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“Bogeymen can walk through walls but would be very loath to reveal themselves. Really, you have me at a loss. Hmm?” And then he looked up. A gray robe hung in the air. It appeared to be occupied, in that it had a shape, although the occupant was not visible. The prickly feeling crept over Downey that the occupant wasn’t invisible, merely not, in any physical sense, there at all. “Good evening,” he said. The robe said, Good evening, Lord Downey. His brain registered the words. His ears swore they hadn’t heard them. But you did not become head of the Assassins’ Guild by taking fright easily. Besides, the thing wasn’t frightening. It was, thought Downey, astonishingly dull. If monotonous drabness could take on a shape, this would be the shape it would choose. “You appear to be a specter,” he said. Our nature is not a matter for discussion, arrived in his head. We offer you a commission. “You wish someone inhumed?” said Downey. Brought to an end. Downey considered this. It was not as unusual as it appeared. There were precedents. Anyone could buy the services of the Guild. Several zombies had, in the past, employed the Guild to settle scores with their murderers. In fact the Guild, he liked to think, practiced the ultimate democracy. You didn’t need intelligence, social position, beauty or charm to hire it. You just needed money which, unlike the other stuff, was available to everyone. Except for the poor, of course, but there was no helping some people. “Brought to an end…” That was an odd way of putting it. “We can—” he began. The payment will reflect the difficulty of the task. “Our scale of fees—” The payment will be three million dollars. Downey sat back. That was four times higher than any fee yet earned by any member of the Guild, and that had been a special family rate, including overnight guests. “No questions asked, I assume?” he said, buying time. No questions answered. “But does the suggested fee represent the difficulty involved? The client is heavily guarded?” Not guarded at all. But almost certainly impossible to delete with conventional weapons. Downey nodded. This was not necessarily a big problem, he said to himself. The Guild had amassed quite a few unconventional weapons over the years. Delete? An unusual way of putting it… “We like to know for whom we are working,” he said. We are sure you do. “I mean that we need to know your name. Or names. In strict client confidentiality, of course. We have to write something down in our files. ” You may think of us as…the Auditors. “Really? What is it you audit?” Everything. “I think we need to know something about you. ” We are the people with three million dollars. Downey took the point, although he didn’t like it. Three million dollars could buy a lot of no questions. “Really?” he said. “In the circumstances, since you are a new client, I think we would like payment in advance. ” As you wish. The gold is now in your vaults. “You mean that it will shortly be in our vaults,” said Downey. No. It has always been in your vaults. We know this because we have just put it there. Downey watched the empty hood for a moment, and then without shifting his gaze he reached out and picked up the speaking tube. “Mr. Winvoe?” he said, after whistling into it. “Ah. Good. Tell me, how much do we have in our vaults at the moment? Oh, approximately. To the nearest million, say. ” He held the tube away from his ear for a moment, and then spoke into it again. “Well, be a good chap and check anyway, will you?” He hung up the tube and placed his hands flat on the desk in front of him. “Can I offer you a drink while we wait?” he said. Yes. We believe so. Downey stood up with some relief and walked over to his large drinks cabinet. His hand hovered over the Guild’s ancient and valuable tantalus, with its labeled decanters of Mur, Nig, Trop and Yeksihw. * “And what would you like to drink?” he said, wondering where the Auditor kept its mouth. His hand hovered for just a moment over the smallest decanter, marked Nosiop. We do not drink. “But you did just say I could offer you a drink…” Indeed. We judge you fully capable of performing that action. “Ah. ” Downey’s hand hesitated over the whiskey decanter, and then he thought better of it. At that point, the speaking tube whistled. “Yes, Mr. Winvoe? Really? Indeed? I myself have frequently found loose change under sofa cushions, it’s amazing how it mou…No, no, I wasn’t being…Yes, I did have some reason to…No, no blame attaches to you in any…No, I could hardly see how it…Yes, go and have a rest, what a good idea. Thank you. ” He hung up the tube again. The cowl hadn’t moved. “We will need to know where, when and, of course, who ,” he said, after a moment. The cowl nodded. The location is not on any map. We would like the task to be completed within the week. This is essential. As for the who… A drawing appeared on Downey’s desk and in his head arrived the words: Let us call him the Fat Man. “Is this a joke?” said Downey. We do not joke. No, you don’t, do you, Downey thought. He drummed his fingers. “There are many who would say this…person does not exist,” he said. He must exist. How else could you so readily recognize his picture? And many are in correspondence with him. “Well, yes, of course, in a sense he exists…” In a sense everything exists. It is cessation of existence that concerns us here. “Finding him would be a little difficult. ” You will find persons on any street who can tell you his approximate address. “Yes, of course,” said Downey, wondering why anyone would call them “persons. ” It was an odd usage. “But, as you say, I doubt that they could give a map reference. And even then, how could the…the Fat Man be inhumed? A glass of poisoned sherry, perhaps?” The cowl had no face to crack a smile. You misunderstand the nature of employment, it said in Downey’s head. He bridled at this. Assassins were never employed. They were engaged or retained or commissioned, but never employed. Only servants were employed. “What is it that I misunderstand, exactly?” he said. We pay. You find the ways and means. The cowl began to fade. “How can I contact you?” said Downey. We will contact you. We know where you are. We know where everyone is. The figure vanished. At the same moment the door was flung open to reveal the distraught figure of Mr. Winvoe, the Guild Treasurer. “Excuse me, my lord, but I really had to come up!” He flung some disks on the desk. “Look at them!” Downey carefully picked up a golden circle. It looked like a small coin, but— “No denomination!” said Winvoe. “No heads, no tails, no milling! It’s just a blank disk! They’re all just blank disks!” Downey opened his mouth to say, “Valueless?” He realized that he was half hoping that this was the case. If they, whoever they were, had paid in worthless metal then there wasn’t even the glimmering of a contract. But he could see this wasn’t the case. Assassins learned to recognize money early in their careers. “Blank disks,” he said, “of pure gold. ” Winvoe nodded mutely. “That,” said Downey, “will do nicely. ” “It must be magical!” said Winvoe. “And we never accept magical money!” Downey bounced the coin on the desk a couple of times. It made a satisfyingly rich thunking noise. It wasn’t magical. Magical money would look real, because its whole purpose was to deceive. But this didn’t need to ape something as human and adulterated as mere currency. This is gold, it told his fingers. Take it or leave it. Downey sat and thought, while Winvoe stood and worried. “We’ll take it,” he said. “But—” “Thank you, Mr. Winvoe. That is my decision,” said Downey. He stared into space for a while, and then smiled. “Is Mister Teatime still in the building?” Winvoe stood back. “I thought the council had agreed to dismiss him,” he said stiffly. “After that business with—” “Mister Teatime does not see the world in quite the same way as other people,” said Downey, picking up the picture from his desk and looking at it thoughtfully. “Well, indeed, I think that is certainly true. ” “Please send him up. |
” The Guild attracted all sorts of people, Downey reflected. He found himself wondering how it had come to attract Winvoe, for one thing. It was hard to imagine him stabbing anyone in the heart in case he got blood on the victim’s wallet. Whereas Mister Teatime… The problem was that the Guild took young boys and gave them a splendid education and incidentally taught them how to kill, cleanly and dispassionately, for money and for the good of society, or at least that part of society that had money, and what other kind of society was there? But very occasionally you found you’d got someone like Mister Teatime, to whom the money was merely a distraction. Mister Teatime had a truly brilliant mind, but it was brilliant like a fractured mirror, all marvelous facets and rainbows but, ultimately, also something that was broken. Mister Teatime enjoyed himself too much. And other people, also. Downey had privately decided that some time soon Mister Teatime was going to meet with an accident. Like many people with no actual morals, Lord Downey did have standards, and Teatime repelled him. Assassination was a careful game, usually played against people who knew the rules themselves or at least could afford the services of those who did. There was considerable satisfaction in a clean kill. What there wasn’t supposed to be was pleasure in a messy one. That sort of thing led to talk. On the other hand, Teatime’s corkscrew of a mind was exactly the tool to deal with something like this. And if he didn’t…well, that was hardly Downey’s fault, was it? He turned his attention to the paperwork for a while. It was amazing how the stuff mounted up. But you had to deal with it. It wasn’t as though they were murderers, after all… There was a knock at the door. He pushed the paperwork aside and sat back. “Come in, Mister Teatime,” he said. It never hurt to put the other fellow slightly in awe of you. In fact the door was opened by one of the Guild’s servants, carefully balancing a tea tray. “Ah, Carter,” said Lord Downey, recovering magnificently. “Just put it on the table over there, will you?” “Yes, sir,” said Carter. He turned and nodded. “Sorry, sir, I will go and fetch another cup directly, sir. ” “What?” “For your visitor, sir. ” “What visitor? Oh, when Mister Teati—” He stopped. He turned. There was a young man sitting on the hearth rug, playing with the dogs. “ Mister Teatime !” “It’s pronounced Teh-ah-tim-eh, sir,” said Teatime, with just a hint of reproach. “Everyone gets it wrong, sir. ” “How did you do that ?” “Pretty well, sir. I got mildly scorched on the last few feet, of course. ” There were some lumps of soot on the hearth rug. Downey realized he’d heard them fall, but that hadn’t been particularly extraordinary. No one could get down the chimney. There was a heavy grid firmly in place near the top of the flue. “But there’s a blocked-in fireplace behind the old library,” said Teatime, apparently reading his thoughts. “The flues connect, under the bars. It was really a stroll, sir. ” “Really…” “Oh, yes, sir. ” Downey nodded. The tendency of old buildings to be honeycombed with sealed chimney flues was a fact you learned early in your career. And then, he told himself, you forgot. It always paid to put the other fellow in awe of you, too. He had forgotten they taught that , too. “The dogs seem to like you,” he said. “I get on well with animals, sir. ” Teatime’s face was young and open and friendly. Or, at least, it smiled all the time. But the effect was spoiled for most people by the fact that it had only one eye. Some unexplained accident had taken the other one, and the missing orb had been replaced by a ball of glass. The result was disconcerting. But what bothered Lord Downey far more was the man’s other eye, the one that might loosely be called normal. He’d never seen such a small and sharp pupil. Teatime looked at the world through a pinhole. He found he’d retreated behind his desk again. There was that about Teatime. You always felt happier if you had something between you and him. “You like animals, do you?” he said. “I have a report here that says you nailed Sir George’s dog to the ceiling. ” “Couldn’t have it barking while I was working, sir. ” “Some people would have drugged it. ” “Oh. ” Teatime looked despondent for a moment, but then he brightened. “But I definitely fulfilled the contract, sir. There can be no doubt about that, sir. I checked Sir George’s breathing with a mirror as instructed. It’s in my report. ” “Yes, indeed. ” Apparently the man’s head had been several feet from his body at that point. It was a terrible thought that Teatime might see nothing incongruous about this. “And…the servants…?” he said. “Couldn’t have them bursting in, sir. ” Downey nodded, half hypnotized by the glassy stare and the pinhole eyeball. No, you couldn’t have them bursting in. And an Assassin might well face serious professional opposition, possibly even by people trained by the same teachers. But an old man and a maidservant who’d merely had the misfortune to be in the house at the time… There was no actual rule , Downey had to admit. It was just that, over the years, the Guild had developed a certain ethos and members tended to be very neat about their work, even shutting doors behind them and generally tidying up as they went. Hurting the harmless was worse than a transgression against the moral fabric of society, it was a breach of good manners. It was worse even than that. It was bad taste. But there was no actual rule … “That was all right, wasn’t it, sir?” said Teatime, with apparent anxiety. “It, uh…lacked elegance,” said Downey. “Ah. Thank you, sir. I am always happy to be corrected. I shall remember that next time. ” Downey took a deep breath. “It’s about that I wish to talk,” he said. He held up the picture of…what had the thing called him?…the Fat Man? “As a matter of interest,” he said, “how would you go about inhuming this…gentleman?” Anyone else, he was sure, would have burst out laughing. They would have said things like “Is this a joke, sir?” Teatime merely leaned forward, with a curious intent expression. “Difficult, sir. ” “Certainly,” Downey agreed. “I would need some time to prepare a plan, sir,” Teatime went on. “Of course, and—” There was a knock at the door and Carter came in with another cup and saucer. He nodded respectfully to Lord Downey and crept out again. “Right, sir,” said Teatime. “I’m sorry?” said Downey, momentarily distracted. “I have now thought of a plan, sir,” said Teatime, patiently. “You have?” “Yes, sir. ” “As quickly as that?” “Yes, sir. ” “Ye gods!” “Well, sir, you know we are encouraged to consider hypothetical problems…?” “Oh, yes. A very valuable exercise—” Downey stopped, and then looked shocked. “You mean you have actually devoted time to considering how to inhume the Hogfather?” he said weakly. “You’ve actually sat down and thought out how to do it? You’ve actually devoted your spare time to the problem?” “Oh, yes, sir. And the Soul Cake Duck. And the Sandman. And Death. ” Downey blinked again. “You’ve actually sat down and considered how to—” “Yes, sir. I’ve amassed quite an interesting file. In my own time, of course. ” “I want to be quite certain about this, Mister Teatime. You…have…applied…yourself to a study of ways of killing Death ?” “Only as a hobby, sir. ” “Well, yes , hobbies, yes, I mean, I used to collect butterflies myself,” said Downey, recalling those first moments of awakening pleasure at the use of poison and the pin, “but—” “Actually, sir, the basic methodology is exactly the same as it would be for a human. Opportunity, geography, technique…You just have to work with the known facts about the individual concerned. Of course, with this one such a lot is known. ” “And you’ve worked it all out, have you?” said Downey, almost fascinated. “Oh, a long time ago, sir. ” “When, may I ask?” “I think it was when I was lying in bed one Hogswatchnight, sir. ” My gods, thought Downey, and to think that I just used to listen for sleigh bells. “My word,” he said aloud. |
“I may have to check some details, sir. I’d appreciate access to some of the books in the Dark Library. But, yes, I think I can see the basic shape. ” “And yet…this person…some people might say that he is technically immortal. ” “Everyone has their weak point, sir. ” “Even Death?” “Oh, yes. Absolutely. Very much so. ” “Really?” Downey drummed his fingers on the desk again. The boy couldn’t possibly have a real plan, he told himself. He certainly had a skewed mind—skewed? It was a positive helix—but the Fat Man wasn’t just another target in some mansion somewhere. It was reasonable to assume that people had tried to trap him before. He felt happy about this. Teatime would fail, and possibly even fail fatally if his plan was stupid enough. And maybe the Guild would lose the gold, but maybe not. “Very well,” he said. “I don’t need to know what your plan is. ” “That’s just as well, sir. ” “What do you mean?” “Because I don’t propose to tell you, sir. You’d be obliged to disapprove of it. ” “I am amazed that you are so confident that it can work, Teatime. ” “I just think logically about the problem, sir,” said the boy. He sounded reproachful. “Logically?” said Downey. “I suppose I just see things differently from other people,” said Teatime. It was a quiet day for Susan, although on the way to the park Gawain trod on a crack in the pavement. On purpose. One of the many terrors conjured up by the previous governess’s happy way with children had been the bears that waited around in the street to eat you if you stood on the cracks. Susan had taken to carrying the poker under her respectable coat. One wallop generally did the trick. They were amazed that anyone else saw them. “Gawain?” she said, eyeing a nervous bear who had suddenly spotted her and was now trying to edge away nonchalantly. “Yes?” “You meant to tread on that crack so that I’d have to thump some poor creature whose only fault is wanting to tear you limb from limb. ” “I was just skipping—” “Quite. Real children don’t go hoppity-skip unless they are on drugs. ” He grinned at her. “If I catch you being twee again I will knot your arms behind your head,” said Susan levelly. He nodded, and went to push Twyla off the swings. Susan relaxed, satisfied. It was her personal discovery. Ridiculous threats didn’t worry them at all, but they were obeyed. Especially the ones in graphic detail. The previous governess had used various monsters and bogeymen as a form of discipline. There was always something waiting to eat or carry off bad boys and girls for crimes like stuttering or defiantly and aggravatingly persisting in writing with their left hand. There was always a Scissor Man waiting for a little girl who sucked her thumb, always a bogeyman in the cellar. Of such bricks is the innocence of childhood constructed. Susan’s attempts at getting them to disbelieve in the things only caused the problems to get worse. Twyla had started to wet the bed. This may have been a crude form of defense against the terrible clawed creature that she was certain lived under it. Susan had found out about this one the first night, when the child had woken up crying because of a bogeyman in the closet. She’d sighed and gone to have a look. She’d been so angry that she’d pulled it out, hit it over the head with the nursery poker, dislocated its shoulder as a means of emphasis and kicked it out of the back door. The children refused to disbelieve in the monsters because, frankly, they knew damn well the things were there. But she’d found that they could, very firmly, also believe in the poker. Now she sat down on a bench and read a book. She made a point of taking the children, every day, somewhere where they could meet others of the same age. If they got the hang of the playground, she thought, adult life would hold no fears. Besides, it was nice to hear the voices of little children at play, provided you took care to be far enough away not to hear what they were actually saying. There were lessons later on. These were going a lot better now she’d got rid of the reading books about bouncy balls and dogs called Spot. She’d got Gawain on to the military campaigns of General Tacticus, which were suitably bloodthirsty but, more importantly, considered too difficult for a child. As a result his vocabulary was doubling every week and he could already use words like “disemboweled” in everyday conversation. After all, what was the point of teaching children to be children? They were naturally good at it. And she was, to her mild horror, naturally good with them. She wondered suspiciously if this was a family trait. And if, to judge by the way her hair so readily knotted itself into a prim bun, she was destined for jobs like this for the rest of her life. It was her parents’ fault. They hadn’t meant it to turn out like this. At least, she hoped charitably that they hadn’t. They’d wanted to protect her, to keep her way from the worlds outside this one, from what people thought of as the occult, from…well, from her grandfather, to put it bluntly. This had, she felt, left her a little twisted up. Of course, to be fair, that was a parent’s job. The world was so full of sharp bends that if they didn’t put a few twists in you, you wouldn’t stand a chance of fitting in. And they’d been conscientious and kind and given her a good home and even an education. It had been a good education, too. But it had only been later on that she’d realized that it had been an education in, well, education. It meant that if ever anyone needed to calculate the volume of a cone, then they could confidently call on Susan Sto-Helit. Anyone at a loss to recall the campaigns of General Tacticus or the square root of 27. 4 would not find her wanting. If you needed someone who could talk about household items and things to buy in the shops in five languages, then Susan was at the head of the queue. Education had been easy. Learning things had been harder. Getting an education was a bit like a communicable sexual disease. It made you unsuitable for a lot of jobs and then you had the urge to pass it on. She’d become a governess. It was one of the few jobs a known lady could do. And she’d taken to it well. She’d sworn that if she did indeed ever find herself dancing on rooftops with chimney sweeps she’d beat herself to death with her own umbrella. After tea she read them a story. They liked her stories. The one in the book was pretty awful, but the Susan version was well received. She translated as she read. “…and then Jack chopped down the beanstalk, adding murder and ecological vandalism to the theft, enticement and trespass charges already mentioned, but he got away with it and lived happily ever after without so much as a guilty twinge about what he had done. Which proves that you can be excused just about anything if you’re a hero, because no one asks inconvenient questions. And now,” she closed the book with a snap, “it’s time for bed. ” The previous governess had taught them a prayer which included the hope that some god or other would take their soul if they died while they were asleep and, if Susan was any judge, had the underlying message that this would be a good thing. One day, Susan averred, she’d hunt that woman down. “Susan,” said Twyla, from somewhere under the blankets. “Yes?” “You know last week we wrote letters to the Hogfather?” “Yes?” “Only…in the park Rachel says he doesn’t exist and it’s your father really. And everyone else said she was right. ” There was a rustle from the other bed. Twyla’s brother had turned over and was listening surreptitiously. Oh dear, thought Susan. She had hoped she could avoid this. It was going to be like that business with the Soul Cake Duck all over again. “Does it matter if you get the presents anyway?” she said, making a direct appeal to greed. “’es. ” Oh dear, oh dear. Susan sat down on the bed, wondering how the hell to get through this. She patted the one visible hand. “Look at it this way, then,” she said, and took a deep mental breath. |
“Wherever people are obtuse and absurd…and wherever they have, by even the most generous standards, the attention span of a small chicken in a hurricane and the investigative ability of a one-legged cockroach…and wherever people are inanely credulous, pathetically attached to the certainties of the nursery and, in general, have as much grasp of the realities of the physical universe as an oyster has of mountaineering… yes , Twyla: there is a Hogfather. ” There was silence from under the bedclothes, but she sensed that the tone of voice had worked. The words had meant nothing. That, as her grandfather might have said, was humanity all over. “G’night. ” “Good night,” said Susan. It wasn’t even a bar. It was just a room where people drank while they waited for other people with whom they had business. The business usually involved the transfer of ownership of something from one person to another, but then, what business doesn’t? Five businessmen sat round a table, lit by a candle stuck in a saucer. There was an open bottle between them. They were taking some care to keep it away from the candle flame. “’s gone six,” said one, a huge man with dreadlocks and a beard you could keep goats in. “The clocks struck ages ago. He ain’t coming. Let’s go. ” “Sit down , will you? Assassins are always late. ’cos of style, right?” “This one’s mental. ” “Eccentric. ” “What’s the difference?” “A bag of cash. ” The three that hadn’t spoken yet looked at one another. “What’s this? You never said he was an Assassin,” said Chickenwire. “He never said the guy was an Assassin, did he, Banjo?” There was a sound like distant thunder. It was Banjo Lilywhite clearing his throat. “Dat’s right,” said a voice from the upper slopes. “Youse never said. ” The others waited until the rumble died away. Even Banjo’s voice hulked. “He’s”—the first speaker waved his hands vaguely, trying to get across the point that someone was a hamper of food, several folding chairs, a tablecloth, an assortment of cooking gear and an entire colony of ants short of a picnic—“ mental. And he’s got a funny eye. ” “It’s just glass, all right?” said the one known as Catseye, signaling a waiter for four beers and a glass of milk. “And he’s paying ten thousand dollars each. I don’t care what kind of eye he’s got. ” “I heard it was made of the same stuff they make them fortune-telling crystals out of. You can’t tell me that’s right. And he looks at you with it,” said the first speaker. He was known as Peachy, although no one had ever found out why. * Catseye sighed. Certainly there was something odd about Mister Teatime, there was no doubt about that. But there was something weird about all Assassins. And the man paid well. Lots of Assassins used informers and locksmiths. It was against the rules, technically, but standards were going down everywhere, weren’t they? Usually they paid you late and sparsely, as if they were doing the favor. But Teatime was okay. True, after a few minutes talking to him your eyes began to water and you felt you needed to scrub your skin even on the inside, but no one was perfect, were they? Peachy leaned forward. “You know what?” he said. “I reckon he could be here already. In disguise! Laughing at us! Well, if he’s in here laughing at us—” He cracked his knuckles. Medium Dave Lilywhite, the last of the five, looked around. There were indeed a number of solitary figures in the low, dark room. Most of them wore cloaks with big hoods. They sat alone, in corners, hidden by the hoods. None of them looked very friendly. “Don’t be daft, Peachy,” Catseye murmured. “That’s the sort of thing they do,” Peachy insisted. “They’re masters of disguise!” “With that eye of his?” “That guy sitting by the fire has got an eye patch,” said Medium Dave. Medium Dave didn’t speak much. He watched a lot. The others turned to stare. “He’ll wait till we’re off our guard then go ahahaha,” said Peachy. “They can’t kill you unless it’s for money,” said Catseye. But now there was a soupçon of doubt in his voice. They kept their eyes on the hooded man. He kept his eye on them. If asked to describe what they did for a living, the five men around the table would have said something like “This and that” or “The best I can,” although in Banjo’s case he’d have probably said “Dur?” They were, by the standards of an uncaring society, criminals, although they wouldn’t have thought of themselves as such and couldn’t even spell words like “nefarious. ” What they generally did was move things around. Sometimes the things were on the wrong side of a steel door, say, or in the wrong house. Sometimes the things were in fact people who were far too unimportant to trouble the Assassins’ Guild with, but who were nevertheless inconveniently positioned where they were and could much better be located on, for example, a sea bed somewhere. * None of the five belonged to any formal guild and they generally found their clients among those people who, for their own dark reasons, didn’t want to put the guilds to any trouble, sometimes because they were guild members themselves. They had plenty of work. There was always something that needed transferring from A to B or, of course, to the bottom of the C. “Any minute now,” said Peachy, as the waiter brought their beers. Banjo cleared his throat. This was a sign that another thought had arrived. “What I don’ unnerstan,” he said, “is…” “Yes?” said his brother. † “What I don’ unnerstan is, how longaz diz place had waiters?” “Good evening,” said Teatime, putting down the tray. They stared at him in silence. He gave them a friendly smile. Peachy’s huge hand slapped the table. “You crept up on us, you little—” he began. Men in their line of business develop a certain prescience. Medium Dave and Catseye, who were sitting on either side of Peachy, leaned away nonchalantly. “Hi!” said Teatime. There was a blur, and a knife shuddered in the table between Peachy’s thumb and index finger. He looked down at it in horror. “My name’s Teatime,” said Teatime. “Which one are you?” “’m…Peachy,” said Peachy, still staring at the vibrating knife. “That’s an interesting name,” said Teatime. “Why are you called Peachy, Peachy?” Medium Dave coughed. Peachy looked up into Teatime’s face. The glass eye was a mere ball of faintly glowing gray. The other eye was a little dot in a sea of white. Peachy’s only contact with intelligence had been to beat it up and rob it whenever possible, but a sudden sense of self-preservation glued him to his chair. “’cos I don’t shave,” he said. “Peachy don’t like blades, mister,” said Catseye. “And do you have a lot of friends, Peachy?” said Teatime. “Got a few, yeah…” With a sudden whirl of movement that made the men start, Teatime spun away, grabbed a chair, swung it up to the table and sat down on it. Three of them had already got their hands on their swords. “I don’t have many,” he said, apologetically. “Don’t seem to have the knack. On the other hand…I don’t seem to have any enemies at all. Not one. Isn’t that nice?” Teatime had been thinking, in the cracking, buzzing fireworks display that was his head. What he had been thinking about was immortality. He might have been quite, quite insane, but he was no fool. There were, in the Assassins’ Guild, a number of paintings and busts of famous members who had, in the past, put…no, of course, that wasn’t right. There were paintings and busts of the famous clients of members, with a noticeably modest brass plaque screwed somewhere nearby, bearing some unassuming little comment like “Departed this vale of tears on Grune 3, Year of the Sideways Leech, with the assistance of the Hon. K. W. Dobson (Viper House). ” Many fine old educational establishments had dignified memorials in some hall listing the Old Boys who had laid down their lives for monarch and country. The Guild’s was very similar, except for the question of whose life had been laid. Every Guild member wanted to be up there somewhere. Because getting up there represented immortality. |
And the bigger your client, the more incredibly discreet and restrained would be the little brass plaque, so that everyone couldn’t help but notice your name. In fact, if you were very, very renowned, they wouldn’t even have to write down your name at all… The men around the table watched him. It was always hard to know what Banjo was thinking, or even if he was thinking at all, but the other four were thinking along the lines of: bumptious little twit, like all Assassins. Thinks he knows it all. I could take him down one-handed, no trouble. But…you hear stories. Those eyes give me the creeps… “So what’s the job?” said Chickenwire. “We don’t do jobs,” said Teatime. “We perform services. And the service will earn each of you ten thousand dollars. ” “That’s a lot more’n Thieves’ Guild rate,” said Medium Dave. “I’ve never liked the Thieves’ Guild,” said Teatime, without turning his head. “Why not?” “They ask too many questions. ” “We don’t ask questions,” said Chickenwire quickly. “We shall suit one another perfectly,” said Teatime. “Do have another drink while we wait for the other members of our little troupe. ” Chickenwire saw Medium Dave’s lips start to frame the opening letters “Who—” These letters he deemed inauspicious at this time. He kicked Medium Dave’s leg under the table. The door opened slightly. A figure came in, but only just. It inserted itself in the gap and sidled along the wall in a manner calculated not to attract attention. Calculated, that is, by someone not good at this sort of calculation. It looked at them over its turned-up collar. “That’s a wizard ,” said Peachy. The figure hurried over and dragged up a chair. “No, I’m not!” it hissed. “I’m incognito!” “Right, Mr. Gnito,” said Medium Dave. “You’re just someone in a pointy hat. This is my brother Banjo, that’s Peachy, this is Chick—” The wizard looked desperately at Teatime. “I didn’t want to come!” “Mr. Sideney here is indeed a wizard,” said Teatime. “A student, anyway. But down on his luck at the moment, hence his willingness to join us on this venture. ” “Exactly how far down on his luck?” said Medium Dave. The wizard tried not to meet anyone’s gaze. “I made a misjudgment to do with a wager,” he said. “Lost a bet, you mean?” said Chickenwire. “I paid up on time,” said Sideney. “Yes, but Chrysoprase the troll has this odd little thing about money that turns into lead the next day,” said Teatime cheerfully. “So our friend needs to earn a little cash in a hurry and in a climate where arms and legs stay on. ” “No one said anything about there being magic in all this,” said Peachy. “Our destination is…probably you should think of it as something like a wizard’s tower, gentlemen,” said Teatime. “It isn’t an actual wizard’s tower, is it?” said Medium Dave. “They got a very odd sense of humor when it comes to booby traps. ” “No. ” “Guards?” “I believe so. According to legend. But nothing very much. ” Medium Dave narrowed his eyes. “There’s valuable stuff in this…tower?” “Oh, yes. ” “Why ain’t there many guards, then?” “The…person who owns the property probably does not realize the value of what…of what they have. ” “Locks?” said Medium Dave. “On our way we shall be picking up a locksmith. ” “Who?” “Mr. Brown. ” They nodded. Everyone—at least, everyone in “the business,” and everyone in “the business” knew what “the business” was, and if you didn’t know what “the business” was you weren’t a businessman—knew Mr. Brown. His presence anywhere around a job gave it a certain kind of respectability. He was a neat, elderly man who’d invented most of the tools in his big leather bag. No matter what cunning you’d used to get into a place, or overcome a small army, or find the secret treasure room, sooner or later you sent for Mr. Brown, who’d turn up with his leather bag and his little springy things and his little bottles of strange alchemy and his neat little boots. And he’d do nothing for ten minutes but look at the lock, and then he’d select a piece of bent metal from a ring of several hundred almost identical pieces, and under an hour later he’d be walking away with a neat ten percent of the takings. Of course, you didn’t have to use Mr. Brown’s services. You could always opt to spend the rest of your life looking at a locked door. “All right. Where is this place?” said Peachy. Teatime turned and smiled at him. “If I’m paying you, why isn’t it me who’s asking the questions?” Peachy didn’t even try to outstare the glass eye a second time. “Just want to be prepared, that’s all,” he mumbled. “Good reconnaissance is the essence of a successful operation,” said Teatime. He turned and looked up at the bulk that was Banjo and added, “What is this?” “This is Banjo,” said Medium Dave, rolling himself a cigarette. “Does it do tricks?” Time stood still for a moment. The other men looked at Medium Dave. He was known to Ankh-Morpork’s professional underclass as a thoughtful, patient man, and considered something of an intellectual because some of his tattoos were spelled right. He was reliable in a tight spot and, above all, he was honest, because good criminals have to be honest. If he had a fault, it was a tendency to deal out terminal and definitive retribution to anyone who said anything about his brother. If he had a virtue, it was a tendency to pick his time. Medium Dave’s fingers tucked the tobacco into the paper and raised it to his lips. “No,” he said. Chickenwire tried to defrost the conversation. “He’s not what you’d call bright, but he’s always useful. He can lift two men in each hand. By their necks. ” “Yur,” said Banjo. “He looks like a volcano,” said Teatime. “ Really ?” said Medium Dave Lilywhite. Chickenwire reached out hastily and pushed him back down in his seat. Teatime turned and smiled at him. “I do so hope we’re going to be friends, Mr. Medium Dave,” he said. “It really hurts to think I might not be among friends. ” He gave him another bright smile. Then he turned back to the rest of the table. “Are we resolved, gentlemen?” They nodded. There was some reluctance, given the consensus view that Teatime belonged in a room with soft walls, but ten thousand dollars was ten thousand dollars, possibly even more. “Good,” said Teatime. He looked Banjo up and down. “Then I suppose we might as well make a start. ” And he hit Banjo very hard in the mouth. Death in person did not turn up upon the cessation of every life. It was not necessary. Governments govern, but prime ministers and presidents do not personally turn up in people’s homes to tell them how to run their lives, because of the mortal danger this would present. There are laws instead. But from time to time Death checked up to see that things were functioning properly or, to put it another and more accurate way, properly ceasing to function in the less significant areas of his jurisdiction. And now he walked through dark seas. Silt rose in clouds around his feet as he strode along the trench bottom. His robes floated out around him. There was silence, pressure and utter, utter darkness. But there was life down here, even this far below the waves. There were giant squid, and lobsters with teeth on their eyelids. There were spidery things with their stomachs on their feet, and fish that made their own light. It was a quiet, black nightmare world, but life lives everywhere that life can. Where life can’t, this takes a little longer. Death’s destination was a slight rise in the trench floor. Already the water around him was getting warmer and more populated, by creatures that looked as though they had been put together from the bits left over from everything else. Unseen but felt, a vast column of scalding hot water was welling up from a fissure. Somewhere below were rocks heated to near incandescence by the Disc’s magical field. Spires of minerals had been deposited around this vent. And, in this tiny oasis, a type of life had grown up. It did not need air or light. It did not even need food in the way that most other species would understand the term. |
It just grew at the edge of the streaming column of water, looking like a cross between a worm and a flower. Death kneeled down and peered at it, because it was so small. But for some reason, in this world without eyes or light, it was also a brilliant red. The profligacy of life in these matters never ceased to amaze him. He reached inside his robe and pulled out a small roll of black material, like a jeweler’s tool kit. With great care he took from one of its pouches a scythe about an inch long, and held it expectantly between thumb and forefinger. Somewhere overhead a shard of rock was dislodged by a stray current and tumbled down, raising little puffs of silt as it bounced off the tubes. It landed just beside the living flower and then rolled, wrenching it from the rock. Death flicked the tiny scythe just as the bloom faded… The omnipotent eyesight of various supernatural entities is often remarked upon. It is said they can see the fall of every sparrow. And this may be true. But there is only one who is always there when it hits the ground. The soul of the tube worm was very small and uncomplicated. It wasn’t bothered about sin. It had never coveted its neighbor’s polyps. It had never gambled or drunk strong liquor. It had never bothered itself with questions like “Why am I here?” because it had no concept at all of “here” or, for that matter, of “I. ” Nevertheless, something was cut free under the surgical edge of the scythe and vanished in the roiling waters. Death carefully put the instrument away and stood up. All was well, things were functioning satisfactorily, and— —but they weren’t. In the same way that the best of engineers can hear the tiny change that signals a bearing going bad long before the finest of instruments would detect anything wrong, Death picked up a discord in the symphony of the world. It was one wrong note among billions but all the more noticeable for that, like a tiny pebble in a very large shoe. He waved a finger in the waters. For a moment a blue, door-shaped outline appeared. He stepped through it and was gone. The tube creatures didn’t notice him go. They hadn’t noticed him arrive. They never ever noticed anything. A cart trundled through the freezing foggy streets, the driver hunched in his seat. He seemed to be all big thick brown overcoat. A figure darted out of the swirls and was suddenly on the box next to him. “Hi!” it said. “My name’s Teatime. What’s yours?” “’ere, you get down, I ain’t allowed to give li—” The driver stopped. It was amazing how Teatime had been able to thrust a knife through four layers of thick clothing and stop it just at the point where it pricked the flesh. “Sorry?” said Teatime, smiling brightly. “Er—there ain’t nothing valuable, y’know, nothing valuable, only a few bags of—” “Oh dear,” said Teatime, his face a sudden acre of concern. “Well, we’ll just have to see, won’t we…What is your name, sir?” “Ernie. Er. Ernie,” said Ernie. “Yes. Ernie. Er…” Teatime turned his head slightly. “Come along, gentlemen. This is my friend Ernie. He’s going to be our driver for tonight. ” Ernie saw half a dozen figures emerge from the fog and climb into the cart behind him. He didn’t turn to look at them. By the pricking of his kidneys he knew this would not be an exemplary career move. But it seemed that one of the figures, a huge shambling mound of a creature, was carrying a long bundle over its shoulder. The bundle moved and made muffled noises. “Do stop shaking, Ernie. We just need a lift,” said Teatime, as the cart rumbled over the cobbles. “Where to, mister?” “Oh, we don’t mind. But first, I’d like you to stop in Sator Square, near the second fountain. ” The knife was withdrawn. Ernie stopped trying to breathe through his ears. “Er…” “What is it? You do seem tense, Ernie. I always find a neck massage helps. ” “I ain’t rightly allowed to carry passengers, see. Charlie’ll give me a right telling-off…” “Oh, don’t you worry about that ,” said Teatime, slapping him on the back. “We’re all friends here!” “What’re we bringing the girl for?” said a voice behind them. “’s not right, hittin’ girls,” said a deep voice. “Our mam said no hittin’ girls. Only bad boys do that, our mam said—” “You be quiet, Banjo. ” “Our mam said—” “Shssh! Ernie here doesn’t want to listen to our troubles,” said Teatime, not taking his gaze off the driver. “Me? Deaf as a post, me,” burbled Ernie, who in some ways was a very quick learner. “Can’t hardly see more’n a few feet, neither. Got no recollection for them faces that I do see, come to that. Bad memory? Hah! Talk about bad memory. Cor, sometimes I can be like as it were on the cart, talking to people, hah, just like I’m talking to you now, and then when they’re gone, hah, try as I might, do you think I can remember anything about them or how many they were or what they were carrying or anything about any girl or anything?” By this time his voice was a high-pitched wheeze. “Hah! Sometimes I forget me own name!” “It’s Ernie , isn’t it?” said Teatime, giving him a happy smile. “Ah, and here we are. Oh dear. There seems to be some excitement. ” There was the sound of fighting somewhere ahead, and then a couple of masked trolls ran past with three Watchmen after them. They all ignored the cart. “I heard the De Bris gang were going to have a go at Packley’s strong room tonight,” said a voice behind Ernie. “Looks like Mr. Brown won’t be joining us, then,” said another voice. There was a snigger. “Oh, I don’t know about that, Mr. Lilywhite, I don’t know about that at all,” said a third voice, and this one was from the direction of the fountain. “Could you take my bag while I climb up, please? Do be careful, it’s a little heavy. ” It was a neat little voice. The owner of a voice like that kept his money in a shovel purse and always counted his change carefully. Ernie thought all this, and then tried very hard to forget that he had. “On you go, Ernie,” said Teatime. “Round behind the University, I think. ” As the cart rolled on, the neat little voice said, “You grab all the money and then you get out very smartly. Am I right?” There was a murmur of agreement. “Learned that on my mother’s knee, yeah. ” “You learned a lot of stuff across your ma’s knee, Mr. Lilywhite. ” “Don’t you say nuffin’ about our mam!” The voice was like an earthquake. “This is Mr. Brown , Banjo. You smarten up. ” “He dint ort to tork about our mam!” “All right! All right! Hello, Banjo…I think I may have a sweet somewhere…Yes, there you are. Yes, your ma knew the way all right. You go in quietly, you take your time, you get what you came for and you leave smartly and in good order. You don’t hang around at the scene to count it out and tell one another what brave lads you are, am I right?” “You seem to have done all right, Mr. Brown. ” The cart rattled toward the other side of the square. “Just a little for expenses, Mr. Catseye. A little Hogswatch present, you might say. Never take the lot and run. Take a little and walk. Dress neat. That’s my motto. Dress neat and walk away slowly. Never run. Never run. The Watch’ll always chase a running man. They’re like terriers for giving chase. No, you walk out slow, you walk round the corner, you wait till there’s a lot of excitement, then you turn around and walk back. They can’t cope with that, see. Half the time they’ll stand aside to let you walk past. ‘Good evening, officers,’ you say, and then you go home for your tea. ” “Wheee! Gets you out of trouble, I can see that. If you’ve got the nerve. ” “Oh, no, Mr. Peachy. Doesn’t get you out of. Keeps you out of. ” It was like a very good schoolroom, Ernie thought (and immediately tried to forget). Or a back-street gym when a champion prizefighter had just strolled in. “What’s up with your mouth, Banjo?” “He lost a tooth, Mr. Brown,” said another voice, and sniggered. “Lost a toot’, Mr. Brown,” said the thunder that was Banjo. “Keep your eyes on the road, Ernie,” said Teatime beside him. |
