Chapter 2: A Practical Witch's Approach
Dusk settles over the Ramtops, and Granny Weatherwax's cottage glows faintly in the candlelight. Inside, the air is thick with the tang of herbs and the comforting hum of bees that linger in the hives outside. Granny sits at her kitchen table, the letter from Hannah Long lying flat before her. Her expression is sharp, her gaze fixed on a point just beyond the flickering flame of the candle, as though daring the universe to present her with a problem she can't solve.
The problem, she has decided, isn't the cat itself. It's the legs. Specifically, the absence of one.
Black cats, as every self-respecting witch knows, are plentiful. They arrive unbidden, sometimes in threes, as if the universe has some sort of cosmic surplus. But a three-legged black cat? That's as rare as hens' teeth. She crosses her arms, and considers the practical options.
Granny leans back, chair creaking under her weight, and eyes her atlas which rests beneath the wobbly table leg. She's considered the obvious solution: simply replacing the cat. Hannah is a child, after all. Children are known for many things—sticky fingers, being underfoot, and, most crucially, being easily fooled. Surely, a new black cat would do just as well, especially if Granny had a long and stern word with it about its responsibilities.
But even as the thought settles, Granny frowns. It's not the right sort of thinking. It might be enough for someone else, but Granny Weatherwax isn't someone else. She's a witch. And being a witch means doing things properly, not avoiding the harder truths of life. Anything less would sit wrong, and Granny doesn't like being uncomfortable with herself.
She taps the table thoughtfully. Perhaps she could mail a request to the head witching office. Witches and black cats go together like pointy hats and warts. Surely someone, somewhere, must have one going spare, even one with three legs. But even as the idea forms, it dissolves. Hogswatch Eve is only four weeks away, and letters—especially those sent near eagles—have a way of disappearing into the mountains, only to be found months later by an inquisitive goat.
The most direct method, Granny decides, is to make one. A perfectly good black cat could easily become a three-legged black cat with the application of a sharp knife and some determination.
The thought lingers in the air for precisely one second before Granny grimaces and shakes her head. "Stupid idea," she mutters. She may not suffer fools gladly, but she won't harm an innocent creature. There's a line, and that's it. Besides, the bloody child didn't mention which leg said black cat was missing.
The candlelight flickers as her gaze drops to the letter. Hannah's words linger in her mind, particularly the ones about how much time she has left. Life and death, time and the lack of it—they're problems witches deal with regularly. But what about after? What about the souls that have already slipped through the cracks?
Rumor has it Death is fond of cats.
She's heard stories. Whispers of feline souls treated with unusual care, of hourglasses turned just a little slower for creatures with whiskers and claws. If anyone could return Threepaws, it would be Death. The only trouble is that Death doesn't make house calls. At least, not for people who are still upright and breathing and Granny has no intention of dying just to have a chat.
Granny taps her nails against the wood of the table, the sound sharp in the stillness. She'd need to meet Death in person. The only way to do that, of course, would be to die. Temporarily, of course. Permanently would be inconvenient. But that's a tricky business and is quickly filed under, plans of last resort.
That's when the idea strikes her, as sharp and certain as one of her bees' stingers.
She knows about the Assassin's Guild in Ankh-Morpork. Everyone does, even if they've never set foot within a hundred miles of the city. It's where people die regularly, and presumably, on schedule. If she could get close enough to an assassination—to what the guild calls an "inhumation"—she might just manage to be there when Death arrives to collect the soul.
Granny leans back in her chair, a rare smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. It's a bold plan, certainly. And she likes bold plans, provided they're her own.
"Well," she says to the empty room, "if I'm going to meet Death, I'll do it properly. None of this mucking about with summoning nonsense. Wizards do that. And we all know how that ends."
Her gaze shifts to the atlas propping up the wobbly table leg. Ankh-Morpork. It's just beyond the mountains, isn't it? Possibly a bit further, but she's confident she'll manage. She might even walk, if the mood strikes her. After all, how far could it possibly be?
Standing, she straightens her hat and begins gathering the things she'll need for the journey. It's time to set things in motion, and once Granny Weatherwax decides to do something, the world generally finds it simpler to step aside and let her get on with it.
Her bees hum softly in their hives as the candle burns low, and the forest around the cottage seems to lean in, waiting to see how it will all unfold. Granny takes a deep breath, picks up the letter, and tucks it into her pocket.
"Let's see what this Assassin's Guild is all about, then," she mutters. And with that, she begins to plan her trip to Ankh-Morpork, where Death, one way or another, is bound to make an appearance.
It should be noted at this point that the Assassin's Guild was responsible for less than 1% of all deaths in Ank Morpork with nearly the entire 99% being death by suicide. Assassination was in fact a fairly uncommon event in Ankh-Morpork, but there were a lot of suicides. Walking in the night-time alleyways of The Shades was suicide. Asking for a short in a dwarf bar was suicide. Saying 'Got rocks in your head?' to a troll was suicide. You could commit suicide very easily, if you weren't careful.