Chapter 3: The Long Road to Ankh-Morpork
Granny Weatherwax sets out from her cottage at dawn, her boots laced tight and her hat casting a long shadow down the narrow mountain path. The crisp air of the Ramtops bites at her cheeks, but she doesn't mind. Walking, after all, is good for the constitution. She's certain Ankh-Morpork can't be more than a few days away—just a bit further along the river here, perhaps, or past that spot where the snow only falls half the year, can't be much further out than that. Maps, she reasons, are made by men and men tend to exaggerate lengths, most especially very short ones.
The first village she passes through greets her with the cautious enthusiasm reserved for someone wearing a pointy hat. Within moments, she's drawn into assisting with what the villagers describe as "a minor emergency" but which turns out to involve delivering twins in the back room of the tavern. Granny handles it with her usual efficiency, muttering about how people ought to plan their emergencies better. The grateful parents name one of the babies after her, despite Granny's pointed remark that Esmerelda is a dreadful name for a boy.
By the time she's crossed into the next valley, word of her approach has somehow traveled ahead of her. She's stopped by a nervous young man who begs her to help with his wife, who has gone into labor early. By the third village, she doesn't even need to ask what the emergency is. She simply rolls up her sleeves and gets on with it.
Witches deliver babies because someone has to, and while wizards could theoretically manage it, the baby would likely arrive wearing a hat and demanding tuition fees. On the Disc, witches are the default option for anything that needs doing but isn't important enough to bother the gods—or interesting enough to attract wizards— and the method of payment is dubious at best, often involving chickens, goats, or—more commonly—respectful thanks.
The logic is simple: witches are practical. They know where life begins (usually messily) and where it ends (inevitably), and they're quite good at keeping the former from rushing prematurely into the latter. A good witch can glare a baby into being born and then scowl it into behaving.
Besides, if witches didn't handle births, people might have to figure it out themselves. And nobody wants that. Least of all the baby.
The road winds through forests and fields, where Granny occasionally stops to gather herbs or glare at the weather until it improves. It's on one of these quiet stretches that a group of bandits leaps from the underbrush, waving knives and demanding her valuables. Granny, who has very few valuables and even fewer reasons to tolerate interruptions, glares at them.
The bandits freeze. They look at the hat. They look at each other. Then, in what can only be described as a coordinated display of politeness, they lower their weapons, apologize profusely for the inconvenience, and offer to share their lunch. One of them even insists on giving her directions, complete with landmarks and advice on which streams have the best water.
This happens several more times, leading Granny to conclude that the roads are not, in fact, ridden with bandits but with an unusually high number of kind, rough young men who take their duties as roadside helpers very seriously.
A day's walk turns into a week's trek, then a two week slog, then three…
By the time she reaches the first proper town, she's tired but in good spirits. The town boasts a small inn, a modest marketplace, and, crucially, a map hanging on the wall of the general store. Granny squints at it, tracing her progress with a finger. It's here that she makes a disconcerting discovery: Ankh-Morpork is much, much farther than she thought.
Her finger drags across the map, past rivers and forests and mountains, until it finally lands on the distant smudge marked Ankh-Morpork. A helpful shopkeeper informs her it's a journey of "at least a few hundred miles, missus," and Granny thanks him curtly before stepping outside to consider her options.
The thought of turning back doesn't even cross her mind. The thought of not arriving in time, however, gnaws at her. Hogswatch is only days away now, and if she keeps walking, she'll still be on the road when the first snows fall—and probably, when they melt too.
This is how she finds herself standing in an empty field, broom in hand, glaring at it as though the object itself is to blame.
"Not ladylike," she mutters, echoing the words of her late mother, who had strong opinions about proper behavior and none whatsoever about practicality. "But needs must."
With a reluctant sigh, Granny mounts the broom.
The broom wobbles slightly as it lifts off the ground, creaking in a way that suggests it isn't entirely pleased about being put to work after so long. Granny grips it tightly, muttering a few choice words under her breath that would make even the boldest hedgerow blush.
The ground tilts away beneath her, and the air grows colder as she rises. She adjusts her hat, her face set in an expression that would churn butter at a hundred yards. There's nothing romantic or whimsical about flight—just cold wind, aching joints, and a broomstick that occasionally shudders as if it might suddenly remember how to fall.
Granny scowls at the horizon. Somewhere out there, past far too many meddlesome towns, none of which she remembers being there the last time she came this way, is Ankh-Morpork. It's not going to wait for her, and it certainly won't make things easy. But then again, neither will she.
"Blasted Hogswatch," she growls to herself as the broom sputters forward, "nothing ladylike about it anyway." The words are swallowed by the wind as she disappears into the growing dark, leaving the faint smell of beeswax and determination hanging in the air.