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interest. She likes apples, too .
    You beast , said Granny, shocked.
    What did I say? Pardon me for not breathing, I’m sure.
    Granny sidled closer to the trunk.
    You must let her go , she thought. The magic is starting to come through .
    Already? I’m impressed , said the tree.
    It’s the wrong sort of magic! screeched Granny. It’s wizard magic, not women’s magic! She doesn’t know what it is yet, but it killed a dozen wolves tonight!
    Great! said the tree. Granny hooted with rage.
    Great? Supposing she had been arguing with her brothers, and lost her temper, eh?
    The tree shrugged. Snowflakes cascaded from its branches.
    Then you must train her , it said.
    Train? What do I know from training wizards!
    Then send her to the University .
    She’s female! hooted Granny, bouncing up and down on her branch.
    Well? Who says women can’t be wizards?
    Granny hesitated. The tree might as well have asked why fish couldn’t be birds. She drew a deep breath, and started to speak. And stopped. She knew a cutting, incisive, withering and above all a self-evident answer existed. It was just that, to her extreme annoyance, she couldn’t quite bring it to mind.
    Women have never been wizards. It’s against nature. You might as well say that witches can be men.
    If you define a witch as one who worships the pancreative urge, that is, venerates the basic —the tree began, and continued for several minutes. Granny Weatherwax listened in impatient annoyance to phrases like Mother Goddesses and primitive moon worship and told herself that she was well aware of what being a witch was all about, it was about herbs and curses and flying around of nights and generally keeping on the right side of tradition, and it certainly didn’t involve mixing with goddesses, mothers or otherwise, who apparently got up to some very questionable tricks. And when the tree started talking about dancing naked she tried not to listen, because although she was aware that somewhere under her complicated strata of vests and petticoats there was some skin, that didn’t mean to say she approved of it.
    The tree finished its monologue.
    Granny waited until she was quite sure that it wasn’t going to add anything, and said, That’s witchcraft, is it?
    Its theoretical basis, yes .
    You wizards certainly get some funny ideas .
    The tree said, Not a wizard any more, just a tree .
    Granny ruffled her feathers.
    Well, just you listen to me, Mr. so-called Theoretical Basis Tree, if women were meant to be wizards they’d be able to grow long white beards and she is not going to be a wizard, is that quite clear, wizardry is not the way to use magic, do you hear, it’s nothing but lights and fire and meddling with power and she’ll be having no part of it and good night to you.
    The owl swooped away from the branch. It was only because it would interfere with the flying that Granny wasn’t shaking with rage. Wizards! They talked too much and pinned spells down in books like butterflies but, worst of all, they thought theirs was the only magic worth practicing.
    Granny was absolutely certain of one thing. Women had never been wizards, and they weren’t about to start now.

    She arrived back at the cottage in the pale shank of the night. Her body, at least, was rested after its slumber in the hay, and Granny had hoped to spend a few hours in the rocking chair, putting her thoughts in order. This was the time, when night wasn’t quite over but day hadn’t quite begun, when thoughts stood out bright and clear and without disguise. She…
    The staff was leaning against the wall, by the dresser.
    Granny stood quite still.
    “I see,” she said at last. “So that’s the way of it, is it? In my own house, too?”
    Moving very slowly, she walked over to the inglenook, threw a couple of split logs on to the embers of the fire, and pumped the bellows until the flames roared up the chimney.
    When she was satisfied she turned, muttered a few precautionary protective