“We don’t want an accident, do we…” The road here was deserted, despite the bustle of the city behind them and the bulk of the University nearby. There were a few streets, but the buildings were abandoned. And something was happening to the sound. The rest of Ankh-Morpork seemed very far away, the sounds arriving as if through quite a thick wall. They were entering that scorned little corner of Ankh-Morpork that had long been the site of the University’s rubbish pits and was now known as the Unreal Estate. “Bloody wizards,” muttered Ernie, automatically. “I beg your pardon?” said Teatime. “My great-grandpa said we used t’own prop’ty round here. Low levels of magic, my arse! Hah, it’s all right for them wizards, they got all kindsa spells to protect ’em. Bit of magic here, bit of magic there…Stands to reason it’s got to go somewhere, right?” “There used to be warning signs up,” said the neat voice from behind. “Yeah, well, warning signs in Ankh-Morpork might as well have ‘Good firewood’ written on them,” said someone else. “I mean, stands to reason, they chuck out an old spell for exploding this, and another one for twiddlin’ that, and another one for making carrots grow, they finish up interfering with one another, who knows what they’ll end up doing?” said Ernie. “Great-grandpa said sometimes they’d wake up in the morning and the cellar’d be higher than the attic. And that weren’t the worst,” he added darkly. “Yeah, I heard where it got so bad you could walk down the street and meet yourself coming the other way,” someone supplied. “It got so’s you didn’t know it was bum or breakfast time, I heard. ” “The dog used to bring home all kinds of stuff,” said Ernie. “Great-grandpa said half the time they used to dive behind the sofa if it came in with anything in its mouth. Corroded fire spells startin’ to fizz, broken wands with green smoke coming out of ’em and I don’t know what else…and if you saw the cat playing with anything, it was best not to try to find out what it was, I can tell you. ” He twitched the reins, his current predicament almost forgotten in the tide of hereditary resentment. “I mean, they say all the old spell books and stuff was buried deep and they recycle the used spells now, but that don’t seem much comfort when your potatoes started walkin’ about,” he grumbled. “My great-grandpa went to see the head wizard about it, and he said”—he put on a strangled nasal voice which was his idea of how you talked when you’d got an education—“‘Oh, there might be some temp’ry inconvenience now, my good man, but just you come back in fifty thousand years. ’ Bloody wizards. ” The horse turned a corner. This was a dead-end street. Half-collapsed houses, windows smashed, doors stolen, leaned against one another on either side. “I heard they said they were going to clean up this place,” said someone. “Oh, yeah ,” said Ernie, and spat. When it hit the ground it ran away. “And you know what? You get loonies coming in all the time now, poking around, pulling things about—” “Just at the wall up ahead,” said Teatime conversationally. “I think you generally go through just where there’s a pile of rubble by the old dead tree, although you wouldn’t see it unless you looked closely. But I’ve never seen how you do it…” “’ere, I can’t take you lot through,” said Ernie. “Lifts is one thing, but not taking people through—” Teatime sighed. “And we were getting on so well. Listen, Ernie…Ern…you will take us through or, and I say this with very considerable regret, I will have to kill you. You seem a nice man. Conscientious. A very serious overcoat and sensible boots. ” “But if’n I take you through—” “What’s the worst that can happen?” said Teatime. “You’ll lose your job. Whereas if you don’t, you’ll die. So if you look at it like that, we’re actually doing you a favor. Oh, do say yes. ” “Er…” Ernie’s brain felt all twisted. The lad was definitely what Ernie thought of as a toff, and he seemed nice and friendly, but it didn’t all add up. The tone and the content didn’t match. “Besides,” said Teatime, “if you’ve been coerced, it’s not your fault, is it? No one can blame you. No one could blame anyone who’d been coerced at knife point. ” “Oh, well, I s’pose, if we’re talking coerced …” Ernie muttered. Going along with things seemed to be the only way. The horse stopped and stood waiting with the patient look of an animal that probably knows the route better than the driver. Ernie fumbled in his overcoat pocket and took out a small tin, rather like a snuffbox. He opened it. There was glowing dust inside. “What do you do with that?” said Teatime, all interest. “Oh, you just takes a pinch and throws it in the air and it goes twing and it opens the soft place,” said Ernie. “So…you don’t need any special training or anything?” “Er…you just chucks it at the wall there and it goes twing ,” said Ernie. “Really? May I try?” Teatime took the tin from his unresisting hand and threw a pinch of dust into the air in front of the horse. It hovered for a moment and then produced a narrow, glittering arch in the air. It sparkled and went… … twing. “Aw,” said a voice behind them. “Innat nice, eh, our Davey?” “Yeah. ” “All pretty sparkles…” “And then you just drive forward?” said Teatime. “That’s right,” said Ernie. “Quick, mind. It only stays open for a little while. ” Teatime pocketed the little tin. “Thank you very much, Ernie. Very much indeed. ” His other hand lashed out. There was a glint of metal. The carter blinked, and then fell sideways off his seat. There was silence from behind, tinted with horror and possibly just a little terrible admiration. “Wasn’t he dull ?” said Teatime, picking up the reins. Snow began to fall. It fell on the recumbent shape of Ernie, and it also fell through several hooded gray robes that hung in the air. There appeared to be nothing inside them. You could believe they were there merely to mark a certain point in space. Well, said one, we are frankly impressed. Indeed, said another. We would never have thought of doing it this way. He is certainly a resourceful human, said a third. The beauty of it all, said the first—or it may have been the second, because absolutely nothing distinguished the robes—is that there is so much else we will control. Quite, said another. It is really amazing how they think. A sort of…illogical logic. Children, said another. Who would have thought it? But today the children, tomorrow the world. Give me a child until he is seven and he’s mine for life, said another. There was a dreadful pause. The consensus beings that called themselves the Auditors did not believe in anything, except possibly immortality. And the way to be immortal, they knew, was to avoid living. Most of all they did not believe in personality. To be a personality was to be a creature with a beginning and an end. And since they reasoned that in an infinite universe any life was by comparison unimaginably short, they died instantly. There was a flaw in their logic, of course, but by the time they found this out it was always too late. In the meantime, they scrupulously avoided any comment, action or experience that set them apart… You said “me,” said one. Ah. Yes. But, you see, we were quoting, said the other one hurriedly. Some religious person said that. About educating children. And so would logically say “me. ” But I wouldn’t use that term of myself, of— damn ! The robe vanished in a little puff of smoke. Let that be a lesson to us, said one of the survivors, as another and totally indistinguishable robe popped into existence where the stricken colleague had been. Yes, said the newcomer. Well, it certainly appears— It stopped. A dark shape was approaching through the snow. It’s him , it said. They faded hurriedly—not simply vanishing, but spreading out and thinning until they were just lost in the background. The dark figure stopped by the dead carter and reached down. C OULD I GIVE YOU A HAND ? Ernie looked up gratefully. “Cor, yeah,” he said. He got to his feet, swaying a little. “Here, your fingers’re cold, mister!” S ORRY. |
“What’d he go and do that for? I did what he said. He could’ve killed me. ” Ernie felt inside his overcoat and pulled out a small and, at this point, strangely transparent silver flask. “I always keep a nip on me these cold nights,” he said. “Keeps me spirits up. ” Y ES INDEED. Death looked around briefly and sniffed the air. “How’m I going to explain all this, then, eh?” said Ernie, taking a pull. S ORRY ? T HAT WAS VERY RUDE OF ME. I WASN’T PAYING ATTENTION. “I said what’m I going to tell people? Letting some blokes ride off with my cart neat as you like…That’s gonna be the sack for sure, I’m gonna be in big trouble…” A H. W ELL. T HERE AT LEAST I HAVE SOME GOOD NEWS , E RNEST. A ND, THEN AGAIN , I HAVE SOME BAD NEWS. Ernie listened. Once or twice he looked at the corpse at his feet. He looked smaller from the outside. He was bright enough not to argue. Some things are fairly obvious when it’s a seven-foot skeleton with a scythe telling you them. “So I’m dead, then,” he concluded. C ORRECT. “Er…The priest said that…you know…after you’re dead…it’s like going through a door and on one side of it there’s…He…well, a terrible place…?” Death looked at his worried, fading face. T HROUGH A DOOR … “That’s what he said…” I EXPECT IT DEPENDS ON THE DIRECTION YOU’RE WALKING IN. When the street was empty again, except for the fleshy abode of the late Ernie, the gray shapes came back into focus. Honestly, he gets worse and worse, said one. He was looking for us, said another. Did you notice? He suspects something. He gets so… concerned about things. Yes…but the beauty of this plan, said a third, is that he can’t interfere. He can go everywhere, said one. No, said another. Not quite everywhere. And, with ineffable smugness, they faded into the foreground. It started to snow quite heavily. It was the night before Hogswatch. All through the house… …one creature stirred. It was a mouse. And someone, in the face of all appropriateness, had baited a trap. Although, because it was the festive season, they’d used a piece of pork crackling. The smell of it had been driving the mouse mad all day but now, with no one about, it was prepared to risk it. The mouse didn’t know it was a trap. Mice aren’t good at passing on information. Young mice aren’t taken up to famous trap sites and told, “This is where your Uncle Arthur passed away. ” All it knew was that, what the hey, here was something to eat. On a wooden board with some wire round it. A brief scurry later and its jaw had closed on the rind. Or, rather, passed through it. The mouse looked around at what was now lying under the big spring, and thought, “Oops…” Then its gaze went up to the black-clad figure that had faded into view by the wainscoting. “Squeak?” it asked. S QUEAK , said the Death of Rats. And that was it , more or less. Afterward, the Death of Rats looked around with interest. In the nature of things his very important job tended to take him to rickyards and dark cellars and the inside of cats and all the little dank holes where rats and mice finally found out if there was a Promised Cheese. This place was different. It was brightly decorated, for one thing. Ivy and mistletoe hung in bunches from the bookshelves. Brightly colored streamers festooned the walls, a feature seldom found in most holes or even quite civilized cats. The Déath of Rats took a leap onto a chair and from there on to the table and in fact right into a glass of amber liquid, which tipped over and broke. A puddle spread around four turnips and began to soak into a note which had been written rather awkwardly on pink writing paper. It read: Dere HogFather, For Hogswatch I Would like a drum an a dolly an a teddybear an a Gharstley omnian Inquisision Torchure chamber with wind-up Rock and Nearly Real Blud you can Use Agian. You can get it From the toy Shoppe in Short Strete. it is $5. 99p. I have been good an here is a glars of Sherre an a pork pie For you and turnips For Gouger an Tusker an Rooter an Snot Snouter. I hop the chimney is big enough but my Friend willaim Says you are your Father really. Yrs. Virginia Prood. The Death of Rats nibbled a bit of the pork pie because when you are the personification of the death of small rodents you have to behave in certain ways. He also piddled on one of the turnips for the same reason, although only metaphorically, because when you are a small skeleton in a black robe there are also some things you technically cannot do. Then he leapt down from the table and left sherry-flavored footprints all the way to the tree that stood in a pot in the corner. It was really only a bare branch of oak, but so much shiny holly and mistletoe had been wired onto it that it gleamed in the light of the candles. There was tinsel on it, and glittering ornaments, and small bags of chocolate money. The Death of Rats peered at his hugely distorted reflection in a glass ball, and then looked up at the mantelpiece. He reached it in one jump, and ambled curiously through the cards that had been ranged along it. His gray whiskers twitched at messages like “Wishing you Joye and all Goode Cheer at Hogswatchtime & All Through The Yeare. ” A couple of them had pictures of a big jolly fat man carrying a sack. In one of them he was riding in a sleigh drawn by four enormous pigs. The Death of Rats sniffed at a couple of long stockings that had been hung from the mantelpiece, over the fireplace in which a fire had died down to a few sullen ashes. He was aware of a subtle tension in the air, a feeling that here was a scene that was also a stage, a round hole, as it were, waiting for a round peg— There was a scraping noise. A few lumps of soot thumped into the ashes. The Grim Squeaker nodded to himself. The scraping became louder, and was followed by a moment of silence and then a clang as something landed in the ashes and knocked over a set of ornamental fire irons. The rat watched carefully as a red-robed figure pulled itself upright and staggered across the hearth rug, rubbing its shin where it had been caught by the toasting fork. It reached the table and read the note. The Death of Rats thought he heard a groan. The turnips were pocketed and so, to the Death of Rats’ annoyance, was the pork pie. He was pretty sure it was meant to be eaten here, not taken away. The figure scanned the dripping note for a moment, and then turned around and approached the mantelpiece. The Death of Rats pulled back slightly behind “Season’s Greetings!” A red-gloved hand took down a stocking. There was some creaking and rustling and it was replaced, looking a lot fatter—the larger box sticking out of the top had, just visible, the words “Victim Figures Not Included. 3—10 yrs. ” The Death of Rats couldn’t see much of the donor of this munificence. The big red hood hid all the face, apart from a long white beard. Finally, when the figure finished, it stood back and pulled a list out of its pocket. It held it up to the hood and appeared to be consulting it. It waved its other hand vaguely at the fireplace, the sooty footprints, the empty sherry glass and the stocking. Then it bent forward, as if reading some tiny print. AH, YES, it said. ER…HO. HO. HO. With that, it ducked down and entered the chimney. There was some scrabbling before its boots gained a purchase, and then it was gone. The Death of Rats realized he’d begun to gnaw his little scythe’s handle in sheer shock. SQUEAK? He landed in the ashes and swarmed up the sooty cave of the chimney. He emerged so fast that he shot out with his legs still scrabbling and landed in the snow on the roof. There was a sleigh hovering in the air by the gutter. The red-hooded figure had just climbed in and appeared to be talking to someone invisible behind a pile of sacks. HERE’S ANOTHER PORK PIE. “Any mustard?” said the sacks. “They’re a treat with mustard. ” IT DOES NOT APPEAR SO. “Oh, well. Pass it over anyway. ” IT LOOKS VERY BAD. “Nah, ’s just where something’s nibbled it—” I MEAN THE SITUATION. MOST OF THE LETTERS…THEY DON’T REALLY BELIEVE. THEY PRETEND TO BELIEVE, JUST IN CASE. |
* I FEAR IT MAY BE TOO LATE. IT HAS SPREAD SO FAST AND BACK IN TIME, TOO. “Never say die, master. That’s our motto, eh?” said the sacks, apparently with their mouth full. I CAN’T SAY IT’S EVER REALLY BEEN MINE. “I meant we’re not going to be intimidated by the certain prospect of complete and utter failure, master. ” AREN’T WE? OH, GOOD. WELL, I SUPPOSE WE’D BETTER BE GOING. The figure picked up the reins. UP, GOUGER! UP, ROOTER! UP, TUSKER! UP, SNOUTER! GIDDYUP! The four large boars harnessed to the sleigh did not move. WHY DOESN’T THAT WORK? said the figure in a puzzled, heavy voice. “Beats me, master,” said the sacks. IT WORKS ON HORSES. “You could try ‘Pig-hooey!’” PIG-HOOEY. They waited. NO…DOESN’T SEEM TO REACH THEM. There was some whispering. REALLY? YOU THINK THAT WOULD WORK? “It’d bloody well work on me if I was a pig, master. ” VERY WELL, THEN. The figure gathered up the reins again. APPLE! SAUCE! The pigs’ legs blurred. Silver light flicked across them, and exploded outward. They dwindled to a dot, and vanished. SQUEAK? The Death of Rats skipped across the snow, slid down a drain pipe and landed on the roof of a shed. There was a raven perched there. It was staring disconsolately at something. SQUEAK! “Look at that, willya?” said the raven rhetorically. It waved a claw at a bird feeder in the garden below. “They hangs up half a bloody coconut, a lump of bacon rind, a handful of peanuts in a bit of wire and they think they’re the gods’ gift to the nat’ral world. Huh. Do I see eyeballs? Do I see entrails? I think not. Most intelligent bird in the temperate latitudes an’ I gets the cold shoulder just because I can’t hang upside down and go twit, twit. Look at robins, now. Stroppy little evil buggers, fight like demons, but all they got to do is go bob-bob-bobbing along and they can’t move for bread crumbs. Whereas me myself can recite poems and repeat many hum’rous phrases—” SQUEAK! “Yes? What?” The Death of Rats pointed at the roof and then the sky and jumped up and down excitedly. The raven swiveled one eye upward. “Oh, yes. Him,” he said. “Turns up at this time of year. Tends to be associated distantly with robins, which—” SQUEAK! SQUEE IK IK IK! The Death of Rats pantomimed a figure landing in a grate and walking around a room. SQUEAK EEK IK IK, SQUEAK “HEEK HEEK HEEK!” IK IK SQUEAK! “Been overdoing the Hogswatch cheer, have you? Been rooting around in the brandy butter?” SQUEAK? The raven’s eyes revolved. “Look, Death’s Death. It’s a full-time job right? It’s not as though you can run, like, a window cleaning round on the side or nip round after work cutting people’s lawns. ” SQUEAK! “Oh, please yourself. ” The raven crouched a little to allow the tiny figure to hop on to its back, and then lumbered into the air. “Of course, they can go mental, your occult types,” it said, as it swooped over the moonlit garden. “Look at Old Man Trouble, for one—” SQUEAK. “Oh, I’m not suggesting—” Susan didn’t like Biers but she went there anyway, when the pressure of being normal got too much. Biers, despite the smell and the drink and the company, had one important virtue. In Biers no one took any notice. Of anything. Hogswatch was traditionally supposed to be a time for families but the people who drank in Biers probably didn’t have families; some of them looked as though they might have had litters, or clutches. Some of them looked as though they’d probably eaten their relatives, or at least someone’s relatives. Biers was where the undead drank. And when Igor the barman was asked for a Bloody Mary, he didn’t mix a metaphor. The regular customers didn’t ask questions, and not only because some of them found anything above a growl hard to articulate. None of them was in the answers business. Everyone in Biers drank alone, even when they were in groups. Or packs. Despite the decorations put up inexpertly by Igor the barman to show willing, * Biers was not a family place. Family was a subject Susan liked to avoid. Currently she was being aided in this by a gin and tonic. In Biers, unless you weren’t choosy, it paid to order a drink that was transparent because Igor also had undirected ideas about what you could stick on the end of a cocktail stick. If you saw something spherical and green, you just had to hope that it was an olive. She felt hot breath on her ear. A bogeyman had sat down on the stool beside her. “Woss a normo doin’ in a place like this, then?” it rumbled, causing a cloud of vaporized alcohol and halitosis to engulf her. “Hah, you fink it’s cool comin’ down here an’ swannin’ around in a black dress wid all the lost boys, eh? Dabblin’ in a bit of designer darkness, eh?” Susan moved her stool away a little. The bogeyman grinned. “Want a bogeyman under yer bed, eh?” “Now then, Shlimazel,” said Igor, without looking up from polishing a glass. “Well, woss she down here for, eh?” said the bogeyman. A huge hairy hand grabbed Susan’s arm. “O’course, maybe what she wants is—” “I ain’t telling you again, Shlimazel,” said Igor. He saw the girl turn to face Shlimazel. Igor wasn’t in a position to see her face fully, but the bogeyman was. He shot back so quickly that he fell off his stool. And when the girl spoke, what she said was only partly words but also a statement, written in stone, of how the future was going to be. “GO AWAY AND STOP BOTHERING ME. ” She turned back and gave Igor a polite and slightly apologetic smile. The bogeyman struggled frantically out of the wreckage of his stool and loped toward the door. Susan felt the drinkers turn back to their private preoccupations. It was amazing what you could get away with in Biers. Igor put down the glass and looked up at the window. For a drinking den that relied on darkness it had rather a large one but, of course, some customers did arrive by air. Something was tapping on it now. Igor lurched over and opened it. Susan looked up. “Oh, no…” The Death of Rats leapt down onto the counter, with the raven fluttering after it. SQUEAK SQUEAK EEK! EEK! SQUEAK IK IK “HEEK HEEK HEEK!” SQ— “Go away,” said Susan coldly. “I’m not interested. You’re just a figment of my imagination. ” The raven perched on a bowl behind the bar and said, “Ah, great. ” SQUEAK! “What’re these?” said the raven, flicking something off the end of its beak. “Onions? Pfah!” “Go on, go away, the pair of you,” said Susan. “The rat says your granddad’s gone mad,” said the raven. “Says he’s pretending to be the Hogfather. ” “Listen, I just don’t—What?” “Red cloak, long beard—” HEEK! HEEK! HEEK! “—going ‘ho, ho, ho,’ driving around in the big sleigh drawn by the four piggies, the whole thing…” “Pigs? What happened to Binky?” “Search me. O’ course, it can happen, as I was telling the rat only just now—” Susan put her hands over her ears, more for desperate theatrical effect than for the muffling they gave. “I don’t want to know! I don’t have a grandfather!” She had to hold onto that. The Death of Rats squeaked at length. “The rat says you must remember, he’s tall, not what you’d call fleshy, he carries a scythe—” “Go away! And take the…the rat with you!” She waved her hand wildly and, to her horror and shame, knocked the little hooded skeleton over an ashtray. EEK? The raven took the rat’s cowl in its beak and tried to drag him away, but a tiny skeletal fist shook its scythe. EEK IK EEK SQUEAK! “He says, you don’t mess with the rat,” said the raven. In a flurry of wings they were gone. Igor closed the window. He didn’t pass any comment. “They weren’t real,” said Susan, hurriedly. “Well, that is…the raven’s probably real, but he hangs around with the rat—” “Which isn’t real,” said Igor. “That’s right!” said Susan, gratefully. “You probably didn’t see a thing. ” “That’s right,” said Igor. “Not a thing. ” “Now…how much do I owe you?” said Susan. Igor counted on his fingers. “That’ll be a dollar for the drinks,” he said, “and five pence because the raven that wasn’t here messed in the pickles. ” It was the night before Hogswatch. |
In the Archchancellor’s new bathroom Modo wiped his hands on a piece of rag and looked proudly at his handiwork. Shining porcelain gleamed back at him. Copper and brass shone in the lamplight. He was a little worried that he hadn’t been able to test everything, but Mr. Ridcully had said, “I’ll test it when I use it,” and Modo never argued with the Gentlemen, as he thought of them. He knew that they all knew a lot more than he knew, and was quite happy knowing this. He didn’t meddle with the fabric of time and space, and they kept out of his greenhouses. The way he saw it, it was a partnership. He’d been particularly careful to scrub the floors. Mr. Ridcully had been very specific about that. “Verruca Gnome,” he said to himself, giving a tap a last polish. “What an imagination the Gentlemen do have…” Far off, unheard by anyone, was a faint little noise, like the ringing of tiny silver bells. Glingleglingleglingle… And someone landed abruptly in a snow drift and said, “Bugger!” which is a terrible thing to say as your first word ever. Overhead, heedless of the new and somewhat angry life that was even now dusting itself off, the sleigh soared onward through time and space. I’M FINDING THE BEARD A BIT OF A TRIAL, said Death. “Why’ve you got to have the beard?” said the voice from among the sacks. “I thought you said people see what they expect to see. ” CHILDREN DON’T. TOO OFTEN THEY SEE WHAT’S THERE. “Well, at least it’s keeping you in the right frame of mind, master. In character, sort of thing. ” BUT GOING DOWN THE CHIMNEY? WHERE’S THE SENSE IN THAT? I CAN JUST WALK THROUGH THE WALLS. “Walking through the walls is not right, neither,” said the voice from the sacks. IT WORKS FOR ME. “It’s got to be chimneys. Same as the beard, really. ” A head thrust itself out from the pile. It appeared to belong to the oldest, most unpleasant pixie in the universe. The fact that it was underneath a jolly little green hat with a bell on it did not do anything to improve matters. It waved a crabbed hand containing a thick wad of letters, many of them on pastel-colored paper, often with bunnies and teddy bears on them, and written mostly in crayon. “You reckon these little buggers’d be writing to someone who walked through walls?” it said. “And the ‘Ho, ho, ho’ could use some more work, if you don’t mind my saying so. ” HO. HO. HO. “No, no, no!” said Albert. “You got to put a bit of life in it, sir, no offense intended. It’s got to be a big fat laugh. You got to…you got to sound like you’re pissing brandy and crapping plum pudding, sir, excuse my Klatchian. ” REALLY? HOW DO YOU KNOW ALL THIS? “I was young once, sir. Hung up my stocking like a good boy every year. For to get it filled with toys, just like you’re doing. Mind you, in those days basically it was sausages and black puddings if you were lucky. But you always got a pink sugar piglet in the toe. It wasn’t a good Hogswatch unless you’d eaten so much you were sick as a pig, master. ” Death looked at the sacks. It was a strange but demonstrable fact that the sacks of toys carried by the Hogfather, no matter what they really contained, always appeared to have sticking out of the top a teddy bear, a toy soldier in the kind of colorful uniform that would stand out in a disco, a drum and a red-and-white candy cane. The actual contents always turned out to be something a bit garish and costing $5. 99. Death had investigated one or two. There had been a Real Agatean Ninja, for example, with Fearsome Death Grip, and a Captain Carrot One-Man Night Watch with a complete wardrobe of toy weapons, each of which cost as much as the original wooden doll in the first place. Mind you, the stuff for the girls was just as depressing. It seemed to be nearly all horses. Most of them were grinning. Horses, Death felt, shouldn’t grin. Any horse that was grinning was planning something. He sighed again. Then there was this business of deciding who’d been naughty or nice. He’d never had to think about that sort of thing before. Naughty or nice, it was ultimately all the same. Still, it had to be done right. Otherwise it wouldn’t work. The pigs pulled up alongside another chimney. “Here we are, here we are,” said Albert. “James Riddle, aged eight. ” HAH, YES. HE ACTUALLY SAYS IN HIS LETTER, “I BET YOU DON’T EXIST ’COS EVERYONE KNOWS ITS YORE PARENTS. ” OH, YES, said Death, with what almost sounded like sarcasm, I’M SURE HIS PARENTS ARE JUST IMPATIENT TO BANG THEIR ELBOWS IN TWELVE FEET OF NARROW UNSWEPT CHIMNEY, I DON’T THINK. I SHALL TREAD EXTRA SOOT INTO HIS CARPET. “Right, sir. Good thinking. Speaking of which—down you go, sir. ” HOW ABOUT IF I DON’T GIVE HIM ANYTHING AS A PUNISHMENT FOR NOT BELIEVING? “Yeah, but what’s that going to prove?” Death sighed. I SUPPOSE YOU’RE RIGHT. “Did you check the list?” YES. TWICE. ARE YOU SURE THAT’S ENOUGH? “Definitely. ” COULDN’T REALLY MAKE HEAD OR TAIL OF IT, TO TELL YOU THE TRUTH. HOW CAN I TELL IF HE’S BEEN NAUGHTY OR NICE, FOR EXAMPLE? “Oh, well…I don’t know…Has he hung his clothes up, that sort of thing…” AND IF HE HAS BEEN GOOD I MAY GIVE HIM THIS KLATCHIAN WAR CHARIOT WITH REAL SPINNING SWORD BLADES? “That’s right. ” AND IF HE’S BEEN BAD? Albert scratched his head. “When I was a lad, you got a bag of bones. ’s’mazing how kids got better behaved toward the end of the year. ” OH DEAR. AND NOW? Albert held a package up to his ear and rustled it. “Sounds like socks. ” SOCKS. “Could be a woolly vest. ” SERVE HIM RIGHT, IF I MAY VENTURE TO EXPRESS AN OPINION… Albert looked across the snowy rooftops and sighed. This wasn’t right. He was helping because, well, Death was his master and that’s all there was to it, and if the master had a heart it would be in the right place. But… “Are you sure we ought to be doing this, master?” Death stopped, halfway out of the chimney. CAN YOU THINK OF A BETTER ALTERNATIVE, ALBERT? And that was it. Albert couldn’t. Someone had to do it. There were bears on the street again. Susan ignored them and didn’t even make a point of not treading on the cracks. They just stood around, looking a bit puzzled and slightly transparent, visible only to children and Susan. News like Susan gets around. The bears had heard about the poker. Nuts and berries, their expressions seemed to say. That’s what we’re here for. Big sharp teeth? What big shar—Oh, these big sharp teeth?…They’re just for, er, cracking nuts. And some of these berries can be really vicious. The city’s clocks were striking six when she got back to the house. She was allowed her own key. It wasn’t as if she was a servant, exactly. You couldn’t be a duchess and a servant. But it was all right to be a governess. It was understood that it wasn’t exactly what you were, it was merely a way of passing the time until you did what every girl, or gel, was supposed to do in life, i. e. , marry some man. It was understood that you were playing. The parents were in awe of her. She was the daughter of a duke, whereas Mr. Gaiter was a man to be reckoned with in the wholesale boots and shoes business. Mrs. Gaiter was bucking for a transfer into the Upper Classes, which she currently hoped to achieve by reading books on etiquette. She treated Susan with the kind of worried deference she thought was due to anyone who’d known the difference between a serviette and a napkin from birth. Susan had never before come across the idea that you could rise in Society by, as it were, gaining marks, especially since such noblemen as she’d met in her father’s house had used neither serviette nor napkin but a state of mind, which was “Drop it on the floor, the dogs’ll eat it. ” When Mrs. Gaiter had tremulously asked her how one addressed the second cousin of a queen, Susan had replied without thinking, “We called him Jamie, usually,” and Mrs. Gaiter had had to go and have a headache in her room. Mr. Gaiter just nodded when he met her in a passage and never said very much to her. He was pretty sure he knew where he stood in boots and shoes and that was that. |
Gawain and Twyla, who’d been named by people who apparently loved them, had been put to bed by the time Susan got in, at their own insistence. It’s a widely held belief at a certain age that going to bed early makes tomorrow come faster. She went to tidy up the schoolroom and get things ready for the morning, and began to pick up the things the children had left lying around. Then something tapped at a window pane. She peered out at the darkness, and then opened the window. A drift of snow fell down outside. In the summer the window opened into the branches of a cherry tree. In the winter dark, they were little gray lines where the snow had settled on them. “Who’s that?” said Susan. Something hopped through the frozen branches. “Tweet tweet tweet, would you believe?” said the raven. “Not you again?” “You wanted maybe some dear little robin? Listen, your grand—” “Go away!” Susan slammed the window and pulled the curtains across. She put her back to them, to make sure, and tried to concentrate on the room. It helped to think about…normal things. There was the Hogswatch tree, a rather smaller version of the grand one in the hall. She’d helped the children to make paper decorations for it. Yes. Think about that. There were the paper chains. There were the bits of holly, thrown out from the main rooms for not having enough berries on them, and now given fake modeling clay berries and stuck in anyhow on shelves and behind pictures. There were two stockings hanging from the mantelpiece of the small schoolroom grate. There were Twyla’s paintings, all blobby blue skies and violently green grass and red houses with four square windows. There were… Normal things… She straightened up and stared at them, her fingernails beating a thoughtful tattoo on a wooden pencil case. The door was pushed open. It revealed the tousled shape of Twyla, hanging onto the doorknob with one hand. “Susan, there’s a monster under my bed again…” The click of Susan’s fingernails stopped. “…I can hear it moving about…” Susan sighed and turned toward the child. “All right, Twyla. I’ll be along directly. ” The girl nodded and went back to her room, leaping into bed from a distance as a precaution against claws. There was a metallic tzing as Susan withdrew the poker from the little brass stand it shared with the tongs and the coal shovel. She sighed. Normality was what you made it. She went into the children’s bedroom and leaned over as if to tuck Twyla up. Then her hand darted down and under the bed. She grabbed a handful of hair. She pulled. The bogeyman came out like a cork but before it could get its balance it found itself spread-eagled against the wall with one arm behind its back. But it did manage to turn its head, to see Susan’s face glaring at it from a few inches away. Gawain bounced up and down on his bed. “Do the Voice on it! Do the Voice on it!” he shouted. “Don’t do the Voice, don’t do the Voice!” pleaded the bogeyman urgently. “Hit it on the head with the poker!” “Not the poker! Not the poker!” “It’s you, isn’t it,” said Susan. “From this afternoon…” “Aren’t you going to poke it with the poker?” said Gawain. “Not the poker!” whined the bogeyman. “New in town?” whispered Susan. “Yes!” The bogeyman’s forehead wrinkled with puzzlement. “Here, how come you can see me?” “Then this is a friendly warning, understand? Because it’s Hogswatch. ” The bogeyman tried to move. “You call this friendly?” “Ah, you want to try for unfriendly?” said Susan, adjusting her grip. “No, no, no, I like friendly!” “This house is out of bounds, right?” “You a witch or something?” moaned the bogeyman. “I’m just…something. Now…you won’t be around here again, will you? Otherwise it’ll be the blanket next time. ” “No!” “I mean it. We’ll put your head under the blanket. ” “No!” “It’s got fluffy bunnies on it…” “No!” “Off you go, then. ” The bogeyman half fell, half ran toward the door. “’s not right,” it mumbled. “You’re not s’posed to see us if you ain’t dead or magic…’s not fair…” “Try number nineteen,” said Susan, relenting a little. “The governess there doesn’t believe in bogeymen. ” “Right?” said the monster hopefully. “She believes in algebra, though. ” “Ah. Nice. ” The bogeyman grinned hugely. It was amazing the sort of mischief that could be caused in a house where no one in authority thought you existed. “I’ll be off, then,” it said. “Er. Happy Hogswatch. ” “Possibly,” said Susan, as it slunk away. “That wasn’t as much fun as the one last month,” said Gawain, getting between the sheets again. “You know, when you kicked him in the trousers—” “Just you two get to sleep now,” said Susan. “Verity said the sooner we got to sleep the sooner the Hogfather would come,” said Twyla conversationally. “Yes,” said Susan. “Unfortunately, that might be the case. ” The remark passed right over their heads. She wasn’t sure why it had gone through hers, but she knew enough to trust her senses. She hated that kind of sense. It ruined your life. But it was the sense she had been born with. The children were tucked in, and she closed the door quietly and went back to the schoolroom. Something had changed. She glared at the stockings, but they were unfulfilled. A paper chain rustled. She stared at the tree. Tinsel had been twined around it, badly pasted-together decorations had been hung on it. And on top was the fairy made of— She crossed her arms, looked up at the ceiling, and sighed theatrically. “It’s you, isn’t it?” she said. SQUEAK? “Yes, it is. You’re sticking out your arms like a scarecrow and you’ve stuck a little star on your scythe, haven’t you…?” The Death of Rats hung his head guiltily. SQUEAK. “You’re not fooling anyone. ” SQUEAK. “Get down from there this minute!” SQUEAK. “And what did you do with the fairy?” “It’s shoved under a cushion on the chair,” said a voice from the shelves on the other side of the room. There was a clicking noise and the raven’s voice added, “These damn eyeballs are hard, aren’t they?” Susan raced across the room and snatched the bowl away so fast that the raven somersaulted and landed on its back. “They’re walnuts!” she shouted, as they bounced around her. “Not eyeballs! This is a schoolroom! And the difference between a school and a-a-a raven deli catessen is that they hardly ever have eyeballs lying around in bowls in case a raven drops in for a quick snack! Understand? No eyeballs! The world is full of small round things that aren’t eyeballs! okay?” The raven’s own eyes revolved. “’n’ I suppose a bit of warm liver’s out of the question—” “Shut up! I want both of you out of here right now! I don’t know how you got in here—” “There’s a law against coming down the chimney on Hogswatchnight?” “—but I don’t want you back in my life, understand?” “The rat said you ought to be warned even if you were crazy,” said the raven sulkily. “I didn’t want to come, there’s a donkey dropped dead just outside the city gates, I’ll be lucky now if I get a hoof—” “Warned?” said Susan. There it was again. The change in the weather of the mind, a sensation of tangible time… The Death of Rats nodded. There was a scrabbling sound far overhead. A few flakes of soot dropped down the chimney. SQUEAK, said the rat, but very quietly. Susan was aware of a new sensation, as a fish might be aware of a new tide, a spring of fresh water flowing into the sea. Time was pouring into the world. She glanced up at the clock. It was just on half past six. The raven scratched its beak. “The rat says…The rat says: you’d better watch out…” There were others at work on this shining Hogswatch Eve. The Sandman was out and about, dragging his sack from bed to bed. Jack Frost wandered from window pane to window pane, making icy patterns. And one tiny hunched shape slid and slithered along the gutter, squelching its feet in slush and swearing under its breath. It wore a stained black suit and, on its head, the type of hat known in various parts of the multiverse as “bowler,” “derby” or “the one that makes you look a bit of a twit. |
” The hat had been pressed down very firmly and, since the creature had long pointy ears, these had been forced out sideways and gave it the look of a small malignant wing nut. The thing was a gnome by shape but a fairy by profession. Fairies aren’t necessarily little twinkly creatures. It’s purely a job description, and the commonest ones aren’t even visible. * A fairy is simply any creature currently employed under supernatural laws to take things away or, as in the case of the small creature presently climbing up the inside of a drain pipe and swearing, to bring things. Oh, yes. He does. Someone has to do it, and he looks the right gnome for the job. Oh, yes. Sideney was worried. He didn’t like violence, and there had been a lot of it in the last few days, if days passed in this place. The men…well, they only seemed to find life interesting when they were doing something sharp to someone else and, while they didn’t bother him much in the same way that lions don’t trouble themselves with ants, they certainly worried him. But not as much as Teatime did. Even the brute called Chickenwire treated Teatime with caution, if not respect, and the monster called Banjo just followed him around like a puppy. The enormous man was watching him now. He reminded Sideney too much of Ronnie Jenks, the bully who’d made his life miserable at Gammer Wimblestone’s dame school. Ronnie hadn’t been a pupil. He was the old woman’s grandson or nephew or something, which gave him a license to hang around the place and beat up any kid smaller or weaker or brighter than he was, which more or less meant he had the whole world to choose from. In those circumstances, it was particularly unfair that he always chose Sideney. Sideney hadn’t hated Ronnie. He’d been too frightened. He’d wanted to be his friend. Oh, so much. Because that way, just possibly, he wouldn’t have his head trodden on such a lot and would actually get to eat his lunch instead of having it thrown in the privy. And it had been a good day when it had been his lunch. And then, despite all Ronnie’s best efforts, Sideney had grown up and gone to university. Occasionally his mother told him how Ronnie was getting on (she assumed, in the way of mothers, that because they had been small boys at school together they had been friends). Apparently he ran a fruit stall and was married to a girl called Angie. * This was not enough punishment, Sideney considered. Banjo even breathed like Ronnie, who had to concentrate on such an intellectual exercise and always had one blocked nostril. And his mouth open all the time. He looked as though he was living on invisible plankton. He tried to keep his mind on what he was doing and ignore the labored gurgling behind him. A change in its tone made him look up. “Fascinating,” said Teatime. “You make it look so easy. ” Sideney sat back, nervously. “Um…it should be fine now, sir,” he said. “It just got a bit scuffed when we were piling up the…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it, he even had to avert his eyes from the heap, it was the sound they’d made. “…the things,” he finished. “We don’t need to repeat the spell?” said Teatime. “Oh, it’ll keep going forever,” said Sideney. “The simple ones do. It’s just a state change, powered by the…the…it just keeps going…” He swallowed. “So,” he said, “I was thinking…since you don’t actually need me, sir, perhaps…” “Mr. Brown seems to be having some trouble with the locks on the top floor,” said Teatime. “That door we couldn’t open, remember? I’m sure you’ll want to help. ” Sideney’s face fell. “Um, I’m not a locksmith…” “They appear to be magical. ” Sideney opened his mouth to say, “But I’m very bad at magical locks,” and then thought much better of it. He had already fathomed that if Teatime wanted you to do something, and you weren’t very good at it, then your best plan, in fact quite possibly your only plan, was to learn to be good at it very quickly. Sideney was not a fool. He’d seen the way the others reacted around Teatime, and they were men who did things he’d only dreamed of. * At which point he was relieved to see Medium Dave walk down the stairs, and it said a lot for the effect of Teatime’s stare that anyone could be relieved to have it punctuated by someone like Medium Dave. “We’ve found another guard, sir. Up on the sixth floor. He’s been hiding. ” Teatime stood up. “Oh dear,” he said. “Not trying to be heroic, was he?” “He’s just scared. Shall we let him go?” “Let him go?” said Teatime. “Far too messy. I’ll go up there. Come along, Mr. Wizard. ” Sideney followed him reluctantly up the stairs. The tower—if that’s what it was, he thought; he was used to the odd architecture at Unseen University and this made UU look normal—was a hollow tube. No fewer than four spiral staircases climbed the inside, crisscrossing on landings and occasionally passing through one another in defiance of generally accepted physics. But that was practically normal for an alumnus of Unseen University, although technically Sideney had not alumed. What threw the eye was the absence of shadows. You didn’t notice shadows, how they delineated things, how they gave texture to the world, until they weren’t there. The white marble, if that’s what it was, seemed to glow from the inside. Even when the impossible sun shone through a window it barely caused faint gray smudges where honest shadows should be. The tower seemed to avoid darkness. That was even more frightening than the times when, after a complicated landing, you found yourself walking up by stepping down the underside of a stair and the distant floor now hung overhead like a ceiling. He’d noticed that even the other men shut their eyes when that happened. Teatime, though, took those stairs three at a time, laughing like a kid with a new toy. They reached an upper landing and followed a corridor. The others were gathered by a closed door. “He’s barricaded himself in,” said Chickenwire. Teatime tapped on it. “You in there,” he said. “Come on out. You have my word you won’t be harmed. ” “No!” Teatime stood back. “Banjo, knock it down,” he said. Banjo lumbered forward. The door withstood a couple of massive kicks and then burst open. The guard was cowering behind an overturned cabinet. He cringed back as Teatime stepped over it. “What’re you doing here?” he shouted. “Who are you?” “Ah, I’m glad you asked. I’m your worst nightmare!” said Teatime cheerfully. The man shuddered. “You mean…the one with the giant cabbage and the sort of whirring knife thing?” “Sorry?” Teatime looked momentarily nonplussed. “Then you’re the one about where I’m falling, only instead of ground underneath it’s all—” “No, in fact I’m—” The guard sagged. “Awww, not the one where there’s all this kind of, you know, mud and then everything goes blue—” “No, I’m—” “Oh, shit, then you’re the one where there’s this door only there’s no floor beyond it and then there’s these claws—” “No,” said Teatime. “Not that one. ” He withdrew a dagger from his sleeve. “I’m the one where this man comes out of nowhere and kills you stone dead. ” The guard grinned with relief. “Oh, that one,” he said. “But that one’s not very—” He crumpled around Teatime’s suddenly out-thrust fist. And then, just like the others had done, he faded. “Rather a charitable act there, I feel,” Teatime said as the man vanished. “But it is nearly Hogswatch, after all. ” Death, pillow slipping gently under his red robe, stood in the middle of the nursery carpet… It was an old one. Things ended up in the nursery when they had seen a complete tour of duty in the rest of the house. Long ago, someone had made it by carefully knotting long bits of brightly colored rag into a sacking base, giving it the look of a deflated Rastafarian hedgehog. Things lived among the rags. There were old rusks, bits of toy, buckets of dust. It had seen life. It may even have evolved some. Now the occasional lump of grubby melting snow dropped onto it. Susan was crimson with anger. “I mean, why?” she demanded, walking around the figure. |
