3 The Empress
A woman of more mature years – but apparently no older than her middle forties - sits in a brilliantly sunlit field among waving yellow corn stretching away to woods and a river. She is barefoot and in many interpretations of the card is obviously pregnant. She may be garlanded in a crown of flowers. Her clothing is good and well-made and in rich earthy colours. Bees and honey often figure. She may be holding the Cornucopia, the Horn of Plenty, out of which spills the richness of the harvest – fruits, vegetables, nuts, grain. Or else she is breast-feeding a baby.
This is the card of all things female: nurturing, providing, caring, motherhood. The planet Venus features as does the star sign Taurus – both are attributes of the Earth Mother. The harvest, the agricultural heritage, horticulture, the growing of plants, all figure, as does motherhood and pregnancy.
Yes, it can mean "you're pregnant" (I never know whether to say "congratulations" or "oh, hard luck".) It can mean a superior but sympathetic female at work, it can betoken a marriage or promotion, it can point to nice things happening while Earth signs are in the ascendancy, it can herald a time of relative plenty. But a lot of work performed unstintingly for a long time has to go into reaping a good Harvest – these things don't just happen… and do not abuse the Empress's generosity nor take it for granted. Spurned or used, she is female power, and Hell hath no fury...
Magrat Garlick, Queen of Lancre, was sweating in the spring heat. Her back hurt abominably. She straightened up from the herb garden, where she had been weeding and nurturing the plants. She insisted this place was hers. Mrs Scorbic the cook could come here and – by invitation – pick what she needed for cooking. But she, Magrat, had made it abundantly clear that here, and the rose garden, and the nascent orchard that so far consisted of several woebegone-looking saplings, were hers. Her space, her responsibility, a place where she could come and nurture the idea that she was an Earth Mother. Or would be, once the baby arrived. From the pain in her back, the difficulty she had in kneeling and bending over, the feeling her feet had flattened and splayed out, and the undeniable fact her displaced bladder had shrunk to the capacity of a hazelnut shell, it couldn't be much longer now.
But being eight months gone certainly made gardening difficult…
She patted the bump and smiled to herself. She allowed herself a fantasy about her daughter – Nanny had been explicitly clear about that(1) - playing in the garden, while she, her mother, looked indulgently on. It was worth persevering for.
Verence is inviting all the national rulers and monarchs to her naming day, she thought. I'm so looking forward to hosting them. Laying on a feast, looking after all our friends, being the gracious hostess. Nanny's already laying in extra string bags for all the left-overs. What could possibly go wrong?
Ignoring the discomfort, she set about tending to the real herbs, the stuff of witchcraft and many a secret remedy. Many of these had been cuttings from Granny's herb garden. She wondered if Lord Vetinari would accept an invitation, or if not him, then which of the great and good of Ankh-Morpork would arrive in his name.
"If he's sendin' any wizards, be sure he tells you in good time so as you can triple the food and drink order. They'll eat everythin' otherwise!" Granny had warned. Magrat had a moment's doubt. Granny had visited the big city. Verence had lived and studied there. Both of them had seen wizards eat. Even so, Magrat doubted anyone could eat that much…
But they'd manage and provide. It was a treat for the people of Lancre, too – a festival and a dinner at the King and Queen's gift.
And the greatest gift I can give my daughter is that her name is spelt right, Magrat decided.
Feeling the warm fuzzy heat of contentment inside, she returned to her weeding and pruning. It was a nice day in May. Magrat looked over at the orchard. She might stil be alive to see it in full maturity, in around fifty years time. But that sort of thing was a long-term investment. Her grandchildren and their children would have it to remember her by. That was immortality.
A few of Mr Brooks's bees buzzed past. A witch at her core, Magrat spoke a greeting to them.
She wondered what the harvest would bring, later in the year.
(1) "You'll have your work cut out with some of them little buggers down the town. Oh, they're all babes in arms now, but I seen what their fathers was like. Believe you me, my girl, the fact your daughter's a princess won't stop 'em snifffin' in fifteen years time!"