Granny seemed to sag with relief.
'Ah. Good thing you asked, really, bein' as there weren't any.'
Black bubbles arose from the bog around Granny Weatherwax as the two of them watched each other. Some sort of truce had been declared.
'I wonder, young man, if you would be so good as to pull me out?'
This took some time and involved a branch from a nearby tree and, despite Oats's best efforts, Granny's first foot came out of its boot. And once one boot has said goodbye in a peat bog, the other one is bound, to follow out of fraternal solidarity.
Granny ended up on what was comparatively dry and comparatively land wearing a pair of the heaviest-looking socks Oats had ever seen. They looked as if they could shrug off a hammer blow.
'They was good boots,' said Granny, looking at the bubbles. 'Oh, well, let's get on.'
She staggered a little as she set off again, but to Oats's admiration managed to stay upright. He was beginning to form yet another opinion of the old woman, who caused a new opinion to arise about once every half-hour, and it was this: she needed someone to beat. If she didn't have someone to beat, she'd probably beat herself.
'Shame about your little book of holy words...' she said, when she was further down the track.
There was a long pause before Oats replied.
'I can easily get another,' he said levelly.
'Must be hard, not having your book of words.'
'It's only paper.'
'I shall ask the King to see about getting you another book of words.'
'I wouldn't trouble him.'
'Terrible thing to have to burn all them words, though.'
'The worthwhile ones don't burn.'
'You're not too stupid, for all that you wear a funny hat,' said Granny.
'I know when I'm being pushed, Mistress Weatherwax.'
'Well done.'
They walked on in silence. A shower of hail bounced off Granny's pointy hat and Oats's wide brim.
Then Granny said, 'It's no good you trying to make me believe in Om, though.'
'Om forbid that I should try, Mistress Weatherwax. I haven't even given you a pamphlet, have I?'
'No, but you're trying to make me think, "Oo, what a nice young man, his god must be something special if nice young men like him helps old ladies like me," aren't you?'
No.
'Really? Well, it's not working. People you can believe in, sometimes, but not gods. And I'll tell you this, Mister Oats...'
He sighed. 'Yes?'
She turned to face him, suddenly alive. 'It'd be as well for you if I didn't believe,' she said,
prodding him with a sharp finger. 'This Om... anyone seen him?'
'It is said three thousand people witnessed his manifestation at the Great Temple when he made the Covenant with the prophet Brutha and saved him from death by torture on the iron turtle-'