“This is Hogswatch! It’s supposed to be jolly, with mistletoe and holly, and—and other things ending in olly! It’s a time when people want to feel good about things and eat until they explode! It’s a time when they want to see all their relatives—” She stopped that sentence. “I mean it’s a time when humans are really human,” she said. “And they don’t want a…a skeleton at the feast! Especially one, I might add, who’s wearing a false beard and has got a damn cushion shoved up his robe! I mean, why?” Death looked nervous. ALBERT SAID IT WOULD HELP ME GET INTO THE SPIRIT OF THE THING. ER…IT’S GOOD TO SEE YOU AGAIN— There was a small squelchy noise. Susan spun around, grateful right now for any distraction. “Don’t think I can’t hear you! They’re grapes, understand? And the other things are satsumas! Get out of the fruit bowl!” “Can’t blame a bird for trying,” said the raven sulkily, from the table. “And you, you leave those nuts alone! They’re for tomorrow!” SKQUEAF, said the Death of Rats, swallowing hurriedly. Susan turned back to Death. The Hogfather’s artificial stomach was now at groin level. “This is a nice house,” she said. “And this is a good job. And it’s real, with normal people. And I was looking forward to a real life, where normal things happen! And suddenly the old circus comes to town. Look at yourselves. Three Stooges, No Waiting! Well, I don’t know what’s going on, but you can all leave again, right? This is my life. It doesn’t belong to any of you. It’s not going to—” There was a muffled curse, a rush of soot, and a skinny old man landed in the grate. “Bum!” he said. “Good grief!” raged Susan. “And here is Pixie Albert! Well, well, well! Come along in, do! If the real Hogfather doesn’t come soon there’s not going to be room. ” HE WON’T BE JOINING US, said Death. The pillow slid softly onto the rug. “Oh, and why not? Both of the children did letters to him,” said Susan. “There’re rules, you know. ” YES. THERE ARE RULES. AND THEY’RE ON THE LIST. I CHECKED IT. Albert pulled the pointy hat off his head and spat out some soot. “Right. He did. Twice,” he said. “Anything to drink around here?” “So what have you turned up for?” Susan demanded. “And if it’s for business reasons, I will add, then that outfit is in extremely poor taste—” THE HOGFATHER IS…UNAVAILABLE. “Unavailable? At Hogswatch?” YES. “Why?” HE IS…LET ME SEE…THERE ISN’T AN ENTIRELY APPROPRIATE HUMAN WORD, SO…LET’S SETTLE FOR…DEAD. YES. HE IS DEAD. Susan had never hung up a stocking. She’d never looked for eggs laid by the Soul Cake Duck. She’d never put a tooth under her pillow in the serious expectation that a dentally inclined fairy would turn up. It wasn’t that her parents didn’t believe in such things. They didn’t need to believe in them. They knew they existed. They just wished they didn’t. Oh, there had been presents, at the right time, with a careful label saying who they were from. And a superb egg on Soul Cake Morning, filled with sweets. Juvenile teeth earned no less than a dollar each from her father, without argument. * But it was all straightforward. She knew now that they’d been trying to protect her. She hadn’t known then that her father had been Death’s apprentice for a while, and that her mother was Death’s adopted daughter. She’d had very dim recollections of being taken a few times to see someone who’d been quite, well, jolly, in a strange, thin way. And the visits had suddenly stopped. And she’d met him later and, yes, he had his good side, and for a while she’d wondered why her parents had been so unfeeling and— She knew now why they’d tried to keep her away. There was far more to genetics than little squirmy spirals. She could walk through walls when she really had to. She could use a tone of voice that was more like actions than words, that somehow reached inside people and operated all the right switches. And her hair… That had only happened recently, though. It used to be unmanageable, but at around the age of seventeen she had found it more or less managed itself. That had lost her several young men. Someone’s hair rearranging itself into a new style, the tresses curling around themselves like a nest of kittens, could definitely put the crimp on any relationship. She’d been making good progress, though. She could go for days now without feeling anything other than entirely human. But it was always the case, wasn’t it? You could go out into the world, succeed on your own terms, and sooner or later some embarrassing old relative was bound to turn up. Grunting and swearing, the gnome clambered out of another drain pipe, jammed its hat firmly on its head, threw its sack onto a snowdrift and jumped down after it. “’s a good one,” he said. “Ha, take ’im weeks to get rid of that one!” He took a crumpled piece of paper out of a pocket and examined it closely. Then he looked at an elderly figure working away quietly at the next house. It was standing by a window, drawing with great concentration on the glass. The gnome wandered up, interested, and watched critically. “Why just fern patterns?” he said, after a while. “Pretty, yeah, but you wouldn’t catch me puttin’ a penny in your hat for fern patterns. ” The figure turned, brush in hand. “I happen to like fern patterns,” said Jack Frost coldly. “It’s just that people expect, you know, sad big-eyed kids, kittens lookin’ out of boots, little doggies, that sort of thing. ” “I do ferns. ” “Or big pots of sunflowers, happy seaside scenes…” “And ferns. ” “I mean, s’posing some big high priest wanted you to paint the temple ceiling with gods ’n’ angels and such like, what’d you do then?” “He could have as many gods and angels as he liked, provided they—” “—looked like ferns?” “I resent the implication that I am solely fern fixated,” said Jack Frost. “I can also do a very nice paisley pattern. ” “What’s that look like, then?” “Well…it does, admittedly, have a certain ferny quality to the uninitiated eye. ” Frost leaned forward. “Who’re you?” The gnome took a step backward. “You’re not a tooth fairy, are you? I see more and more of them about these days. Nice girls. ” “Nah. Nah. Not teeth,” said the gnome, clutching his sack. “What, then?” The gnome told him. “Really?” said Jack Frost. “I thought they just turned up. ” “Well, come to that, I thought frost on the windows just happened all by itself,” said the gnome. “’ere, you don’t half look spiky. I bet you go through a lot of bed sheets. ” “I don’t sleep,” said Frost icily, turning away. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a large number of windows to do. Ferns aren’t easy. You need a steady hand. ” “What do you mean dead?” Susan demanded. “How can the Hogfather be dead? He’s…isn’t he what you are? An—” ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATION. YES. HE HAS BECOME SO. THE SPIRIT OF HOGSWATCH. “But…how? How can anyone kill the Hogfather? Poisoned sherry? Spikes in the chimney?” THERE ARE…MORE SUBTLE WAYS. “Coff. Coff. Coff. Oh dear, this soot,” said Albert loudly. “Chokes me up something cruel. ” “And you’ve taken over?” said Susan, ignoring him. “That’s sick!” Death contrived to look hurt. “I’ll just go and have a look somewhere,” said Albert, brushing past her and opening the door. She pushed it shut quickly. “And what are you doing here, Albert?” she said, clutching at the straw. “I thought you’d die if you ever came back to the world!” AH, BUT WE ARE NOT IN THE WORLD, said Death. WE ARE IN THE SPECIAL CONGRUENT REALITY CREATED FOR THE HOGFATHER. NORMAL RULES HAVE TO BE SUSPENDED. HOW ELSE COULD ANYONE GET AROUND THE ENTIRE WORLD IN ONE NIGHT? “’s right,” said Albert, leering. “One of the Hogfather’s Little Helpers, me. Official. Got the pointy green hat and everything. ” He spotted the glass of sherry and couple of turnips that the children had left on the table, and bore down on them. Susan looked shocked. A couple of days earlier she’d taken the children to the Hogfather’s Grotto in one of the big shops in The Maul. Of course, it wasn’t the real one, but it had turned out to be a fairly good actor in a red suit. |
There had been people dressed up as pixies, and a picket outside the shop by the Campaign for Equal Heights. * None of the pixies had looked anything like Albert. If they had, people would have only gone into the Grotto armed. “Been good, ’ave yer?” said Albert, and spat into the fireplace. Susan stared at him. Death leaned down. She stared up into the blue glow of his eyes. YOU ARE KEEPING WELL? he said. “Yes. ” SELF-RELIANT? MAKING YOUR OWN WAY IN THE WORLD? “Yes!” GOOD. WELL, COME, ALBERT. WE WILL LOAD THE STOCKINGS AND GET ON WITH THINGS. A couple of letters appeared in Death’s hand. SOMEONE CHRISTENED THE CHILD TWYLA? “I’m afraid so, but why—” AND THE OTHER ONE GAWAIN? “Yes. But look, how—” WHY GAWAIN? “I…suppose it’s a good strong name for a fighter…” A SELF-FULFILLING PROPHECY, I SUSPECT. I SEE THE GIRL WRITES IN GREEN CRAYON ON PINK PAPER WITH A MOUSE IN THE CORNER. THE MOUSE IS WEARING A DRESS. “I ought to point out that she decided to do that so the Hogfather would think she was sweet,” said Susan. “Including the deliberate bad spelling. But look, why are you—” SHE SAYS SHE IS FIVE YEARS OLD. “In years, yes. In cynicism, she’s about thirty-five. Why are you doing the—” BUT SHE BELIEVES IN THE HOGFATHER? “She’d believe in anything if there was a dolly in it for her. But you’re not going to leave without telling me—” Death hung the stockings back on the mantelpiece. NOW WE MUST BE GOING. HAPPY HOGSWATCH. ER…OH, YES: HO. HO. HO. “Nice sherry,” said Albert, wiping his mouth. Rage overtook Susan’s curiosity. It had to travel quite fast. “You’ve actually been drinking the actual drinks little children leave out for the actual Hogfather?” she said. “Yeah, why not? He ain’t drinking ’em. Not where he’s gone. ” “And how many have you had, may I ask?” “Dunno, ain’t counted,” said Albert happily. ONE MILLION, EIGHT HUNDRED THOUSAND, SEVEN HUNDRED AND SIX, said Death. AND SIXTY-EIGHT THOUSAND, THREE HUNDRED AND NINETEEN PORK PIES. AND ONE TURNIP. “It looked pork-pie shaped,” said Albert. “Everything does, after a while. ” “Then why haven’t you exploded?” “Dunno. Always had a good digestion. ” TO THE HOGFATHER, ALL PORK PIES ARE AS ONE PORK PIE. EXCEPT THE ONE LIKE A TURNIP. COME, ALBERT. WE HAVE TRESPASSED ON SUSAN’S TIME. “Why are you doing this?” Susan screamed. I AM SORRY. I CANNOT TELL YOU. FORGET YOU SAW ME. IT’S NOT YOUR BUSINESS. “Not my business? How can—” AND NOW…WE MUST BE GOING… “Nighty-night,” said Albert. The clock struck, twice, for the half-hour. It was still half past six. And they were gone. The sleigh hurtled across the sky. “She’ll try to find out what this is all about, you know,” said Albert. OH DEAR. “Especially after you told her not to. ” YOU THINK SO? “Yeah,” said Albert. DEAR ME. I STILL HAVE A LOT TO LEARN ABOUT HUMANS, DON’T I? “Oh…I dunno…” said Albert. OBVIOUSLY IT WOULD BE QUITE WRONG TO INVOLVE A HUMAN IN ALL THIS. THAT IS WHY, YOU WILL RECALL, I CLEARLY FORBADE HER TO TAKE AN INTEREST. “Yeah…you did…” BESIDES, IT’S AGAINST THE RULES. “You said them little gray buggers had already broken the rules. ” YES, BUT I CAN’T JUST WAVE A MAGIC WAND AND MAKE IT ALL BETTER. THERE MUST BE PROCEDURES. Death stared ahead for a moment and then shrugged. AND WE HAVE SO MUCH TO DO. WE HAVE PROMISES TO KEEP. “Well, the night is young,” said Albert, sitting back in the sacks. THE NIGHT IS OLD. THE NIGHT IS ALWAYS OLD. The pigs galloped on. Then, “No, it ain’t. ” I’M SORRY? “The night isn’t any older than the day, master. It stands to reason. There must have been a day before anyone knew what the night was. ” YES, BUT IT’S MORE DRAMATIC. “Oh. Right, then. ” Susan stood by the fireplace. It wasn’t as though she disliked Death. Death considered as an individual rather than life’s final curtain was someone she couldn’t help liking, in a strange kind of way. Even so… The idea of the Grim Reaper filling the Hogswatch stockings of the world didn’t fit well in her head, no matter which way she twisted it. It was like trying to imagine Old Man Trouble as the Tooth Fairy. Oh, yes. Old Man Trouble…now there was a nasty one for you… But honestly, what kind of sick person went round creeping into little children’s bedrooms all night? Well, the Hogfather, of course, but… There was a little tinkling sound from somewhere near the base of the Hogswatch tree. The raven backed away from the shards of one of the glittering balls. “Sorry,” it mumbled. “Bit of a species reaction there. You know…round, glittering…sometimes you just gotta peck—” “That chocolate money belongs to the children!” SQUEAK? said the Death of Rats, backing away from the shiny coins. “Why’s he doing this?” SQUEAK. “You don’t know either?” SQUEAK. “Is there some kind of trouble? Did he do something to the real Hogfather?” SQUEAK. “Why won’t he tell me?” SQUEAK. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. ” Something ripped, behind her. She turned and saw the raven carefully removing a strip of red wrapping paper from a package. “Stop that this minute!” It looked up guiltily. “It’s only a little bit,” it said. “No one’s going to miss it. ” “What do you want it for, anyway?” “We’re attracted to bright colors, right? Automatic reaction. ” “That’s jackdaws!” “Damn. Is it?” The Death of Rats nodded. SQUEAK. “Oh, so suddenly you’re Mr. Ornithologist, are you?” snapped the raven. Susan sat down and held out her hand. The Death of Rats leapt onto it. She could feel its claws, like tiny pins. It was just like those scenes where the sweet and pretty heroine sings a little duet with Mr. Bluebird. Similar, anyway. In general outline, at least. But with more of a PG rating. “Has he gone funny in the head?” SQUEAK. The rat shrugged. “But it could happen, couldn’t it? He’s very old, and I suppose he sees a lot of terrible things. ” SQUEAK. “All the trouble in the world,” the raven translated. “I understood,” said Susan. That was a talent, too. She didn’t understand what the rat said. She just understood what it meant. “There’s something wrong and he won’t tell me?” said Susan. That made her even more angry. “But Albert is in on it, too,” she added. She thought: thousands, millions of years in the same job. Not a nice one. It isn’t always cheerful old men passing away at a great age. Sooner or later, it was bound to get anyone down. Someone had to do something. It was like that time when Twyla’s grandmother had started telling everyone that she was the Empress of Krull and had stopped wearing clothes. And Susan was bright enough to know that the phrase “Someone ought to do something” was not, by itself, a helpful one. People who used it never added the rider “and that someone is me. ” But someone ought to do something, and right now the whole pool of someones consisted of her, and no one else. Twyla’s grandmother had ended up in a nursing home overlooking the sea at Quirm. That sort of option probably didn’t apply here. Besides, he’d be unpopular with the other residents. She concentrated. This was the simplest talent of them all. She was amazed that other people couldn’t do it. She shut her eyes, placed her hands palm down in front of her at shoulder height, spread her fingers and lowered her hands. When they were halfway down she heard the clock stop ticking. The last tick was long-drawn-out, like a death rattle. Time stopped. But duration continued. She’d always wondered, when she was small, why visits to her grandfather could go on for days and yet, when they got back, the calendar was still plodding along as if they’d never been away. Now she knew the why, although probably no human being would ever really understand the how. Sometimes, somewhere, somehow, the numbers on the clock did not count. Between every rational moment were a billion irrational ones. Somewhere behind the hours there was a place where the Hogfather rode, the tooth fairies climbed their ladders, Jack Frost drew his pictures, the Soul Cake Duck laid her chocolate eggs. In the endless spaces between the clumsy seconds Death moved like a witch dancing through raindrops, never getting wet. |
Humans could liv—No, humans couldn’t live here, no, because even when you diluted a glass of wine with a bathful of water you might have more liquid but you still had the same amount of wine. A rubber band was still the same rubber band no matter how far it was stretched. Humans could exist here, though. It was never too cold, although the air did prickle like winter air on a sunny day. But out of human habit Susan got her cloak out of the closet. SQUEAK. “Haven’t you got some mice and rats to see to, then?” “Nah, ’s pretty quiet just before Hogswatch,” said the raven, who was trying to fold the red paper between his claws. “You get a lot of gerbils and hamsters and that in a few days, mind. When the kids forget to feed them or try to find out what makes them go. ” Of course, she’d be leaving the children. But it wasn’t as if anything could happen to them. There wasn’t any time for it to happen to them in. She hurried down the stairs and let herself out of the front door. Snow hung in the air. It was not a poetic description. It hovered like the stars. When flakes touched Susan they melted with little electric flashes. There was a lot of traffic in the street, but it was fossilized in Time. She walked carefully between it until she reached the entrance to the park. The snow had done what even wizards and the Watch couldn’t do, which was clean up Ankh-Morpork. It hadn’t had time to get dirty. In the morning it’d probably look as though the city had been covered in coffee meringue, but for now it mounded the bushes and trees in pure white. There was no noise. The curtains of snow shut out the city lights. A few yards into the park and she might as well be in the country. She stuck her fingers into her mouth and whistled. “Y’know, that could’ve been done with a bit more ceremony,” said the raven, who’d perched on a snow-encrusted twig. “Shut up. ” “’s good, though. Better than most women could do. ” “Shut up. ” They waited. “Why have you stolen that piece of red paper from a little girl’s present?” said Susan. “I’ve got plans,” said the raven darkly. They waited again. She wondered what would happen if it didn’t work. She wondered if the rat would snigger. It had the most annoying snigger in the world. Then there were hoofbeats and the floating snow burst open and the horse was there. Binky trotted round in a circle, and then stood and steamed. He wasn’t saddled. Death’s horse didn’t let you fall. If I get on, Susan thought, it’ll all start again. I’ll be out of the light and into the world beyond this one. I’ll fall off the tightrope. But a voice inside her said, You want to, though…don’t you…? Ten seconds later there was only the snow. The raven turned to the Death of Rats. “Any idea where I can get some string?” SQUEAK. She was watched. One said, Who is she? One said, Do we remember that Death adopted a daughter? The young woman is her daughter. One said, She is human? One said, Mostly. One said, Can she be killed? One said, Oh, yes. One said, Well, that’s all right, then. One said, Er…we don’t think we’re going to get into trouble over this, do we? All this is not exactly…authorized. We don’t want questions asked. One said, We have a duty to rid the universe of sloppy thinking. One said, Everyone will be grateful when they find out. Binky touched down lightly on Death’s lawn. Susan didn’t bother with the front door but went around the back, which was never locked. There had been changes. One significant change, at least. There was a cat-flap in the door. She stared at it. After a second or two a ginger cat came through the flap, gave her an I’m-not-hungry-and-you’re-not-interesting look and padded off into the gardens. Susan pushed open the door into the kitchen. Cats of every size and color covered every surface. Hundreds of eyes swiveled to watch her. It was Mrs. Gammage all over again, she thought. The old woman was a regular in Biers for the company and was quite gaga, and one of the symptoms of those going completely yo-yo was that they broke out in chronic cats. Usually cats who’d mastered every detail of feline existence except the whereabouts of the dirt box. Several of them had their noses in a bowl of cream. Susan had never been able to see the attraction in cats. They were owned by the kind of people who liked puddings. There were actual people in the world whose idea of heaven would be a chocolate cat. “Push off, the lot of you,” she said. “I’ve never known him to have pets. ” The cats gave her a look to indicate that they were intending to go somewhere else in any case and strolled off, licking their chops. The bowl slowly filled up again. They were obviously living cats. Only life had color here. Everything else was created by Death. Color, along with plumbing and music, were arts that escaped the grasp of his genius. She left them in the kitchen and wandered along to the study. There were changes here, too. By the look of it, he’d been trying to learn to play the violin again. He’d never been able to understand why he couldn’t play music. The desk was a mess. Books lay open, piled on one another. They were the ones Susan had never learned to read. Some of the characters hovered above the pages or moved in complicated little patterns as they read you while you read them. Intricate devices had been scattered across the top. They looked vaguely navigational, but on what oceans and under which stars? Several pages of parchment had been filled up with Death’s own handwriting. It was immediately recognizable. No one else Susan had ever met had handwriting with serifs. It looked as though he’d been trying to work something out. NOT KLATCH. NOT HOWONDALAND. NOT THE EMPIRE. LET US SAY 20 MILLION CHILDREN AT 2 LB OF TOYS PER CHILD. EQUALS 17,857 TONS. 1,785 TONS PER HOUR. MEMO: DON’T FORGET THE SOOTY FOOTPRINTS. MORE PRACTICE ON THE HO HO HO. CUSHION. She put the paper back carefully. Sooner or later it’d get to you. Death was fascinated by humans, and study was never a one-way thing. A man might spend his life peering at the private life of elementary particles and then find he either knew who he was or where he was, but not both. Death had picked up…humanity. Not the real thing, but something that might pass for it until you examined it closely. The house even imitated human houses. Death had created a bedroom for himself, despite the fact that he never slept. If he really picked things up from humans, had he tried insanity? It was very popular, after all. Perhaps, after all these millennia, he wanted to be nice. She let herself into the Room of Lifetimers. She’d liked the sound of it, when she was a little girl. But now the hiss of sand from millions of hourglasses, and the little pings and pops as full ones vanished and new empty ones appeared, was not so enjoyable. Now she knew what was going on. Of course, everyone died sooner or later. It just wasn’t right to be listening to it happening. She was about to leave when she noticed the open door in a place where she had never seen a door before. It was disguised. A whole section of shelving, complete with its whispering glasses, had swung out. Susan pushed it back and forth with a finger. When it was shut, you’d have to look hard to see the crack. There was a much smaller room on the other side. It was merely the size of, say, a cathedral. And it was lined floor to ceiling with more hourglasses that Susan could just see dimly in the light from the big room. She stepped inside and snapped her fingers. “Light,” she commanded. A couple of candles sprang into life. The hourglasses were…wrong. The ones in the main room, however metaphorical they might be, were solid-looking things of wood and brass and glass. But these looked as though they were made of highlights and shadows with no real substance at all. She peered at a large one. The name in it was: OFFLER. “The crocodile god?” she thought. Well, gods had a life, presumably. But they never actually died, as far as she knew. They just dwindled away to a voice on the wind and a footnote in some textbook on religion. |
There were other gods lined up. She recognized a few of them. But there were smaller lifetimers on the shelf. When she saw the labels she nearly burst out laughing. “The Tooth Fairy? The Sandman? John Barleycorn? The Soul Cake Duck? The God of— what ?” She stepped back, and something crunched under her feet. There were shards of glass on the floor. She reached down and picked up the biggest. Only a few letters remained of the name etched into the glass— HOGFA… “Oh, no …it’s true. Granddad, what have you done ?” When she left, the candles winked out. Darkness sprang back. And in the darkness, among the spilled sand, a faint sizzle and a tiny spark of light… Mustrum Ridcully adjusted the towel around his waist. “How’re we doing, Mr. Modo?” The University gardener saluted. “The tanks are full, Mr. Archchancellor, sir!” he said brightly. “And I’ve been stoking the hot water boilers all day!” The other senior wizards clustered in the doorway. “Really, Mustrum, I really think this is most unwise,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “It was surely sealed up for a purpose. ” “Remember what it said on the door,” said the Dean. “Oh, they just wrote that on it to keep people out,” said Ridcully, opening a fresh bar of soap. “Well, yes,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “That’s right. That’s what people do. ” “It’s a bathroom ,” said Ridcully. “You are all acting as if it’s some kind of a torture chamber. ” “A bathroom,” said the Dean, “designed by Bloody Stupid Johnson. Archchancellor Weatherwax only used it once and then had it sealed up! Mustrum, I beg you to reconsider! It’s a Johnson !” There was something of a pause, because even Ridcully had to adjust his mind around this. The late (or at least severely delayed) Bergholt Stuttley Johnson was generally recognized as the worst inventor in the world, yet in a very specialized sense. Merely bad inventors made things that failed to operate. He wasn’t among these small fry. Any fool could make something that did absolutely nothing when you pressed the button. He scorned such fumble-fingered amateurs. Everything he built worked. It just didn’t do what it said on the box. If you wanted a small ground-to-air missile, you asked Johnson to design an ornamental fountain. It amounted to pretty much the same thing. But this never discouraged him, or the morbid curiosity of his clients. Music, landscape gardening, architecture—there was no start to his talents. Nevertheless, it was a little bit surprising to find that Bloody Stupid had turned to bathroom design. But, as Ridcully said, it was known that he had designed and built several large musical organs and, when you got right down to it, it was all just plumbing, wasn’t it? The other wizards, who’d been there longer than the Archchancellor, took the view that if Bloody Stupid Johnson had built a fully functional bathroom he’d actually meant it to be something else. “Y’know, I’ve always felt that Mr. Johnson was a much maligned man,” said Ridcully, eventually. “Well, yes, of course he was,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, clearly exasperated. “That’s like saying that jam attracts wasps, you see. ” “Not everything he made worked badly,” said Ridcully stoutly, flourishing his scrubbing brush. “Look at that thing they use down in the kitchens for peelin’ the potatoes, for example. ” “Ah, you mean the thing with the brass plate on it saying ‘Improved Manicure Device,’ Archchancellor?” “Listen, it’s just water,” snapped Ridcully. “Even Johnson couldn’t do much harm with water. Modo, open the sluices!” The rest of the wizards backed away as the gardener turned a couple of ornate brass wheels. “I’m fed up with groping around for the soap like you fellows!” shouted the Archchancellor, as water gushed through hidden channels. “Hygiene. That’s the ticket!” “Don’t say we didn’t warn you,” said the Dean, shutting the door. “Er, I still haven’t worked out where all the pipes lead, sir,” Modo ventured. “We’ll find out, never you fear,” said Ridcully happily. He removed his hat and put on a shower cap of his own design. In deference to his profession, it was pointy. He picked up a yellow rubber duck. “Man the pumps, Mr. Modo. Or dwarf them, of course, in your case. ” “Yes, Archchancellor. ” Modo hauled on a lever. The pipes started a hammering noise and steam leaked out of a few joints. Ridcully took a last look around the bathroom. It was a hidden treasure, no doubt about it. Say what you like, old Johnson must sometimes have got it right, even if it was only by accident. The entire room, including the floor and ceiling, had been tiled in white, blue and green. In the center, under its crown of pipes, was Johnson’s Patent “Typhoon” Superior Indoor Ablutorium with Automatic Soap Dish, a sanitary poem in mahogany, rosewood and copper. He’d got Modo to polish every pipe and brass tap until they gleamed. It had taken ages. Ridcully shut the frosted door behind him. The inventor of the ablutionary marvel had decided to make a mere shower a fully controllable experience, and one wall of the large cubicle held a marvelous panel covered with brass taps cast in the shape of mermaids and shells and, for some reason, pomegranates. There were separate feeds for salt water, hard water and soft water and huge wheels for accurate control of temperature. Ridcully inspected them with care. Then he stood back, looked around at the tiles and sang, “Mi, mi, mi!” His voice reverberated back at him. “A perfect echo!” said Ridcully, one of nature’s bathroom baritones. He picked up a speaking tube that had been installed to allow the bather to communicate with the engineer. “All cisterns go, Mr. Modo!” “Aye, aye, sir!” Ridcully opened the tap marked “Spray” and leapt aside, because part of him was still well aware that Johnson’s inventiveness didn’t just push the edge of the envelope but often went across the room and out through the wall of the sorting office. A gentle shower of warm water, almost a caressing mist, enveloped him. “My word!” he exclaimed, and tried another tap. “Shower” turned out to be a little more invigorating. “Torrent” made him gasp for breath and “Deluge” sent him groping to the panel because the top of his head felt that it was being removed. “Wave” sloshed a wall of warm salt water from one side of the cubicle to the other before it disappeared into the grating that was set into the middle of the floor. “Are you all right, sir?” Modo called out. “Marvelous! And there’s a dozen knobs I haven’t tried yet!” Modo nodded, and tapped a valve. Ridcully’s voice, raised in what he considered to be song, boomed out through the thick clouds of steam. “ Oh, IIIIIII knew a…er…an agricultural worker of some description, possibly a thatcher … And I knew him well, and he—he was a farmer, now I come to think of it—and he had a daughter and her name I can’t recall at the moment , And…Where was I? Ah yes. Chorus : Something something, a humorously shaped vegetable, a turnip, I believe, something something and the sweet and the sweet nightingale eeeaarggooooooh-ARRGHH oh oh oh—” The song shut off suddenly. All Modo could hear was a ferocious gushing noise. “Archchancellor?” After a moment a voice answered from near the ceiling. It sounded somewhat high and hesitant. “Er…I wonder if you would be so very good as to shut the water off from out there, my dear chap? Er…quite gently, if you wouldn’t mind…” Modo carefully spun a wheel. The gushing sound gradually subsided. “Ah. Well done,” said the voice, but now from somewhere nearer floor level. “Well. Jolly good job. I think we can definitely call it a success. Yes, indeed. Er. I wonder if you could help me walk for a moment. I inexplicably feel a little unsteady on my feet…” Modo pushed open the door and helped Ridcully out and onto a bench. He looked rather pale. “Yes, indeed,” said the Archchancellor, his eyes a little glazed. “Astoundingly successful. Er. Just a minor point, Modo—” “Yes, sir?” “There’s a tap in there we perhaps should leave alone for now,” said Ridcully. |
“I’d esteem it a service if you could go and make a little sign to hang on it. ” “Yes, sir?” “Saying ‘Do not touch at all,’ or something like that. ” “Right, sir. ” “Hang it on the one marked ‘Old Faithful. ’” “Yes, sir. ” “No need to mention it to the other fellows. ” “Yes, sir. ” “Ye gods, I’ve never felt so clean. ” From a vantage point among some ornamental tile work near the ceiling a small gnome in a bowler hat watched Ridcully carefully. When Modo had gone, the Archchancellor slowly began to dry himself on a big fluffy towel. As he got his composure back, so another song wormed its way under his breath. “ On the second day of Hogswatch I…sent my true love back A nasty little letter, hah, yes indeed, and a partridge in a pear tree —” The gnome slid down onto the tiles and crept up behind the briskly shaking shape. Ridcully, after a few more trial runs, settled on a song which evolves somewhere on every planet where there are winters. It’s often dragooned into the service of some local religion and a few words are changed, but it’s really about things that have to do with gods only in the same way that roots have to do with leaves. “— the rising of the sun, and the running of the deer —” Ridcully spun. A corner of wet towel caught the gnome on the ear and flicked it onto its back. “I saw you creeping up!” roared the Archchancellor. “What’s the game, then? Small-time thief, are you?” The gnome slid backward on the soapy surface. “’ere, what’s your game, mister, you ain’t supposed to be able to see me!” “I’m a wizard! We can see things that are really there, you know,” said Ridcully. “And in the case of the Bursar, things that aren’t there, too. What’s in this bag?” “You don’t wanna open the bag, mister! You really don’t wanna open the bag!” “Why? What have you got in it?” The gnome sagged. “It ain’t what’s in it, mister. It’s what’ll come out. I has to let ’em out one at a time, no knowin’ what’d happen if they all gets out at once!” Ridcully looked interested, and started to undo the string. “You’ll really wish you hadn’t, mister!” the gnome pleaded. “Will I? What’re you doing here, young man?” The gnome gave up. “Well…you know the Tooth Fairy?” “Yes. Of course,” said Ridcully. “Well…I ain’t her. But…it’s sort of like the same business…” “What? You take things away?” “Er…not take away, as such. More sort of…bring…” “Ah…like new teeth?” “Er…like new verrucas,” said the gnome. Death threw the sack into the back of the sleigh and climbed in after it. “You’re doing well, master,” said Albert. T HIS CUSHION IS STILL UNCOMFORTABLE , said Death, hitching his belt. I AM NOT USED TO A BIG FAT STOMACH. “Just a stomach’s the best I could do, master. You’re starting off with a handicap, sort of thing. ” Albert unscrewed the top off a bottle of cold tea. All the sherry had made him thirsty. “Doing well, master,” he repeated, taking a pull. “All the soot in the fireplace, the footprints, them swigged sherries, the sleigh tracks all over the roofs…it’s got to work. ” Y OU THINK SO ? “Sure. ” A ND I MADE SURE SOME OF THEM SAW ME. I KNOW IF THEY ARE PEEPING , Death added proudly. “Well done, sir. ” Y ES. “Though here’s a tip, though. Just ‘ho, ho, ho’ will do. Don’t say, ‘Cower, brief mortals’ unless you want them to grow up to be moneylenders or some such. ” H O. H O. H O. “Yes, you’re really getting the hang of it. ” Albert looked down hurriedly at his notebook so that Death wouldn’t see his face. “Now, I got to tell you, master, what’ll really do some good is a public appearance. Really. ” O H. I DON’T NORMALLY DO THEM. “The Hogfather’s more of a public figure, master. And one good public appearance’ll do more good than any amount of letting kids see you by accident. Good for the old belief muscles. ” R EALLY ? H O. H O. H O. “Right, right, that’s really good , master. Where was I…yes…the shops’ll be open late. Lots of kiddies get taken to see the Hogfather, you see. Not the real one, of course. Just some ole geezer with a pillow up his jumper, saving yer presence, master. ” N OT REAL ? H O. H O. H O. “Oh, no. And you don’t need—” T HE CHILDREN KNOW THIS ? H O. H O. H O. Albert scratched his nose. “S’pose so, master. ” T HIS SHOULD NOT BE. N O WONDER THERE HAS BEEN…THIS DIFFICULTY. B ELIEF WAS COMPROMISED ? H O. H O. H O. “Could be, master. Er, the ‘ho, ho—’” W HERE DOES THIS TRAVESTY TAKE PLACE ? H O. H O. H O. Albert gave up. “Well, Crumley’s in The Maul, for one. Very popular, the Hogfather Grotto. They always have a good Hogfather, apparently. ” L ET’S GET THERE AND SLEIGH THEM. H O. H O. H O. “Right you are, master. ” T HAT WAS A PUNE OR PLAY ON WORDS , A LBERT. I DON’T KNOW IF YOU NOTICED. “I’m laughing like hell deep down, sir. ” H O. H O. H O. Archchancellor Ridcully grinned. He often grinned. He was one of those men who grinned even when they were annoyed, but right now he grinned because he was proud. A little sore still, perhaps, but still proud. “Amazing bathroom, ain’t it?” he said. “They had it walled up, you know. Damn silly thing to do. I mean, perhaps there were a few teething troubles,” he shifted gingerly, “but that’s only to be expected. It’s got everything, d’you see? Footbaths in the shape of clam shells, look. A whole wardrobe for dressing gowns. And that tub over there’s got a big blower thingy so’s you get bubbly water without even havin’ to eat starchy food. And this thingy here with the mermaids holdin’ it up’s a special pot for your toenail clippings. It’s got everything, this place. ” “A special pot for nail clippings?” said the Verruca Gnome. “Oh, can’t be too careful,” said Ridcully, lifting the lid of an ornate jar marked BATH SALTS and pulling out a bottle of wine. “Get hold of something like someone’s nail clipping and you’ve got ’em under your control. That’s real old magic. Dawn-of-time stuff. ” He held the wine bottle up to the light. “Should be cooled nicely by now,” he said, extracting the cork. “Verrucas, eh?” “Wish I knew why,” said the gnome. “You mean you don’t know?” “Nope. Suddenly I wake up and I’m the Verruca Gnome. ” “Puzzling, that,” said Ridcully. “My dad used to say the Verruca Gnome turned up if you walked around in bare feet but I never knew you existed. I thought he just made it up. I mean, tooth fairies, yes, and them little buggers that live in flowers, used to collect ’em myself as a lad, but can’t recall anything about verrucas. ” He drank thoughtfully. “Got a distant cousin called Verruca, as a matter of fact. It’s quite a nice sound, when you come to think of it. ” He looked at the gnome over the top of his glass. You didn’t become Archchancellor without a feeling for subtle wrongness in a situation. Well, that wasn’t quite true. It was more accurate to say that you didn’t remain Archchancellor for very long. “Good job, is it?” he said thoughtfully. “Dandruff’d be better,” said the gnome. “At least I’d be out in the fresh air. ” “I think we’d better check up on this,” said Ridcully. “Of course, it might be nothing. ” “Oh, thank you,” said the Verruca Gnome, gloomily. It was a magnificent Grotto this year, Vernon Crumley told himself. The staff had worked really hard. The Hogfather’s sleigh was a work of art in itself, and the pigs looked really real and a wonderful shade of pink. The Grotto took up nearly all of the first floor. One of the pixies had been Disciplined for smoking behind the Magic Tinkling Waterfall, and the clockwork Dolls of All Nations showing how We Could All Get Along were a bit jerky and giving trouble but all in all, he told himself, it was a display to Delight the Hearts of Kiddies everywhere. The Kiddies were queuing up with their parents and watching the display owlishly. And the money was coming in. Oh, how the money was coming in. So that the staff would not be Tempted, Mr. Crumley had set up an arrangement of overhead wires across the ceilings of the store. In the middle of each floor was a cashier in a little cage. |
Staff took money from customers, put it in a little clockwork cable car, sent it whizzing overhead to the cashier, who’d make change and start it rattling back again. Thus there was no possibility of Temptation, and the little trolleys were shooting back and forth like fireworks. Mr. Crumley loved Hogswatch. It was for the Kiddies, after all. He tucked his fingers in the pockets of his waistcoat and beamed. “Everything going well, Miss Harding?” “Yes, Mr. Crumley,” said the cashier, meekly. “ Jolly good. ” He looked at the pile of coins. A bright little zigzag crackled off them and earthed itself on the metal grille. Mr. Crumley blinked. In front of him sparks flashed off the steel rims of Miss Harding’s spectacles. The Grotto display changed. For just a fraction of a second Mr. Crumley had the sensation of speed, as though what appeared had screeched to a halt. Which was ridiculous. The four pink papier-mâché pigs exploded. A cardboard snout bounced off Mr. Crumley’s head. There, sweating and grunting in the place where the little piggies had been, were…well, he assumed they were pigs, because hippopotamuses didn’t have pointy ears and rings through their noses. But the creatures were huge and gray and bristly and a cloud of acrid mist hung over each one. And they didn’t look sweet. There was nothing charming about them. One turned to look at him with small, red eyes, and didn’t go “oink,” which was the sound that Mr. Crumley, born and raised in the city, had always associated with pigs. It went “ Ghnaaarrrwnnkh ?” The sleigh had changed, too. He’d been very pleased with that sleigh. It had delicate silver curly bits on it. He’d personally supervised the gluing on of every twinkling star. But the splendor of it was lying in glittering shards around a sleigh that looked as though it had been built of crudely sawn tree trunks laid on two massive wooden runners. It looked ancient and there were faces carved on the wood, nasty crude grinning faces that looked quite out of place. Parents were yelling and trying to pull their children away, but they weren’t having much luck. The children were gravitating toward it like flies to jam. Mr. Crumley ran toward the terrible thing, waving his hands. “Stop that! Stop that!” he screamed. “You’ll frighten the Kiddies!” He heard a small boy behind him say, “They’ve got tusks! Cool !” His sister said, “Hey, look, that one’s doing a wee!” A tremendous cloud of yellow steam arose. “Look, it’s going all the way to the stairs! All those who can’t swim hold onto the banisters!” “They eat you if you’re bad, you know,” said a small girl with obvious approval. “All up. Even the bones. They crunch them. ” Another, older, child opined: “Don’t be childish. They’re not real. They’ve just got a wizard in to do the magic. Or it’s all done by clockwork. Everyone knows they’re not really r—” One of the boars turned to look at him. The boy moved behind his mother. Mr. Crumley, tears of anger streaming down his face, fought through the milling crowd until he reached the Hogfather’s Grotto. He grabbed a frightened pixie. “It’s the Campaign for Equal Heights that’ve done this, isn’t it!” he shouted. “They’re out to ruin me! And they’re ruining it for all the Kiddies! Look at the lovely dolls!” The pixie hesitated. Children were clustering around the pigs, despite the continued efforts of their mothers. The small girl was giving one of them an orange. But the animated display of Dolls of All Nations was definitely in trouble. The musical box underneath was still playing “Wouldn’t It Be Nice If Everyone Was Nice” but the rods that animated the figures had got twisted out of shape, so that the Klatchian boy was rhythmically hitting the Omnian girl over the head with his ceremonial spear, while the girl in Agatean national costume was kicking a small Llamedosian druid repeatedly in the ear. A chorus of small children was cheering them on indiscriminately. “There’s, er, there’s more trouble in the Grotto, Mr. Crum—” the pixie began. A red and white figure pushed its way through the crush and rammed a false beard into Mr. Crumley’s hands. “That’s it ,” said the old man in the Hogfather costume. “I don’t mind the smell of oranges and the damp trousers but I ain’t putting up with this. ” He stamped off through the queue. Mr. Crumley heard him add, “And he’s not even doin’ it right!” Mr. Crumley forced his way onward. Someone was sitting in the big chair. There was a child on his knee. The figure was…strange. It was definitely in something like a Hogfather costume but Mr. Crumley’s eye kept slipping, it wouldn’t focus, it skittered away and tried to put the figure on the very edge of vision. It was like trying to look at your own ear. “What’s going on here? What’s going on here?” Crumley demanded. A hand took his shoulder firmly. He turned round and looked into the face of a Grotto pixie. At least, it was wearing the costume of a Grotto pixie, although somewhat askew, as if it had been put on in a hurry. “Who are you ?” The pixie took the soggy cigarette end out of its mouth and leered at him. “Call me Uncle Heavy,” he said. “You’re not a pixie!” “Nah, I’m a fairy cobbler, mister. ” Behind Crumley, a voice said: A ND WHAT DO YOU WANT FOR H OGSWATCH, SMALL HUMAN ? Mr. Crumley turned in horror. In front of—well, he had to think of it as the usurping Hogfather—was a small child of indeterminate sex who seemed to be mostly woollen bobble hat. Mr. Crumley knew how it was supposed to go. It was supposed to go like this: the child was always struck dumb and the attendant mother would lean forward and catch the Hogfather’s eye and say very pointedly, in that voice adults use when they’re conspiring against children: “You want a Baby Tinkler Doll, don’t you, Doreen? And the Just Like Mummy Cookery Set you’ve got in the window. And the Cut-Out Kitchen Range Book. And what do you say?” And the stunned child would murmur “’nk you” and get given a balloon or an orange. This time, though, it didn’t work like that. Mother got as far as “You want a—” W HY ARE YOUR HANDS ON BITS OF STRING, CHILD ? The child looked down the length of its arms to the dangling mittens affixed to its sleeves. It held them up for inspection. “Glubs,” it said. I SEE. V ERY PRACTICAL. “Are you weal?” said the bobble hat. W HAT DO YOU THINK ? The bobble hat sniggered. “I saw your piggy do a wee!” it said, and implicit in the tone was the suggestion that this was unlikely to be dethroned as the most enthralling thing the bobble hat had ever seen. O H. E R…GOOD. “It had a gwate big—” W HAT DO YOU WANT FOR H OGSWATCH ? said the Hogfather hurriedly. Mother took her economic cue again, and said briskly: “She wants a—” The Hogfather snapped his fingers impatiently. The mother’s mouth slammed shut. The child seemed to sense that here was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and spoke quickly. “I wanta narmy. Anna big castle wif pointy bits,” said the child. “Anna swored. ” W HAT DO YOU SAY ? prompted the Hogfather. “A big swored?” said the child, after a pause for deep cogitation. T HAT’S RIGHT. Uncle Heavy nudged the Hogfather. “They’re supposed to thank you,” he said. A RE YOU SURE ? P EOPLE DON’T, NORMALLY. “I meant they thank the Hogfather ,” Albert hissed. “Which is you, right?” Y ES, OF COURSE. A HEM. Y OU’RE SUPPOSED TO SAY THANK YOU. “’nk you. ” A ND BE GOOD. T HIS IS PART OF THE ARRANGEMENT. “’es. ” T HEN WE HAVE A CONTRACT. The Hogfather reached into his sack and produced— —a very large model castle with, as correctly interpreted, pointy blue cone roofs on turrets suitable for princesses to be locked in— —a box of several hundred assorted knights and warriors— —and a sword. It was four feet long and glinted along the blade. The mother took a deep breath. “You can’t give her that!” she screamed. “It’s not safe!” I T’S A SWORD , said the Hogfather. T HEY’RE NOT MEANT TO BE SAFE. “She’s a child!” shouted Crumley. I T’S EDUCATIONAL. “What if she cuts herself?” T HAT WILL BE AN IMPORTANT LESSON. Uncle Heavy whispered urgently. R EALLY ? O H, WELL. IT’S NOT FOR ME TO ARGUE , I SUPPOSE. |
