Jason kept quiet.
He heard Ponder say: “Maybe there's iron and . . . and iron that loves iron? Or male iron and female iron? Or common iron and royal iron? Some iron contains something else? Some iron makes a weight in the world and other iron rolls down the rubber sheet?”
The Bursar and the Librarian joined him, and watched the swinging nail.
“Damn!” said Ponder, and let go of the nail. It hit the stone with a plink.
He turned to the others with the agonized expression of a man who has the whole great whirring machinery of the Universe to dismantle and only a bent paper clip to do it with.
“What ho, Mr. Sunshine!” said the Bursar, who was feeling almost cheerful with the fresh air and lack of shouting.
“Rocks! Why am I messing around with lumps of stone? When did they ever tell anyone anything?” said Ponder. “You know, sir, sometimes I think there's a great ocean of truth out there and I'm just sitting on the beach playing with . . . with stones.”
He kicked the stone.
“But one day we'll find a way to sail that ocean,” he said. He sighed. “Come on. I suppose we'd better get down to the castle.”
The Librarian watched them join the procession of tired men who were staggering down the valley.
Then he pulled at the nail a few times, and watched it fly back to the stone.
“Oook.”
He looked up into the eyes of Jason Ogg.
Much to Jason's surprise, the orang-utan winked.
Sometimes, if you pay real close attention to the pebbles you find out about the ocean.
The clock ticked.
In the chilly morning gloom of Granny Weatherwax's cottage. Nanny Ogg opened the box.
Everyone in Lancre knew about Esme Weatherwax's mysterious box. It was variously rumoured to contain books of spells, a small private universe, cures for all ills, the deeds of lost lands and several tons of gold, which was pretty good going for something less than a foot across. Even Nanny Ogg had never been told about the contents, apart from the will.
She was a bit disappointed but not at all surprised to find that it contained nothing more than a couple of large envelopes, a bundle of letters, and a miscellaneous assortment of common items in the bottom.
Nanny lifted out the paperwork. The first envelope was addressed to her, and bore the legend: To Gytha Ogge, Reade This NOWE.
The second envelope was a bit smaller and said: The Will of Esmerelda Weatherwax, Died Midsummer's Eve.
And then there was a bundle of letters with a bit of string round them. They were very old; bits of yellowing paper crackled off them as Magrat picked them up.
“They're all letters to her,” she said.
“Nothing odd about that,” said Nanny. “Anyone can get letters.”
“And there's all this stuff at the bottom,” said Magrat. “It looks like pebbles.”
She held one up.
“This one's got one of those curly fossil things in it,” she said. “And this one . . . looks like that red rock the Dancers were made of. It's got a darning needle stuck to it. How strange.”
“She always paid attention to small details, did Esme. Always tried to see inside to the real thing.”
They were both silent for a moment, and the silence wound out around them and filled the kitchen, to be sliced into gentle pieces by the soft ticking of the clock.
“I never thought we'd be doing this,” said Magrat, after a while. “I never thought we'd be reading her will. I thought she'd keep on going for ever.”