, much like they don't notice trees talking, or rich people ironing. It just happens. Time flows along from Then to Now to Will Be, carrying its flotsam along the sewers of the continuinuinuum. However, every so often, someone flushes the loo.

Mistress Esmerelda Weatherwax was known as Granny to everyone with whom she has a passing acquaintance when they are speaking to her in person, and referred to in whispered tones in somewhat less-than-polite ways (like 'that ole witch' and 'scary goat lady') when people think she is far enough away*, which doesn't happen very often because Granny Weatherwax is not one of life's natural travellers. Not that folk are frightened of Granny, of course, more that there are things that one just doesn't do if one wishes to keep all body parts intact, and in the same general shape when you wake up as they were when you went to bed.

On this perfectly ordinary morning, as the sunlight flowed down the Ramtops like a thick yellow avalanche, Granny had just returned from a particularly unsuccessful herb-gathering outing, and she was Not Happy. In fact, she was Bloody Livid. Someone, of the exceptionally stupid variety, had had the temerity, not to mention a death-defying level of skill and/or luck, to break into her cottage. It looked exactly the same as it had when Granny had left. Pots were still dirty in the sink. The stained teapot was still slightly chipped from when that gust of wind sneaked up on it and blew it over into the fireplace without so much as a how-do-you-do. That little bit of fluff from the last time she'd aired out her unmentionables drawer was still wedged between her favourite old chair what was made by Bestiality Carpenter after Granny cured his old Ma's haemorrhoids, and the carving of a little wooden man she suspected of being cursed but hadn't the heart to throw out as it had cost her two dollars, and that was twenty years ago. When things are exactly the same, all good witches knew that something was definitely Not Right.

Granny stomped loudly out into the garden, narrowly avoiding trampling a flourishing new cutting of Old Man's Trousers, and stared for a long minute at the goats. Well, she thought, at least they were acting normal. Very little bothers a goat, with the possible exception of the village carpenter. No, everything looked alright there. Further on, Granny Weatherwax flung open the privy door with a thud and a triumphant "Ha!" which would have had the Hounds of Hades running away whimpering with their tails between their legs. Unfortunately, the only occupant was a rather surprised badger, which with stoic indifference snuffled its way out into the sunlight.

"So, you bugger, just interested in my cottage, eh?" Granny said, striding back inside and glaring at the offending sameness of it all. "Think you can put one past the silly ole witch, do you?". Walking purposefully into the kitchen, she reached up to the top of a high shelf and took a clear glass bowl, which was normally used for mixing cakes, but could be put to any number of purposes in an emergency. Once, last summer, she had used it to trap a Giant Troll-Eating Spider** before sliding a bit of card underneath and transporting it to the forest, very, very carefully. This time, Granny filled it with water, almost to the rim, and carried it over to the kitchen table. "Let's have a little look, then" said Granny, in a voice that sounded like a Dwarf repair mechanic eyeing up a broken-down broomstick and managing to convey that, whatever was wrong, it would be extremely expensive to fix.

After a wave of one hand and a few muttered words, the top of the water began to swirl in a widdershins manner, and it looked somehow thicker. Another flick of the long fingers, and shapes began to form in the centre of the tiny whirlpool, coalescing into one fuzzy, rather short and dumpy figure. Granny Weatherwax sat up straight, and instantly the water regained its former innocuous appearance. There was a short silence, then a screech so loud that the goats chewed a tiny bit slower for an infinitesimal fraction of a second.

"GYTHA OGG YOU MEDDLIN' OLE BIDDY COME OUT WHERE I CAN SEE YOU RIGHT NOW. AND NO FUNNY BUSINESS," Granny added, glaring in every possible direction and scaring a few of the more sensitive houseplants. When nothing happened, she was momentarily puzzled. Everyone, even other witches, came when Granny Weatherwax called. Cursing under her breath, Granny banged through the front door and marched with intent down the narrow forest track, where small furry creatures scrabbled furiously in order to not be there anymore.

The sewers in Lancre twist and turn like a river, with shallows and rapids and tributaries and offshoots, mainly because the sewer is a river. To Lancre townspeople, sanitation is something that happens in foreign parts. Unfortunately, unlike in more hygienic and less magical places, this is also how Time behaves, with the added variety of sometimes flowing uphill just for a laugh. You could chuck a banana peel in on Friday, and have it turn up to lunch last Tuesday***. At this particular non-specific section in Time, the flow was even more unconventional than usual. A wizard would have explained it with diagrams and flow charts with dozens of complicated symbols and polysyllabic words understood only by other wizards. To a witch, it is just Something That Happens That Is Rather a Nuisance.