The blade went wooden. “And she doesn’t want all that other stuff!” said Doreen’s mother, in the face of previous testimony. “She’s a girl! Anyway, I can’t afford big posh stuff like that!” I THOUGHT I GAVE IT AWAY , said the Hogfather, sounding bewildered. “You do?” said the mother. “You do ?” said Crumley, who’d been listening in horror. “You don’t ! That’s our Merchandise! You can’t give it away! Hogswatch isn’t about giving it all away! I mean…yes, of course, of course things are given away,” he corrected himself, aware that people were watching, “but first they have to be bought, d’you see, I mean…haha. ” He laughed nervously, increasingly aware of the strangeness around him and the rangy look of Uncle Heavy. “It’s not as though the toys are made by little elves at the Hub, ahaha…” “Damn right,” said Uncle Heavy sagely. “You’d have to be a maniac even to think of giving an elf a chisel, less’n you want their initials carved on your forehead. ” “You mean this is all free?” said Doreen’s mother sharply, not to be budged from what she saw as the central point. Mr. Crumley looked helplessly at the toys. They certainly didn’t look like any of his stock. Then he tried to look hard at the new Hogfather. Every cell in his brain was telling him that here was a fat jolly man in a red and white suit. Well…nearly every cell. A few of the sparkier ones were saying that his eyes were reporting something else, but they couldn’t agree on what. A couple had shut down completely. The words escaped through his teeth. “It…seems to be,” he said. Although it was Hogswatch the University buildings were bustling. Wizards didn’t go to bed early in any case, * and of course there was the Hogswatchnight Feast to look forward to at midnight. It would give some idea of the scale of the Hogswatchnight Feast that a light snack at UU consisted of a mere three or four courses, not counting the cheese and nuts. Some of the wizards had been practicing for weeks. The Dean in particular could now lift a twenty-pound turkey on one fork. Having to wait until midnight merely put a healthy edge on appetites already professionally honed. There was a general air of pleasant expectancy about the place, a general sizzling of salivary glands, a general careful assembling of the pills and powders against the time, many hours ahead, when eighteen courses would gang up somewhere below the rib cage and mount a counterattack. Ridcully stepped out into the snow and turned up his collar. The lights were all on in the High Energy Magic Building. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” he muttered. “Hogswatchnight and they’re still working. It’s just not natural. When I was a student I’d have been sick twice by now—” In fact Ponder Stibbons and his group of research students had made a concession to Hogswatchnight. They’d draped holly over Hex and put a paper hat on the big glass dome containing the main ant heap. Every time he came in here, it seemed to Ridcully, something more had been done to the…engine, or thinking machine, or whatever it was. Sometimes stuff turned up overnight. Occasionally, according to Stibbons, Hex hims— itself would draw plans for extra bits that he— it needed. It all gave Ridcully the willies, and an additional willy was engendered right now when he saw the Bursar sitting in front of the thing. For a moment, he forgot all about verrucas. “What’re you doing here, old chap?” he said. “You should be inside, jumping up and down to make more room for tonight. ” “Hooray for the pink, gray and green,” said the Bursar. “Er…we thought Hex might be of…you know…help, sir,” said Ponder Stibbons, who liked to think of himself as the University’s token sane person. “With the Bursar’s problem. We thought it might be a nice Hogswatch present for him. ” “Ye gods, Bursar’s got no problems,” said Ridcully, and patted the aimlessly smiling man on the head while mouthing the words “mad as a spoon. ” “Mind just wanders a bit, that’s all. I said MIND WANDERS A BIT, eh? Only to be expected, spends far too much time addin’ up numbers. Doesn’t get out in the fresh air. I said, YOU DON’T GET OUT IN THE FRESH AIR, OLD CHAP!” “We thought, er, he might like someone to talk to,” said Ponder. “What? What? But I talk to him all the time! I’m always trying to take him out of himself,” said Ridcully. “It’s important to stop him mopin’ around the place. ” “Er…yes…certainly,” said Ponder diplomatically. He recalled the Bursar as a man whose idea of an exciting time had once been a soft-boiled egg. “So…er…well, let’s give it another try, shall we? Are you ready, Mr. Dinwiddie?” “Yes, thank you, a green one with cinnamon if it’s not too much trouble. ” “Can’t see how he can talk to a machine,” said Ridcully, in a sullen voice. “The thing’s got no damn ears. ” “Ah, well, in fact we made it one ear,” said Ponder. “Er…” He pointed to a large drum in a maze of tubes. “Isn’t that old Windle Poons’s ear trumpet sticking out of the end?” said Ridcully suspiciously. “Yes, Archchancellor. ” Ponder cleared his throat. “Sound, you see, comes in waves—” He stopped. Wizardly premonitions rose in his mind. He just knew Ridcully was going to assume he was talking about the sea. There was going to be one of those huge bottomless misunderstandings that always occurred whenever anyone tried to explain anything to the Archchancellor. Words like “surf,” and probably “ice cream” and “sand” were just… “It’s all done by magic, Archchancellor,” he said, giving up. “Ah. Right,” said Ridcully. He sounded a little disappointed. “None of that complicated business with springs and cogwheels and tubes and stuff, then. ” “That’s right, sir,” said Ponder. “Just magic. Sufficiently advanced magic. ” “Fair enough. What’s it do?” “Hex can hear what you say. ” “Interesting. Saves all that punching holes in bits of cards and hitting keys you lads are forever doing, then—” “Watch this, sir,” said Ponder. “All right, Adrian, initialize the GBL. ” “How do you do that, then?” said Ridcully, behind him. “It…it means pull the great big lever,” Ponder said, reluctantly. “Ah. Takes less time to say. ” Ponder sighed. “Yes, that’s right, Archchancellor. ” He nodded to one of the students, who pulled a large red lever marked “Do Not Pull. ” Gears spun, somewhere inside Hex. Little trapdoors opened in the ant farms and millions of ants began to scurry along the networks of glass tubing. Ponder tapped at the huge wooden keyboard. “Beats me how you fellows remember how to do all this stuff,” said Ridcully, still watching him with what Ponder considered to be amused interest. “Oh, it’s largely intuitive, Archchancellor,” said Ponder. “Obviously you have to spend a lot of time learning it first, though. Now, then, Bursar,” he added. “If you’d just like to say something…” “He says, SAY SOMETHING, BURSAAAR!” yelled Ridcully helpfully, into the Bursar’s ear. “Corkscrew? It’s a tickler, that’s what Nanny says,” said the Bursar. Things started to spin inside Hex. At the back of the room a huge converted waterwheel covered with sheep skulls began to turn, ponderously. And the quill pen in its network of springs and guiding arms started to write: +++ Why Do You Think You Are A Tickler? +++ For a moment the Bursar hesitated. Then he said, “I’ve got a spoon of my own, you know. ” +++ Tell Me About Your Spoon +++ “Er…it’s a little spoon…” +++ Does Your Spoon Worry You? +++ The Bursar frowned. Then he seemed to rally. “Whoops, here comes Mr. Jelly,” he said, but he didn’t sound as though his heart was in it. +++ How Long Have You Been Mr. Jelly? +++ The Bursar glared. “Are you making fun of me?” he said. “Amazin’!” said Ridcully. “It’s got him stumped! ’s better than dried frog pills! How did you work it out?” “Er…” said Ponder. “It sort of just happened…” “Amazin’,” said Ridcully. He knocked the ashes out of his pipe on Hex’s “Anthill Inside” sticker, causing Ponder to wince. “This thing’s a kind of big artificial brain, then?” “You could think of it like that,” said Ponder, carefully. “Of course, Hex doesn’t actually think. Not as such. It just appears to be thinking. |
” “Ah. Like the Dean,” said Ridcully. “Any chance of fitting a brain like this into the Dean’s head?” “It does weigh ten tons, Archchancellor. ” “Ah. Really? Oh. Quite a large crowbar would be in order, then. ” He paused, and then reached into his pocket. “I knew I’d come here for something,” he added. “This here chappie is the Verruca Gnome—” “Hello,” said the Verruca Gnome shyly. “—who seems to have popped into existence to be with us here tonight. And, you know, I thought: this is a bit odd. Of course, there’s always something a bit unreal about Hogswatchnight,” said Ridcully. “Last night of the year and so on. The Hogfather whizzin’ around and so forth. Time of the darkest shadows and so on. All the old year’s occult rubbish pilin’ up. Anythin’ could happen. I just thought you fellows might check up on this. Probably nothing to worry about. ” “A Verruca Gnome?” said Ponder. The gnome clutched his sack protectively. “Makes about as much sense as a lot of things, I suppose,” said Ridcully. “After all, there’s a Tooth Fairy, ain’ there? You might as well wonder why we have a God of Wine and not a God of Hangovers—” He stopped. “Anyone else hear that noise just then?” he said. “Sorry, Archchancellor?” “Sort of glingleglingleglingle ? Like little tinkly bells?” “Didn’t hear anything like that, sir. ” “Oh. ” Ridcully shrugged. “Anyway…what was I saying…yes…no one’s ever heard of a Verruca Gnome until tonight. ” “That’s right,” said the gnome. “Even I’ve never heard of me until tonight, and I’m me. ” “We’ll see what we can find out, Archchancellor,” said Ponder diplomatically. “Good man. ” Ridcully put the gnome back in his pocket and looked up at Hex. “Amazin’,” he said again. “He just looks as though he’s thinking, right?” “Er…yes. ” “But he’s not actually thinking?” “Er…no. ” “So…he just gives the impression of thinking but really it’s just a show?” “Er…yes. ” “Just like everyone else, then, really,” said Ridcully. The boy gave the Hogfather an appraising stare as he sat down on the official knee. “Let’s be absolutely clear. I know you’re just someone dressed up,” he said. “The Hogfather is a biological and temporal impossibility. I hope we understand one another. ” A H. SO I DON’T EXIST ? “Correct. This is just a bit of seasonal frippery and, I may say, rampantly commercial. My mother’s already bought my presents. I instructed her as to the right ones, of course. She often gets things wrong. ” The Hogfather glanced briefly at the smiling, worried image of maternal ineffectiveness hovering nearby. H OW OLD ARE YOU, BOY ? The child rolled his eyes. “You’re not supposed to say that,” he said. “I have done this before, you know. You have to start by asking me my name. ” A ARON F IDGET , “T HE P INES ,” E DGEWAY R OAD , A NKH -M ORPORK. “I expect someone told you,” said Aaron. “I expect these people dressed up as pixies get the information from the mothers. ” A ND YOU ARE EIGHT, GOING ON…OH, ABOUT FORTY-FIVE , said the Hogfather. “There’s forms to fill in when they pay, I expect,” said Aaron. A ND YOU WANT W ALNUT’S I NOFFENSIVE R EPTILES OF THE S TO P LAINS, A DISPLAY CABINET, A COLLECTOR’S ALBUM, A KILLING JAR AND A LIZARD PRESS. W HAT IS A LIZARD PRESS ? “You can’t glue them in when they’re still fat, or didn’t you know that? I expect she told you about them when I was momentarily distracted by the display of pencils. Look, shall we end this charade? Just give me my orange and we’ll say no more about it. ” I CAN GIVE FAR MORE THAN ORANGES. “Yes, yes, I saw all that. Probably done in collusion with accomplices to attract gullible customers. Oh dear, you’ve even got a false beard. By the way, old chap, did you know that your pig—” Y ES. “All done by mirrors and string and pipes, I expect. It all looked very artificial to me. ” The Hogfather snapped his fingers. “That’s probably a signal, I expect,” said the boy, getting down. “Thank you very much. ” H APPY H OGSWATCH , said the Hogfather as the boy walked away. Uncle Heavy patted him on the shoulder. “Well done, master,” he said. “Very patient. I’d have given him a clonk athwart the ear hole, myself. ” O H , I’ M SURE HE’LL SEE THE ERROR OF HIS WAYS. The red hood turned so that only Albert could see into its depths. R IGHT AROUND THE TIME HE OPENS THOSE BOXES HIS MOTHER WAS CARRYING … H O. H O. H O. “Don’t tie it so tight! Don’t tie it so tight !” S QUEAK. There was a bickering behind Susan as she sought along the shelves in the canyons of Death’s huge library, which was so big that clouds would form in it if they dared. “Right, right,” said the voice she was trying to ignore. “That’s about right. I’ve got to be able to move my wings, right?” S QUEAK. “Ah,” said Susan, under her breath. “The Hogfather…” He had several shelves, not just one book. The first volume seemed to be written on a roll of animal skin. The Hogfather was old. “Okay, okay. How does it look?” S QUEAK. “Miss?” said the raven, seeking a second opinion. Susan looked up. The raven bounced past, its breast bright red. “Twit, twit,” it said. “Bobbly bobbly bob. Hop hop hopping along…” “You’re fooling no one but yourself,” said Susan. “I can see the string. ” She unrolled the scroll. “Maybe I should sit on a snowy log,” mumbled the raven behind her. “That’s probably the trick, right enough. ” “I can’t read this!” said Susan. “The letters are all…odd…” “Ethereal runes,” said the raven. “The Hogfather ain’t human, after all. ” Susan ran her hands over the thin leather. The…shapes flowed around her fingers. She couldn’t read them but she could feel them. There was the sharp smell of snow, so vivid that her breath condensed in the air. There were sounds, hooves, the snap of branches in a freezing forest— A bright shining ball… Susan jerked awake and thrust the scroll aside. She unrolled the next one, which looked as though it was made of strips of bark. Characters hovered over the surface. Whatever they were, they had never been designed to be read by the eye; you could believe they were a Braille for the touching mind. Images ribboned across her senses—wet fur, sweat, pine, soot, iced air, the tang of damp ash, pig…manure, her governess mind hastily corrected. There was blood…and the taste of…beans? It was all images without words. Almost…animal. “But none of this is right! Everyone knows he’s a jolly old fat man who hands out presents to kids!” she said aloud. “ Is. Is. Not was. You know how it is,” said the raven. “Do I?” “It’s like, you know, industrial retraining,” said the bird. “Even gods have to move with the times, am I right? He was probably quite different thousands of years ago. Stands to reason. No one wore stockings, for one thing. ” He scratched at his beak. “Yersss,” he continued expansively, “he was probably just your basic winter demi-urge. You know…blood on the snow, making the sun come up. Starts off with animal sacrifice, y’know, hunt some big hairy animal to death, that kind of stuff. You know there’s some people up on the Ramtops who kill a wren at Hogswatch and walk around from house to house singing about it? With a whack-fol-oh-diddle-dildo. Very folkloric, very myffic. ” “A wren ? Why?” “I dunno. Maybe someone said, hey, how’d you like to hunt this evil bastard of an eagle with his big sharp beak and great ripping talons, sort of thing, or how about instead you hunt this wren, which is basically about the size of a pea and goes “twit”? Go on, you choose. Anyway, then later on it sinks to the level of religion and then they start this business where some poor bugger finds a special bean in his tucker, oho, everyone says, you’re king , mate, and he thinks “This is a bit of all right” only they don’t say it wouldn’t be a good idea to start any long books, ’cos next thing he’s legging it over the snow with a dozen other buggers chasing him with holy sickles so’s the earth’ll come to life again and all this snow’ll go away. Very, you know… ethnic. |
Then some bright spark thought, hey, looks like that damn sun comes up anyway , so how come we’re giving those druids all this free grub? Next thing you know, there’s a job vacancy. That’s the thing about gods. They’ll always find a way to, you know…hang on. ” “The damn sun comes up anyway,” Susan repeated. “How do you know that?” “Oh, observation. It happens every morning. I seen it. ” “I meant all that stuff about holy sickles and things. ” The raven contrived to look smug. “Very occult bird, your basic raven,” he said. “Blind Io the Thunder God used to have these myffic ravens that flew everywhere and told him everything that was going on. ” “Used to?” “Weeelll…you know how he’s not got eyes in his face, just these, like, you know, free-floating eyeballs that go and zoom around…” The raven coughed in species embarrassment. “Bit of an accident waiting to happen, really. ” “Do you ever think of anything except eyeballs?” “Well…there’s entrails. ” S QUEAK. “He’s right, though,” said Susan. “Gods don’t die. Never completely die…” There’s always somewhere, she told herself. Inside some stone, perhaps, or the words of a song, or riding the mind of some animal, or maybe in a whisper on the wind. They never entirely go, they hang onto the world by the tip of a fingernail, always fighting to find a way back. Once a god, always a god. Dead, perhaps, but only like the world in winter— “All right,” she said. “Let’s see what happened to him…” She reached out for the last book and tried to open it at random… The feeling lashed at her out of the book, like a whip… … hooves, fear, blood, snow, cold, night … She dropped the scroll. It slammed shut. S QUEAK ? “I’m…all right. ” She looked down at the book and knew that she’d been given a friendly warning, such as a pet animal might give when it was crazed with pain but just still tame enough not to claw and bite the hand that fed it—this time. Wherever the Hogfather was—dead, alive, somewhere —he wanted to be left alone… She eyed the Death of Rats. His little eye sockets flared blue in a disconcertingly familiar way. S QUEAK. E EK ? “The rat says, if he wanted to find out about the Hogfather, he’d go to the Castle of Bones. ” “Oh, that’s just a nursery tale,” said Susan. “That’s where the letters are supposed to go that are posted up the chimney. That’s just an old story. ” She turned. The rat and the raven were staring at her. And she realized that she’d been too normal. S QUEAK ? “The rat says, ‘What d’you mean, just ?’” said the raven. Chickenwire sidled toward Medium Dave in the garden. If you could call it a garden. It was the land round the…house. If you could call it a house. No one said much about it, but every so often you just had to get out. It didn’t feel right, inside. He shivered. “Where’s himself ?” he said. “Oh, up at the top,” said Medium Dave. “Still trying to open that room. ” “The one with all the locks?” “Yeah. ” Medium Dave was rolling a cigarette. Inside the house…or tower, or both, or whatever…you couldn’t smoke, not properly. When you smoked inside it tasted horrible and you felt sick. “What for? We done what we came to do, didn’t we? Stood there like a bunch of kids and watched that wet wizard do all his chanting, it was all I could do to keep a straight face. What’s he after now?” “He just said if it was locked that bad he wanted to see inside. ” “I thought we were supposed to do what we came for and go!” “Yeah? You tell him. Want a roll-up?” Chickenwire took the bag of tobacco and relaxed. “I’ve seen some bad places in my time, but this takes the serious biscuit. ” “Yeah. ” “It’s the cute that wears you down. And there’s got to be something else to eat than apples. ” “Yeah. ” “And that damn sky. That damn sky is really getting on my nerves. ” “Yeah. ” They kept their eyes averted from that damn sky. For some reason, it made you feel that it was about to fall on you. And it was worse if you let your eyes stray to the gap where a gap shouldn’t be. The effect was like getting a toothache in your eyeballs. In the distance Banjo was swinging on a swing. Odd, that, Dave thought. Banjo seemed perfectly happy here. “He found a tree that grows lollipops yesterday,” he said moodily. “Well, I say yesterday , but how can you tell? And he follows the man around like a dog. No one ever laid a punch on Banjo since our mam died. He’s just like a little boy, you know. Inside. Always has been. Looks to me for everything. Used to be, if I told him ‘punch someone,’ he’d do it. ” “And they stayed punched. ” “Yeah. Now he follows him around everywhere. It makes me sick. ” “What are you doing here, then?” “Ten thousand dollars. And he says there’s more, you know. More than we can imagine. ” He was always Teatime. “He ain’t just after money. ” “Yeah, well, I didn’t sign up for world domination,” said Medium Dave. “That sort of thing gets you into trouble. ” “I remember your mam saying that sort of thing,” said Chickenwire. Medium Dave rolled his eyes. Everyone remembered Ma Lilywhite. “Very straight lady was your ma. Tough but fair. ” “Yeah…tough. ” “I recall that time she strangled Glossy Ron with his own leg,” Chickenwire went on. “She had a wicked right arm on her, your mam. ” “Yeah. Wicked. ” “She wouldn’t have stood for someone like Teatime. ” “Yeah,” said Medium Dave. “That was a lovely funeral you boys gave her. Most of the Shades turned up. Very respectful. All them flowers. An’ everyone looking so…” Chickenwire floundered “…happy. In a sad way, o’ course. ” “Yeah. ” “Have you got any idea how to get back home?” Medium Dave shook his head. “Me neither. Find the place again, I suppose. ” Chickenwire shivered. “I mean, what he did to that carter…I mean, well, I wouldn’t even act like that to me own dad—” “Yeah. ” “Ordinary mental, yes, I can deal with that. But he can be talking quite normal, and then—” “Yeah. ” “Maybe the both of us could creep up on him and—” “Yeah, yeah. And how long’ll we live? In seconds. ” “We could get lucky—” Chickenwire began. “Yeah? You’ve seen him. This isn’t one of those blokes who threatens you. This is one of those blokes who’d kill you soon as look at you. Easier, too. We got to hang on, right? It’s like that saying about riding a tiger. ” “What saying about riding a tiger?” said Chickenwire suspiciously. “Well…” Medium Dave hesitated. “You…well, you get branches slapping you in the face, fleas, that sort of thing. So you got to hang on. Think of the money. There’s bags of it in there. You saw it. ” “I keep thinking of that glass eye watching me. I keep thinking it can see right in my head. ” “Don’t worry, he doesn’t suspect you of anything. ” “How d’you know?” “You’re still alive, yeah?” In the Grotto of the Hogfather, a round-eyed child. H APPY H OGSWATCH. H O. H O. H O. AND YOUR NAME IS …E UPHRASIA G OAT, CORRECT ? “Go on, dear, answer the nice man. ” “’s. ” A ND YOU ARE SIX YEARS OLD. “Go on, dear. They’re all the same at this age, aren’t they…” “’s. ” A ND YOU WANT A PONY — “’s. ” A small hand pulled the Hogfather’s hood down to mouth level. Heavy Uncle Albert heard a ferocious whispering. Then the Hogfather leaned back. Y ES , I KNOW. W HAT A NAUGHTY PIG IT WAS, INDEED. His shape flickered for a moment, and then a hand went into the sack. H ERE IS A BRIDLE FOR YOUR PONY, AND A SADDLE, AND A RATHER STRANGE HARD HAT AND A PAIR OF THOSE TROUSERS THAT MAKE YOU LOOK AS THOUGH YOU HAVE A LARGE RABBIT IN EACH POCKET. “But we can’t have a pony, can we, Euffie, because we live on the third floor…” O H, YES. I T’S IN THE KITCHEN. “I’m sure you’re making a little joke, Hogfather,” said Mother, sharply. H O. H O. Y ES. W HAT A JOLLY FAT MAN I AM. I N THE KITCHEN ? W HAT A JOKE. D OLLIES AND SO ON WILL BE DELIVERED LATER AS PER YOUR LETTER. “What do you say, Euffie?” “’nk you. ” “’ere, you didn’t really put a pony in their kitchen, did you?” said Heavy Uncle Albert as the line moved on. D ON’T BE FOOLISH , A LBERT. I SAID THAT TO BE JOLLY. “Oh, right. Hah, for a minute—” I T’S IN THE BEDROOM. “Ah…” M ORE HYGIENIC. “Well, it’ll make sure of one thing,” said Albert. |
“Third floor? They’re going to believe all right. ” Y ES. Y OU KNOW , I THINK I’ M GETTING THE HANG OF THIS. H O. H O. H O. At the Hub of the Discworld, the snow burned blue and green. The Aurora Corealis hung in the sky, curtains of pale cold fire that circled the central mountains and cast their spectral light over the ice. They billowed, swirled and then trailed a ragged arm on the end of which was a tiny dot that became, when the eye of imagination drew nearer, Binky. He trotted to a halt and stood on the air. Susan looked down. And then found what she was looking for. At the end of a valley of snow-mounded trees something gleamed brightly, reflecting the sky. The Castle of Bones. Her parents had sat her down one day when she was about six or seven and explained how such things as the Hogfather did not really exist, how they were pleasant little stories that it was fun to know, how they were not real. And she had believed it. All the fairies and bogeymen, all those stories from the blood and bone of humanity, were not really real. They’d lied. A seven-foot skeleton had turned out to be her grandfather. Not a flesh and blood grandfather, obviously. But a grandfather, you could say, in the bone. Binky touched down and trotted over the snow. Was the Hogfather a god? Why not? thought Susan. There were sacrifices, after all. All that sherry and pork pie. And he made commandments and rewarded the good and he knew what you were doing. If you believed, nice things happened to you. Sometimes you found him in a grotto, and sometimes he was up there in the sky… The Castle of Bones loomed over her now. It certainly deserved the capital letters, up this close. She’d seen a picture of it in one of the children’s books. Despite its name, the woodcut artist had endeavored to make it look…sort of jolly. It wasn’t jolly. The pillars at the entrance were hundreds of feet high. Each of the steps leading up was taller than a man. They were the gray-green of old ice. Ice. Not bone. There were faintly familiar shapes to the pillars, possibly a suggestion of femur or skull, but it was made of ice. Binky was not challenged by the high stairs. It wasn’t that he flew. It was simply that he walked on a ground level of his own devising. Snow had blown over the ice. Susan looked down at the drifts. Death left no tracks, but there were the faint outlines of booted footprints. She’d be prepared to bet they belonged to Albert. And…yes, half obscured by the snow…it looked as though a sleigh had stood here. Animals had milled around. But the snow was covering everything. She dismounted. This was certainly the place described, but it still wasn’t right. It was supposed to be a blaze of light and abuzz with activity, but it looked like a giant mausoleum. A little way beyond the pillars was a very large slab of ice, cracked into pieces. Far above, stars were visible through the hole it had left in the roof. Even as she stared up, a few small lumps of ice thumped into a snowdrift. The raven popped into existence and fluttered wearily onto a stump of ice beside her. “This place is a morgue,” said Susan. “’s goin’ to be mine, if I do…any more flyin’ tonight,” panted the raven, as the Death of Rats got off its back. “I never signed up for all this long-distance, faster’n time stuff. I should be back in a forest somewhere, making excitingly decorated constructions to attract females. ” “That’s bower birds,” said Susan. “Ravens don’t do that. ” “Oh, so it’s typecasting now, is it?” said the raven. “I’m missing meals here, you do know that?” It swiveled its independently sprung eyes. “So where’s all the lights?” it said. “Where’s all the noise? Where’s all the jolly little buggers in pointy hats and red and green suits, hitting wooden toys unconvincingly yet rhythmically with hammers?” “This is more like the temple of some old thunder god,” said Susan. S QUEAK. “No, I read the map right. Anyway, Albert’s been here, too. There’s cigarette ash all over the place. ” The rat jumped down and walked around for a moment, bony snout near the ground. After a few moments of snuffling it gave a squeak and hurried off into the gloom. Susan followed. As her eyes grew more accustomed to the faint blue-green light she made out something rising out of the floor. It was a pyramid of steps, with a big chair on top. Behind her, a pillar groaned and twisted slightly. S QUEAK. “That rat says this place reminds him of some old mine,” said the raven. “You know, after it’s been deserted and no one’s been paying attention to the roof supports and so on? We see a lot of them. ” At least these steps were human sized, Susan thought, ignoring the chatter. Snow had come in through another gap in the roof. Albert’s footprints had stamped around quite a lot here. “Maybe the old Hogfather crashed his sleigh,” the raven suggested. S QUEAK ? “Well, it could’ve happened. Pigs are not notably aerodynamic, are they? And with all this snow, you know, poor visibility, big cloud ahead turns out too late to be a mountain, there’s buggers in saffron robes looking down at you, poor devil tries to remember whether you’re supposed to shove someone’s head between your legs, then WHAM, and it’s all over bar some lucky mountaineers making an awful lot of sausages and finding the flight recorder. ” S QUEAK ! “Yes, but he’s an old man. Probably shouldn’t be in the sky at his time of life. ” Susan pulled at something half buried in the snow. It was a red-and-white-striped candy cane. She kicked the snow aside elsewhere and found a wooden toy soldier in the kind of uniform that would only be inconspicuous if you wore it in a nightclub for chameleons on hard drugs. Some further probing found a broken trumpet. There was some more groaning in the darkness. The raven cleared its throat. “What the rat meant about this place being like a mine,” he said, “was that abandoned mines tend to creak and groan in the same way, see? No one looking after the pit props. Things fall in. Next thing you know you’re a squiggle in the sandstone. We shouldn’t hang around is what I’m saying. ” Susan walked farther in, lost in thought. This was all wrong. The place looked as though it had been deserted for years, which couldn’t be true. The column nearest her creaked and twisted slightly. A fine haze of ice crystals dropped from the roof. Of course, this wasn’t exactly a normal place. You couldn’t build an ice palace this big. It was a bit like Death’s house. If he abandoned it for too long all those things that had been suspended, like time and physics, would roll over it. It would be like a dam bursting. She turned to leave and heard the groan again. It wasn’t dissimilar to the tortured sounds being made by the ice, except that ice, afterward, didn’t moan. “Oh, me …” There was a figure lying in a snowdrift. She’d almost missed it because it was wearing a long white robe. It was spread-eagled, as though it had planned to make snow angels and had then decided against it. And it wore a little crown, apparently of vine leaves. And it kept groaning. She looked up. The roof was open here, too. But no one could have fallen that far and survived. No one human, anyway. He looked human and, in theory, quite young. But it was only in theory because, even by the secondhand light of the glowing snow, his face looked like someone had been sick with it. “Are you all right?” she ventured. The recumbent figure opened its eyes and stared straight up. “I wish I was dead…” it moaned. A piece of ice the size of a house fell down in the far depths of the building and exploded in a shower of sharp little shards. “You may have come to the right place,” said Susan. She grabbed the boy under his arms and hauled him out of the snow. “I think leaving would be a very good idea around now, don’t you? This place is going to fall apart. ” “Oh, me …” She managed to get one of his arms around her neck. “Can you walk?” “Oh, me …” “It might help if you stopped saying that and tried walking. ” “I’m sorry, but I seem to have…too many legs. Ow. |
” Susan did her best to prop him up as, swaying and slipping, they made their way back to the exit. “My head,” said the boy. “My head. My head. My head. Feels awful. My head. Feels like someone’s hitting it. My head. With a hammer. ” Someone was. There was a small green and purple imp sitting amid the damp curls and holding a very large mallet. It gave Susan a friendly nod and brought the hammer down again. “Oh, me …” “That wasn’t necessary!” said Susan. “You telling me my job?” said the imp. “I suppose you could do it better, could you?” “I wouldn’t do it at all!” “Well, someone’s got to do it,” said the imp. “He’s part. Of the. Arrangement,” said the boy. “Yeah, see?” said the imp. “Can you hold the hammer while I go and coat his tongue with yellow gunk?” “Get down right now!” Susan made a grab for the creature. It leapt away, still clutching the hammer, and grabbed a pillar. “I’m part of the arrangement, I am!” it yelled. The boy clutched his head. “I feel awful,” he said. “Have you got any ice?” Whereupon, because there are conventions stronger than mere physics, the building fell in. The collapse of the Castle of Bones was stately and impressive and seemed to go on for a long time. Pillars fell in, the slabs of the roof slid down, the ice crackled and splintered. The air above the tumbling wreckage filled with a haze of snow and ice crystals. Susan watched from the trees. The boy, who she’d leaned against a handy trunk, opened his eyes. “That was amazing,” he managed. “Why, you mean the way it’s all turning back into snow?” “The way you just picked me up and ran. Ouch!” “Oh, that. ” The grinding of the ice continued. The fallen pillars didn’t stop moving when they collapsed, but went on tearing themselves apart. When the fog of ice settled there was nothing but drifted snow. “As though it was never there,” said Susan, aloud. She turned to the groaning figure. “All right, what were you doing there?” “I don’t know. I just opened my. Eyes and there I was. ” “Who are you?” “I… think my name is Bilious. I’m the…I’m the oh God of Hangovers. ” “There’s a God of Hangovers?” “An oh god ,” he corrected. “When people witness me, you see, they clutch their head and say, ‘ Oh God …’ How many of you are standing here?” “What? There’s just me!” “Ah. Fine. Fine. ” “I’ve never heard of a God of Hangovers…” “You’ve heard of Bibulous, the God of Wine? Ouch. ” “Oh, yes. ” “Big fat man, wears vine leaves round his head, always pictured with a glass in his hand…Ow. Well, you know why he’s so cheerful? Him and his big face? It’s because he knows he’s going to feel good in the morning! It’s because it’s me that—” “—gets the hangovers?” said Susan. “I don’t even drink! Ow! But who is it who ends up head down in the privy every morning? Arrgh. ” He stopped and clutched at his head. “Should your skull feel like it’s lined with dog hair?” “I don’t think so. ” “Ah. ” Bilious swayed. “You know when people say ‘I had fifteen lagers last night and when I woke up my head was clear as a bell’?” “Oh, yes. ” “Bastards! That’s because I was the one who woke up groaning in a pile of recycled chili. Just once, I mean just once , I’d like to open my eyes in the morning without my head sticking to something. ” He paused. “Are there any giraffes in this wood?” “Up here? I shouldn’t think so. ” He looked nervously past Susan’s head. “Not even indigo-colored ones which are sort of stretched and keep flashing on and off?” “Very unlikely. ” “Thank goodness for that. ” He swayed back and forth. “Excuse me, I think I’m about to throw up my breakfast. ” “It’s the middle of the evening!” “Is it? In that case, I think I’m about to throw up my dinner. ” He folded up gently in the snow behind the tree. “He’s a long streak of widdle, isn’t he?” said a voice from a branch. It was the raven. “Got a neck with a knee in it. ” The oh god reappeared after a noisy interlude. “I know I must eat,” he mumbled. “It’s just that the only time I remember seeing my food it’s always going the other way…” “What were you doing in there?” said Susan. “Ouch! Search me,” said the oh god. “It’s only a mercy I wasn’t holding a traffic sign and wearing a—” he winced and paused “—having some kind of women’s underwear about my person. ” He sighed. “Someone somewhere has a lot of fun,” he said wistfully. “I wish it was me. ” “Get a drink inside you, that’s my advice,” said the raven. “Have a hair of the dog that bit someone else. ” “But why there ?” Susan insisted. The oh god stopped trying to glare at the raven. “I don’t know, where was there exactly?” Susan looked back at where the castle had been. It was entirely gone. “There was a very important building there a moment ago,” she said. The oh god nodded carefully. “I often see things that weren’t there a moment ago,” he said. “And they often aren’t there a moment later. Which is a blessing in most cases, let me tell you. So I don’t usually take a lot of notice. ” He folded up and landed in the snow again. There’s just snow now, Susan thought. Nothing but snow and the wind. There’s not even a ruin. The certainty stole over her again that the Hogfather’s castle wasn’t simply not there any more. No…it had never been there. There was no ruin, no trace. It had been an odd enough place. It was where the Hogfather lived, according to the legends. Which was odd, when you thought about it. It didn’t look like the kind of place a cheery old toy maker would live in. The wind soughed in the trees behind them. Snow slid off branches. Somewhere in the dark there was a flurry of hooves. A spidery little figure leapt off a snowdrift and landed on the oh god’s head. It turned a beady eye up toward Susan. “All right by you, is it?” said the imp, producing its huge hammer. “Some of us have a job to do, you know, even if we are of a metaphorical, nay, folkloric persuasion. ” “Oh, go away. ” “If you think I’m bad, wait until you see the little pink elephants,” said the imp. “I don’t believe you. ” “They come out of his ears and fly around his head making tweeting noises. ” “Ah,” said the raven, sagely. “That sounds more like robins. I wouldn’t put anything past them. ” The oh god grunted. Susan suddenly felt that she didn’t want to leave him. He was human. Well, human shaped. Well, at least he had two arms and legs. He’d freeze to death here. Of course, gods, or even oh gods, probably couldn’t, but humans didn’t think like that. You couldn’t just leave someone. She prided herself on this bit of normal thinking. Besides, he might have some answers, if she could make him stay awake enough to understand the questions. From the edge of the frozen forest, animal eyes watched them go. Mr. Crumley sat on the damp stairs and sobbed. He couldn’t get any nearer to the toy department. Every time he tried he got lifted off his feet by the mob and dumped at the edge of the crowd by the current of people. Someone said, “Top of the evenin’, squire,” and he looked up blearily at the small yet irregularly formed figure that had addressed him thusly. “Are you one of the pixies?” he said, after mentally exhausting all the other possibilities. “No, sir. I am not in fact a pixie, sir, I am in fact Corporal Nobbs of the Watch. And this is Constable Visit, sir. ” The creature looked at a piece of paper in its paw. “You Mr. Crummy?” “Crumley!” “Yeah, right. You sent a runner to the Watch House and we have hereby responded with commendable speed, sir,” said Corporal Nobbs. “Despite it being Hogswatchnight and there being a lot of strange things happening and most importantly it being the occasion of our Hogswatchly piss-up, sir. But this is all right because Washpot, that’s Constable Visit here, he doesn’t drink, sir, it being against his religion, and although I do drink, sir, I volunteered to come because it is my civic duty, sir. ” Nobby tore off a salute, or what he liked to believe was a salute. |
He did not add, “And turning out for a rich bugger such as your good self is bound to put the officer concerned in the way of a seasonal bottle or two or some other tangible evidence of gratitude,” because his entire stance said it for him. Even Nobby’s ears could look suggestive. Unfortunately, Mr. Crumley wasn’t in the right receptive frame of mind. He stood up and waved a shaking finger toward the top of the stairs. “I want you to go up there,” he said, “and arrest him!” “Arrest who, sir?” said Corporal Nobbs. “The Hogfather!” “What for, sir?” “Because he’s sitting up there as bold as brass in his Grotto, giving away presents!” Corporal Nobbs thought about this. “You haven’t been having a festive drink, have you, sir?” he said hopefully. “I do not drink!” “Very wise, sir,” said Constable Visit. “Alcohol is the tarnish of the soul. Ossory, Book Two, Verse Twenty-four. ” “Not quite up to speed here, sir,” said Corporal Nobbs, looking perplexed. “I thought the Hogfather is s’posed to give away stuff, isn’t he?” This time Mr. Crumley had to stop and think. Up until now he hadn’t quite sorted things out in his head, other than recognizing their essential wrongness. “This one is an Impostor!” he declared. “Yes, that’s right! He smashed his way into here!” “Y’know, I always thought that,” said Nobby. “I thought, every year, the Hogfather spends a fortnight sitting in a wooden grotto in a shop in Ankh-Morpork? At his busy time, too? Hah! Not likely! Probably just some old man in a beard, I thought. ” “I meant…he’s not the Hogfather we usually have,” said Crumley, struggling for firmer ground. “He just barged in here!” “Oh, a different impostor? Not the real impostor at all?” “Well…yes…no…” “And started giving stuff away?” said Corporal Nobbs. “That’s what I said! That’s got to be a Crime, hasn’t it?” Corporal Nobbs rubbed his nose. “Well, nearly ,” he conceded, not wishing to totally relinquish the chance of any festive remuneration. Realization dawned. “He’s giving away your stuff, sir?” “No! No, he brought it in with him!” “Ah? Giving away your stuff, now, if he was doing that, yes, I could see the problem. That’s a sure sign of crime, stuff going missing. Stuff turning up, weerlll, that’s a tricky one. Unless it’s stuff like arms and legs, o’ course. We’d be on safer ground if he was nicking stuff, sir, to tell you the truth. ” “This is a shop ,” said Mr. Crumley, finally getting to the root of the problem. “We do not give Merchandise away. How can we expect people to buy things if some Person is giving them away? Now please go and get him out of here. ” “Arrest the Hogfather, style of thing?” “Yes!” “On Hogswatchnight?” “Yes!” “In your shop?” “ Yes !” “In front of all those kiddies?” “Y—” Mr. Crumley hesitated. To his horror, he realized that Corporal Nobbs, against all expectation, had a point. “You think that will look bad?” he said. “Hard to see how it could look good, sir. ” “Could you not do it surreptitiously?” he said. “Ah, well, surreptition, yes, we could give that a try,” said Corporal Nobbs. The sentence hung in the air with its hand out. “You won’t find me ungrateful,” said Mr. Crumley, at last. “Just you leave it to us,” said Corporal Nobbs, magnanimous in victory. “You just nip down to your office and treat yourself to a nice cup of tea and we’ll sort this out in no time. You’ll be ever so grateful. ” Crumley gave him a look of a man in the grip of serious doubt, but staggered away nonetheless. Corporal Nobbs rubbed his hands together. “You don’t have Hogswatch back where you come from, do you, Washpot?” he said, as they climbed the stairs to the first floor. “Look at this carpet, you’d think a pig’d pissed on it…” “We call it the Fast of St. Ossory,” said Visit, who was from Omnia. “But it is not an occasion for superstition and crass commercialism. We simply get together in family groups for a prayer meeting and a fast. ” “What, turkey and chicken and that?” “A fast , Corporal Nobbs. We don’t eat anything. ” “Oh, right. Well, each to his own, I s’pose. And at least you don’t have to get up early in the morning and find that the nothing you’ve got is too big to fit in the oven. No presents neither?” They stood aside hurriedly as two children scuttled down the stairs carrying a large toy boat between them. “It is sometimes appropriate to exchange new religious pamphlets, and of course there are usually copies of the Book of Ossory for the children,” said Constable Visit. “Sometimes with illustrations ,” he added, in the guarded way of a man hinting at licentious pleasures. A small girl went past carrying a teddy bear larger than herself. It was pink. “They always gives me bath salts,” complained Nobby. “And bath soap and bubble bath and herbal bath lumps and tons of bath stuff and I can’t think why, ’cos it’s not as if I hardly ever has a bath. You’d think they’d take the hint, wouldn’t you?” “Abominable, I call it,” said Constable Visit. The first floor was a mob. “Huh, look at them. Mr. Hogfather never brought me anything when I was a kid,” said Corporal Nobbs, eyeing the children gloomily. “I used to hang up my stocking every Hogswatch, regular. All that ever happened was my dad was sick in it once. ” He removed his helmet. Nobby was not by any measure a hero, but there was the sudden gleam in his eye of someone who’d seen altogether too many empty stockings plus one rather full and dripping one. A scab had been knocked off some wound in the corrugated little organ of his soul. “I’m going in,” he said. In between the University’s Great Hall and its main door is a rather smaller circular hall or vestibule known as Archchancellor Bowell’s Remembrance, although no one now knows why, or why an extant bequest pays for one small currant bun and one copper penny to be placed on a high stone shelf on one wall every second Wednesday. * Ridcully stood in the middle of the floor, looking upward. “Tell me, Senior Wrangler, we never invited any women to the Hogswatchnight Feast, did we?” “Of course not, Archchancellor,” said the Senior Wrangler. He looked up in the dust-covered rafters, wondering what had caught Ridcully’s eye. “Good heavens, no. They’d spoil everything. I’ve always said so. ” “And all the maids have got the evening off until midnight?” “A very generous custom, I’ve always said,” said the Senior Wrangler, feeling his neck crick. “So why, every year, do we hang a damn great bunch of mistletoe up there?” The Senior Wrangler turned in a circle, still staring upward. “Well, er…it’s…well, it’s…it’s symbolic, Archchancellor. ” “Ah?” The Senior Wrangler felt that something more was expected. He groped around in the dusty attics of his education. “Of…the leaves, d’y’see…they’re symbolic of…of green, d’y’see, whereas the berries, in fact, yes, the berries symbolize…symbolize white. Yes. White and green. Very…symbolic. ” He waited. He was not, unfortunately, disappointed. “What of?” The Senior Wrangler coughed. “I’m not sure there has to be an of ,” he said. “Ah? So,” said the Archchancellor, thoughtfully, “it could be said that the white and green symbolize a small parasitic plant?” “Yes, indeed,” said the Senior Wrangler. “So mistletoe, in fact, symbolizes mistletoe?” “Exactly, Archchancellor,” said the Senior Wrangler, who was now just hanging on. “Funny thing, that,” said Ridcully, in the same thoughtful tone of voice. “That statement is either so deep it would take a lifetime to fully comprehend every particle of its meaning, or it is a load of absolute tosh. Which is it, I wonder?” “It could be both,” said the Senior Wrangler desperately. “And that comment,” said Ridcully, “is either very perceptive, or very trite. ” “It might be bo—” “Don’t push it, Senior Wrangler. ” There was a hammering on the outer door. “Ah, that’ll be the wassailers,” said the Senior Wrangler, happy for the distraction. “They call on us first every year. I personally have always liked ‘The Lilywhite Boys,’ you know. ” The Archchancellor glanced up at the mistletoe, gave the beaming man a sharp look, and opened the little hatch in the door. |
