'That's right.'
,Why?,
'I don't know. Perhaps they like dancing.'
The mule picked its way down a bank. The mist was getting thicker here.
'You've counted sixteen?' said Oats eventually.
'No, but it's as good an answer as any you'll get. And that's what your holy men discuss, is it?'
'Not usually. There is a very interesting debate raging at the moment about the nature of sin, for example.'
'And what do they think? Against it, are they?'
'It's not as simple as that. It's not a black and white issue. There are so many shades of grey.'
'Nope.'
'Pardon?'
'There's no greys, only white that's got grubby. I'm surprised you don't know that. And sin, young man, is when you treat people as things. Including yourself. That's what sin is.'
'It's a lot more complicated than that-'
'No. It ain't. When people say things are a lot more complicated than that, they means they're getting worried that they won't like the truth. People as things, that's where it starts.'
'Oh, I'm sure there are worse crimes-'
'But they starts with thinking about people as things...'
Granny's voice tailed off. Oats let the mule walk on for a few minutes, and then a snort told him that Granny had awoken again.
'You strong in your faith, then?' she said, as if she couldn't leave things alone.
Oats sighed. 'I try to be.'
'But you read a lot of books, I'm thinking. Hard to have faith, ain't it, when you read too many books?'
Oats was glad she couldn't see his face. Was the old woman reading his mind through the back of his head?
'Yes,' he said.
'Still got it, though?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'If I didn't, I wouldn't have anything.'
He waited for a while, and then tried a counterattack.
'You're not a believer yourself, then, Mistress Weatherwax?'
There were a few moments' silence as the mule picked its way over the mossy tree roots. Oats thought he heard, behind them, the sound of a horse, but then it was lost in the sighing of the wind.
'Oh, I reckon I believes in tea, sunrises, that sort of thing,' said Granny.