* The forget-me-lots is a pretty red-and-white flower usually given by young ladies to signal to their young men that they never want to see them again ever, or at least until they’ve learned to wash properly and gotten a job.
Once upon a time, the rough music had come for the old woman and her cat, oh yes, it had, and the people walking to its drumming had dragged her out into the snow and pulled down the rickety cottage and burned her books because they had pictures of stars in them.
And why? Because the Baron’s son had gone missing and Mrs. Snapperly had no family and no teeth and, to be honest, cackled a bit as well. And that made her a witch, and the people of the Chalk didn’t trust witches, so she was pulled out into the snow, and while the fire ate up the thatch of the cottage, page after page of stars crackled and crinkled into the night sky while the men stoned the cat to death. And that winter, after she had hammered on doors that remained closed to her, the old woman died in the snow, and because she had to be buried somewhere, there was a shallow grave where the old cottage used to be.
But the old woman had had nothing to do with the loss of the Baron’s son, had she? And soon after, Tiffany had gone all the way to a strange fairyland to bring him back, hadn’t she? And nobody talked about the old lady these days, did they? But when they walked past the place in the summer, the flowers filled the air with delight and bees filled it with the colors of honey.
No one talked about it. After all, what would you say? Rare flowers growing on the grave of the old woman and catnip growing where the Aching girl had buried the cat? It was a mystery, and maybe a judgment, although whose judgment it was, on whom, for what and why, was best not thought about, let alone discussed. Nevertheless, wonderful flowers growing over the remains of the possible witch–how could that happen?
Tiffany didn’t ask that question. The seeds had been expensive to buy, and she had had to go all the way to Twoshirts to get them, but she had vowed that every summer the brilliance in the wood would remind people that there had been an old lady they had hounded to death, and she had been buried there. Tiffany did not quite know why she thought that was important, but she was certain to the center of her soul that it was.
Om lost his temper and turned Lu-Tze into a lowly worm in the deepest cesspit of hell, and then got even more angry when the old man went on peacefully shoveling.
‘The devils of infinity fill your living bones with sulphur!’ he screamed.
TThis did not make a great deal of difference.
'Deaf old bugger,’ muttered the Great God Om.
Brutha straightened up.
'I do not hear you, oh foul succubus,’ he said.
'Oh yes you do, boy. Now, what I want you to do is -’
'I’ve got my fingers in my ears!’
'Suits you. Suits you. Makes you look like a vase. Now–’
'I’m humming a tune! I’m humming a tune!’
The Great God Om and his Eighth Prophet | Terry Pratchett, Small Gods