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activity involving witches, couldn’t resist the opportunity for what was known in the Ramtops as a good oggle.
    “We’m off then, our Jason,” said Nanny Ogg. “They do say the streets in foreign parts are paved with gold. I could prob’ly make my fortune, eh?”
    Jason’s hairy brow creased in intense thought.
    “Us could do with a new anvil down forge,” he volunteered.
    “If I come back rich, you won’t never have to go down the forge ever again,” said Nanny.
    Jason frowned.
    “But I likes t’forge,” he said, slowly.
    Nanny looked momentarily taken aback. “Well, then—then you shall have an anvil made of solid silver.”
    “Wunt be no good, ma. It’d be too soft,” said Jason.
    “If I brings you back an anvil made of solid silver you shall have an anvil made of solid silver, my lad, whether you likes it or not!”
    Jason hung his huge head. “Yes, mum,” he said.
    “You see to it that someone comes in to keep the house aired every day reg’lar,” said Nanny. “I want a fire lit in that grate every morning.”
    “Yes, mum.”
    “And everyone’s to go in through the back door, you hear? I’ve put a curse on the front porch. Where’s those girls got to with my luggage?” She scurried off, a small gray bantam scolding a flock of hens.
    Magrat listened to all this with interest. Her own preparations had consisted of a large sack containing several changes of clothes to accommodate whatever weather foreign parts might suffer from, and a rather smaller one containing a number of useful-looking books from Desiderata Hollow’s cottage. Desiderata had been a great note-taker, and had filled dozens of little books with neat writing and chapter headings like “With Wand and Broomstick Across the Great Nef Desert.”
    What she had never bothered to do, it seemed, was write down any instructions for the wand. As far as Magrat knew, you waved it and wished.
    Along the track to her cottage, several unanticipated pumpkins bore witness to this as an unreliable strategy. One of them still thought it was a stoat.
    Now Magrat was left alone with Jason, who shuffled his feet.
    He touched his forelock. He’d been brought up to be respectful to women, and Magrat fell broadly into this category.
    “You will look after our mum, won’t you, Mistress Garlick?” he said, a hint of worry in his voice. “She’m acting awful strange.”
    Magrat patted him gently on the shoulder.
    “This sort of thing happens all the time,” she said. “You know, after a woman’s raised a family and so on, she wants to start living her own life.”
    “Whose life she bin living, then?”
    Magrat gave him a puzzled look. She hadn’t questioned the wisdom of the thought when it had first arrived in her head.
    “You see, what it is,” she said, making an explanation up as she went along, “there comes a time in a woman’s life when she wants to find herself.”
    “Why dint she start looking here?” said Jason plaintively. “I mean, I ain’t wanting to talk out of turn, Miss Garlick, but we was looking to you to persuade her and Mistress Weatherwax not to go.”
    “I tried,” said Magrat. “I really did. I said, you don’t want to go, I said. Anno domini, I said. Not as young as you used to be, I said. Silly to go hundreds of miles just for something like this, especially at your age.”
    Jason put his head on one side. Jason Oggwouldn’t end up in the finals of the All-Discworld uptake speed trials, but he knew his own mother.
    “You said all that to our mum?” he said.
    “Look, don’t worry,” said Magrat, “I’m sure no harm can—”
    There was a crash somewhere over their heads. A few autumn leaves spiraled gently toward the ground.
    “Bloody tree…who put that bloody tree there?” came a voice from on high.
    “That’ll be Granny,” said Magrat.
    It was one of the weak spots of Granny Weatherwax’s otherwise well-developed character that she’d never bothered to get the hang of steering things.