“Well, now, wassailing you fellows—” he began. “Oh. Well, I must say you might’ve picked a better time…” A hooded figure stepped through the wood of the door, carrying a limp bundle over its shoulder. The Senior Wrangler stepped backward quickly. “Oh…no, not tonight …” And then he noticed that what he had taken for a robe had lace around the bottom, and the hood, while quite definitely a hood, was nevertheless rather more stylish than the one he had first mistaken it for. “Putting down or taking away?” said Ridcully. Susan pushed back her hood. “I need your help, Mr. Ridcully,” she said. “You’re…aren’t you Death’s granddaughter?” said Ridcully. “Didn’t I meet you a few—” “Yes,” sighed Susan. “And…are you helping out?” said Ridcully. His waggling eyebrows indicated the slumbering figure over her shoulder. “I need you to wake him up,” said Susan. “Some sort of miracle, you mean?” said the Senior Wrangler, who was a little behind. “He’s not dead,” said Susan. “He’s just resting. ” “That’s what they all say,” the Senior Wrangler quavered. Ridcully, who was somewhat more practical, lifted the oh god’s head. There was a groan. “Looks a bit under the weather,” he said. “He’s the God of Hangovers,” said Susan. “The Oh God of Hangovers. ” “Really?” said Ridcully. “Never had one of those myself. Funny thing, I can drink all night and feel as fresh as a daisy in the morning. ” The oh god’s eyes opened. Then he soared toward Ridcully and started beating him on the chest with both fists. “You utter, utter bastard! I hate you hate you hate you hate you—” His eyes shut, and he slid down to the floor. “What was all that about?” said Ridcully. “I think it was some kind of nervous reaction,” said Susan diplomatically. “Something nasty’s happening tonight. I’m hoping he can tell me what it is. But he’s got to be able to think straight first. ” “And you brought him here ?” said Ridcully. H O. H O. H O. Y ES INDEED, HELLO, SMALL CHILD CALLED V ERRUCA L UMPY, WHAT A LOVELY NAME, AGED SEVEN , I BELIEVE ? G OOD. Y ES , I KNOW IT DID. A LL OVER THE NICE CLEAN FLOOR, YES. T HEY DO, YOU KNOW. T HAT’S ONE OF THE THINGS ABOUT REAL PIGS. H ERE WE ARE, DON’T MENTION IT. H APPY H OGSWATCH AND BE GOOD. I WILL KNOW IF YOU’RE GOOD OR BAD, YOU KNOW. H O. H O. H O. “Well, you brought some magic into that little life,” said Albert, as the next child was hurried away. I T’S THE EXPRESSION ON THEIR LITTLE FACES I LIKE , said the Hogfather. “You mean sort of fear and awe and not knowing whether to laugh or cry or wet their pants?” Y ES. N OW THAT IS WHAT I CALL BELIEF. The oh god was carried into the Great Hall and laid out on a bench. The senior wizards gathered round, ready to help those less fortunate than themselves remain that way. “I know what’s good for a hangover,” said the Dean, who was feeling in a party mood. They looked at him expectantly. “Drinking heavily the previous night!” he said. He beamed at them. “That was a good word joke,” he said, to break the silence. The silence came back. “Most amusing,” said Ridcully. He turned back and stared thoughtfully at the oh god. “Raw eggs are said to be good—” he glared at the Dean “—I mean bad for a hangover,” he said. “And fresh orange juice. ” “Klatchian coffee,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, firmly. “But this fellow hasn’t just got his hangover, he’s got everyone ’s hangover,” said Ridcully. “I’ve tried it,” mumbled the oh god. “It just makes me feel suicidal and sick. ” “A mixture of mustard and horseradish?” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “In cream, for preference. With anchovies. ” “Yogurt,” said the Bursar. Ridcully looked at him, surprised. “That sounded almost relevant,” he said. “Well done. I should leave it at that if I were you, Bursar. Hmm. Of course, my uncle always used to swear at Wow-Wow Sauce,” he added. “You mean swear by , surely?” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “Possibly both,” said Ridcully. “I know he once drank a whole bottle of it as a hangover cure and it certainly seemed to cure him. He looked very peaceful when they came to lay him out. ” “Willow bark,” said the Bursar. “That’s a good idea,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “It’s an analgesic. ” “Really? Well, possibly, though it’s probably better to give it to him by mouth,” said Ridcully. “I say, are you feeling yourself, Bursar? You seem somewhat coherent. ” The oh god opened his crusted eyes. “Will all that stuff help?” he mumbled. “It’ll probably kill you,” said Susan. “Oh. Good. ” “We could add Englebert’s Enhancer,” said the Dean. “Remember when Modo put some on his peas? We could only manage one each!” “Can’t you do something more, well, magical?” said Susan. “Magic the alcohol out of him or something?” “Yes, but it’s not alcohol by this time, is it?” said Ridcully. “It’ll have turned into a lot of nasty little poisons all dancin’ round on his liver. ” “Spold’s Unstirring Divisor would do it,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “Very simply, too. You’d end up with a large beaker full of all the nastiness. Not difficult at all, if you don’t mind the side effects. ” “Tell me about the side effects,” said Susan, who had met wizards before. “The main one is that the rest of him would end up in a somewhat larger beaker,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “Alive?” The Lecturer in Recent Runes screwed up his face and waggled his hands. “ Broadly , yes,” he said. “Living tissue, certainly. And definitely sober. ” “I think we had in mind something that would leave him the same shape and still breathing,” said Susan. “Well, you might’ve said …” Then the Dean repeated the mantra that has had such a marked effect on the progress of knowledge throughout the ages. “Why don’t we just mix up absolutely everything and see what happens?” he said. And Ridcully responded with the traditional response. “It’s got to be worth a try,” he said. The big glass beaker for the cure had been placed on a pedestal in the middle of the floor. The wizards liked to make a ceremony of everything in any case, but felt instinctively that if they were going to cure the biggest hangover in the world it needed to be done with style. Susan and Bilious watched as the ingredients were added. Round about halfway the mixture, which was an orange-brown color, went gloop. “Not a lot of improvement, I feel,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. Englebert’s Enhancer was the penultimate ingredient. The Dean dropped in a greenish ball of light that sank under the surface. The only apparent effect was that it caused purple bubbles to creep over the sides of the beaker and drip onto the floor. “That’s it ?” said the oh god. “I think the yogurt probably wasn’t a good idea,” said the Dean. “I’m not drinking that ,” said Bilious firmly, and then clutched at his head. “But gods are practically unkillable, aren’t they?” said the Dean. “Oh, good ,” muttered Bilious. “Why not stick my legs in a meat grinder, then?” “Well, if you think it might help—” “I anticipated a certain amount of resistance from the patient,” said the Archchancellor. He removed his hat and fished out a small crystal ball from a pocket in the lining. “Let’s see what the God of Wine is up to at the moment, shall we? Shouldn’t be too difficult to locate a fun-loving god like him on an evening like this…” He blew on the glass and polished it. Then he brightened up. “Why, here he is, the little rascal! On Dunmanifestin, I do believe. Yes…yes…reclining on his couch, surrounded by naked maenads. ” “What? Maniacs?” said the Dean. “He means…excitable young women,” said Susan. And it seemed to her that there was a general ripple of movement among the wizards, a sort of nonchalant drawing toward the glittering ball. “Can’t quite see what he’s doing…” said Ridcully. “Let me see if I can make it out,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies hopefully. Ridcully half turned to keep the ball out of his reach. “Ah, yes,” he said. “It looks like he’s drinking…yes, could very well be lager and black-currant, if I’m any judge…” “Oh, me …” moaned the oh god. “These young women, now—” the Lecturer in Recent Runes began. |
“I can see there’s some bottles on the table,” Ridcully continued. “That one, hmm, yes, could be scumble which, as you know, is made from apples—” “ Mainly apples,” the Dean volunteered. “Now, about these poor mad girls—” The oh god slumped to his knees. “…and there’s…that drink, you know, there’s a worm in the bottle…” “Oh, me …” “…and…there’s an empty glass, a big one, can’t quite see what it contained, but there’s a paper umbrella in it. And some cherries on a stick. Oh, and an amusing little monkey. ” “… ooohhh …” “…of course, there’s a lot of other bottles, too,” said Ridcully, cheerfully. “Different colored drinks, mainly. The sort made from melons and coconuts and chocolate and such like, don’tcherknow. Funny thing is, all the glasses on the table are pint mugs…” Bilious fell forward. “All right,” he murmured. “I’ll drink the wretched stuff. ” “It’s not quite ready yet,” said Ridcully. “Ah, thank you, Modo. ” Modo tiptoed in, pushing a trolley. There was a large metal bowl on it, in which a small bottle stood in the middle of a heap of crushed ice. “Only just made this for Hogswatch dinner,” said Ridcully. “Hasn’t had much time to mature yet. ” He put down the crystal and fished a pair of heavy gloves out of his hat. The wizards spread like an opening flower. One moment they were gathered around Ridcully, the next they were standing close to various items of heavy furniture. Susan felt she was present at a ceremony and hadn’t been told the rules. “What’s that?” she said, as Ridcully carefully lifted up the bottle. “Wow-Wow Sauce,” said Ridcully. “Finest condiment known to man. A happy accompaniment to meat, fish, fowl, eggs and many types of vegetable dishes. It’s not safe to drink it when sweat’s still condensing on the bottle, though. ” He peered at the bottle, and then rubbed at it, causing a glassy, squeaky noise. “On the other hand,” he said brightly, “if it’s a kill-or-cure remedy then we are, given that the patient is practically immortal, probably onto a winner. ” He placed a thumb over the cork and shook the bottle vigorously. There was a crash as the Chair of Indefinite Studies and the Senior Wrangler tried to get under the same table. “And these fellows seem to have taken against it for some reason,” he said, approaching the beaker. “I prefer a sauce that doesn’t mean you mustn’t make any jolting movements for half an hour after using it,” muttered the Dean. “And that can’t be used for breaking up small rocks,” said the Senior Wrangler. “Or getting rid of tree roots,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “And which isn’t actually outlawed in three cities,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. Ridcully cautiously uncorked the bottle. There was a brief hiss of indrawn air. He allowed a few drops to splash into the beaker. Nothing happened. A more generous helping was allowed to fall. The mixture remained irredeemably inert. Ridcully sniffed suspiciously at the bottle. “I wonder if I added enough grated wahooni?” he said, and then upturned the sauce and let most of it slide into the mixture. It merely went gloop. The wizards began to stand up and brush themselves off, giving one another the rather embarrassed grins of people who know that they’ve just been part of a synchronized making-a-fool-of-yourself team. “I know we’ve had that asafoetida rather a long time,” said Ridcully. He turned the bottle round, peering at it sadly. Finally he tipped it up for the last time and thumped it hard on the base. A trickle of sauce arrived on the lip of the bottle and glistened there for a moment. Then it began to form a bead. As if drawn by invisible strings, the heads of the wizards turned to look at it. Wizards wouldn’t be wizards if they couldn’t see a little way into the future. As the bead swelled and started to go pear-shaped they turned and, with a surprising turn of speed for men so wealthy in years and waistline, began to dive for the floor. The drop fell. It went gloop. And that was all. Ridcully, who’d been standing like a statue, sagged in relief. “I don’t know,” he said, turning away, “I wish you fellows would show some backbone—” The fireball lifted him off his feet. Then it rose to the ceiling, where it spread out widely and vanished with a pop, leaving a perfect chrysanthemum of scorched plaster. Pure white light filled the room. And there was a sound. TINKLE. TINKLE. FIZZ. The wizards risked looking around. The beaker gleamed. It was filled with a liquid glow, which bubbled gently and sent out sparkles like a spinning diamond. “My word…” breathed the Lecturer in Recent Runes. Ridcully picked himself up off the floor. Wizards tended to roll well, or in any case are well padded enough to bounce. Slowly, the flickering brilliance casting their long shadows on the walls, the wizards gravitated toward the beaker. “Well, what is it?” said the Dean. “I remember my father tellin’ me some very valuable advice about drinks,” said Ridcully. “He said, ‘Son, never drink any drink with a paper umbrella in it, never drink any drink with a humorous name, and never drink any drink that changes color when the last ingredient goes in. And never, ever, do this—’” He dipped his finger into the beaker. It came out with one glistening drop on the end. “Careful, Archchancellor,” warned the Dean. “What you have there might represent pure sobriety. ” Ridcully paused with the finger halfway to his lips. “Good point,” he said. “I don’t want to start being sober at my time of life. ” He looked around. “How do we usually test stuff?” “Generally we ask for student volunteers,” said the Dean. “What happens if we don’t get any?” “We give it to them anyway. ” “Isn’t that a bit unethical?” “Not if we don’t tell them, Archchancellor. ” “Ah, good point. ” “I’ll try it,” the oh god mumbled. “Something these clo—gentlemen have cooked up?” said Susan. “It might kill you!” “You’ve never had a hangover, I expect,” said the oh god. “Otherwise you wouldn’t talk such rot. ” He staggered up to the beaker, managed to grip it on the second go, and drank the lot. “There’ll be fireworks now,” said the raven, from Susan’s shoulder. “Flames coming out of the mouth, screams, clutching at the throat, lying down under the cold tap, that sort of thing—” Death found, to his amazement, that dealing with the queue was very enjoyable. Hardly anyone had ever been pleased to see him before. N EXT ! A ND WHAT’S YOUR NAME, LITTLE …He hesitated, but rallied, and continued… PERSON ? “Nobby Nobbs, Hogfather,” said Nobby. Was it him, or was this knee he was sitting on a lot bonier than it should be? His buttocks argued with his brain, and were sat on. A ND HAVE YOU BEEN A GOOD BO…A GOOD DWA…A GOOD GNO…A GOOD INDIVIDUAL ? And suddenly Nobby found he had no control at all of his tongue. Of its own accord, gripped by a terrible compulsion, it said: “’s. ” He struggled for self-possession as the great voice went on: S O I EXPECT YOU’LL WANT A PRESENT FOR A GOOD MON…A GOOD HUM…A GOOD MALE ? Aha, got you bang to rights, you’ll be coming along with me , my old chummy, I bet you don’t remember the cellar at the back of the shoelace maker’s in Old Cobblers, eh, all those Hogswatch mornings with a little hole in my world, eh? The words rose in Nobby’s throat but were overridden by something ancient before they reached his voice box, and to his amazement were translated into: “’s. ” S OMETHING NICE ? “’s. ” There was hardly anything left of Nobby’s conscious will now. The world consisted of nothing but his naked soul and the Hogfather, who filled the universe. A ND YOU WILL OF COURSE BE GOOD FOR ANOTHER YEAR ? The tiny remnant of basic Nobbyness wanted to say, “Er, how exactly do you define ‘good,’ mister? Like, suppose there was just some stuff that no one’d miss, say? Or, f’r instance, say a friend of mine was on patrol, sort of thing, and found a shopkeeper had left his door unlocked at night. |
I mean, anyone could walk in, right, but suppose this friend took one or two things, sort of like, you know, a gratuity , and then called the shopkeeper out and got him to lock up, that counts as ‘good,’ does it?” Good and bad were, to Nobby’s way of thinking, entirely relative terms. Most of his relatives, for example, were criminals. But, again, this invitation to philosophical debate was ambushed somewhere in his head by sheer dread of the big beard in the sky. “’s,” he squeaked. N OW , I WONDER WHAT YOU WOULD LIKE ? Nobby gave up, and sat mute. Whatever was going to happen next was going to happen, and there was not a thing he could do about it…Right now, the light at the end of his mental tunnel showed only more tunnel. A H, YES … The Hogfather reached into his sack and pulled out an awkwardly shaped present wrapped in festive Hogswatch paper which, owing to some slight confusion on the current Hogfather’s part, had merry ravens on it. Corporal Nobbs took it in nervous hands. W HAT DO YOU SAY ? “’nk you. ” O FF YOU GO. Corporal Nobbs slid down gratefully and barged his way through the crowds, stopping only when he was fielded by Constable Visit. “What happened? What happened? I couldn’t see!” “I dunno,” mumbled Nobby. “He gave me this. ” “What is it. ” “I dunno…” He clawed at the raven-bedecked paper. “This is disgusting, this whole business,” said Constable Visit. “It’s the worship of idols—” “ It’s a genuine Burleigh and Stronginthearm double-action triple-cantilever crossbow with a polished walnut stock and engraved silver facings !” “—a crass commercialization of a date which is purely of astronomical significance,” said Visit, who seldom paid attention when he was in mid-denounce. “If it is to be celebrated at all, then—” “ I saw this in Bows and Ammo! It got Editor’s Choice in the ‘What to Buy When Rich Uncle Sidney Dies’ category! They had to break both the reviewer’s arms to get him to let go of it !” “—ought to be commemorated in a small service of—” “ It must cost more’n a year’s salary! They only make ’em to order! You have to wait ages !” “—religious significance. ” It dawned on Constable Visit that something behind him was amiss. “Aren’t we going to arrest this impostor, corporal?” he said. Corporal Nobbs looked blearily at him through the mists of possessive pride. “You’re foreign, Washpot,” he said. “I can’t expect you to know the real meaning of Hogswatch. ” The oh god blinked. “Ah,” he said. “That’s better. Oh, yes. That’s a lot better. Thank you. ” The wizards, who shared the raven’s belief in the essential narrative conventions of life, watched him cautiously. “Any minute now,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes confidently, “it’ll probably start with some kind of amusing yell—” “You know,” said the oh god, “I think I could just possibly eat a soft-boiled egg. ” “—or maybe the ears spinning round—” “And perhaps drink a glass of milk,” said the oh god. Ridcully looked nonplussed. “You really feel better?” he said. “Oh, yes,” said the oh god. “I really think I could risk a smile without the top of my head falling off. ” “No, no, no,” said the Dean. “This can’t be right. Everyone knows that a good hangover cure has got to involve a lot of humorous shouting, ekcetra. ” “I could possibly tell you a joke,” said the oh god carefully. “You don’t have this pressing urge to run outside and stick your head in a water butt?” said Ridcully. “Er…not really,” said the oh god. “But I’d like some toast, if that helps. ” The Dean took off his hat and pulled a thaumameter out of the point. “ Something happened,” he said. “There was a massive thaumic surge. ” “Didn’t it even taste a bit…well, spicy?” said Ridcully. “It didn’t taste of anything, really,” said the oh god. “Oh, look, it’s obvious,” said Susan. “When the God of Wine drinks, Bilious here gets the aftereffects, so when the God of Hangovers drinks a hangover cure then the effects must jump back across the same link. ” “That could be right,” said the Dean. “He is, after all, basically a conduit. ” “I’ve always thought of myself as more of a tube,” said the oh god. “No, no, she’s right,” said Ridcully. “When he drinks, this lad here gets the nasty result. So, logically, when our friend here takes a hangover cure the side effects should head back the same way—” “Someone mentioned a crystal ball just now,” said the oh god in a voice suddenly clanging with vengeance. “I want to see this—” It was a big drink. A very big and a very long drink. It was one of those special cocktails where each very sticky, very strong ingredient is poured in very slowly, so that they layer on top of one another. Drinks like this tend to get called Traffic Lights or Rainbow’s Revenge or, in places where truth is more highly valued, Hello and Good-bye, Mr. Brain Cell. In addition, this drink had some lettuce floating in it. And a slice of lemon and a piece of pineapple hooked coquettishly on the side of the glass, which had sugar frosted round the rim. There were two paper umbrellas, one pink and one blue, and they each had a cherry on the end. And someone had taken the trouble to freeze ice cubes in the shape of little elephants. After that, there’s no hope. You might as well be drinking in a place called the Cococobana. The God of Wine picked it up lovingly. It was his kind of drink. There was a rumba going on in the background. There were also a couple of young ladies snuggling up to him. It was going to be a good night. It was always a good night. “Happy Hogswatch, everyone!” he said, and raised the glass. And then: “Can anyone hear something?” Someone blew a paper squeaker at him. “No, seriously…like a sort of descending note…?” Since no one paid this any attention he shrugged, and nudged one of his fellow drinkers. “How about we have a couple more and go to this club I know?” he said. And then— The wizards leaned back, and one or two of them grimaced. Only the oh god stayed glued to the glass, face contorted in a vicious smile. “We have eructation!” he shouted, and punched the air. “Yes! Yes! Yes ! The worm is on the other boot now, eh? Hah! How do you like them apples, huh?” “Well, mainly apples—” said the Dean. “Looked like a lot of other things to me,” said Ridcully. “It seems we have reversed the cause-effect flow…” “Will it be permanent?” said the oh god hopefully. “I shouldn’t think so. After all, you are the God of Hangovers. It’ll probably just reverse itself again when the potion wears off. ” “Then I may not have much time. Bring me…let’s see…twenty pints of lager, some pepper vodka and a bottle of coffee liqueur! With an umbrella in it! Let’s see how he enjoys that, Mr. You’ve Got Room For Another One In There!” Susan grabbed his hand and pulled him over to a bench. “I didn’t have you sobered up just so you could go on a binge!” she said. He blinked at her. “You didn’t?” “I want you to help me!” “Help you what?” “You said you’d never been human before, didn’t you?” “Er…” The oh god looked down at himself. “That’s right,” he said. “Never. ” “You’ve never incarnated?” said Ridcully. “Surely that’s a rather personal question, isn’t it?” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “That’s…right,” said the oh god. “Odd, that. I remember always having headaches…but never having a head. That can’t be right, can it?” “You existed in potentia ?” said Ridcully. “Did I?” “Did he?” said Susan. Ridcully paused. “Oh dear,” he said. “I think I did it, didn’t I? I said something to young Stibbons about drinking and hangovers, didn’t I…?” “And you created him just like that?” said the Dean. “I find that very hard to believe, Mustrum. Hah! Out of thin air? I suppose we can all do that, can we? Anyone care to think up some new pixie?” “Like the Hair Loss Fairy?” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. The other wizards laughed. “I am not losing my hair!” snapped the Dean. “It is just very finely spaced. ” “Half on your head and half on your hairbrush,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “No sense in bein’ bashful about goin’ bald,” said Ridcully evenly. “Anyway, you know what they say about bald men, Dean. |
” “Yes, they say, ‘Look at him, he’s got no hair,’” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. The Dean had been annoying him lately. “For the last time,” shouted the Dean, “I am not —” He stopped. There was a glingleglingleglingle noise. “I wish I knew where that was coming from,” said Ridcully. “Er…” the Dean began. “Is there…something on my head?” The other wizards stared. Something was moving under his hat. Very carefully, he reached up and removed it. The very small gnome sitting on his head had a clump of the Dean’s hair in each hand. It blinked guiltily in the light. “Is there a problem?” it said. “Get it off me!” the Dean yelled. The wizards hesitated. They were all vaguely aware of the theory that very small creatures could pass on diseases, and while the gnome was larger than such creatures were generally thought to be, no one wanted to catch Expanding Scalp Sickness. Susan grabbed it. “Are you the Hair Loss Fairy?” she said. “Apparently,” said the gnome, wriggling in her grip. The Dean ran his hands desperately through his hair. “What have you been doing with my hair?” he demanded. “Well, some of it I think I have to put on hairbrushes,” said the gnome, “but sometimes I think I weave it into little mats to block up the bath with. ” “What do you mean, you think ?” said Ridcully. “Just a minute,” said Susan. She turned to the oh god. “Where exactly were you before I found you in the snow?” “Er…sort of…everywhere, I think,” said the oh god. “Anywhere where drink had been consumed in beastly quantities some time previously, you could say. ” “Ah- ha ,” said Ridcully. “You were an immanent vital force, yes?” “I suppose I could have been,” the oh god conceded. “And when we joked about the Hair Loss Fairy it suddenly focused on the Dean’s head,” said Ridcully, “where its operations have been noticeable to all of us in recent months although of course we have been far too polite to pass comment on the subject. ” “You’re calling things into being,” said Susan. “Things like the Give the Dean a Huge Bag of Money Goblin?” said the Dean, who could think very quickly at times. He looked around hopefully. “Anyone hear any fairy tinkling?” “Do you often get given huge bags of money, sir?” said Susan. “Not on what you’d call a daily basis, no,” said the Dean. “But if—” “Then there probably isn’t any occult room for a Huge Bags of Money Goblin,” said Susan. “I personally have always wondered what happens to my socks,” said the Bursar cheerfully. “You know how there’s always one missing? When I was a lad I always thought that something was taking them…” The wizards gave this some thought. Then they all heard it—the little crinkly tinkling noise of magic taking place. The Archchancellor pointed dramatically skyward. “To the laundry!” he said. “It’s downstairs, Ridcully,” said the Dean. “ Down to the laundry!” “And you know Mrs. Whitlow doesn’t like us going in there,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “And who is Archchancellor of this University, may I ask?” said Ridcully. “Is it Mrs. Whitlow? I don’t think so! Is it me? Why, how amazing, I do believe it is!” “Yes, but you know what she can be like,” said the Chair. “Er, yes, that’s true—” Ridcully began. “I believe she’s gone to her sister’s for the holiday,” said the Bursar. “We certainly don’t have to take orders from any kind of housekeeper!” said the Archchancellor. “To the laundry!” The wizards surged out excitedly, leaving Susan, the oh god, the Verruca Gnome and the Hair Loss Fairy. “Tell me again who those people were,” said the oh god. “Some of the cleverest men in the world,” said Susan. “And I’m sober, am I?” “Clever isn’t the same as sensible,” said Susan, “and they do say that if you wish to walk the path to wisdom then for your first step you must become as a small child. ” “Do you think they’ve heard about the second step?” Susan sighed. “Probably not, but sometimes they fall over it while they’re running around shouting. ” “Ah. ” The oh god looked around. “Do you think they have any soft drinks here?” he said. The path to wisdom does, in fact, begin with a single step. Where people go wrong is in ignoring all the thousands of other steps that come after it. They make the single step of deciding to become one with the universe, and for some reason forget to take the logical next step of living for seventy years on a mountain and a daily bowl of rice and yak-butter tea that would give it any kind of meaning. While evidence says that the road to hell is paved with good intentions, they’re probably all on first steps. The Dean was always at his best at times like this. He led the way between the huge, ancient copper vats, prodding with his staff into dark corners and going “Hut! Hut!” under his breath. “Why would it turn up here?” whispered the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “Point of reality instability,” said Ridcully, standing on tiptoe to look into a bleaching cauldron. “Every damn thing turns up here. You should know that by now. ” “But why now ?” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “No talking!” hissed the Dean, and leapt out into the next alleyway, staff held protectively in front of him. “Hah!” he screamed, and then looked disappointed. “Er, how big would this sock-stealing thing be?” said the Senior Wrangler. “Don’t know,” said Ridcully. He peered behind a stack of washboards. “Come to think of it, I must’ve lost a ton of socks over the years. ” “Me too,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “So…should we be looking in small places or very large places?” the Senior Wrangler went on, in the voice of one whose train of thought has just entered a long dark tunnel. “Good point,” said Ridcully. “Dean, why do you keep referring to sheds all the time?” “It’s ‘hut,’ Mustrum,” said the Dean. “It means…it means…” “Small wooden building?” Ridcully suggested. “Well, sometimes, agreed, but other times…well, you just have to say ‘hut. ’” “This sock creature…does it just steal them, or does it eat them?” said the Senior Wrangler. “Valuable contribution, that man,” said Ridcully, giving up on the Dean. “Right, pass the word along: no one is to look like a sock, understand?” “How can you—” the Dean began, and stopped. They all heard it. … grnf, grnf, grnf … It was a busy sound, the sound of something with a serious appetite to satisfy. “The Eater of Socks,” moaned the Senior Wrangler, with his eyes shut. “How many tentacles would you expect it to have?” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “I mean, roughly speaking?” “It’s a very large sort of noise, isn’t it?” said the Bursar. “To the nearest dozen, say,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, edging backward. … grnf, grnf, grnf … “It’d probably tear our socks off as soon as look at us…” wailed the Senior Wrangler. “Ah. So at least five or six tentacles, then, would you say?” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “Seems to me it’s coming from one of the washing engines,” said the Dean. The engines were each two stories high, and usually only used when the University’s population soared during term time. A huge treadmill connected to a couple of big bleached wooden paddles in each vat, which were heated via the fireboxes underneath. In full production the washing engines needed at least half a dozen people to manhandle the loads, maintain the fires and oil the scrubbing arms. Ridcully had seen them at work once, when it had looked like a picture of a very clean and hygienic hell, the kind of place soap might go to when it died. The Dean stopped by the door to the boiler area. “Something’s in here,” he whispered. “Listen!” … grnf … “It’s stopped! It knows we’re here!” he hissed. “All right? Ready? Hut!” “No!” squeaked the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “I’ll open the door and you be ready to stop it! One…two… three ! Oh…” The sleigh soared into the snowy sky. O N THE WHOLE , I THINK THAT WENT VERY WELL, DON’T YOU ? “Yes, master,” said Albert. I WAS RATHER PUZZLED BY THE LITTLE BOY IN THE CHAIN MAIL, THOUGH. “I think that was a Watchman, master. ” R EALLY ? W ELL, HE WENT AWAY HAPPY, AND THAT’S THE MAIN THING. “Is it, master?” There was worry in Albert’s voice. |
Death’s osmotic nature tended to pick up new ideas altogether too quickly. Of course, Albert understood why they had to do all this, but the master…well, sometimes the master lacked the necessary mental equipment to work out what should be true and what shouldn’t… A ND I THINK I’ VE GOT THE LAUGH WORKING REALLY WELL NOW. H O. H O. H O. “Yeah, sir, very jolly,” said Albert. He looked down at the list. “Still, work goes on, eh? The next one’s pretty close, master, so I should keep them down low if I was you. ” J OLLY GOOD. H O. H O. H O. “Sarah the little match girl, doorway of Thimble’s Pipe and Tobacco Shop, Money Trap Lane, it says here. ” A ND WHAT DOES SHE WANT FOR H OGSWATCH ? H O. H O. H O. “Dunno. Never sent a letter. By the way, just a tip, you don’t have to say ‘Ho, ho, ho’ all the time, master. Let’s see…It says here…” Albert’s lips moved as he read. I EXPECT A DOLL IS ALWAYS ACCEPTABLE. O R A SOFT TOY OF SOME DESCRIPTION. T HE SACK SEEMS TO KNOW. W HAT’VE WE GOT FOR HER , A LBERT ? H O. H O. H O. Something small was dropped into his hand. “This,” said Albert. O H. There was a moment of horrible silence as they both stared at the lifetimer. “You’re for life, not just for Hogswatch,” prompted Albert. “Life goes on, master. In a manner of speaking. ” B UT THIS IS H OGSWATCHNIGHT. “Very traditional time for this sort of thing, I understand,” said Albert. I THOUGHT IT WAS THE SEASON TO BE JOLLY , said Death. “Ah, well, yes, you see, one of the things that makes folks even more jolly is knowing there’re people who ain’t,” said Albert, in a matter-of-fact voice. “That’s how it goes, master. Master?” No. Death stood up. T HIS IS HOW IT SHOULDN’T GO. The University’s Great Hall had been set for the Hogswatchnight Feast. The tables were already groaning under the weight of the cutlery, and it would be hours before any real food was put on them. It was hard to see where there would be space for any among the drifts of ornamental fruit bowls and forests of wine glasses. The oh god picked up a menu and turned to the fourth page. “Course four: mollusks and crustaceans. A medley of lobster, crab, king crab, prawn, shrimp, oyster, clam, giant mussel, green-lipped mussel, thin-lipped mussel and Fighting Tiger Limpet. With a herb and butter dipping sauce. Wine: ‘Three Wizards’ Chardonnay, Year of the Talking Frog. Beer: Winkles’ Old Peculiar. ” He put it down. “That’s one course?” he said. “They’re big men in the food department,” said Susan. He turned the menu over. On the cover was the University’s coat of arms and, over it, three large letters in ancient script: ? ß ? “Is this some sort of magic word?” “No. ” Susan sighed. “They put it on all their menus. You might call it the unofficial motto of the University. ” “What’s it mean?” “Eta Beta Pi. ” Bilious gave her an expectant look. “Yes…?” “Er…like, Eat a Better Pie?” said Susan. “That’s what you just said, yes,” said the oh god. “Um. No. You see, the letters are Ephebian characters which just sound a bit like ‘eat a better pie. ’” “Ah. ” Bilious nodded wisely. “I can see that might cause confusion. ” Susan felt a bit helpless in the face of the look of helpful puzzlement. “No,” she said, “in fact they are supposed to cause a little bit of confusion, and then you laugh. It’s called a pune or play on words. Eta Beta Pi. ” She eyed him carefully. “You laugh,” she said. “With your mouth. Only, in fact , you don’t laugh, because you’re not supposed to laugh at things like this. ” “Perhaps I could find that glass of milk,” said the oh god helplessly, peering at the huge array of jugs and bottles. He’d clearly given up on sense of humor. “I gather the Archchancellor won’t have milk in the University,” said Susan. “He says he knows where it comes from and it’s unhygienic. And that’s a man who eats three eggs for breakfast every day, mark you. How do you know about milk, by the way?” “I’ve got…memories,” said the oh god. “Not exactly of anything, er, specific. Just, you know, memories. Like, I know trees usually grow green-end up…that sort of thing. I suppose gods just know things. ” “Any special god-like powers?” “I might be able to turn water into an enervescent drink. ” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Is that any help? And it’s just possible I can give people a blinding headache. ” “I need to find out why my grandfather is…acting strange. ” “Can’t you ask him?” “He won’t tell me!” “Does he throw up a lot?” “I shouldn’t think so. He doesn’t often eat. The occasional curry, once or twice a month. ” “He must be pretty thin. ” “You’ve no idea. ” “Well, then…Does he often stare at himself in the mirror and say ‘Arrgh’? Or stick out his tongue and wonder why it’s gone yellow? You see, it’s possible I might have some measure of influence over people who are hung over. If he’s been drinking a lot, I might be able to find him. ” “I can’t see him doing any of those things. I think I’d better tell you…My grandfather is Death. ” “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. ” “I said Death. ” “Sorry?” “Death. You know…Death?” “You mean the robes, the—” “—scythe, white horse, bones…yes. Death. ” “I just want to make sure I’ve got this clear,” said the oh god in a reasonable tone of voice. “You think your grandfather is Death and you think he’s acting strange?” The Eater of Socks looked up at the wizards, cautiously. Then its jaws started to work again. … grnf, grnf … “Here, that’s one of mine!” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, making a grab. The Eater of Socks backed away hurriedly. It looked like a very small elephant with a very wide, flared trunk, up which one of the Chair’s socks was disappearing. “Funny lookin’ little thing, ain’t it?” said Ridcully, leaning his staff against the wall. “Let go, you wretched creature!” said the Chair, making a grab for the sock. “Shoo!” The sock eater tried to get away while remaining where it was. This should be impossible, but it is in fact a move attempted by many small animals when they are caught eating something forbidden. The legs scrabble hurriedly but the neck and feverishly working jaws merely stretch and pivot around the food. Finally the last of the sock disappeared up the snout with a faint sucking noise and the creature lumbered off behind one of the boilers. After a while it poked one suspicious eye around the corner to watch them. “They’re expensive, you know, with the flax-reinforced heel,” muttered the Chair of Indefinite Studies. Ridcully pulled open a drawer in his hat and extracted his pipe and a pouch of herbal tobacco. He struck a match on the side of the washing engine. This was turning out to be a far more interesting evening than he had anticipated. “We’ve got to get this sorted out,” he said, as the first few puffs filled the washing hall with the scent of autumn bonfires. “Can’t have creatures just popping into existence because someone’s thought about them. It’s unhygienic. ” The sleigh slewed around at the end of Money Trap Lane. C OME ON , A LBERT. “You know you’re not supposed to do this sort of thing, master. You know what happened last time. ” T HE H OGFATHER CAN DO IT, THOUGH. “But…little match girls dying in the snow is part of what the Hogswatch spirit is all about , master,” said Albert desperately. “I mean, people hear about it and say, ‘We may be poorer than a disabled banana and only have mud and old boots to eat, but at least we’re better off than the poor little match girl,’ master. It makes them feel happy and grateful for what they’ve got, see. ” I KNOW WHAT THE SPIRIT OF H OGSWATCH IS , A LBERT. “Sorry, master. But, look, it’s all right, anyway, because she wakes up and it’s all bright and shining and tinkling music and there’s angels, master. ” Death stopped. A H. T HEY TURN UP AT THE LAST MINUTE WITH WARM CLOTHES AND A HOT DRINK ? Oh dear, thought Albert. The master’s really in one of his funny moods now. “Er. No. Not exactly at the last minute, master. Not as such. ” W ELL ? “More sort of just after the last minute. ” Albert coughed nervously. Y OU MEAN AFTER SHE’S — “Yes. That’s how the story goes, master, ’s not my fault. |
” W HY NOT TURN UP BEFORE ? A N ANGEL HAS QUITE A LARGE CARRYING CAPACITY. “Couldn’t say, master. I suppose people think it’s more…satisfying the other way…Albert hesitated, and then frowned. “You know, now that I come to tell someone…” Death looked down at the shape under the falling snow. Then he set the lifetimer on the air and touched it with a finger. A spark flashed across. “You ain’t really allowed to do that,” said Albert, feeling wretched. T HE H OGFATHER CAN. T HE H OGFATHER GIVES PRESENTS. T HERE’S NO BETTER PRESENT THAN A FUTURE. “Yeah, but—” A LBERT. “All right, master. ” Death scooped up the girl and strode to the end of the alley. The snowflakes fell like angel’s feathers. Death stepped out into the street and accosted two figures who were tramping through the drifts. T AKE HER SOMEWHERE WARM AND GIVE HER A GOOD DINNER , he commanded, pushing the bundle into the arms of one of them. A ND I MAY WELL BE CHECKING UP LATER. Then he turned and disappeared into the swirling snow. Constable Visit looked down at the little girl in his arms, and then at Corporal Nobbs. “What’s all this about, corporal?” Nobby pulled aside the blanket. “Search me,” he said. “Looks like we’ve been chosen to do a bit of charity. ” “ I don’t call it very charitable, just dumping someone on people like this. ” “Come on, there’ll still be some grub left in the Watch-house,” said Nobby. He’d got a very deep and certain feeling that this was expected of him. He remembered a big man in a grotto, although he couldn’t quite remember the face. And he couldn’t quite remember the face of the person who had handed over the girl, so that meant it must be the same one. Shortly afterward there was some tinkling music and a very bright light and two rather affronted angels appeared at the other end of the alley, but Albert threw snowballs at them until they went away. Hex worried Ponder Stibbons. He didn’t know how it worked, but everyone else assumed that he did. Oh, he had a good idea about some parts, and he was pretty certain that Hex thought about things by turning them all into numbers and crunching them (a clothes wringer from the laundry, or CWL, had been plumbed in for this very purpose), but why did it need a lot of small religious pictures? And there was the mouse. It didn’t seem to do much, but whenever they forgot to give it its cheese Hex stopped working. There were all those ram skulls. The ants wandered over to them occasionally but they didn’t seem to do anything. What Ponder was worried about was the fear that he was simply engaged in a cargo cult. He’d read about them. Ignorant * and credulous † people, whose island might once have been visited by some itinerant merchant vessel that traded pearls and coconuts for such fruits of civilization as glass beads, mirrors, axes and sexual diseases, would later make big model ships out of bamboo in the hope of once again attracting this magical cargo. Of course, they were far too ignorant and credulous to know that just because you built the shape you didn’t get the substance… He’d built the shape of Hex and, it occurred to him, he’d built it in a magical university where the border between the real and “not real” was stretched so thin you could almost see through it. He got the horrible suspicion that, somehow, they were merely making solid a sketch that was hidden somewhere in the air. Hex knew what it ought to be. All that business about the electricity, for example. Hex had raised the subject one night, not long after it’d asked for the mouse. Ponder prided himself that he knew pretty much all there was to know about electricity. But they’d tried rubbing balloons and glass rods until they’d been able to stick Adrian onto the ceiling, and it hadn’t had any effect on Hex. Then they’d tried tying a lot of cats to a wheel which, when revolved against some beads of amber, caused any amount of electricity all over the place. The wretched stuff hung around for days , but there didn’t seem any way of ladling it into Hex and anyway no one could stand the noise. So far the Archchancellor had vetoed the lightning rod idea. All this depressed Ponder. He was certain that the world ought to work in a more efficient way. And now even the things that he thought were going right were going wrong. He stared glumly at Hex’s quill pen in its tangle of springs and wire. The door was thrown open. Only one person could make a door bang on its hinges like that. Ponder didn’t even turn round. “Hello again, Archchancellor. ” “That thinking engine of yours working?” said Ridcully. “Only there’s an interesting little—” “It’s not working,” said Ponder. “It ain’t? What’s this, a half-holiday for Hogswatch?” “Look,” said Ponder. Hex wrote: +++ Whoops! Here Comes The Cheese! +++ MELON MELON MELON +++ Error At Address: 14, Treacle Mine Road, Ankh-Morpork +++ !!!!! +++ Oneoneoneoneoneone +++ Redo From Start +++ “What’s going on?” said Ridcully, as the others pushed in behind them. “I know it sounds stupid, Archchancellor, but we think it might have caught something off the Bursar. ” “Daftness, you mean?” “That’s ridiculous, boy!” said the Dean. “Idiocy is not a communicable disease. ” Ridcully puffed his pipe. “I used to think that, too,” he said. “Now I’m not so sure. Anyway, you can catch wisdom, can’t you?” “No, you can’t,” snapped the Dean. “It’s not like the flu, Ridcully. Wisdom is…well, instilled. ” “We bring students here and hope they catch wisdom off us, don’t we?” said Ridcully. “Well, metaphorically ,” said the Dean. “And if you hang around with a bunch of idiots you’re bound to become pretty daft yourself,” Ridcully went on. “I suppose in a manner of speaking…” “And you’ve only got to talk to the poor old Bursar for five minutes and you think you’re going a bit potty yourself, am I right?” The wizards nodded glumly. The Bursar’s company, although quite harmless, had a habit of making one’s brain squeak. “So Hex here has caught daftness off the Bursar,” said Ridcully. “Simple. Real stupidity beats artificial intelligence every time. ” He banged his pipe on the side of Hex’s listening tube and shouted: “FEELING ALL RIGHT, OLD CHAP?” Hex wrote: +++ Hi Mum Is Testing +++ MELON MELON MELON +++ Out Of Cheese Error +++ !!!!! +++ Mr. Jelly! Mr. Jelly! +++ “Hex seems perfectly able to work out anything purely to do with numbers, but when it tries anything else it does this,” said Ponder. “See? Bursar Disease,” said Ridcully. “The bee’s knees when it comes to adding up, the pig’s ear at everything else. Try giving him dried frog pills?” “Sorry, sir, but that is a very uninformed suggestion,” said Ponder. “You can’t give medicine to machines. ” “Don’t see why not,” said Ridcully. He banged on the tube again and bellowed, “SOON HAVE YOU BACK ON YOUR…your…yes, indeed, old chap! Where’s that board with all the letter and number buttons, Mr. Stibbons? Ah, good. ” He sat down and typed, with one finger, as slowly as a company chairman: D-R-Y-D-F-R-O-R-G-1/2 P-I-L-L-S Hex’s pipes jangled. “That can’t possibly work, sir,” said Ponder. “It ought to,” said Ridcully. “If he can get the idea of being ill, he can get the idea of being cured. ” He typed: L-O-T-S-O-F-D-R-Y-D-F-R-O-R-G-P-1/4-L-L-S “Seems to me,” he said, “that this thing believes what it’s told, right?” “Well, it’s true that Hex has, if you want to put it that way, no idea of an untruth. ” “Right. Well, I’ve just told the thing it’s had a lot of dried frog pills. It’s not going to call me a liar, is it?” There was some clickings and whirrings within the structure of Hex. Then it wrote: +++ Good Evening, Archchancellor. I Am Fully Recovered And Enthusiastic About My Tasks +++ “Not mad, then?” +++ I Assure You I Am As Sane As The Next Man +++ “Bursar, just move away from the machine, will you?” said Ridcully. “Oh, well, I expect it’s the best we’re going to get. Right, let’s get all this sorted out. We want to find out what’s going on. ” “Anywhere specific or just everywhere?” said Ponder, a shade sarcastically. There was a scratching noise from Hex’s pen. |