Granny Weatherwax's broomstick puttered across the Lancre's Main Square at approximately head-height compared to the human population. Heads turned towards the sound, ducked, then quickly looked very deliberately in any other direction. Nobody wanted to be caught looking at a witch who has that expression on her face, especially not when it is accompanied by those words.

"GYTHA OGG YOU JUST WAIT 'TIL I GET MY HANDS ON YOU, YOU WILL NOT KNOW WHAT HAS HIT YOU WELL YOU WILL 'CAUSE IT'LL BE ME YOU DAFT OLE YOU-KNOWS-WHAT." Most of the people of Lancre had seen Granny in a bad mood, because that was generally her default mood, but this went right through bad mood and out the other side, and the general population had an astute sense of self-preservation where Granny Weatherwax was concerned.

Dismounting with as much grace as was possible from a wobbly old broomstick, Granny barged through the door of a large townhouse, swept past several bewildered and worried-looking members of the Ogg clan and with as much strength as she could muster, threw open the door to Nanny Ogg's kitchen. The door flew off its hinges and collapsed in a sorry heap several feet away.

"Ooh, wotcher, Esme, you're just in time to try my new baked eggs an' liver recipe. 'Ere, have a bit, it's got brandy-". Nanny stopped, recognising That Look. "Esme-"

"Don't you Esme me, Gytha Ogg," snapped Granny Weatherwax. "Tell me what you was doin' in my cottage this mornin' or you'll be wearing' your liver on the outside."

Nanny's face wrinkled even more than usual, and rearranged into something resembling a puzzled rotten apple. "Esme, I never bin in your cottage. Well, I has, of course, but not today, like. Tell 'er, Shawn, haven't I bin 'ere all mornin'?"

Shawn Ogg, Nanny's youngest son, was not blessed with great insight or intelligence, but a lifetime of being around witches taught you a thing or two about prudence. Eyes widened, he took two steps backwards, stumbled over the cat and fled.

Granny's eyes narrowed. "You better be tellin'me the truth, Gytha," she warned.

"I'd never lie to you, Esme, now would I? I've bin here since yesterday teatime when I 'ad that boiled stoat stew, and very nice it were too." The round, smiling face grinned up at Granny like an amiable squashed tomato with a curly white mop on top.

In fact, the only person who might even possibly consider not telling the truth to an enraged Granny Weatherwax was her fellow witch and best friend, Gytha Ogg, who people called Nanny both to her face and behind her back, but this time Granny was convinced of her innocence, at least in this particular case.

"Somethin' was in my cottage, Gytha. When I got back from collectin' some new herbs, I knew it straight away. Everythin' was exactly the same."

"Ooh, that's not good, that," nodded Nanny sagely. "Who do you think it were, then? Magrat? Some thievin' urchin?"

Granny snorted. "Magrat's got more sense'n that, and there ain't no urchins in Bad Ass, not since that Neddle family moved out Slice way. No, Gytha, there's more to this, I can feel it in my bones. When I did a bit o' scryin', it weren't clear like normal, but it definitely looked like you to me."

A noise like nails on a blackboard came from by the great oven as Nanny's cat, serial killer of furry things small and large, pushed himself to his feet by digging four sets of enormous claws into the stone floor. Nanny paused, bending down to stroke the evil-eyed assassin with the tenderness usually afforded an adorable fluffy kitten.

"Things've been a bit muddled lately, though," Nanny said thoughtfully. "Mebbe – mebbe it's not 'appened yet. One o' them tempral wotsits, you know, where what you do doesn't 'appen 'til next week, but somethin' you hasn't done yet goes and does it now. Our Jason got a chicken and a sack o' potatoes from Mrs. Weevil for shoddin' an 'orse, but he never did it yet." Nanny sat back in her chair with the triumphant look of one who has solved a particularly difficult cryptic crossword.

Granny Weatherwax nodded briskly. "Aye, that's probably it. A...tempral wotsit. Well, I'll be goin', then." Making to leave, Granny stopped, then turned to face her friend with a fierce expression.

"Gytha?"

"Yes, Esme?"

"You'd better not come into my cottage meddlin' next week."

"No, Esme. Definititely I won't. I shan't be doin' any such thing."

"Good. So long as we understand each other, like."

"Yes, Esme. 'Ere, do you want some baked eggs and liver, then?"

With an expression that would wither a normal person in an instant, Granny sniffed. "No thank you, Gytha."

*say, several thousand miles, across a desert or sea or mountains, preferably all three.

** They are quite small spiders, but they only eat really big trolls.

*** Rumour has it on good authority that this will happen to old Fuster Wibble three weeks next Wednesday.