Ridcully glanced down at the paper. “Says here ‘Implied Creation Of Anthropomorphic Personification,’” he said. “What’s that mean?” “Er…I think Hex has tried to work out the answer,” said Ponder. “Has it, bigods? I hadn’t even worked out what the question was yet…” “It heard you talking, sir. ” Ridcully raised his eyebrows. Then he leaned down toward the speaking tube. “CAN YOU HEAR ME IN THERE?” The pen scratched. +++ Yes +++ “LOOKIN’ AFTER YOU ALL RIGHT, ARE THEY?” “You don’t have to shout, Archchancellor,” said Ponder. “What’s this Implied Creation, then?” said Ridcully. “Er, I think I’ve heard of it, Archchancellor,” said Ponder. “It means the existence of some things automatically brings into existence other things. If some things exist, certain other things have to exist as well. ” “Like…crime and punishment, say?” said Ridcully. “Drinking and hangovers…of course…” “ Something like that, sir, yes. ” “So…if there’s a Tooth Fairy there has to be a Verruca Gnome?” Ridcully stroked his beard. “Makes a sort of sense, I suppose. But why not a Wisdom Tooth Goblin? You know, bringing them extra ones? Some little devil with a bag of big teeth?” There was silence. But in the depths of the silence there was a little tingly fairy bell sound. “Er…do you think I might have—” Ridcully began. “Sounds logical to me,” said the Senior Wrangler. “I remember the agony I had when my wisdom teeth came through. ” “Last week?” said the Dean, and smirked. “Ah,” said Ridcully. He didn’t look embarrassed because people like Ridcully are never, ever embarrassed about anything, although often people are embarrassed on their behalf. He bent down to the ear trumpet again. “YOU STILL IN THERE?” Ponder Stibbons rolled his eyes. “MIND TELLING US WHAT THE REALITY IS LIKE ROUND HERE?” The pen wrote: +++ On A Scale Of One To Ten—Query +++ “FINE,” Ridcully shouted. +++ Divide By Cucumber Error. Please Reinstall Universe And Reboot +++ “Interestin’,” said Ridcully. “Anyone know what that means?” “Damn,” said Ponder. “It’s crashed again. ” Ridcully looked mystified. “Has it? I never even saw it take off. ” “I mean it’s…it’s sort of gone a little bit mad,” said Ponder. “Ah,” said Ridcully. “Well, we’re experts at that around here. ” He thumped on the drum again. “WANT SOME MORE DRIED FROG PILLS, OLD CHAP?” he shouted. “Er, I should let us sort it out, Archchancellor,” said Ponder, trying to steer him away. “What does ‘divide by cucumber’ mean?” said Ridcully. “Oh, Hex just says that if it comes up with an answer that it knows can’t possibly be real,” said Ponder. “And this ‘rebooting’ business? Give it a good kicking, do you?” “Oh, no, of course, we…that is…well, yes, in fact,” said Ponder. “Adrian goes round the back and…er…prods it with his foot. But in a technical way,” he added. “Ah. I think I’m getting the hang of this thinkin’ engine business,” said Ridcully cheerfully. “So it reckons the universe needs a kicking, does it?” Hex’s pen was scratching across the paper. Ponder glanced at the figures. “It must do. These figures can’t be right!” Ridcully grinned again. “You mean either the whole world has gone wrong or your machine is wrong?” “Yes!” “Then I’d imagine the answer’s pretty easy, wouldn’t you?” said Ridcully. “Yes. It certainly is. Hex gets thoroughly tested every day,” said Ponder Stibbons. “Good point, that, man,” said Ridcully. He banged on Hex’s listening tube once more. “YOU DOWN THERE—” “You really don’t need to shout, Archchancellor,” said Ponder. “—what’s this Anthropomorphic Personification, then?” +++ Humans Have Always Ascribed Random, Seasonal, Natural Or Inexplicable Actions To Human-Shaped Entities. Such Examples Are Jack Frost, The Hogfather, The Tooth Fairy And Death +++ “Oh, them. Yes, but they exist,” said Ridcully. “Met a couple of ’em myself. ” +++ Humans Are Not Always Wrong +++ “All right, but I’m damn sure there’s never been an Eater of Socks or God of Hangovers. ” +++ But There Is No Reason Why There Should Not Be +++ “The thing’s right, you know,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “A little man who carries verrucas around is no more ridiculous than someone who takes away children’s teeth for money, when you come to think about it. ” “Yes, but what about the Eater of Socks?” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Bursar just said he always thought something was eating his socks and, bingo, there it was. ” “But we all believed him, didn’t we? I know I did. Seems like the best possible explanation for all the socks I’ve lost over the years. I mean, if they’d just fallen down the back of the drawer or something there’d be a mountain of the things by now. ” “I know what you mean,” said Ponder. “It’s like pencils. I must have bought hundreds of pencils over the years, but how many have I ever actually worn down to the stub? Even I’ve caught myself thinking that something’s creeping up and eating them—” There was a faint glingleglingle noise. He froze. “What was that?” he said. “Should I look round? Will I see something horrible?” “Looks like a very puzzled bird,” said Ridcully. “With a very odd-shaped beak,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “I wish I knew who’s making that bloody tinkling noise,” said the Archchancellor. The oh god listened attentively. Susan was amazed. He didn’t seem to disbelieve anything. She’d never been able to talk like this before, and said so. “I think that’s because I haven’t got any preconceived ideas,” said the oh god. “It comes of not having been conceived, probably. ” “Well, that’s how it is, anyway,” said Susan. “Obviously I haven’t inherited…physical characteristics. I suppose I just look at the world in a certain way. ” “What way?” “It…doesn’t always present barriers. Like this, for example. ” She closed her eyes. She felt better if she didn’t see what she was doing. Part of her would keep on insisting it was impossible. All she felt was a faintly cold, prickling sensation. “What did I just do?” she said, her eyes still shut. “Er…you waved your hand through the table,” said the oh god. “You see?” “Um…I assume that most humans can’t do that?” “No!” “You don’t have to shout. I’m not very experienced about humans, am I? Apart from around the point the sun shines through the gap in the curtains. And then they’re mainly wishing that the ground would open up and swallow them. I mean the humans, not the curtains. ” Susan leaned back in her chair—and knew that a tiny part of her brain was saying, yes, there is a chair here, it’s a real thing, you can sit on it. “There’s other things,” she said. “I can remember things. Things that haven’t happened yet. ” “Isn’t that useful?” “No! Because I never know what they—look, it’s like looking at the future through a keyhole. You see bits of things but you never really know what they mean until you arrive where they are and see where the bit fits in. ” “That could be a problem,” said the oh god politely. “Believe me. It’s the waiting that’s the worst part. You keep watching out for one of the bits to go past. I mean I don’t usually remember anything useful about the future, just twisted little clues that don’t make sense until it’s too late. Are you sure you don’t know why you turned up at the Hogfather’s castle?” “No. I just remember being a…well, can you understand what I mean by a disembodied mind?” “Oh, yes. ” “Good. Now can you understand what I mean by a disembodied headache? And then, next moment, I was lying on a back I didn’t used to have in a lot of cold white stuff I’d never seen before. But I suppose if you’re going to pop into existence, you’ve got to do it somewhere. ” “Somewhere where someone else, who should have existed, didn’t,” said Susan, half to herself. “Pardon?” “The Hogfather wasn’t there,” said Susan. “He shouldn’t have been there anyway , not tonight, but this time he wasn’t there not because he was somewhere else but because he wasn’t anywhere any more. Even his castle was vanishing. ” “I expect I shall get the hang of this incarnation business as I go along,” said the oh god. “Most people—” Susan began. A shudder ran through her body. “Oh, no. |
What’s he doing? W HAT’S HE DOING ?” A JOB WELL DONE , I FANCY. The sleigh thundered across the night. Frozen fields passed underneath. “Hmph,” said Albert. He sniffed. W HAT DO YOU CALL THAT WARM FEELING YOU GET INSIDE ? “Heartburn!” Albert snapped. D O I DETECT A NOTE OF UNSEASONAL GRUMPINESS ? said Death. N O SUGAR PIGGYWIGGY FOR YOU , A LBERT. “I don’t want any present, master. ” Albert sighed. “Except maybe to wake up and find it’s all back to normal. Look, you know it always goes wrong when you start changing things…” B UT THE H OGFATHER CAN CHANGE THINGS. L ITTLE MIRACLES ALL OVER THE PLACE, WITH MANY A MERRY HO, HO, HO. T EACHING PEOPLE THE REAL MEANING OF H OGSWATCH , A LBERT. “What, you mean that the pigs and cattle have all been slaughtered and with any luck everyone’s got enough food for the winter?” W ELL, WHEN I SAY THE REAL MEANING — “Some wretched devil’s had his head chopped off in a wood somewhere ’cos he found a bean in his dinner and now the summer’s going to come back?” N OT EXACTLY THAT, BUT — “Oh, you mean that they’ve chased down some poor beast and shot arrows up into their apple trees and now the shadows are going to go away?” T HAT IS DEFINITELY A MEANING, BUT I— “Ah, then you’re talking about the one where they light a bloody big bonfire to give the sun a hint and tell it to stop lurking under the horizon and do a proper day’s work?” Death paused, while the hogs hurtled over a range of hills. Y OU’RE NOT HELPING , A LBERT. “Well, they’re all the real meanings that I know. ” I THINK YOU COULD WORK WITH ME ON THIS. “It’s all about the sun, master. White snow and red blood and the sun. Always has been. ” V ERY WELL, THEN. T HE H OGFATHER CAN TEACH PEOPLE THE UNREAL MEANING OF H OGSWATCH. Albert spat over the side of the sleigh. “Hah! ‘Wouldn’t It Be Nice If Everyone Was Nice,’ eh?” T HERE ARE WORSE BATTLE CRIES. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear…” E XCUSE ME … Death reached into his robe and pulled out an hourglass. T URN THE SLEIGH AROUND , A LBERT. D UTY CALLS. “Which one?” A MORE POSITIVE ATTITUDE WOULD ASSIST AT THIS POINT, THANK YOU SO VERY MUCH. “Fascinatin’. Anyone got another pencil?” said Ridcully. “It’s had four already,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “Right down to the stub, Archchancellor. And you know we buy our own these days. ” It was a sore point. Like most people with no grasp whatsoever of real economics, Mustrum Ridcully equated “proper financial control” with the counting of paper clips. Even senior wizards had to produce a pencil stub to him before they were allowed a new one out of the locked cupboard below his desk. Since of course hardly anyone retained a half-used pencil, the wizards had been reduced to sneaking out and buying new ones with their own money. The reason for the dearth of short pencils was perched in front of them, whirring away as it chewed an HB down to the eraser on the end, which it spat at the Bursar. Ponder Stibbons had been making notes. “I think it works like this,” he said. “What we’re getting is the personification of forces, just like Hex said. But it only works if the thing is…well, logical. ” He swallowed. Ponder was a great believer in logic, in the face of all the local evidence, and he hated having to use the word in this way. “I don’t mean it’s logical that there’s a creature that eats socks, but it…a…it makes a sort of sense…I mean it’s a working hypothesis. ” “Bit like the Hogfather,” said Ridcully. “When you’re a kiddie, he’s as good an explanation as any, right?” “What’s not logical about there being a goblin that brings me huge bags of money?” said the Dean sulkily. Ridcully fed the Stealer of Pencils another pencil. “Well, sir…firstly, you’ve never mysteriously received huge bags of money and needed to find a hypothesis to explain them, and secondly, no one else would think it at all likely. ” “Huh!” “Why’s it happening now?” said Ridcully. “Look, it’s hopped onto my finger! Anyone got another pencil?” “Well, these…forces have always been here,” said Ponder. “I mean, socks and pencils have always inexplicably gone missing, haven’t they? But why they’re suddenly getting personified like this…I’m afraid I don’t know. ” “Well, we’d better find out, hadn’t we?” said Ridcully. “Can’t have this sort of thing going on. Daft anti-gods and miscellaneous whatnots being created just because people’ve thought about ’em? We could have anything turn up, anyway. Supposing some idiot says there must be a god of indigestion, eh?” Glingleglingleglingle. “Er…I think someone just did, sir,” said Ponder. “What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” said the oh god. He took Susan by the shoulders. They felt bony under his hands. “D AMN ,” said Susan. She pushed him away and steadied herself on the table, taking care that he didn’t see her face. Finally, with a measure of the self-control she’d taught herself over the last few years, she managed to get her own voice back. “He’s slipping out of character,” she muttered, to the hall in general. “I can feel him doing it. And that drags me in. What’s he doing it all for ?” “Search me,” said the oh god, who’d backed away hurriedly. “Er…just then…before you turned your face away…it looked as though you were wearing very dark eye shadow…only you weren’t…” “Look, it’s very simple,” said Susan, spinning round. She could feel her hair restyling itself, which it always did when it was anxious. “You know how stuff runs in families? Blue eyes, buck teeth, that sort of thing? Well, Death runs in my family. ” “Er…in everybody’s family, doesn’t it?” said the oh god. “Just shut up, please, don’t gabble,” said Susan. “I didn’t mean death, I meant Death with a capital D. I remember things that haven’t happened yet and I can TALK THAT TALK and stalk that stalk and…if he gets sidetracked, then I’ll have to do it. And he does get sidetracked. I don’t know what’s really happened to the real Hogfather or why Grandfather’s doing his job, but I know a bit about how he thinks and he’s got no…no mental shields like we have. He doesn’t know how to forget things or ignore things. He takes everything liter ally and logically and doesn’t understand why that doesn’t always work—” She saw his bemused expression. “Look…how would you make sure everyone in the world was well fed?” she demanded. “Me? Oh, well, I…” The oh god spluttered for a moment. “I suppose you’d have to think about the prevalent political systems, and the proper division and cultivation of arable land, and—” “Yes, yes. But he’d just give everyone a good meal,” said Susan. “Oh, I see. Very impractical. Hah, it’s as silly as saying you could clothe the naked by, well, giving them some clothes. ” “Yes! I mean, no. Of course not! I mean, obviously you’d give—oh, you know what I mean!” “Yes, I suppose so. ” “But he wouldn’t. ” There was a crash beside them. A burning wheel always rolls out of flaming wreckage. Two men carrying a large sheet of glass always cross the road in front of any comedy actor involved in a crazy car chase. Some narrative conventions are so strong that equivalents happen even on planets where the rocks boil at noon. And when a fully laden table collapses, one miraculously unbroken plate always rolls across the floor and spins to a halt. Susan and the oh god watched it, and then turned their attention to the huge figure now lying in what remained of an enormous centerpiece made of fruit. “He just…came right out of the air,” whispered the oh god. “Really? Don’t just stand there. Give me a hand to help him up, will you?” said Susan, pulling at a large melon. “Er, that’s a bunch of grapes behind his ear—” “Well?” “I don’t like even to think about grapes—” “Oh, come on. ” Together they managed to get the newcomer onto his feet. “Toga, sandals…he looks a bit like you,” said Susan, as the fruit victim swayed heavily. “Was I that green color?” “Close. ” “Is…is there a privy nearby?” mumbled their burden, through clammy lips. “I believe it’s through that arch over there,” said Susan. “I’ve heard it’s not very pleasant, though. |
” “That’s not a rumor, that’s a forecast,” said the fat figure, and lurched off. “And then can I please have a glass of water and one charcoal biscuit…” They watched him go. “Friend of yours?” said Susan. “God of Indigestion, I think. Look…I…er…I think I do remember something ,” said the oh god. “Just before I, um, incarnated. But it sounds stupid…” “Well?” “Teeth,” said the oh god. Susan hesitated. “You don’t mean something attacking you, do you?” she said flatly. “No. Just…a sensation of toothiness. Probably doesn’t mean much. As God of Hangovers I see a lot worse, I can tell you. ” “Just teeth. Lots of teeth. But not horrible teeth. Just lots and lots of little teeth. Almost…sad?” “Yes! How did you know?” “Oh, I…maybe I remember you telling me before you told me. I don’t know. How about a big shiny red globe?” The oh god looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, “No, can’t help you there, I’m afraid. It’s just teeth. Rows and rows of teeth. ” “I don’t remember rows,” said Susan. “I just felt…teeth were important. ” “Nah, it’s amazing what you can do with a beak,” said the raven, who’d been investigating the laden table and had succeeded in levering a lid off a jar. “What have you got there?” said Susan wearily. “Eyeballs,” said the raven. “Hah, wizards know how to live all right, eh? They don’t want for nothing around here, I can tell you. ” “They’re olives,” said Susan. “Tough luck,” said the raven. “They’re mine now. ” “They’re a kind of fruit! Or a vegetable or something!” “You sure?” The raven swiveled one doubtful eye on the jar and the other on her. “Yes!” The eyes swiveled again. “So you’re an eyeball expert all of a sudden?” “Look, they’re green , you stupid bird!” “They could be very old eyeballs,” said the raven defiantly. “Sometimes they go like that—” S QUEAK , said the Death of Rats, who was halfway through a cheese. “And not so much of the stupid,” said the raven. “Corvids are exceptionally bright with reasoning and, in the case of some forest species, tool-using abilities!” “Oh, so you are an expert on ravens, are you?” said Susan. “Madam, I happen to be a—” S QUEAK , said the Death of Rats again. They both turned. It was pointing at its gray teeth. “The Tooth Fairy?” said Susan. “What about her?” S QUEAK. “Rows of teeth,” said the oh god again. “Like…rows, you know? What’s the Tooth Fairy?” “Oh, you see her around a lot these days,” said Susan. “Or them, rather. It’s a sort of franchise operation. You get the ladder, the money belt and the pliers and you’re set up. ” “Pliers?” “If she can’t make change she has to take an extra tooth on account. But, look, the tooth fairies are harmless enough. I’ve met one or two of them. They’re just working girls. They don’t menace anyone. ” S QUEAK. “I just hope Grandfather doesn’t take it into his head to do their job as well. Good grief, the thought of it—” “They collect teeth?” “Yes. Obviously. ” “Why?” “Why? It’s their job. ” “I meant why, where do they take the teeth after they collect them?” “ I don’t know! They just…well, they just take the teeth and leave the money,” said Susan. “What sort of question is that—‘Where do they take the teeth?’” “I just wondered, that’s all. Probably all humans know, I’m probably very silly for asking, it’s probably a well-known fact. ” Susan looked thoughtfully at the Death of Rats. “Actually…where do they take the teeth?” SQUEAK ? “He says search him,” said the raven. “Maybe they sell ’em?” It pecked at another jar. “How about these, these look nice and wrinkl—” “Pickled walnuts,” said Susan absently. “What do they do with the teeth? What use is there for a lot of teeth? But…what harm can a tooth fairy do?” “Have we got time to find one and ask her?” said the oh god. “Time isn’t the problem,” said Susan. There are those who believe knowledge is something that is acquired—a precious ore hacked, as it were, from the gray strata of ignorance. There are those who believe that knowledge can only be recalled, that there was some Golden Age in the distant past when everything was known and the stones fitted together so you could hardly put a knife between them, you know, and it’s obvious they had flying machines, right, because of the way the earthworks can only be seen from above, yeah? and there’s this museum I read about where they found a pocket calculator under the altar of this ancient temple, you know what I’m saying? but the government hushed it up… * Mustrum Ridcully believed that knowledge could be acquired by shouting at people, and was endeavoring to do so. The wizards were sitting around the Uncommon Room table, which was piled high with books. “It is Hogswatch, Archchancellor,” said the Dean reproachfully, thumbing through an ancient volume. “Not until midnight,” said Ridcully. “Sortin’ this out will give you fellows an appetite for your dinner. ” “I think I might have something, Archchancellor,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “This is Woddeley’s Basic Gods. There’s some stuff here about lares and penates that seems to fit the bill. ” “Lares and penates? What were they when they were at home?” said Ridcully. “Hahaha,” said the Chair. “What?” said Ridcully. “I thought you were making a rather good joke, Archchancellor,” said the Chair. “Was I? I didn’t mean to,” said Ridcully. “Nothing new there,” said the Dean, under his breath. “What was that, Dean?” “Nothing, Archchancellor. ” “I thought you made the reference ‘at home’ because they are, in fact, household gods. Or were, rather. They seemed to have faded away long ago. They were…little spirits of the house, like, for example—” Three of the other wizards, thinking quite fast for wizards, clapped their hands over his mouth. “Careful!” said Ridcully. “Careless talk creates lives! That’s why we’ve got a big fat God of Indigestion being ill in the privy. By the way, where’s the Bursar?” “He was in the privy, Archchancellor,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “What, when the—?” “ Yes , Archchancellor. ” “Oh, well, I’m sure he’ll be all right,” said Ridcully, in the matter-of-fact voice of someone contemplating something nasty that was happening to someone else out of earshot. “But we don’t want any more of these…what’re they, Chair?” “Lares and penates, Archchancellor, but I wasn’t suggesting—” “Seems clear to me. Something’s gone wrong and these little devils are coming back. All we have to do is find out what’s gone wrong and put it right. ” “Oh, well, I’m glad that’s all sorted out,” said the Dean. “Household gods,” said Ridcully. “That’s what they are, Chair?” He opened the drawer in his hat and took out his pipe. “Yes, Archchancellor. It says here they used to be the…local spirits, I suppose. They saw to it that the bread rose and the butter churned properly. ” “Did they eat pencils? What was their attitude in the socks department?” “This was back in the time of the First Empire,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Sandals and togas and so on. ” “Ah. Not noticeably socked?” “Not excessively so, no. And it was nine hundred years before Osric Pencillium first discovered, in the graphite-rich sands of the remote island of Sumtri, the small bush which, by dint of careful cultivation, he induced to produce the long—” “Yes, we can all see you’ve got the encyclopedia open under the table, Chair,” said Ridcully. “But I daresay things have changed a bit. Moved with the times. Bound to have been a few developments. Once they looked after the bread rising, now we have things that eat pencils and socks and see to it that you can never find a clean towel when you want one—” There was a distant tinkling. He stopped. “I just said that, didn’t I?” he said. The wizards nodded glumly. “And this is the first time anyone’s mentioned it?” The wizards nodded again. “Well, dammit, it’s amazing, you can never find a clean towel when—” There was a rising wheeee noise. A towel went by at shoulder height. There was a suggestion of many small wings. “That was mine,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes reproachfully. The towel disappeared in the direction of the Great Hall. “Towel Wasps,” said the Dean. |
“Well done, Archchancellor. ” “Well, I mean, dammit , it’s human nature, isn’t it?” said Ridcully hotly. “Things go wrong, things get lost, it’s natural to invent little creatures that—All right, all right, I’ll be careful. I’m just saying man is naturally a mythopoeic creature. ” “What’s that mean?” said the Senior Wrangler. “Means we make things up as we go along,” said the Dean, not looking up. “Um…excuse me, gentlemen,” said Ponder Stibbons, who had been scribbling thoughtfully at the end of the table. “Are we suggesting that things are coming back? Do we think that’s a viable hypothesis?” The wizards looked at one another around the table. “Definitely viable. ” “Viable, right enough. ” “Yes, that’s the stuff to give the troops. ” “What is? What’s the stuff to give the troops?” “Well…tinned rations? Decent weapons, good boots…that sort of thing. ” “What’s that got to do with anything?” “Don’t ask me. He was the one who started talking about giving stuff to the troops. ” “Will you lot shut up? No one’s giving anything to the troops!” “Oh, shouldn’t they have something? It’s Hogswatch, after all. ” “Look, it was just a figure of speech, all right? I just meant I was fully in agreement. It’s just colorful language. Good grief, you surely can’t think I’m actually suggesting giving stuff to the troops, at Hogswatch or any other time!” “You weren’t?” “No!” “That’s a bit mean, isn’t it?” Ponder just let it happen. It’s because their minds are so often involved with deep and problematic matters, he told himself, that their mouths are allowed to wander around making a nuisance of themselves. “I don’t hold with using that thinking machine,” said the Dean. “I’ve said this before. It’s meddling with the cult. The oc cult has always been good enough for me, thank you very much. ” “On the other hand it’s the only person round here who can think straight and it does what it’s told,” said Ridcully. The sleigh roared through the snow, leaving rolling trails in the sky. “Oh, what fun,” muttered Albert, hanging on tightly. The runners hit a roof near the University and the pigs trotted to a halt. Death looked at the hourglass again. O DD , he said. “It’s a scythe job, then?” said Albert. “You won’t be wanting the false beard and the jolly laugh?” He looked around, and puzzlement replaced sarcasm. “Hey…how could anyone be dead up here?” Someone was. A corpse lay in the snow. It was clear that the man had only just died. Albert squinted up at the sky. “There’s nowhere to fall from and there’s no footprints in the snow,” he said, as Death swung his scythe. “So where did he come from? Looks like someone’s personal guard. Been stabbed to death. Nasty knife wound there, see?” “It’s not good,” agreed the spirit of the man, looking down at himself. Then he stared from himself to Albert to Death and his phantom expression went from shock to concern. “They got the teeth! All of them! They just walked in…and…they…no, wait…” He faded and was gone. “Well, what was that all about?” said Albert. I HAVE MY SUSPICIONS. “See that badge on his shirt? Looks like a drawing of a tooth. ” Y ES. I T DOES. “Where’s that come from?” A PLACE I CANNOT GO. Albert looked down at the mysterious corpse and then back up at Death’s impassive skull. “I keep thinking it was a funny thing, us bumping into your granddaughter like that,” he said. Y ES. Albert put his head on one side. “Given the large number of chimneys and kids in the world, ekcetra. ” I NDEED. “Amazing coincidence, really. ” I T JUST GOES TO SHOW. “Hard to believe, you might say. ” L IFE CERTAINLY SPRINGS A FEW SURPRISES. “Not just life, I reckon,” said Albert. “And she got real worked up, didn’t she? Flew right off the ole handle. Wouldn’t be surprised if she started asking questions. ” T HAT’S PEOPLE FOR YOU. “But Rat is hanging around, ain’t he? He’ll probably keep an eye socket on her. Guide her path, prob’ly. ” H E IS A LITTLE SCAMP, ISN’T HE ? Albert knew he couldn’t win. Death had the ultimate poker face. I’ M SURE SHE’LL ACT SENSIBLY. “Oh, yeah,” said Albert, as they walked back to the sleigh. “It runs in the family, acting sensibly. ” Like many barmen, Igor kept a club under the bar to deal with those little upsets that occurred around closing time, although in fact Biers never closed and no one could ever remember not seeing Igor behind the bar. Nevertheless, things sometimes got out of hand. Or paw. Or talon. Igor’s weapon of choice was a little different. It was tipped with silver (for werewolves), hung with garlic (for vampires) and wrapped around with a strip of blanket (for bogeymen). For everyone else the fact that it was two feet of solid bog-oak usually sufficed. He’d been watching the window. The frost was creeping across it. For some reason the creeping fingers were forming into a pattern of three little dogs looking out of a boot. Then someone had tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around, club already in his hand, and relaxed. “Oh…it’s you, miss. I didn’t hear the door. ” There hadn’t been the door. Susan was in a hurry. “Have you seen Violet lately, Igor?” “The tooth girl?” Igor’s one eyebrow writhed in concentration. “Nah, haven’t seen her for a week or two. ” The eyebrow furrowed into a V of annoyance as he spotted the raven, which tried to shuffle behind a half-empty display card of beer nuts. “You can get that out of here, miss,” he said. “You know the rule ’bout pets and familiars. If it can’t turn back into human on demand, it’s out. ” “Yeah, well, some of us have more brain cells than fingers,” muttered a voice from behind the beer nuts. “Where does she live?” “Now, miss, you know I never answers questions like that—” “W HERE DOES SHE LIVE , I GOR ?” “Shamlegger Street, next to the picture framers,” said Igor automatically. The eyebrow knotted in anger as he realized what he’d said. “Now, miss , you know the rules! I don’t get bitten, I don’t get me froat torn out and no one hides behind me door! And you don’t try your granddad’s voice on me! I could ban you for messin’ me about like that!” “Sorry, it’s important,” said Susan. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that the raven had crept onto the shelves and was pecking the top off a jar. “Yeah, well, suppose one of the vampires decides it’s important he’s missed his tea?” grumbled Igor, putting the club away. There was a plink from the direction of the pickled egg jar. Susan tried hard not to look. “Can we go?” said the oh god. “All this alcohol makes me nervous. ” Susan nodded and hurried out. Igor grunted. Then he went back to watching the frost, because Igor never demanded much out of life. After a while he heard a muffled voice say: “I ’ot ’un! I ’ ot ’un!” It was indistinct because the raven had speared a pickled egg with its beak. Igor sighed, and picked up his club. And it would have gone very hard for the raven if the Death of Rats hadn’t chosen that moment to bite Igor on the ear. D OWN THERE , said Death. The reins were hauled so sharply so quickly that the hogs ended up facing the other way. Albert fought his way out of a drift of teddy bears, where he’d been dozing. “What’s up? What’s up? Did we hit something?” he said. Death pointed downward. An endless white snow field lay below, only the occasional glow of a window candle or a half-covered hut indicating the presence on this world of brief mortality. Albert squinted, and then saw what Death had spotted. “’s some old bugger trudging through the snow,” he said. “Been gathering wood, by the look of it. A bad night to be out,” he said. “And I’m out in it, too, come to that. Look, master, I’m sure you’ve done enough now to make sure—” S OMETHING’S HAPPENING DOWN THERE. H O. H O. H O. “Look, he’s all right ,” said Albert, hanging on as the sleigh tumbled downward. There was a brief wedge of light below as the wood-gatherer opened the door of a snow-drifted hovel. “See, over there, there’s a couple of blokes catching him up, look, they’re weighed down with parcels and stuff, see? He’s going to have a decent Hogswatch after all, no problem there. |
Now can we go—” Death’s glowing eye sockets took in the scene in minute detail. I T’S WRONG. “Oh, no…here we go again. ” The oh god hesitated. “What do you mean, you can’t walk through the door?” said Susan. “You walked through the door in the bar. ” “That was different. I have certain god-like powers in the presence of alcohol. Anyway, we’ve knocked and she hasn’t answered and whatever happened to Mr. Manners?” Susan shrugged, and walked through the cheap woodwork. She knew she probably shouldn’t. Every time she did something like this she used up a certain amount of, well, normal. And sooner or later she’d forget what doorknobs were for, just like Grandfather. Come to think of it, he’d never found out what doorknobs were for. She opened the door from the inside. The oh god stepped in and looked around. This did not take long. It was not a large room. It had been subdivided from a room that itself hadn’t been all that big to start with. “ This is where the Tooth Fairy lives?” Bilious said. “It’s a bit…poky, isn’t it? Stuff all over the floor…What’re these things hanging from this line?” “They’re…women’s clothes,” said Susan, rummaging through the paperwork on a small rickety table. “They’re not very big,” said the oh god. “And a bit thin…” “Tell me,” said Susan, without looking up. “These memories you arrived here with…They weren’t very complicated, were they…? Ah…” He looked over her shoulder as she opened a small red notebook. “I’ve only talked to Violet a few times,” she said. “I think she delivers the teeth somewhere and gets a percentage of the money. It’s not a highly paid line of work. You know, they say you can Earn $$$ in Your Spare Time but she says really she could earn more money waiting on tables—Ah, this looks right…” “What’s that?” “She said she gets given the names every week. ” “What, of the children who’re going to lose teeth?” “Yes. Names and addresses,” said Susan, flicking through the pages. “That doesn’t sound very likely. ” “Pardon me, but are you the God of Hangovers? Oh, look, here’s Twyla’s tooth last month. ” She smiled at the neat gray writing. “She practically hammered it out because she needed the half-dollar. ” “Do you like children?” said the oh god. She gave him a look. “Not raw,” she said. “Other people’s are okay. Hold on…” She flicked some pages back and forth. “There’s just blank days,” she said. “Look, the last few days, all unticked. No names. But if you go back a week or two, look, they’re all properly marked off and the money added up at the bottom of the page, see? And… this can’t be right, can it?” There were only five names entered on the first unticked night, for the previous week. Most children instinctively knew when to push their luck and only the greedy or dentally improvident called out the Tooth Fairy around Hogswatch. “Read the names,” said Susan. “ William Wittles, a. k. a. Willy (home), Tosser (school), 2nd flr bck bdrm, 68 Kicklebury Street ; “ Sophie Langtree, a. k. a. Daddy’s Princess, attic bdrm, 5 The Hippo ; “ The Hon. Jeffrey Bibbleton, a. k. a. Trouble in Trousers (home), Foureyes (school), 1st flr bck, Scrote Manor, Park Lane —” He stopped. “I say, this is a bit intrusive, isn’t it?” “It’s a whole new world,” said Susan. “You haven’t got there yet. Keep going. ” “ Nuhakme Icta, a. k. a. Little Jewel, basement, The Laughing Falafel, Klatchistan Take-Away and All-Nite Grocery, cnr. Soake and Dimwell ; “ Reginald Lilywhite, a. k. a. Banjo, The Park Lane Bully, Have You Seen This Man? The Goose Gate Grabber, The Nap Hill Lurker, Rm 17, YMPA. ” “YMPA?” “It’s what we generally call the Young-Men’s-Reformed-Cultists-of-the-Ichor-God-Bel-Shamharoth Association,” said Susan. “Does that sound to you like someone who’d expect a visit from a tooth fairy?” “No. ” “Me neither. He sounds like someone who’d expect a visit from the Watch. ” Susan looked around. It really was a crummy room, the sort rented by someone who probably took it never intending to stay long, the sort where walking across the floor in the middle of the night would be accompanied by the crack of cockroaches in a death flamenco. It was amazing how many people spent their whole lives in places where they never intended to stay. Cheap, narrow bed, crumbling plaster, tiny window— She opened the window and fished around below the ledge, and felt satisfied when her questing fingers closed on a piece of string which was attached to an oilcloth bag. She hauled it in. “What’s that?” said the oh god, as she opened it on the table. “Oh, you see them a lot,” said Susan, taking out some packages wrapped in secondhand waxed paper. “You live alone, mice and roaches eat everything, there’s nowhere to store food—but outside the window it’s cold and safe. More or less safe. It’s an old trick. Now…look at this. Leathery bacon, a green loaf and a bit of cheese you could shave. She hasn’t been back home for some time, believe me. ” “Oh dear. What now?” “Where would she take the teeth?” said Susan, to the world in general but mainly to herself. “What the hell does the Tooth Fairy do with—” There was a knock at the door. Susan opened it. Outside was a small bald man in a long brown coat. He was holding a clipboard and blinked nervously at the sight of her. “Er” he began. “Can I help you?” said Susan. “Er, I saw the light, see. I thought Violet was in,” said the little man. He twiddled the pencil that was attached to his clipboard by a piece of string. “Only she’s a bit behind with the teeth and there’s a bit of money owing and Ernie’s cart ain’t come back and it’s got to go in my report and I come round in case…in case she was ill or something, it not being nice being alone and ill at Hogswatch—” “She’s not here,” said Susan. The man gave her a worried look and shook his head sadly. “There’s nearly thirteen dollars in pillow money, see. I’ll have to report it. ” “Who to?” “It has to go higher up, see. I just hope it’s not going to be like that business in Quirm where the girl started robbing houses. We never heard the end of that one—” “Report to who?” “And there’s the ladder and the pliers,” the man went on, in a litany against a world that had no understanding of what it meant to have to fill in an AF17 report in triplicate. “How can I keep track of stocktaking if people go around taking stock?” He shook his head. “I dunno, they get the job, they think it’s all nice sunny nights, they get a bit of sharp weather and suddenly it’s good-bye Charlie I’m off to be a waitress in the warm. And then there’s Ernie. I know him. It’s a nip to keep out the cold, and then another one to keep it company, and then a third in case the other two get lost…It’s all going to have to go down in my report, you know, and who’s going to get the blame? I’ll tell you—” “It’s going to be you, isn’t it?” said Susan. She was almost hypnotized. The man even had a fringe of worried hair and a small, worried mustache. And the voice suggested exactly that here was a man who, at the end of the world, would worry that it would be blamed on him. “That’s right ,” he said, but in a slightly grudging voice. He was not about to allow a bit of understanding to lighten his day. “And the girls all go on about the job but I tell them they’ve got it easy, it’s just basic’ly ladder work, they don’t have to spend their evenings knee-deep in paper and making shortfalls good out of their own money, I might add—” “You employ the tooth fairies?” said Susan quickly. The oh god was still vertical but his eyes had glazed over. The little man preened slightly. “ Sort of,” he said. “Basic’ly I run Bulk Collection and Dispatch—” “Where to?” He stared at her. Sharp, direct questions weren’t his forte. “I just sees to it they gets on the cart,” he mumbled. “When they’re on the cart and Ernie’s signed the GV19 for ’em, that’s it done and finished, only like I said he ain’t turned up this week and—” “A whole cart for a handful of teeth?” “Well, there’s the food for the guards, and—’ere, who are you, anyway? What’re you doing here?” Susan straightened up. |
“I don’t have to put up with this,” she said sweetly, to no one in particular. She leaned forward again. “W HAT CART ARE WE TALKING ABOUT HERE , C HARLIE ?” The oh god jolted away. The man in the brown coat shot backward and splayed against the corridor wall as Susan advanced. “Comes Tuesdays,” he panted. “’ere, what—” “A ND WHERE DOES IT GO ?” “Dunno! Like I said, when he’s—” “Signed the GV19 for them it’s you done and finished,” said Susan, in her normal voice. “Yes. You said. What’s Violet’s full name? She never mentioned it. ” The man hesitated. “I SAID —” “Violet Bottler!” “Thank you. ” “An’ Ernie’s gorn, too,” said Charlie, continuing more or less on autopilot. “I call that suspicious. I mean, he’s got a wife and everything. Won’t be the first man to get his head turned by thirteen dollars and a pretty ankle and, o’ course, no one thinks about muggins who has to carry the can, I mean, supposing we was all to get it in our heads to run off with young wimmin?” He gave Susan the stern look of one who, if it was not for the fact that the world needed him, would even now be tiring of painting naked young ladies on some tropical island somewhere. “What happens to the teeth?” said Susan. He blinked at her. A bully, thought Susan. A very small, weak, very dull bully, who doesn’t manage any real bullying because there’s hardly anyone smaller and weaker than him, so he just makes everyone’s lives just that little bit more difficult… “What sort of question is that?” he managed, in the face of her stare. “You never wondered?” said Susan, and added to herself, I didn’t. Did anyone ? “Well, ’s not my job, I just—” “Oh, yes. You said,” said Susan. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. Thank you very much. ” The man stared at her, and then turned and ran down the stairs. “Drat,” said Susan. “That’s a very unusual swearword,” said the oh god nervously. “It’s so easy,” said Susan. “If I want to, I can find anybody. It’s a family trait. ” “Oh. Good. ” “No. Have you any idea how hard it is to be normal? The things you have to remember? How to go to sleep? How to forget things? What doorknobs are for?” Why ask him, she thought, as she looked at his shocked face. All that’s normal for him is remembering to throw up what someone else drank. “Oh, come on,” she said, and hurried toward the stairs. It was so easy to slip into immortality, to ride the horse, to know everything. And every time you did, it brought closer the day when you could never get off and never forget. Death was hereditary. You got it from your ancestors. “Where are we going now?” said the oh god. “Down to the YMPA,” said Susan. The old man in the hovel looked uncertainly at the feast spread in front of him. He sat on his stool as curled up on himself as a spider in a flame. “I’d got a bit of a mess of beans cooking,” he mumbled, looking at his visitors through filmy eyes. “Good heavens, you can’t eat beans at Hogswatch,” said the king, smiling hugely. “That’s terribly unlucky, eating beans at Hogswatch. My word, yes!” “Di’nt know that,” the old man said, looking down desperately at his lap. “ We’ve brought you this magnificent spread. Don’t you think so?” “I bet you’re incredibly grateful for it, too,” said the page, sharply. “Yes, well, o’ course, it’s very kind of you gennelmen,” said the old man, in a voice the size of a mouse. He blinked, uncertain of what to do next. “The turkey’s hardly been touched, still plenty of meat on it,” said the king. “And do have some of this cracking good widgeon stuffed with swan’s liver. ” “—only I’m partial to a bowl of beans and I’ve never been beholden to no one nor nobody,” the old man said, still staring at his lap. “Good heavens, man, you don’t need to worry about that ,” said the king heartily. “It’s Hogswatch! I was only just now looking out of the window and I saw you plodding through the snow and I said to young Jermain here, I said, ‘Who’s that chappie?’ and he said, ‘Oh, he’s some peasant fellow who lives up by the forest,’ and I said, ‘Well, I couldn’t eat another thing and it’s Hogswatch, after all,’ and so we just bundled everything up and here we are!” “And I expect you’re pathetically thankful,” said the page. “I expect we’ve brought a ray of light into your dark tunnel of a life, hmm?” “—yes, well, o’ course, only I’d been savin’ ’em for weeks, see, and there’s some bakin’ potatoes under the fire, I found ’em in the cellar ’n’ the mice’d hardly touched ’em. ” The old man never raised his eyes from knee level. “’n’ our dad brought me up never to ask for—” “Listen,” said the king, raising his voice a little, “I’ve walked miles tonight and I bet you’ve never seen food like this in your whole life, eh?” Tears of humiliated embarrassment were rolling down the old man’s face. “—well, I’m sure it’s very kind of you fine gennelmen but I ain’t sure I knows how to eat swans and such like, but if you want a bit o’ my beans you’ve only got to say—” “Let me make myself absolutely clear,” said the king sharply. “This is some genuine Hogswatch charity, d’you understand? And we’re going to sit here and watch the smile on your grubby but honest face, is that understood?” “And what do you say to the good king?” the page prompted. The peasant hung his head. “’nk you. ” “Right,” said the king, sitting back. “Now, pick up your fork—” The door burst open. An indistinct figure strode into the room, snow swirling around it in a cloud. W HAT’S GOING ON HERE ? The page started to stand up, drawing his sword. He never worked out how the other figure could have got behind him, but there it was, pressing him gently down again. “Hello, son, my name is Albert,” said a voice by his ear. “Why don’t you put that sword back very slowly? People might get hurt. ” A finger prodded the king, who had been too shocked to move. W HAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING , S IRE ? The king tried to focus on the figure. There was an impression of red and white, but black, too. To Albert’s secret amazement, the man managed to get to his feet and draw himself up as regally as he could. “What is going on here, whoever you are, is some fine old Hogswatch charity! And who—” N O, IT’S NOT. “What? How dare you—” W ERE YOU HERE LAST MONTH ? W ILL YOU BE HERE NEXT WEEK ? N O. B UT TONIGHT YOU WANTED TO FEEL ALL WARM INSIDE. T ONIGHT YOU WILL WANT THEM TO SAY : W HAT A GOOD KING HE IS. “Oh, no, he’s going too far again—” muttered Albert under his breath. He pushed the page down again. “No, you stay still, sonny. Else you’ll just be a paragraph. ” “Whatever it is, it’s more than he’s got!” snapped the king. “And all we’ve had from him is ingratitude—” Y ES, THAT DOES SPOIL IT, DOESN’T IT ? Death leaned forward. G O AWAY. To the king’s own surprise his body took over and marched him out of the door. Albert patted the page on the shoulder. “And you can run along, too,” he said. “—I didn’t mean to go upsetting anyone, it’s just that I never asked no one for nothing—” mumbled the old man, in a small humble world of his own, his hands tangling themselves together out of nervousness. “Best if you leave this one to me, master, if you don’t mind,” said Albert. “I’ll be back in just a tick. ” Loose ends, he thought, that’s my job. Tying up loose ends. The master never thinks things through. He caught up with the king outside. “Ah, there you are, your sire,” he said. “Just before you go, won’t keep you a minute, just a minor point—” Albert leaned close to the stunned monarch. “If anyone was thinking about making a mistake, you know, like maybe sending the guards down here tomorrow, tipping the old man out of his hovel, chuckin’ him in prison, anything like that…werrlll…that’s the kind of mistake he ought to treasure on account of it being the last mistake he’ll ever make. A word to the wise men, right?” He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. “Happy Hogswatch. ” Then he hurried back into the hovel. The feast had vanished. The old man was looking blearily at the bare table. H ALF-EATEN LEAVINGS , said Death. W E COULD CERTAINLY DO BETTER THAN THIS. He reached into the sack. |
Albert grabbed his arm before he could withdraw his hand. “Mind taking a bit of advice, master? I was brung up in a place like this. ” D OES IT BRING TEARS TO YOUR EYES ? “A box of matches to me hand, more like. Listen…” The old man was only dimly aware of some whispering. He sat hunched up, staring at nothing. W ELL, IF YOU ARE SURE … “Been there, done that, chewed the bones,” said Albert. “Charity ain’t giving people what you wants to give, it’s giving people what they need to get. ” V ERY WELL. Death reached into the sack again. H APPY H OGSWATCH. H O. H O. H O. There was a string of sausages. There was a side of bacon. And a small tub of salt pork. And a mass of chitterlings wrapped up in greased paper. There was a black pudding. There were several other tubs of disgusting yet savory pork-adjacent items highly prized in any pig-based economy. And, laid on the table with a soft thump, there was— “A pig’s head,” breathed the old man. “A whole one! Ain’t had brawn in years! And a basin of pig knuckles! And a bowl of pork dripping!” H O. H O. H O. “Amazing,” said Albert. “How did you get the head’s expression to look like the king?” I THINK THAT’S ACCIDENTAL. Albert patted the old man on the back. “Have yourself a ball,” he said. “In fact, have two. Now I think we ought to be going, master. ” They left the old man staring at the laden board. W ASN’T THAT NICE ? said Death, as the hogs accelerated. “Oh, yes,” said Albert, shaking his head. “Poor old devil. Beans at Hogswatch? Unlucky, that. Not a night for a man to find a bean in his bowl. ” I FEEL I WAS CUT OUT FOR THIS SORT OF THING, YOU KNOW. “Really, master?” I T’S NICE TO DO A JOB WHERE PEOPLE LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING YOU. “Ah,” said Albert glumly. T HEY DON’T NORMALLY LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING ME. “Yes, I expect so. ” E XCEPT IN SPECIAL AND RATHER UNFORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCES. “Right, right. ” A ND THEY SELDOM LEAVE A GLASS OF SHERRY OUT. “I expect they don’t, no. ” I COULD GET INTO THE HABIT OF DOING THIS, IN FACT. “But you won’t need to, will you, master?” said Albert hurriedly, with the horrible prospect of being a permanent Pixie Albert looming in his mind again. “Because we’ll get the Hogfather back, right? That’s what you said we were going to do, right? And young Susan’s probably bustling around…” Y ES. O F COURSE. “Not that you asked her to, of course. ” Albert’s jittery ears didn’t detect any enthusiasm. Oh dear, he thought. I HAVE ALWAYS CHOSEN THE PATH OF DUTY. “Right, master. ” The sleigh sped on. I AM THOROUGHLY IN CONTROL AND FIRM OF PURPOSE. “No problem there, then, master,” said Albert. N O NEED TO WORRY AT ALL. “Pleased to hear it, master. ” I F I HAD A FIRST NAME , “D UTY” WOULD BE MY MIDDLE NAME. “Good. ” N EVERTHELESS … Albert strained his ears and thought he heard, just on the edge of hearing, a voice whisper sadly. H O. H O. H O. There was a party going on. It seemed to occupy the entire building. “Certainly very energetic young men,” said the oh god carefully, stepping over a wet towel. “Are women allowed in here?” “No,” said Susan. She stepped through a wall into the superintendent’s office. A group of young men went past, manhandling a barrel of beer. “You’ll feel bad about it in the morning,” said Bilious. “Strong drink is a mocker, you know. ” They set it up on a table and knocked out the bung. “Someone’s going to have to be sick after all that,” he said, raising his voice above the hubbub. “I hope you realize that. You think it’s clever, do you, reducing yourself to the level of the beasts of the field…er…or the level they’d sink to if they drank, I mean. ” They moved away, leaving one mug of beer by the barrel. The oh god glanced at it, and picked it up and sniffed at it. “Ugh. ” Susan stepped out of the wall. “He hasn’t been back for—What’re you doing?” “I thought I’d see what beer tastes like,” said the oh god guiltily. “ You don’t know what beer tastes like?” “Not on the way down , no. It’s…quite different by the time it gets to me,” he said sourly. He took another sip, and then a longer one. “I can’t see what all the fuss is about,” he added. He tipped up the empty pot. “I suppose it comes out of this tap here,” he said. “You know, for once in my existence I’d like to get drunk. ” “Aren’t you always?” said Susan, who wasn’t really paying attention. “No. I’ve always been drunk. I’m sure I explained. ” “He’s been gone a couple of days,” said Susan. “That’s odd. And he didn’t say where he was going. The last night he was here was the night he was on Violet’s list. But he paid for his room for the week, and I’ve got the number. ” “And the key?” said the oh god. “What a strange idea. ” Mr. Lilywhite’s room was small. That wasn’t surprising. What was surprising was how neat it was, how carefully the little bed had been made, how well the floor had been swept. It was hard to imagine anyone living in it, but there were a few signs. On the simple table by the bed was a small, rather crude portrait of a bulldog in a wig, although on closer inspection it might have been a woman. This tentative hypothesis was borne out by the inscription “To a Good Boy, from his Mother” on the back. A book lay next to it. Susan wondered what kind of reading someone with Mr. Banjo’s background would buy. It turned out to be a book of six pages, one of those that were supposed to enthrall children with the magic of the printed word by pointing out that they could See Spot Run. There were no more than ten words on each page and yet, carefully placed between pages four and five, was a bookmark. She turned back to the cover. The book was called Happy Tales. There was a blue sky and trees and a couple of impossibly pink children playing with a jolly-looking dog. It looked as though it had been read frequently, if slowly. And that was it. A dead end. No. Perhaps not… On the floor by the bed, as if it had been accidentally dropped, was a small, silvery half-dollar piece. Susan picked it up and tossed it idly. She looked the oh god up and down. He was swilling a mouthful of beer from cheek to cheek and looking thoughtfully at the ceiling. She wondered about his likelihood of survival incarnate in Ankh-Morpork at Hogswatch, especially if the cure wore off. After all, the only purpose of his existence was to have a headache and throw up. There were not a great many postgraduate jobs for which these were the main qualifications. “Tell me,” she said. “Have you ever ridden a horse?” “I don’t know. What’s a horse?” In the depths of the library of Death, a squeaking noise. It was not loud, but it appeared louder than mere decibels would suggest in the furtive, scribbling hush of the books. Everyone, it is said, has a book inside them. In this library, everyone was inside a book. The squeaking got louder. It had a rhythmical, circular quality. Book on book, shelf on shelf…and in every one, at the page of the ever-moving now, a scribble of handwriting following the narrative of every life… The squeaking came round the corner. It was issuing from what looked like a very rickety edifice, several stories high. It looked rather like a siege tower, open at the sides. At the base, between the wheels, was a pair of geared treadles which moved the whole thing. Susan clung to the railing of the topmost platform. “Can’t you hurry up?” she said. “We’re only at the Bi’s at the moment. ” “I’ve been pedaling for ages!” panted the oh god. “Well, A is a very popular letter. ” Susan stared up at the shelves. A was for Anon, among other things. All those people who, for one reason or another, never officially got a name. They tended to be short books. “Ah…Bo…Bod…Bog…turn left…” The library tower squeaked ponderously around the next corner. “Ah, Bo…blast, the Bots are at least twenty shelves up. ” “Oh, how nice,” said the oh god grimly. He heaved on the lever that moved the drive chain from one sprocket to another, and started to pedal again. Very ponderously, the creaking tower began to telescope upward. “Right, we’re there,” Susan shouted down, after a few minutes of slow rise. |
“Here’s…let’s see…Aabana Bottler…” “I expect Violet will be a lot further,” said the oh god, trying out irony. “Onward!” Swaying a little, the tower headed down the Bs until: “Stop!” It rocked as the oh god kicked the brake block against a wheel. “I think this is her,” said a voice from above. “Okay, you can lower away. ” A big wheel with ponderous lead weights on it spun slowly as the tower concertina’d back, creaking and grinding. Susan climbed down the last few feet. “ Everyone’s in here?” said the oh god, as Susan thumbed through the pages. “Yes. ” “Even gods?” “Anything that’s alive and self-aware,” said Susan, not looking up. “This is…odd. It looks as though she’s in some sort of…prison. Who’d want to lock up a tooth fairy?” “Someone with very sensitive teeth?” Susan flicked back a few pages. “It’s all…hoods over her head and people carrying her and so on. But…” she turned a page, “…it says the last job she did was on Banjo and…yes, she got the tooth…and then she felt as though someone was behind her and…there’s a ride on a cart…and the hood’s come off…and there’s a causeway…and…” “All that’s in a book ?” “The autobiography. Everyone has one. It writes down your life as you go along. ” “I’ve got one?” “I expect so. ” “Oh, dear. ‘Got up, was sick, wanted to die. ’ Not a gripping read, really. ” Susan turned the page. “A tower,” she said. “She’s in a tower. From what she saw, it was tall and white inside…but not outside? It didn’t look real. There were apple trees around it, but the trees, the trees didn’t look right. And a river, but that wasn’t right either. There were goldfish in it…but they were on top of the water. ” “Ah. Pollution,” said the oh god. “I don’t think so. It says here she saw them swimming. ” “Swimming on top of the water?” “That’s how she thinks she saw it. ” “Really? You don’t think she’d been eating any of that moldy cheese, do you?” “And there was blue sky but…she must have got this wrong…it says here there was only blue sky above …” “Yep. Best place for the sky,” said the oh god. “Sky underneath you, that probably means trouble. ” Susan flicked a page back and forth. “She means…sky overhead but not around the edges, I think. No sky on the horizon. ” “Excuse me,” said the oh god. “I’m not long in this world, I appreciate that, but I think you have to have sky on the horizon. That’s how you can tell it’s the horizon. ” A sense of familiarity was creeping up on Susan, but surreptitiously, dodging behind things whenever she tried to concentrate on it. “I’ve seen this place,” she said, tapping the page. “If only she’d looked harder at the trees…She says they’ve got brown trunks and green leaves and it says here she thought they were odd. And…” She concentrated on the next paragraph. “Flowers. Growing in the grass. With big round petals. ” She stared unseeing at the oh god again. “This isn’t a proper landscape,” she said. “It doesn’t sound too unreal to me,” said the oh god. “Sky. Trees. Flowers. Dead fish. ” “ Brown tree trunks? Really they’re mostly a sort of grayish mossy color. You only ever see brown tree trunks in one place,” said Susan. “And it’s the same place where the sky is only ever overhead. The blue never comes down to the ground. ” She looked up. At the far end of the corridor was one of the very tall, very thin windows. It looked out onto the black gardens. Black bushes, black grass, black trees. Skeletal fish cruising in the black waters of a pool, under black water lilies. There was color, in a sense, but it was the kind of color you’d get if you could shine a beam of black through a prism. There were hints of tints, here and there a black you might persuade yourself was a very deep purple or a midnight blue. But it was basically black, under a black sky, because this was the world belonging to Death and that was all there was to it. The shape of Death was the shape people had created for him, over the centuries. Why bony? Because bones were associated with death. He’d got a scythe because agricultural people could spot a decent metaphor. And he lived in a somber land because the human imagination would be rather stretched to let him live somewhere nice with flowers. People like Death lived in the human imagination, and got their shape there, too. He wasn’t the only one… …but he didn’t like the script, did he? He’d started to take an interest in people. Was that a thought, or just a memory of something that hadn’t happened yet? The oh god followed her gaze. “Can we go after her?” said the oh god. “I say we , I think I’ve just got drafted in because I was in the wrong place. ” “She’s alive. That means she is mortal,” said Susan. “That means I can find her, too. ” She turned and started to walk out of the library. “If she says the sky is just blue overhead, what’s between it and the horizon?” said the oh god, running to keep up. “You don’t have to come,” said Susan. “It’s not your problem. ” “Yes, but given that my problem is that my whole purpose in life is to feel rotten, anything’s an improvement. ” “It could be dangerous. I don’t think she’s there of her own free will. Would you be any good in a fight?” “Yes. I could be sick on people. ” It was a shack, somewhere out on the outskirts of the Plains town of Scrote. Scrote had a lot of outskirts, spread so widely—a busted cart here, a dead dog there—that often people went through it without even knowing it was there, and really it only appeared on the maps because cartographers get embarrassed about big empty spaces. Hogswatch came after the excitement of the cabbage harvest when it was pretty quiet in Scrote and there was nothing much to look forward to until the fun of the sprout festival. This shack had an iron stove, with a pipe that went up through the thick cabbage-leaf thatch. Voices echoed faintly within the pipe. T HIS IS REALLY, REALLY STUPID. “I think the tradition got started when everyone had them big chimneys, master. ” This voice sounded as though it was coming from someone standing on the roof and shouting down the pipe. I NDEED ? I T’S ONLY A MERCY IT’S UNLIT. There was some muffled scratching and banging, and then a thump from within the potbelly of the stove. D AMN. “What’s up, master?” T HE DOOR HAS NO HANDLE ON THE INSIDE. I CALL THAT INCONSIDERATE. There were some more bumps, and then a scrape as the stove lid was lifted up and pushed sideways. An arm came out and felt around the front of the stove until it found the handle. It played with it for a while, but it was obvious that the hand did not belong to a person used to opening things. In short, Death came out of the stove. Exactly how would be difficult to describe without folding the page. Time and space were, from Death’s point of view, merely things that he’d heard described. When it came to Death, they ticked the box marked Not Applicable. It might help to think of the universe as a rubber sheet, or perhaps not. “Let us in, master,” a pitiful voice echoed down from the roof. “It’s brass monkeys out here. ” Death went over to the door. Snow was blowing underneath it. He peered nervously at the woodwork. There was a thump outside and Albert’s voice sounded a lot closer. “What’s up, master?” Death stuck his head through the wood of the door. T HERE’S THESE METAL THINGS — “Bolts, master. You slide them,” said Albert, sticking his hands under his armpits to keep them warm. A H. Death’s head disappeared. Albert stamped his feet and watched his breath cloud in the air while he listened to the pathetic scrabbling on the other side of the door. Death’s head appeared again. E R … “It’s the latch, master,” said Albert wearily. R IGHT. R IGHT. “You put your thumb on it and push it down. ” R IGHT. The head disappeared. Albert jumped up and down a bit, and waited. The head appeared. E R …I WAS WITH YOU UP TO THE THUMB … Albert sighed. “And then you press down and pull, master. ” A H. R IGHT. G OT YOU. The head disappeared. Oh dear, thought Albert. He just can’t get the hang of them, can he…? The door jerked open. |
Death stood behind it, beaming proudly, as Albert staggered in, snow blowing in with him. “Blimey, it’s getting really parky,” said Albert. “Any sherry?” he added hopefully. I T APPEARS NOT. Death looked at the sock hooked onto the side of the stove. It had a hole in it. A letter, in erratic handwriting, was attached to it. Death picked it up. T HE BOY WANTS A PAIR OF TROUSERS THAT HE DOESN’T HAVE TO SHARE, A HUGE MEAT PIE, A SUGAR MOUSE, “A LOT OF TOYS” AND A PUPPY CALLED S CRUFF. “Ah, sweet,” said Albert. “I shall wipe away a tear, ’cos what he’s gettin ’, see, is this little wooden toy and an apple. ” He held them out. B UT THE LETTER CLEARLY — “Yes, well, it’s socio-economic factors again, right?” said Albert. “The world’d be in a right mess if everyone got what they asked for, eh?” I GAVE THEM WHAT THEY WANTED IN THE STORE … “Yeah, and that’s gonna cause a lot of trouble, master. All them ‘toy pigs that really work. ’ I didn’t say nothing ’cos it was getting the job done but you can’t go on like that. What good’s a god who gives you everything you want?” Y OU HAVE ME THERE. “It’s the hope that’s important. Big part of belief, hope. Give people jam today and they’ll just sit and eat it. Jam tomorrow, now—that’ll keep them going forever. ” A ND YOU MEAN THAT BECAUSE OF THIS THE POOR GET POOR THINGS AND THE RICH GET RICH THINGS ? “’s right,” said Albert. “That’s the meaning of Hogswatch. ” Death nearly wailed. B UT I’ M THE H OGFATHER ! He looked embarrassed. A T THE MOMENT , I MEAN. “Makes no difference,” said Albert, shrugging. “I remember when I was a nipper, one Hogswatch I had my heart set on this huge model horse they had in the shop…” His face creased for a moment in a grim smile of recollection. “I remember I spent hours one day, cold as charity the weather was, I spent hours with my nose pressed up against the window…until they heard me callin’, and unfroze me. I saw them take it out of the window, someone was in there buying it, and, y’know, just for a second I thought it really was going to be for me…Oh, I dreamed of that toy horse. It were red and white with a real saddle and everything. And rockers. I’d’ve killed for that horse. ” He shrugged again. “Not a chance, of course, ’cos we didn’t have a pot to piss in and we even ’ad to spit on the bread to make it soft enough to eat—” P LEASE ENLIGHTEN ME. W HAT IS SO IMPORTANT ABOUT HAVING A POT TO PISS IN ? “It’s…it’s more like a figure of speech, master. It means you’re as poor as a church mouse. ” A RE THEY POOR ? “Well…yeah. ” B UT SURELY NOT MORE POOR THAN ANY OTHER MOUSE ? A ND, AFTER ALL, THERE TEND TO BE LOTS OF CANDLES AND THINGS THEY COULD EAT. “Figure of speech again, master. It doesn’t have to make sense. ” O H. I SEE. D O CARRY ON. “O’ course, I still hung up my stocking on Hogswatch Eve, and in the morning, you know, you know what? Our dad had put in this little horse he’d carved his very own self…” A H , said Death. A ND THAT WAS WORTH MORE THAN ALL THE EXPENSIVE TOY HORSES IN THE WORLD, EH ? Albert gave him a beady look. “No!” he said. “It weren’t. All I could think of was it wasn’t the big horse in the window. ” Death looked shocked. B UT HOW MUCH BETTER TO HAVE A TOY CARVED WITH — “No. Only grown-ups think like that,” said Albert. “You’re a selfish little bugger when you’re seven. Anyway, Dad got ratted after lunch and trod on it. ” L UNCH ? “All right, mebbe we had a bit of pork dripping for the bread…” E VEN SO, THE SPIRIT OF H OGSWATCH — Albert sighed. “If you like, master. If you like. ” Death looked perturbed. B UT SUPPOSING THE H OGFATHER HAD BROUGHT YOU THE WONDERFUL HORSE — “Oh, Dad would’ve flogged it for a couple of bottles,” said Albert. B UT WE HAVE BEEN INTO HOUSES WHERE THE CHILDREN HAD MANY TOYS AND BROUGHT THEM EVEN MORE TOYS, AND IN HOUSES LIKE THIS THE CHILDREN GET PRACTICALLY NOTHING. “Huh, we’d have given anything to get practically nothing when I were a lad,” said Albert. B E HAPPY WITH WHAT YOU’VE GOT, IS THAT THE IDEA ? “That’s about the size of it, master. A good god line, that. Don’t give ’em too much and tell ’em to be happy with it. Jam tomorrow, see. ” T HIS IS WRONG. Death hesitated. I MEAN…IT’S RIGHT TO BE HAPPY WITH WHAT YOU’VE GOT. B UT YOU’VE GOT TO HAVE SOMETHING TO BE HAPPY ABOUT HAVING. T HERE’S NO POINT IN BEING HAPPY ABOUT HAVING NOTHING. Albert felt a bit out of his depth in this new tide of social philosophy. “Dunno,” he said. “I suppose people’d say they’ve got the moon and the stars and such like. ” I’ M SURE THEY WOULDN’T BE ABLE TO PRODUCE THE PAPERWORK. “All I know is, if Dad’d caught us with a big bag of pricey toys we’d just have got a ding round the ear hole for nicking ’em. ” I T IS…UNFAIR. “That’s life, master. ” B UT I’ M NOT. “I meant, this is how it’s supposed to go, master,” said Albert. N O. Y OU MEAN THIS IS HOW IT GOES. Albert leaned against the stove and rolled himself one of his horrible thin cigarettes. It was best to let the master work his own way through these things. He got over them eventually. It was like that business with the violin. For three days there was nothing but twangs and broken strings, and then he’d never touched the thing again. That was the trouble, really. Everything the master did was a bit like that. When things got into his head you just had to wait until they leaked out again. He’d thought that Hogswatch was all…plum pudding and brandy and ho ho ho, and he didn’t have the kind of mind that could ignore all the other stuff. And so it hurt him. I T IS H OGSWATCH , said Death, AND PEOPLE DIE ON THE STREETS. P EOPLE FEAST BEHIND LIGHTED WINDOWS AND OTHER PEOPLE HAVE NO HOMES. I S THIS FAIR ? “Well, of course, that’s the big issue—” Albert began. T HE PEASANT HAD A HANDFUL OF BEANS AND THE KING HAD SO MUCH HE WOULD NOT EVEN NOTICE THAT WHICH HE GAVE AWAY. I S THIS FAIR ? “Yeah, but if you gave it all to the peasant then in a year or two he’d be just as snooty as the king—” began Albert, jaundiced observer of human nature. N AUGHTY AND NICE ? said Death. B UT IT’S EASY TO BE NICE IF YOU’RE RICH. I S THIS FAIR ? Albert wanted to argue. He wanted to say, Really? In that case, how come so many of the rich buggers is bastards? And being poor don’t mean being naughty, neither. We was poor when I were a kid, but we was honest. Well, more stupid than honest, to tell the truth. But basically honest. He didn’t argue, though. The master wasn’t in any mood for it. He always did what needed to be done. “You did say we just had to do this so’s people’d believe—” he began, and then stopped and started again. “When it comes to fair , master, you yourself—” I AM EVENHANDED TO RICH AND POOR ALIKE , snapped Death. B UT THIS SHOULD NOT BE A SAD TIME. T HIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE THE SEASON TO BE JOLLY. He wrapped his red robe around him. A ND OTHER THINGS ENDING IN OLLY , he added. “There’s no blade,” said the oh god. “It’s just a sword hilt. ” Susan stepped out of the light and her wrist moved. A sparkling blue line flashed in the air, for a moment outlining an edge too thin to be seen. The oh god backed away. “What’s that ?” “Oh, it cuts tiny bits of the air in half. It can cut the soul away from the body, so stand back, please. ” “Oh, I will, I will. ” Susan fished the black scabbard out of the umbrella stand. Umbrella stand! It never rained here, but Death had an umbrella stand. Practically no one else Susan knew had an umbrella stand. In any list of useful furniture, the one found at the bottom would be the umbrella stand. Death lived in a black world, where nothing was alive and everything was dark and his great library only had dust and cobwebs because he’d created them for effect and there was never any sun in the sky and the air never moved and he had an umbrella stand. And a pair of silver-backed hairbrushes by his bed. He wanted to be something more than just a bony apparition. He tried to create these flashes of personality but somehow they betrayed themselves, they tried too hard, like an adolescent boy going out wearing an after-shave called “Rampant. ” Grandfather always got things wrong. |
He saw life from outside and never quite understood. “That looks dangerous,” said the oh god. Susan sheathed the sword. “I hope so,” she said. “Er…where are we going? Exactly?” “Somewhere under an overhead sky,” said Susan. “And…I’ve seen it before. Recently. I know the place. ” They walked out to the stable yard. Binky was waiting. “I said you don’t have to come,” said Susan, grasping the saddle. “I mean, you’re a…an innocent bystander. ” “But I’m a god of hangovers who’s been cured of hangovers,” said the oh god. “I haven’t really got any function at all. ” He looked so forlorn when he said this that she relented. “All right. Come on, then. ” She pulled him up behind her. “Just hang on,” she said. And then she said, “Hang on somewhere differently, I mean. ” “I’m sorry, was that a problem?” said the oh god, shifting his grip. “It might take too long to explain and you probably don’t know all the words. Around the waist , please. ” Susan took out Violet’s hourglass and held it up. There was a lot of sand left to run, but she couldn’t be certain that was a good sign. All she could be certain of was that the horse of Death could go anywhere. The sound of Hex’s quill as it scrabbled across the paper was like a frantic spider trapped in a matchbox. Despite his dislike of what was going on, there was a part of Ponder Stibbons that was very, very impressed. In the past, when Hex had been recalcitrant about its calculations, when it had got into a mechanical sulk and had started writing things like “+++ Out of Cheese Error +++” and “+++ Redo From Start +++” Ponder had tried to sort things out calmly and logically. It had never, ever occurred to him to contemplate hitting Hex with a mallet. But this was, in fact, what Ridcully was threatening to do. What was impressive , and also more than a little worrying, was that Hex seemed to understand the concept. “Right,” said Ridcully, putting the mallet aside. “Let’s have no more of this ‘Insufficient dates’ business, shall we? There’s boxes of the damn things back in the Great Hall. You can have the lot as far as I’m concerned—” “It’s data , not dates,” said Ponder helpfully. “What? You mean like…more than dates? Extra sticky?” “No, no, data is Hex’s word for…well, facts,” said Ponder. “Ridiculous way to behave,” said Ridcully brusquely. “If he’s stumped for an answer, why can’t he write ‘You’ve got me there’ or ‘Damned if I know’ or ‘That’s a bit of a puzzler and no mistake’? All this ‘Insufficient data’ business is just pure contrariness, to my mind. It’s just swank. ” He turned back to Hex. “Right, you. Hazard a guess. ” The quill started to write “+++ Insuff” and then stopped. After quivering for a moment it went down a line and started again. +++ This Is Just Calculating Aloud, You Understand +++ “Fair enough,” said Ridcully. +++ The Amount Of Belief In The World Must Be Subject To An Upper Limit +++ “What an odd question,” said the Dean. “Sounds sensible,” said Ridcully. “I suppose people just…believe in stuff. Obviously there’s a limit to what you can believe in. I’ve always said so. So what?” +++ Creatures Have Appeared That Were Once Believed In +++ “Yes. Yes, you could put it like that. ” +++ They Disappeared Because They Were Not Believed In +++ “Seems reasonable,” said Ridcully. +++ People Were Believing In Something Else—Query? +++ Ridcully looked at the other wizards. They shrugged. “Could be,” he said guardedly. “People can only believe in so many things. ” +++ It Follows That If A Major Focus Of Belief Is Removed, There Will Be Spare Belief +++ Ridcully stared at the words. “You mean…sloshing around?” The big wheel with the ram skulls on it began to turn ponderously. The scurrying ants in the glass tubes took on a new urgency. “What’s happening?” said Ridcully, in a loud whisper. “I think Hex is looking up the word ‘sloshing,’” said Ponder. “It may be in long-term storage. ” A large hourglass came down on the spring. “What’s that for?” said Ridcully. “Er…it shows Hex is working things out. ” “Oh. And that buzzing noise? Seems to be coming from the other side of the wall. ” Ponder coughed. “That is the long-term storage, Archchancellor. ” “And how does that work?” “Er…well, if you think of memory as a series of little shelves or, or, or holes, Archchancellor, in which you can put things, well, we found a way of making a sort of memory which, er, interfaces neatly with the ants, in fact, but more importantly can expand its size depending on how much we give it to remember and, er, is possibly a bit slow but—” “It’s a very loud buzzing,” said the Dean. “Is it going wrong?” “No, that shows it’s working,” said Ponder. “It’s, er, beehives. ” He coughed. “Different types of pollen, different thicknesses of honey, placement of the eggs…It’s actually amazing how much information you can store on one honeycomb. ” He looked at their faces. “And it’s very secure because anyone trying to tamper with it will get stung to death and Adrian believes that when we shut it down in the summer holidays we should get a nice lot of honey, too. ” He coughed again. “For our…sand…wiches,” he said. He felt himself getting smaller and hotter under their gazes. Hex came to his rescue. The hourglass bounced away and the quill pen was jerked in and out of its inkwell. +++ Yes. Sloshing Around. Accreting +++ “That means forming around new centers, Archchancellor,” said Ponder helpfully. “I know that ,” said Ridcully. “Blast. Remember when we had all that life force all over the place? A man couldn’t call his trousers his own! So…there’s spare belief sloshing around, thank you, and these little devils are taking advantage of it? Coming back? Household gods?” +++ This Is Possible +++ “All right, then, so what are people not believing in all of a sudden?” +++ Out Of Cheese Error +++ MELON MELON MELON +++ Redo From Start +++ “Thank you. A simple ‘I don’t know’ would have been sufficient,” said Ridcully, sitting back. “One of the major gods?” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Hah, we’d soon know about it if one of those vanished. ” “It’s Hogswatch,” said the Dean. “I suppose the Hogfather is around, is he?” “You believe in him?” said Ridcully. “Well, he’s for kids, isn’t he?” said the Dean. “But I’m sure they all believe in him. I certainly did. It wouldn’t be Hogswatch when I was a kid without a pillowcase hanging by the fire—” “A pillowcase?” said the Senior Wrangler, sharply. “Well, you can’t get much in a stocking,” said the Dean. “Yes, but a whole pillowcase?” the Senior Wrangler insisted. “Yes. What of it?” “Is it just me, or is that a rather greedy and selfish way to behave? In my family we just hung up very small socks,” said the Senior Wrangler. “A sugar pig, a toy soldier, a couple of oranges and that was it. Hah, turns out people with whole pillowcases were cornering the market, eh?” “Shut up and stop squabbling, both of you,” said Ridcully. “There must be a simple way to check up. How can you tell if the Hogfather exists?” “Someone’s drunk the sherry, there’s sooty footprints on the carpet, sleigh tracks on the roof and your pillowcase is full of presents,” said the Dean. “Hah, pillowcase ,” said the Senior Wrangler darkly. “Hah. I expect your family were the stuck-up sort that didn’t even open their presents until after Hogswatch dinner, eh? One of them with a big snooty Hogswatch tree in the hall?” “What if—” Ridcully began, but he was too late. “Well?” said the Dean. “Of course we waited until after lunch—” “You know, it really used to wind me right up, people with big snooty Hogswatch trees. And I just bet you had one of those swanky fancy nutcrackers like a big thumbscrew,” said the Senior Wrangler. “ Some people had to make do with the coal hammer out of the outhouse, of course. And had dinner in the middle of the day instead of lah-di-dah posh dinner in the evening. ” “I can’t help it if my family had money,” said the Dean, and that might have defused things a bit had he not added, “and standards. ” “And big pillowcases!” shouted the Senior Wrangler, bouncing up and down in rage. |
“ And I bet you bought your holly, eh?” The Dean raised his eyebrows. “Of course! We didn’t go creeping around the country pinching it out of other people’s hedges, like some people did,” he snapped. “That’s traditional! That’s part of the fun!” “Celebrating Hogswatch with stolen greenery?” Ridcully put his hand over his eyes. The word for this, he had heard, was “cabin fever. ” When people had been cooped up for too long in the dark days of the winter, they always tended to get on one another’s nerves, although there was probably a school of thought that would hold that spending your time in a university with more than five thousand known rooms, a huge library, the best kitchens in the city, its own brewery, dairy, extensive wine cellar, laundry, barber shop, cloisters and skittle alley was testing the definition of “cooped up” a little. Mind you, wizards could get on one another’s nerves in opposite corners of a very large field. “Just shut up, will you?” he said. “It’s Hogswatch! That’s not the time for silly arguments, all right?” “Oh, yes it is,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies glumly. “It’s exactly the time for silly arguments. In our family we were lucky to get through dinner without a reprise of What A Shame Henry Didn’t Go Into Business With Our Ron. Or Why Hasn’t Anyone Taught Those Kids To Use A Knife? That was another favorite. ” “And the sulks,” said Ponder Stibbons. “Oh, the sulks,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Not a proper Hogswatch without everyone sitting staring at different walls. ” “The games were worse,” said Ponder. “Worse than the kids hitting one another with their toys, d’you think? Not a proper Hogswatch afternoon without wheels and bits of broken dolly everywhere and everyone whining. Assault and battery included. ” “We had a game called Hunt the Slipper,” said Ponder. “Someone hid a slipper. And then we had to find it. And then we had a row. ” “It’s not really bad,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “I mean, not proper Hogswatch bad, unless everyone’s wearing a paper hat. There’s always that bit, isn’t there, when someone’s horrible great-aunt puts on a paper hat and smirks at everyone because she’s being so bohemian. ” “I’d forgotten about the paper hats,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Oh dear. ” “And then later on someone’ll suggest a board game,” said Ponder. “That’s right. Where no one exactly remembers all the rules. ” “Which doesn’t stop someone suggesting that you play for pennies. ” “And five minutes later there’s two people not speaking to one another for the rest of their lives because of tuppence. ” “And some horrible little kid—” “I know, I know! Some little kid who’s been allowed to stay up wins everyone’s money by being a nasty little cut-throat swot!” “Right!” “Er…” said Ponder, who rather suspected that he had been that child. “And don’t forget the presents,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, as if reading off some internal list of gloom. “How…how full of potential they seem in all that paper, how pregnant with possibilities…and then you open them and basically the wrapping paper was more interesting and you have to say ‘How thoughtful, that will come in handy. ’ It’s not better to give than to receive, in my opinion, it’s just less embarrassing. ” “I’ve worked out,” said the Senior Wrangler, “that over the years I have been a net exporter of Hogswatch presents—” “Oh, everyone is,” said the Chair. “You spend a fortune on other people and what you get when all the paper is cleared away is one slipper that’s the wrong color and a book about ear wax. ” Ridcully sat in horrified amazement. He’d always enjoyed Hogswatch, every bit of it. He’d enjoyed seeing ancient relatives, he’d enjoyed the food, he’d been good at games like Chase My Neighbor up the Passage and Hooray Jolly Tinker. He was always the first to don a paper hat. He felt that paper hats lent a special festive air to the occasion. And he always very carefully read the messages on Hogswatch cards and found time for a few kind thoughts about the sender. Listening to his wizards was like watching someone kick apart a doll’s house. “At least the Hogswatch cracker mottoes are fun…?” he ventured. They all turned to look at him, and then turned away again. “If you have the sense of humor of a wire coat hanger,” said the Senior Wrangler. “Oh dear,” said Ridcully. “Then perhaps there isn’t a Hogfather if all you chaps are sitting around with long faces. He’s not the sort to let people go around being miserable!” “Ridcully, he’s just some old winter god,” said the Senior Wrangler wearily. “He’s not the Cheerful Fairy or anything. ” The Lecturer in Recent Runes raised his chin from his hands. “What Cheerful Fairy?” “Oh, it’s just something my granny used to go on about if it was a wet afternoon and we were getting on her nerves,” said the Senior Wrangler. “She’d say ‘I’ll call the Cheerful Fairy if you’re…’” He stopped, looking guilty. The Archchancellor held a hand to his ear in a theatrical gesture denoting, “Hush. What was that I heard?” “Someone tinkled,” he said. “Thank you, Senior Wrangler. ” “Oh, no,” the Senior Wrangler moaned. “No, no, no!” They listened for a moment. “We might have got away with it,” said Ponder. “ I didn’t hear anything…” “Yes, but you can just imagine her, can’t you?” said the Dean. “The moment you said it, I had this picture in my mind. She’s going to have a whole bag of word games, for one thing. Or she’ll suggest we go outdoors for our health. ” The wizards shuddered. They weren’t against the outdoors, it was simply their place in it they objected to. “Cheerfulness has always got me down,” said the Dean. “Well, if some wretched little ball of cheerfulness turns up I shan’t have it for one,” said the Senior Wrangler, folding his arms. “I’ve put up with monsters and trolls and big green things with teeth, so I’m not sitting still for any kind of—” “Hello!! Hello!!” The voice was the kind of voice that reads suitable stories to children. Every vowel was beautifully rounded. And they could hear the extra exclamation marks, born of a sort of desperate despairing jollity, slot into place. They turned. The Cheerful Fairy was quite short and plump in a tweed skirt and shoes so sensible they could do their own tax returns, and was pretty much like the first teacher you get at school, the one who has special training in dealing with nervous incontinence and little boys whose contribution to the wonderful world of sharing consists largely of hitting a small girl repeatedly over the head with a wooden horse. In fact, this picture was helped by the whistle on a string around her neck and a general impression that at any moment she would clap her hands. The tiny gauzy wings just visible on her back were probably just for show, but the wizards kept on staring at her shoulder. “Hello—” she said again, but a lot more uncertainly. She gave them a suspicious look. “You’re rather big boys,” she said, as if they’d become so in order to spite her. She blinked. “It’s my job to chase those blues away,” she added, apparently following a memorized script. Then she seemed to rally a bit and went on. “So chins up, everyone, and let’s see a lot of bright shining faces!!” Her gaze met that of the Senior Wrangler, who had probably never had a bright shining face in his entire life. He specialized in dull, sullen ones. The one he was wearing now would have won prizes. “Excuse me, madam,” said Ridcully. “But is that a chicken on your shoulder?” “It’s, er, it’s, er, it’s the Blue Bird of Happiness,” said the Cheerful Fairy. Her voice now had the slightly shaking tone of someone who doesn’t quite believe what she has just said but is going to go on saying it anyway, just in case saying it will eventually make it true. “I beg your pardon, but it is a chicken. A live chicken,” said Ridcully. “It just went cluck. ” “It is blue,” she said hopelessly. “Well, that at least is true,” Ridcully conceded, as kindly as he could manage. |
“Left to myself, I expect I’d have imagined a slightly more streamlined Blue Bird of Happiness, but I can’t actually fault you there. ” The Cheerful Fairy coughed nervously and fiddled with the buttons on her sensible woolly jumper. “How about a nice game to get us all in the mood?” she said. “A guessing game, perhaps? Or a painting competition? There may be a small prize for the winner. ” “Madam, we’re wizards,” said the Senior Wrangler. “We don’t do cheerful. ” “Charades?” said the Cheerful Fairy. “Or perhaps you’ve been playing them already? How about a singsong? Who knows ‘Row Row Row Your Boat’?” Her bright little smile hit the group scowl of the assembled wizards. “We don’t want to be Mr. Grumpy, do we?” she added hopefully. “Yes,” said the Senior Wrangler. The Cheerful Fairy sagged, and then patted frantically at her shapeless sleeves until she tugged out a balled-up handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes. “It’s all going wrong again, isn’t it?” she said, her chin trembling. “No one ever wants to be cheerful these days, and I really do try. I’ve made a Joke Book and I’ve got three boxes of clothes for charades and…and…and whenever I try to cheer people up they all look embarrassed…and really I do make an effort…” She blew her nose loudly. Even the Senior Wrangler had the grace to look embarrassed. “Er…” he began. “Would it hurt anyone just occasionally to try to be a little bit cheerful?” said the Cheerful Fairy. “Er…in what way?” said the Senior Wrangler, feeling wretched. “Well, there’s so many nice things to be cheerful about,” said the Cheerful Fairy, blowing her nose again. “Er…raindrops and sunsets and that sort of thing?” said the Senior Wrangler, managing some sarcasm, but they could tell his heart wasn’t in it. “Er, would you like to borrow my handkerchief? It’s nearly fresh. ” “Why don’t you get the lady a nice sherry?” said Ridcully. “And some corn for her chicken…” “Oh, I never drink alcohol,” said the Cheerful Fairy, horrified. “Really?” said Ridcully. “We find it’s something to be cheerful about. Mr. Stibbons…would you be so kind as to step over here for a moment?” He beckoned him up close. “There’s got to be a lot of belief sloshing around to let her be created,” he said. “She’s a good fourteen stone, if I’m any judge. If we wanted to contact the Hogfather, how would we go about it? Letter up chimney?” “Yes, but not tonight , sir,” said Ponder. “He’ll be out delivering. ” “No telling where he’ll be, then,” said Ridcully. “Blast. ” “Of course, he might not have come here yet,” said Ponder. “Why should he come here?” said Ridcully. The Librarian pulled the blankets over himself and curled up. As an orangutan he hankered for the warmth of the rain forest. The problem was that he’d never even seen a rain forest, having been turned into an orangutan when he was already a fully grown human. Something in his bones knew about it, though, and didn’t like the cold of winter at all. But he was also a librarian in those same bones and he flatly refused to allow fires to be lit in the library. As a result, pillows and blankets went missing everywhere else in the University and ended up in a sort of cocoon in the reference section, in which the ape lurked during the worst of the winter. He turned over and wrapped himself in the Bursar’s curtains. There was a creaking outside his nest, and some whispering. “No, don’t light the lamp. ” “I wondered why I hadn’t seen him all evening. ” “Oh, he goes to bed early on Hogswatch Eve, sir. Here we are…” There was some rustling. “We’re in luck. It hasn’t been filled,” said Ponder. “Looks like he’s used one of the Bursar’s. ” “He puts it up every year?” “Apparently. ” “But it’s not as though he’s a child. A certain childlike simplicity, perhaps. ” “It might be different for orangutans, Archchancellor. ” “Do they do it in the jungle, d’you think?” “I don’t imagine so, sir. No chimneys, for one thing. ” “And quite short legs, of course. Extremely underfunded in the sock area, orangutans. They’d be quids in if they could hang up gloves, of course. Hogfather’d be on double shifts if they could hang up their gloves. On account of the length of their arms. ” “Very good, Archchancellor. ” “I say, what’s this on the…my word, a glass of sherry. Well, waste not, want not. ” There was a damp glugging noise in the darkness. “I think that was supposed to be for the Hogfather, sir. ” “And the banana?” “I imagine that’s been left out for the pigs, sir. ” “Pigs?” “Oh, you know, sir. Tusker and Snouter and Gouger and Rooter. I mean,” Ponder stopped, conscious that a grown man shouldn’t be able to remember this sort of thing, “that’s what children believe. ” “Bananas for pigs? That’s not traditional, is it? I’d have thought acorns, perhaps. Or apples or swedes. ” “Yes, sir, but the Librarian likes bananas, sir. ” “Very nourishin’ fruit, Mr. Stibbons. ” “Yes, sir. Although, funnily enough it’s not actually a fruit, sir. ” “Really?” “Yes, sir. Botanically, it’s a type of fish, sir. According to my theory it’s cladistically associated with the Krullian pipefish, sir, which of course is also yellow and goes around in bunches or shoals. ” “And lives in trees?” “Well, not usually, sir. The banana is obviously exploiting a new niche. ” “Good heavens, really? It’s a funny thing, but I’ve never much liked bananas and I’ve always been a bit suspicious of fish, too. That’d explain it. ” “Yes, sir. ” “Do they attack swimmers?” “Not that I’ve heard, sir. Of course, they may be clever enough to only attack swimmers who’re far from land. ” “What, you mean sort of…high up? In the trees, as it were?” “Possibly, sir. ” “Cunning, eh?” “Yes, sir. ” “Well, we might as well make ourselves comfortable, Mr. Stibbons. ” “Yes, sir. ” A match flared in the darkness as Ridcully lit his pipe. The Ankh-Morpork wassailers had practiced for weeks. The custom was referred to by Anaglypta Huggs, organizer of the best and most select group of the city’s singers, as an occasion for fellowship and good cheer. One should always be wary of people who talk unashamedly of “fellowship and good cheer” as if it were something that can be applied to life like a poultice. Turn your back for a moment and they may well organize a maypole dance and, frankly, there’s no option then but to try and make it to the tree line. The singers were halfway down Park Lane now, and halfway through “The Red Rosy Hen” in marvelous harmony. * Their collecting tins were already full of donations for the poor of the city, or at least those sections of the poor who in Mrs. Huggs’s opinion were suitably picturesque and not too smelly and could be relied upon to say thank you. People had come to their doors to listen. Orange light spilled onto the snow. Candle lanterns glowed among the tumbling flakes. If you could have taken the lid off the scene, there would have been chocolates inside. Or at least an interesting biscuit assortment. Mrs. Huggs had heard that wassailing was an ancient ritual, and you didn’t need anyone to tell you what that meant, but she felt she’d carefully removed all those elements that would affront the refined ear. And it was only gradually that the singers became aware of the discord. Around the corner, slipping and sliding on the ice, came another band of singers. Some people march to a different drummer. The drummer in question here must have been trained elsewhere, possibly by a different species on another planet. In front of the group was a legless man on a small wheeled trolley, who was singing at the top of his voice and banging two saucepans together. His name was Arnold Sideways. Pushing him along was Coffin Henry, whose croaking progress through an entirely different song was punctuated by bouts of off-the-beat coughing. He was accompanied by a perfectly ordinary-looking man in torn, dirty and yet expensive clothing, whose pleasant tenor voice was drowned out by the quacking of a duck on his head. |
He answered to the name of Duck Man, although he never seemed to understand why, or why he was always surrounded by people who seemed to see ducks where no ducks could be. And finally, being towed along by a small gray dog on a string, was Foul Ole Ron, generally regarded in Ankh-Morpork as the deranged beggars’ deranged beggar. He was probably incapable of singing, but at least he was attempting to swear in time to the beat, or beats. The wassailers stopped and watched them in horror. Neither party noticed, as the beggars oozed and ambled up the street, that little smears of black and gray were spiraling out of drains and squeezing out from under tiles and buzzing off into the night. People have always had the urge to sing and clang things at the dark stub of the year, when all sorts of psychic nastiness has taken advantage of the long gray days and the deep shadows to lurk and breed. Lately people had taken to singing harmoniously, which rather lost the effect. Those who really understood just clanged something and shouted. The beggars were not in fact this well versed in folkloric practice. They were just making a din in the well-founded hope that people would give them money to stop. It was just possible to make out a consensus song in there somewhere. “ Hogswatch is coming , The pig is getting fat , Please put a dollar in the old man’s hat If you ain’t got a dollar a penny will do —” “And if you ain’t got a penny,” Foul Ole Ron yodeled, solo, “then—fghfgh yffg mfmfmf…” The Duck Man had, with great presence of mind, clamped a hand over Ron’s mouth. “So sorry about this,” he said, “but this time I’d like people not to slam their doors on us. And it doesn’t scan, anyway. ” The nearby doors slammed regardless. The other wassailers fled hastily to a more salubrious location. Goodwill to all men was a phrase coined by someone who hadn’t met Foul Ole Ron. The beggars stopped singing, except for Arnold Sideways, who tended to live in his own small world. “—nobody knows how good we can live, on boots three times a day…” Then the change in the air penetrated even his consciousness. Snow thumped off the trees as a contrary wind brushed them. There was a whirl of flakes and it was just possible, since the beggars did not always have their mental compasses pointing due Real, that they heard a brief snatch of conversation. “It just ain’t that simple, master, that’s all I’m saying—” I T IS BETTER TO GIVE THAN TO RECEIVE , A LBERT. “No, master, it’s just a lot more expensive. You can’t just go around—” Things rained down on the snow. The beggars looked at them. Arnold Sideways carefully picked up a sugar pig and bit its nose off. Foul Ole Ron peered suspiciously into a cracker that had bounced off his hat, and then shook it against his ear. The Duck Man opened a bag of sweets. “Ah, humbugs?” he said. Coffin Henry unlooped a string of sausages from around his neck. “Buggrit?” said Foul Ole Ron. “It’s a cracker,” said the dog, scratching its ear. “You pull it. ” Ron waved the cracker aimlessly by one end. “Oh, give it here,” said the dog, and gripped the other end in its teeth. “My word,” said the Duck Man, fishing in a snow drift. “Here’s a whole roast pig! And a big dish of roast potatoes, miraculously uncracked! And…look…isn’t this caviar in the jar? Asparagus! Potted shrimp! My goodness! What were we going to have for Hogswatch dinner, Arnold?” “Old boots,” said Arnold. He opened a fallen box of cigars and licked them. “Just old boots?” “Oh, no. Stuffed with mud, and with roast mud. ’s good mud, too. I bin saving it up. ” “Now we can have a merry feast of goose!” “All right. Can we stuff it with old boots?” There was a pop from the direction of the cracker. They heard Foul Ole Ron’s thinking-brain dog growl. “No, no, no, you put the hat on your head and you read the hum’rous mottar. ” “Millennium hand and shrimp?” said Ron, passing the scrap of paper to the Duck Man. The Duck Man was regarded as the intellectual of the group. He peered at the motto. “Ah, yes, let’s see now…It says ‘Help Help Help Ive Fallen in the Crakker Machine I Cant Keep Runin on this Roller Please Get me Ou—’” He turned the paper over a few times. “That appears to be it, except for the stains. ” “Always the same ole mottars,” said the dog. “Someone slap Ron on the back, will you? If he laughs any more he’ll—oh, he has. Oh, well, nothing new about that. ” The beggars spent a few more minutes picking up hams, jars and bottles that had settled on the snow. They packed them around Arnold on his trolley and set off down the street. “How come we got all this?” “’s Hogswatch, right?” “Yeah, but who hung up their stocking?” “I don’t think we’ve got any, have we?” “I hung up an old boot. ” “Does that count?” “Dunno. Ron ate it. ” I’m waiting for the Hogfather, thought Ponder Stibbons. I’m in the dark waiting for the Hogfather. Me. A believer in Natural Philosophy. I can find the square root of 27. 4 in my head. * I shouldn’t be doing this. It’s not as if I’ve hung a stocking up. There’d be some point if… He sat rigid for a moment, and then pulled off his pointy sandal and rolled down a sock. It helped if you thought of it as the scientific testing of an interesting hypothesis. From out of the darkness Ridcully said, “How long, do you think?” “It’s generally believed that all deliveries are completed well before midnight,” said Ponder, and tugged hard. “Are you all right, Mr. Stibbons?” “Fine, sir. Fine. Er…do you happen to have a drawing pin about you? Or a small nail, perhaps?” “I don’t believe so. ” “Oh, it’s all right. I’ve found a penknife. ” After a while Ridcully heard a faint scratching noise in the dark. “How do you spell ‘electricity,’ sir?” Ridcully thought for a while. “You know, I don’t think I ever do. ” There was silence again, and then a clang. The Librarian grunted in his sleep. “What are you doing?” “I just knocked over the coal shovel. ” “Why are you feeling around on the mantelpiece?” “Oh, just…you know, just…just looking. A little…experiment. After all, you never know. ” “You never know what?” “Just…never know, you know. ” “ Sometimes you know,” said Ridcully. “I think I know quite a lot that I didn’t used to know. It’s amazing what you do end up knowing, I sometimes think. I often wonder what new stuff I’ll know. ” “Well, you never know. ” “That’s a fact. ” High over the city Albert turned to Death, who seemed to be trying to avoid his gaze. “You didn’t get that stuff out of the sack! Not cigars and peaches in brandy and grub with fancy foreign names!” Y ES, IT CAME OUT OF THE SACK. Albert gave him a suspicious look. “But you put it in the sack in the first place, didn’t you?” N O. “You did, didn’t you?” Albert stated. N O. “You put all those things in the sack. ” N O. “You got them from somewhere and put them in the sack. ” N O. “You did put them in the sack, didn’t you?” N O. “You put them in the sack. ” Y ES. “I knew you put them in the sack. Where did you get them?” T HEY WERE JUST LYING AROUND. “Whole roast pig does not, in my experience, just lie around. ” N O ONE SEEMED TO BE USING THEM , A LBERT. “Couple of chimneys ago we were over that big posh restaurant…” R EALLY ? I DON’T REMEMBER. “And it seemed to me you were down there a bit longer than usual, if you don’t mind me saying so. ” R EALLY. “How exactly were they just quote lying around unquote comma?” J UST…LYING AROUND. Y OU KNOW. R ECUMBENT. “In a kitchen?” T HERE WAS A CERTAIN CULINARINESS ABOUT THE PLACE , I RECALL. Albert pointed a trembling finger. “You nicked someone’s Hogswatch dinner, master!” I T’S GOING TO BE EATEN , said Death defensively. A NYWAY, YOU THOUGHT IT WAS A GOOD IDEA WHEN I SHOWED THAT KING THE DOOR. “Yeah, well, that was a bit different,” said Albert, lowering his voice. “But, I mean, the Hogfather doesn’t drop down the chimney and pinch people’s grub!” T HE BEGGARS WILL ENJOY IT , A LBERT. “Well, yes, but—” I T WASN’T STEALING. I T WAS JUST…REDISTRIBUTION. I T WILL BE A GOOD DEED IN A NAUGHTY WORLD. |
“No, it won’t!” T HEN IT WILL BE A NAUGHTY DEED IN A NAUGHTY WORLD AND WILL PASS COMPLETELY UNNOTICED. “Yeah, but you might at least have thought about the people whose grub you pinched. ” T HEY HAVE BEEN PROVIDED FOR, OF COURSE. I AM NOT COMPLETELY HEARTLESS. I N A METAPHORICAL SENSE. A ND NOW—ONWARD AND UPWARD. “We’re heading down, master. ” O NWARD AND DOWNWARD, THEN. There were…swirls. Binky galloped easily through them, except that he did not seem to move. He might have been hanging in the air. “Oh, me,” said the oh god weakly. “What?” said Susan. “Try shutting your eyes—” Susan shut her eyes. Then she reached up to touch her face. “I’m still seeing…” “I thought it was just me. It’s usually just me. ” The swirls vanished. There was greenery below. And that was odd. It was greenery. Susan had flown a few times over countryside, even swamps and jungles, and there had never been a green as green as this. If green could be a primary color, this was it. And that wiggly thing— “That’s not a river!” she said. “Isn’t it?” “It’s blue!” The oh god risked a look down. “Water’s blue,” he said. “Of course it’s not!” “Grass is green, water’s blue…I can remember that. It’s some of the stuff I just know. ” “Well, in a way …” Susan hesitated. Everyone knew grass was green and water was blue. Quite often it wasn’t true, but everyone knew it in the same way they knew the sky was blue, too. She made the mistake of looking up as she thought that. There was the sky. It was, indeed, blue. And down there was the land. It was green. And in between was nothing. Not white space. Not black night. Just…nothing, all round the edges of the world. Where the brain said there should be, well, sky and land, meeting neatly at the horizon, there was simply a void that sucked at the eyeball like a loose tooth. And there was the sun. It was under the sky, floating above the land. And it was yellow. Buttercup yellow. Binky landed on the grass beside the river. Or at least on the green. It felt more like sponge, or moss. He nuzzled it. Susan slid off, trying to keep her gaze low. That meant she was looking at the vivid blue of the water. There were orange fish in it. They didn’t look quite right, as if they’d been created by someone who really did think a fish was two curved lines and a dot and a triangular tail. They reminded her of the skeletal fish in Death’s quiet pool. Fish that were…appropriate to their surroundings. And she could see them, even though the water was just a block of color which part of her insisted ought to be opaque… She knelt down and dipped her hand in. It felt like water, but what poured through her fingers was liquid blue. And now she knew where she was. The last piece clicked into place and the knowledge bloomed inside her. She knew if she saw a house just how its windows would be placed, and just how the smoke would come out of the chimney. There would almost certainly be apples on the trees. And they would be red, because everyone knew that apples were red. And the sun was yellow. And the sky was blue. And the grass was green. But there was another world, called the real world by the people who believed in it, where the sky could be anything from off-white to sunset red to thunderstorm yellow. And the trees would be anything from bare branches, mere scribbles against the sky, to red flames before the frost. And the sun was white or yellow or orange. And water was brown and gray and green… The colors here were springtime colors, and not the springtime of the world. They were the colors of the springtime of the eye. “This is a child’s painting,” she said. The oh god slumped onto the green. “Every time I look at the gap my eyes water,” he mumbled. “I feel awful. ” “I said this is a child’s painting,” said Susan. “Oh, me …I think the wizards’ potion is wearing off…” “I’ve seen dozens of pictures of it,” said Susan, ignoring him. “You put the sky overhead because the sky’s above you and when you are a couple of feet high there’s not a lot of sideways to the sky in any case. And everyone tells you grass is green and water is blue. This is the landscape you paint. Twyla paints like that. I painted like that. Grandfather saved some of—” She stopped. “All children do it, anyway,” she muttered. “Come on, let’s find the house. ” “What house?” the oh god moaned. “And can you speak quieter, please?” “There’ll be a house,” said Susan, standing up. “There’s always a house. With four windows. And the smoke coming out of the chimney all curly like a spring. Look, this is a place like Gr—Death’s country. It’s not really geography. ” The oh god walked over to the nearest tree and banged his head on it as if he hoped it was going to hurt. “Feels like geo’fy,” he muttered. “But have you ever seen a tree like that? A big green blob on a brown stick? It looks like a lollipop!” said Susan, pulling him along. “Dunno. Firs’ time I ever saw a tree. Arrgh. Somethin’ dropped on m’head. ” He blinked owlishly at the ground. “’s red. ” “It’s an apple,” she said. She sighed. “Everyone knows apples are red. ” There were no bushes. But there were flowers, each with a couple of green leaves. They grew individually, dotted around the rolling green. And then they were out of the trees and there, by a bend in the river, was the house. It didn’t look very big. There were four windows and a door. Corkscrew smoke curled out of the chimney. “You know, it’s a funny thing,” said Susan, staring at it. “Twyla draws houses like that. And she practically lives in a mansion. I drew houses like that. And I was born in a palace. Why?” “P’raps it’s all this house,” muttered the oh god miserably. “What? You really think so? Kids’ paintings are all of this place? It’s in our heads?” “Don’t ask me, I was just making conversation,” said the oh god. Susan hesitated. The words What Now? loomed. Should she just go and knock? And she realized that was normal thinking… In the glittering, clattering, chattering atmosphere a head waiter was having a difficult time. There were a lot of people in, and the staff should have been fully stretched, putting bicarbonate of soda in the white wine to make very expensive bubbles and cutting the vegetables very small to make them cost more. Instead they were standing in a dejected group in the kitchen. “Where did it all go?” screamed the manager. “Someone’s been through the cellar, too!” “William said he felt a cold wind,” said the waiter. He’d been backed up against a hot plate, and now knew why it was called a hot plate in a way he hadn’t fully comprehended before. “I’ll give him a cold wind! Haven’t we got anything ?” “There’s odds and ends…” “You don’t mean odds and ends, you mean des curieux et des bouts ,” corrected the manager. “Yeah, right, yeah. And, er, and, er…” “There’s nothing else?” “Er…old boots. Muddy old boots. ” “Old—?” “Boots. Lots of ’em,” said the waiter. He felt he was beginning to singe. “How come we’ve got…vintage footwear?” “Dunno. They just turned up, sir. The oven’s full of old boots. So’s the pantry. ” “There’s a hundred people booked in! All the shops’ll be shut! Where’s Chef?” “William’s trying to get him to come out of the privy, sir. He’s locked himself in and is having one of his Moments. ” “ Something’s cooking. What’s that I can smell?” “Me, sir. ” “Old boots…” muttered the manager. “Old boots…old boots…Leather, are they? Not clogs or rubber or anything?” “Looks like…just boots. And lots of mud, sir. ” The manager took off his jacket. “All right. Got any cream, have we? Onions? Garlic? Butter? Some old beef bones? A bit of pastry?” “Er, yes…” The manager rubbed his hands together. “ Right ,” he said, taking an apron off a hook. “You there, get some water boiling! Lots of water! And find a really large hammer! And you , chop some onions! The rest of you, start sorting out the boots. I want the tongues out and the soles off. We’ll do them…let’s see… Mousse de la Boue dans une Panier de la Pâte de Chaussures …” “Where’re we going to get that from, sir?” “Mud mousse in a basket of shoe pastry. |
Get the idea? It’s not our fault if even Quirmians don’t understand restaurant Quirmian. It’s not like lying, after all. ” “Well, it’s a bit like—” the waiter began. He’d been cursed with honesty at an early stage. “Then there’s Brodequin rôti Façon Ombres …” The manager sighed at the head waiter’s panicky expression. “Soldier’s boot done in the Shades fashion,” he translated. “Er…Shades fashion?” “In mud. But if we cook the tongues separately we can put on Languette braisée , too. ” “There’s some ladies’ shoes, sir,” said an underchef. “Right. Add to the menu…Let’s see now… Sole d’une Bonne Femme …and…yes… Servis dans un Coulis de Terre en l’Eau. That’s mud, to you. ” “What about the laces, sir?” said another underchef. “Good thinking. Dig out that recipe for Spaghetti Carbonara. ” “Sir?” said the head waiter. “I started off as a chef,” said the manager, picking up a knife. “How do you think I was able to afford this place? I know how it’s done. Get the look and the sauce right and you’re three-quarters there. ” “But it’s all going to be old boots!” said the waiter. “Prime aged beef,” the manager corrected him. “It’ll tenderize in no time. ” “Anyway…anyway…we haven’t got any soup—” “Mud. And a lot of onions. ” “There’s the puddings—” “Mud. Let’s see if we can get it to caramelize, you never know. ” “I can’t even find the coffee…Still, they probably won’t last till the coffee…” “Mud. Café de Terre ,” said the manager firmly. “Genuine ground coffee. ” “Oh, they’ll spot that, sir!” “They haven’t up till now,” said the manager darkly. “We’ll never get away with it, sir. Never. ” In the country of the sky on top, Medium Dave Lilywhite hauled another bag of money down the stairs. “There must be thousands here,” said Chickenwire. “Hundreds of thousands,” said Medium Dave. “And what’s all this stuff?” said Catseye, opening a box. “’s just paper. ” He tossed it aside. Medium Dave sighed. He was all for class solidarity, but sometimes Catseye got on his nerves. “They’re title deeds,” he said. “And they’re better than money. ” “Paper’s better’n money?” said Catseye. “Hah, if you can burn it you can’t spend it, that’s what I say. ” “Hang on,” said Chickenwire. “I know about them. The Tooth Fairy owns property?” “Got to raise money somehow,” said Medium Dave. “All those half-dollars under the pillow. ” “If we steal them, do they become ours?” “Is that a trick question?” said Catseye, smirking. “Yeah, but…ten thousand each doesn’t sound such a lot, when you see all this. ” “He won’t miss a—” “ Gentlemen …” They turned. Teatime was in the doorway. “We were just…we were just piling up the stuff,” said Chickenwire. “Yes. I know. I told you to. ” “Right. That’s right. You did,” said Chickenwire gratefully. “And there’s such a lot,” said Teatime. He gave them a smile. Catseye coughed. “’s got to be thousands,” said Medium Dave. “And what about all these deeds and so on? Look, this one’s for that pipe shop in Honey Trap Lane! In Ankh-Morpork! I buy my tobacco there! Old Thimble is always moaning about the rent, too!” “Ah. So you opened the strongboxes,” said Teatime pleasantly. “Well…yes…” “Fine. Fine,” said Teatime. “I didn’t ask you to, but…fine, fine. And how did you think the Tooth Fairy made her money? Little gnomes in some mine somewhere? Fairy gold? But that turns to trash in the morning!” He laughed. Chickenwire laughed. Even Medium Dave laughed. And then Teatime was on him, pushing him irresistibly backward until he hit the wall. There was a blur and he tried to blink and his left eyelid was suddenly a rose of pain. Teatime’s good eye was close to him, if you could call it good. The pupil was a dot. Medium Dave could just make out his hand, right by Medium Dave’s face. It was holding a knife. The point of the blade could only be the merest fraction of an inch from Medium Dave’s right eye. “I know people say I’d kill them as soon as look at them,” whispered Teatime. “And in fact I’d much rather kill you than look at you, Mr. Lilywhite. You stand in a castle of gold and plot to steal pennies. Oh, dear. What am I to do with you?” He relaxed a little, but his hand still held the knife to Medium Dave’s unblinking eye. “You’re thinking that Banjo is going to help you,” he said. “That’s how it’s always been, isn’t it? But Banjo likes me. He really does. Banjo is my friend. ” Medium Dave managed to focus beyond Teatime’s ear. His brother was just standing there, with the blank face he had while he waited for another order or a new thought to turn up. “If I thought you were feeling bad thoughts about me I would be so downcast,” said Teatime. “I do not have many friends left, Mr. Medium Dave. ” He stood back and smiled happily. “All friends now?” he said, as Medium Dave slumped down. “Help him, Banjo. ” On cue, Banjo lumbered forward. “Banjo has the heart of a little child,” said Teatime, the knife disappearing somewhere about his clothing. “I believe I have, too. ” The others were frozen in place. They hadn’t moved since the attack. Medium Dave was a heavyset man and Teatime was a matchstick model, but he’d lifted Medium Dave off his feet like a feather. “As far as the money goes, in fact, I really have no use for it,” said Teatime, sitting down on a sack of silver. “It is small change. You may share it out amongst yourselves, and no doubt you’ll squabble and double-cross one another more tiresomely. Oh dear. It is so awful when friends fall out. ” He kicked the sack. It split. Silver and copper fell in an expensive trickle. “And you’ll swagger and spend it on drink and women,” he said, as they watched the coins roll into every corner of the room. “The thought of investment will never cross your scarred little minds—” There was a rumble from Banjo. Even Teatime waited patiently until the huge man had assembled a sentence. The result was: “I gotta piggy bank. ” “And what would you do with a million dollars, Banjo?” said Teatime. Another rumble. Banjo’s face twisted up. “Buy…a…bigger piggy bank?” “Well done. ” The Assassin stood up. “Let’s go and see how our wizard is getting on, shall we?” He walked out of the room without looking back. After a moment Banjo followed. The others tried not to look at one another’s faces. Then Chickenwire said, “Was he saying we could take the money and go?” “Don’t be bloody stupid, we wouldn’t get ten yards,” said Medium Dave, still clutching his face. “Ugh, this hurts. I think he cut the eyelid…he cut the damn eyelid …” “Then let’s just leave the stuff and go! I never joined up to ride on tigers!” “And what’ll you do when he comes after you?” “Why’d he bother with the likes of us?” “He’s got time for his friends,” said Medium Dave bitterly. “For gods’ sakes, someone get me a clean rag or something…” “Okay, but…but he can’t look everywhere. ” Medium Dave shook his head. He’d been through Ankh-Morpork’s very own university of the streets and had graduated with his life and an intelligence made all the keener by constant friction. You only had to look into Teatime’s mismatched eyes to know one thing, which was this: that if Teatime wanted to find you he would not look everywhere. He’d look in only one place, which would be the place where you were hiding. “How come your brother likes him so much?” Medium Dave grimaced. Banjo had always done what he was told, simply because Medium Dave had told him. Up to now, anyway. It must have been that punch in the bar. Medium Dave didn’t like to think about it. He’d always promised their mother that he’d look after Banjo, * and Banjo had gone back like a falling tree. And when Medium Dave had risen from his seat to punch Teatime’s unbalanced lights out he’d suddenly found the Assassin already behind him, holding a knife. In front of everyone. It was humiliating, that’s what it was— And then Banjo had sat up, looking puzzled, and spat out a tooth— “If it wasn’t for Banjo going around with him all the time we could gang up on him,” said Catseye. Medium Dave looked up, one hand clamping a handkerchief to his eye. “ Gang up on him ?” he said. “Yeah, it’s all your fault,” Chickenwire went on. |
“Oh, yeah? So it wasn’t you who said, wow, ten thousand dollars, count me in?” Chickenwire backed away. “I didn’t know there was going to be all this creepy stuff! I want to go home!” Medium Dave hesitated, despite his pain and rage. This wasn’t normal talk for Chickenwire, for all that he whined and grumbled. This was a strange place, no lie about that, and all that business with the teeth had been very…odd, but he’d been out with Chickenwire when jobs had gone wrong and both the Watch and the Thieves’ Guild had been after them and he’d been as cool as anyone. And if the Guild had been the ones to catch them they’d have nailed their ears to their ankles and thrown them in the river. In Medium Dave’s book, which was a simple book and largely written in mental crayon, things didn’t get creepier than that. “What’s up with you?” he said. “All of you—you’re acting like little kids!” “Would he deliver to apes earlier than humans?” “Interesting point, sir. Possibly you’re referring to my theory that humans may have in fact descended from apes, of course,” said Ponder. “A bold hypothesis which ought to sweep away the ignorance of centuries if the grants committee could just see their way clear to letting me hire a boat and sail around to the islands of—” “I just thought he might deliver alphabetically,” said Ridcully. There was a patter of soot in the cold fireplace. “That’s presumably him now, do you think?” Ridcully went on. “Oh, well, I thought we should check—” Something landed in the ashes. The two wizards stood quietly in the darkness while the figure picked itself up. There was a rustle of paper. L ET ME SEE NOW — There was a click as Ridcully’s pipe fell out of his mouth. “Who the hell are you?” he said. “Mr. Stibbons, light a candle!” Death backed away. I’ M THE H OGFATHER, OF COURSE. E R. H O. H O. H O. W HO WOULD YOU EXPECT TO COME DOWN A CHIMNEY ON A NIGHT LIKE THIS, MAY I ASK ? “No, you’re not!” I AM. L OOK , I’ VE GOT THE BEARD AND THE PILLOW AND EVERYTHING ! “You look extremely thin in the face!” I’ M …I…I’ M NOT WELL. I T’S ALL …Y ES, IT’S ALL THIS SHERRY. A ND RUSHING AROUND. I AM A BIT ILL. “Terminally, I should say. ” Ridcully grabbed the beard. There was a twang as the string gave way. “It’s a false beard!” N O, IT’S NOT , said Death desperately. “Here’s the hooks for the ears, which must have given you a bit of trouble, I must say!” Ridcully flourished the incriminating evidence. “What were you doing coming down the chimney?” he continued. “Not in marvelous taste, I think. ” Death waved a small grubby scrap of paper defensively. O FFICIAL LETTER TO THE H OGFATHER. S AYS HERE …he began, and then looked at the paper again. W ELL, QUITE A LOT, IN FACT. I T’S A LONG LIST. L IBRARY STAMPS, REFERENCE BOOKS, PENCILS, BANANAS … “The Librarian asked the Hogfather for those things?” said Ridcully. “Why?” I DON’T KNOW , said Death. This was a diplomatic answer. He kept his finger over a reference to the Archchancellor. The orangutan for “duck’s bottom” was quite an interesting squiggle. “I’ve got plenty in my desk drawer,” mused Ridcully. “I’m quite happy to give them out to any chap provided he can prove he’s used up the old one. ” T HEY MUST SHOW YOU AN ABSENCE OF PENCIL ? “Of course. If he needed essential materials he need only have come to me. No man can tell you I’m an unreasonable chap. ” Death checked the list carefully. T HAT IS PRECISELY CORRECT , he confirmed, with anthropological exactitude. “Except for the bananas, of course. I wouldn’t keep fish in my desk. ” Death looked down at the list and then back up at Ridcully. G OOD ? he said, in the hope that this was the right response. Wizards know when they are going to die. * Ridcully had no such premonitions, and to Ponder’s horror prodded Death in the cushion. “Why you ?” he said. “What’s happened to the other fellow?” I SUPPOSE I MUST TELL YOU. In the house of Death, a whisper of shifting sand and the faintest chink of moving glass, somewhere in the darkness of the floor… And, in the dry shadows, the sharp smell of snow and a thud of hooves. Sideney almost swallowed his tongue when Teatime appeared beside him. “Are we making progress?” “Gnk—” “I’m sorry?” said Teatime. Sideney recovered himself. “Er…some,” he said. “We think we’ve worked out…er…one lock. ” Light gleamed off Teatime’s eye. “I believe there are seven of them?” said the Assassin. “Yes, but…they’re half magic and half real and half not there…I mean…there’s parts of them that don’t exist all the time—” Mr. Brown, who had been working at one of the locks, laid down his pick. “’t’s no good, mister,” he said. “Can’t even get a purchase with a crowbar. Maybe if I went back to the city and got a couple of dragons we could do something. You can melt through steel with them if you twist their necks right and feed ’em carbon. ” “I was told you were the best locksmith in the city,” said Teatime. Behind him, Banjo shifted position. Mr. Brown looked annoyed… “Well, yes ,” he said. “But locks don’t generally alter ’emselves while you’re working on ’em, that’s what I’m saying. ” “And I thought you could open any lock anyone ever made,” said Teatime. “Made by humans,” said Mr. Brown sharply. “And most dwarfs. I dunno what made these. You never said anything about magic. ” “That’s a shame,” said Teatime. “Then really I have no more need of your services. You may as well go back home. ” “I won’t be sorry. ” Mr. Brown started putting things back into his tool bag. “What about my money?” “Do I owe you any?” “I came along with you. I don’t see it’s my fault that this is all magic business. I should get something. ” “Ah, yes, I see your point,” said Teatime. “Of course, you should get what you deserve. Banjo?” Banjo lumbered forward, and then stopped. Mr. Brown’s hand had come out of the bag holding a crowbar. “You must think I was born yesterday, you slimy little bugger,” he said. “I know your type. You think it’s all some kind of game. You make little jokes to yourself and you think no one else notices and you think you’re so smart. Well, Mr. Teacup, I’m leaving, right? Right now. With what’s coming to me. And you ain’t stopping me. And Banjo certainly ain’t. I knew old Ma Lilywhite back in the good old days. You think you’re nasty? You think you’re mean? Ma Lilywhite’d tear your ears off and spit ’em in your eye, you cocky little devil. And I worked with her, so you don’t scare me and nor does little Banjo, poor sod that he is. ” Mr. Brown glared at each of them in turn, flourishing the crowbar. Sideney cowered in front of the doors. He saw Teatime nod gracefully, as if the man had made a small speech of thanks. “I appreciate your point of view,” said Teatime. “And, I have to repeat, it’s Teh-ah-tim-eh. Now, please, Banjo. ” Banjo loomed over Mr. Brown, reached down and lifted him up by the crowbar so sharply that his feet came out of his boots. “Here, you know me, Banjo!” the locksmith croaked, struggling in midair. “I remembers you when you was little, I used to sit you on my knee, I often used to work for your ma—” “D’you like apples?” Banjo rumbled. Brown struggled. “You got to say yes,” Banjo said. “Yes!” “D’you like pears? You got to say yes. ” “All right, yes!” “D’you like falling down the stairs?” Medium Dave held up his hands for quiet. He glared at the gang. “This place is getting to you, right? But we’ve all been in bad places before, right?” “Not this bad,” said Chickenwire. “I’ve never been anywhere where it hurts to look at the sky. It give me the creeps. ” “Chick’s a little baby, nyer nyer nyer,” sang Catseye. They looked at him. He coughed nervously. “Sorry…don’t know why I said that…” “If we stick together we’ll be fine—” “Eeeny meeny miney mo…” mumbled Catseye. “What? What are you talking about?” “Sorry…it just sort of slipped out…” “What I’m trying to say,” said Medium Dave, “is that if—” “Peachy keeps making faces at me!” “I didn’t!” “Liar, liar, pants on fire!” Two things happened at this point. Medium Dave lost his temper, and Peachy screamed. A small wisp of smoke was rising from his trousers. |
He hopped around, beating desperately at himself. “Who did that? Who did that?” demanded Medium Dave. “I didn’t see anyone,” said Chickenwire. “I mean, no one was near him. Catseye said ‘pants on fire’ and next minute—” “Now he’s sucking his thumb!” Catseye jeered. “Nyer nyer nyer! Crying for Mummy! You know what happens to kids who suck their thumbs, there’s this big monster with scissors all—” “ Will you stop talking like that !” shouted Medium Dave. “Blimey, it is like dealing with a bunch of—” Someone screamed, high above. It went on for a while and seemed to be getting nearer, but then it stopped and was replaced by a rush of thumping and an occasional sound like a coconut being bounced on a stone floor. Medium Dave got to the door just in time to see the body of Mr. Brown the locksmith tumble past, moving quite fast and not at all neatly. A moment later his bag somersaulted around the curve of the stairs. It split as it bounced and there was a jangle as tools and lock picks bounced out and followed their late owner. He’d been moving quite fast. He’d probably roll all the way to the bottom. Medium Dave looked up. Two turns above him, on the opposite side of the huge shaft, Banjo was watching him. Banjo didn’t know right from wrong. He’d always left that sort of thing to his brother. “Er…poor guy must’ve slipped,” Medium Dave mumbled. “Oh, yeah…slipped,” said Peachy. He looked up, too. It was funny. He hadn’t noticed them before. The white tower had seemed to glow from within. But now there were shadows, moving across the stone. In the stone. “What was that?” he said. “That sound…” “What sound?” “It sounded…like knives scraping,” said Peachy. “Really close. ” “There’s only us here!” said Medium Dave. “What’re you afraid of? Attack by daisies? Come on…let’s go and help him…” She couldn’t walk through the door. It simply resisted any such effort. She ended up merely bruised. So Susan turned the doorknob instead. She heard the oh god gasp. But she was used to the idea of buildings that were bigger on the inside. Her grandfather had never been able to get a handle on dimensions. The second thing the eye was drawn to were the staircases. They started opposite one another in what was now a big round tower, its ceiling lost in the haze. The spirals circled into infinity. Susan’s eyes went back to the first thing. It was a large conical heap in the middle of the floor. It was white. It glistened in the cool light that shone down from the mists. “It’s teeth,” she said. “I think I’m going to throw up,” said the oh god miserably. “There’s nothing that scary about teeth,” said Susan. She didn’t mean it. The heap was very horrible indeed. “Did I say I was scared? I’m just hung over again…Oh, me …” Susan advanced on the heap, moving warily. They were small teeth. Children’s teeth. Whoever had piled them up hadn’t been very careful about it, either. A few had been scattered across the floor. She knew because she trod on one, and the slippery little crunching sound made her desperate not to tread on any more. Whoever had piled them up had presumably been the one who’d drawn the chalk marks around the obscene heap. “There’re so many ,” whispered Bilious. “At least twenty million, given the size of the average milk tooth,” said Susan. She was shocked to find that it came almost automatically. “How can you possibly know that?” “Volume of a cone,” said Susan. “Pi times the square of the radius times the height divided by three. I bet Miss Butts never thought it’d come in handy in a place like this. ” “That’s amazing. You did it in your head?” “This isn’t right,” said Susan quietly. “I don’t think this is what the Tooth Fairy is all about. All that effort to get the teeth, and then just to dump them like this? No. Anyway, there’s a cigarette end on the floor. I don’t see the Tooth Fairy as someone who rolls her own. ” She stared down at the chalk marks. Voices high above her made her look up. She thought she saw a head look over the stair rail, and then draw back again. She didn’t see much of the face, but what she saw didn’t look fairylike. She glanced back at the circle of chalk around the teeth. Someone had wanted all the teeth in one place and had drawn a circle to show people where they had to go. There were a few symbols scrawled around the circle. She had a good memory for small details. It was another family trait. And a small detail stirred in her memory like a sleepy bee. “Oh, no ,” she breathed. “Surely no one would try to—” Someone shouted, someone up in the whiteness. A body rolled down the stairs nearest her. It had been a skinny, middle-aged man. Technically it still was, but the long spiral staircase had not been kind. It tumbled across the white marble and slid to a boneless halt. Then, as she hurried toward the body, it faded away, leaving nothing behind but a smear of blood. A jingle noise made her look back up the stairs. Spinning over and over, making salmon leaps in the air, a crowbar bounded over the last dozen steps and landed point first on a flagstone, staying upright and vibrating. Chickenwire reached the top of the stairs, panting. “There’s people down there, Mister Teatime!” he wheezed. “Dave and the others’ve gone down to catch them, Mister Teatime!” “Teh-ah-tim-eh,” said Teatime, without taking his eyes off the wizard. “That’s right, sir!” “Well?” said Teatime. “Just…do away with them. ” “Er…one of them’s a girl, sir. ” Teatime still didn’t look round. He waved a hand vaguely. “Then do away with them politely. ” “Yes, Mister…yes, right…” Chickenwire coughed. “Don’t you want to find out why they’re here, sir?” “Good heavens, no. Why should I want to do that? Now go away. ” Chickenwire stood there for a moment, and then hurried off. As he scurried down the stairs he thought he heard a creak, as of an ancient wooden door. He went pale. It was just a door, said the sensible bit in front of his brain. There were hundreds of them in this place, although, come to think of it, none of them had creaked. The other bit, the bit that hung around in dark places nearly at the top of his spinal column, said: But it’s not one of them, and you know it, because you know which door it really is… He hadn’t heard that creak for thirty years. He gave a little yelp and started to take the stairs four at a time. In the hollows and corners, the shadows grew darker. Susan ran up a flight of stairs, dragging the oh god behind her. “Do you know what they’ve been doing?” she said. “You know why they’ve got all those teeth in a circle? The power …oh, my…” “I’m not going to,” said the head waiter, firmly. “Look, I’ll buy you a better pair after Hogswatch—” “There’s two more Shoe Pastry, one for Purée de la Terre and three more Tourte à la Boue ,” said a waiter, hurrying in. “Mud pies!” moaned the waiter. “I can’t believe we’re selling mud pies. And now you want my boots!” “With cream and sugar, mind you. A real taste of Ankh-Morpork. And we can get at least four helpings off those boots. Fair’s fair. We’re all in our socks—” “Table seven says the steaks were lovely but a bit tough,” said a waiter, rushing past. “Right. Use a larger hammer next time and boil them for longer. ” The manager turned back to the suffering head waiter. “Look, Bill,” he said, taking him by the shoulder. “This isn’t food. No one expects it to be food. If people wanted food they’d stay at home, isn’t that so? They come here for ambiance. For the experience. This isn’t cookery, Bill. This is cuisine. See? And they’re coming back for more. ” “Yeah, but old boots …” “Dwarfs eat rats,” said the manager. “And trolls eat rocks. There’s folks in Howondaland that eat insects and folks on the Counterweight Continent eat soup made out of bird spit. At least the boots have been on a cow. ” “And mud?” said the head waiter, gloomily. “Isn’t there an old proverb that says a man must eat a bushel of dirt before he dies?” “Yes, but not all at once. ” “Bill?” said the manager, kindly, picking up a spatula. |
“Yes, boss?” “Get those damn boots off right now, will you?” When Chickenwire reached the bottom of the tower he was trembling, and not just from the effort. He headed straight for the door until Medium Dave grabbed him. “Let me out! It’s after me!” “Look at his face ,” said Catseye. “Looks like he’s seen a ghost!” “Yeah, well, it ain’t a ghost,” muttered Chickenwire. “It’s worse’n a ghost—” Medium Dave slapped him across the face. “Pull yourself together! Look around! Nothing’s chasing you! Anyway, it’s not as though we couldn’t put up a fight, right?” Terror had had time to drain away a little. Chickenwire looked back up the stairs. There was nothing there. “Good,” said Medium Dave, watching his face. “Now…What happened?” Chickenwire looked at his feet. “I thought it was the wardrobe,” he muttered. “Go on, laugh…” They didn’t laugh. “What wardrobe?” said Catseye. “Oh, when I was a kid…” Chickenwire waved his arms vaguely. “We had this big ole wardrobe, if you must know. Oak. It had this…this…on the door there was this…sort of… face. ” He looked at their faces, which were equally wooden. “I mean, not an actual face, there was…all this…decoration round the keyhole, sort of flowers and leaves and stuff, but if you looked at it in the…right way…it was a face and they put it in my room ’cos it was so big and in the night…in the night…in the night—” They were grown men or at least had lived for several decades, which in some societies is considered the same thing. But you had to stare at a man so creased up with dread. “Yes?” said Catseye hoarsely. “…it whispered things,” said Chickenwire, in a quiet little voice, like a vole in a dungeon. They looked at one another. “What things?” said Medium Dave. “I don’t know ! I always had my head under the pillow! Anyway, it’s just something from when I was a kid, all right? Our dad got rid of it in the finish. Burned it. And I watched. ” They mentally shook themselves, as people do when their minds emerge back into the light. “It’s like me and the dark,” said Catseye. “Oh, don’t you start,” said Medium Dave. “Anyway, you ain’t afraid of the dark. You’re famed for it. I been working with you in all kinds of cellars and stuff. I mean, that’s how you got your name. Catseye. Sees like a cat. ” “Yeah, well…you try an’ make up for it, don’t you?” said Catseye. “’Cos when you’re grown you know it’s just shadows and stuff. Besides, it ain’t like the dark we used to have in the cellar. ” “Oh, they had a special kind of a dark when you was a lad, did they?” said Medium Dave. “Not like the kind of dark you get these days, eh?” Sarcasm didn’t work. “No,” said Catseye, simply. “It wasn’t. In our cellar, it wasn’t. ” “Our mam used to wallop us if we went down to the cellar,” said Medium Dave. “She had her still down there. ” “Yeah?” said Catseye, from somewhere far off. “Well, our dad used to wallop us if we tried to get out. Now shut up talking about it. ” They reached the bottom of the stairs. There was an absence of anybody. And any body. “He couldn’t have survived that, could he?” said Medium Dave. “I saw him as he went past,” said Catseye. “Necks aren’t supposed to bend that way—” He squinted upward. “Who’s that moving up there?” “How are their necks moving?” quavered Chickenwire. “Split up!” said Medium Dave. “And this time all take a stairway. Then they can’t come back down!” “Who’re they? Why’re they here?” “Why’re we here?” said Peachy. He started, and looked behind him. “Taking our money? After us putting up with him ?” “Yeah…” said Peachy distantly, trailing after the others. “Er…did you hear that noise just then?” “What noise?” “A sort of clipping, snipping…?” “No. ” “No. ” “No. You must have imagined it. ” Peachy nodded miserably. As he walked up the stairs, little shadows raced through the stone and followed his feet. Susan darted off the stairs and dragged the oh god along a corridor lined with white doors. “I think they saw us,” she said. “And if they’re tooth fairies there’s been a really stupid equal opportunities policy…” She pushed open a door. There were no windows to the room, but it was lit perfectly well by the walls themselves. Down the middle of the room was something like a display case, its lid gaping open. Bits of card littered the floor. She reached down and picked one up and read: “Thomas Ague, aged 4 and nearly three quarters, 9 Castle View, Sto Lat. ” The writing was in a meticulous rounded script. She crossed the passage to another room, where there was the same scene of devastation. “So now we know where the teeth were,” she said. “They must’ve taken them out of everywhere and carried them downstairs. ” “What for?” She sighed. “It’s such old magic it isn’t even magic any more,” she said. “If you’ve got a piece of someone’s hair, or a nail clipping, or a tooth—you can control them. ” The oh god tried to focus. “That heap’s controlling millions of children?” “Yes. Adults, too, by now. ” “And you…you could make them think things and do things?” She nodded. “Yes. ” “You could get them to open Dad’s wallet and post the contents to some address?” “Well, I hadn’t thought of that , but yes, I suppose you could…” “Or go downstairs and smash all the bottles in the drinks cabinet and promise never to take a drink when they grow up?” said the oh god hopefully. “What are you talking about?” “It’s all right for you. You don’t wake up every morning and see your whole life flush before your eyes. ” Medium Dave and Catseye ran down the passage and stopped where it forked. “You go that way, I’ll—” “Why don’t we stick together?” said Catseye. “What’s got into everyone? I saw you bite the throats out of a coupla guard dogs when we did that job in Quirm! Want me to hold your hand? You check the doors down there, I’ll check them along here. ” He walked off. Catseye peered down the other passage. There weren’t many doors down there. It wasn’t very long. And, as Teatime had said, there was nothing dangerous here that they hadn’t brought with them. He heard voices coming from a doorway and sagged with relief. He could deal with humans. As he approached, a sound made him look round. Shadows were racing down the passage behind him. They cascaded down the walls and flowed over the ceiling. Where shadows met they became darker. And darker. And rose. And leapt. “What was that?” said Susan. “Sounded like the start of a scream,” said Bilious. Susan threw open the door. There was no one outside. There was movement, though. She saw a patch of darkness in the corner of a wall shrink and fade, and another shadow slid around the bend of the corridor. And there was a pair of boots in the center of the corridor. She hadn’t remembered any boots there before. She sniffed. The air tasted of rats, and damp, and mold. “Let’s get out of here,” she said. “How’re we going to find this Violet in all these rooms?” “I don’t know. I should be able to…sense her, but I can’t. ” Susan peered around the end of the corridor. She could hear men shouting, some way off. They slipped out onto the stairs again and managed another flight. There were more rooms here, and in each one a cabinet that had been broken open. Shadows moved in the corners. The effect was as though some invisible light source was gently shifting. “This reminds me a lot of your…um…of your grandfather’s place,” said the oh god. “I know,” said Susan. “There aren’t any rules except the ones he makes up as he goes along. I can’t see him being very happy if someone got in and started pulling the library apart—” She stopped. When she spoke again her voice had a different tone. “This is a children’s place,” she said. “The rules are what children believe. ” “Well, that’s a relief. ” “You think so? Things aren’t going to be right. In the Soul Cake Duck’s country ducks can lay chocolate eggs, in the same way that Death’s country is black and somber because that’s what people believe. He’s very conventional about that sort of thing. Skull and bone decorations all over the place. And this place—” “Pretty flowers and an odd sky. ” “I think it’s going to be a lot worse than that. |
And very odd, too. ” “More odd than it is now?” “I don’t think it’s possible to die here. ” “That man who fell down the stairs looked pretty dead to me. ” “Oh, you die. But not here. You…let’s see…yes…you go somewhere else. Away. You’re just not seen any more. That’s about all you understand when you’re three. Grandfather said it wasn’t like that fifty years ago. He said you often couldn’t see the bed for everyone having a good cry. Now they just tell the child that Grandma’s gone. For three weeks Twyla thought her uncle’d been buried in the sad patch behind the garden shed along with Buster and Meepo and all three Bulgies. ” “Three Bulgies?” “Gerbils. They tend to die a lot,” said Susan. “The trick is to replace them when she’s not looking. You really don’t know anything , do you?” “Er…hello?” The voice came from the corridor. They worked their way round to the next room. There, sitting on the floor and tied to the leg of a white display case, was Violet. She looked up in apprehension, and then in bewilderment, and finally in growing recognition. “Aren’t you—?” “Yes, yes, we see each other sometimes in Biers, and when you came for Twyla’s last tooth you were so shocked that I could see you I had to give you a drink to get your nerves back,” said Susan, fumbling with the ropes. “I don’t think we’ve got a lot of time. ” “And who’s he?” The oh god tried to push his lank hair into place. “Oh, he’s just a god,” said Susan. “His name’s Bilious. ” “Do you drink at all?” said the oh god. “What sort of quest—” “He needs to know before he decides whether he hates you or not,” said Susan. “It’s a god thing. ” “No, I don’t,” said Violet. “What an idea. I’ve got the blue ribbon!” The oh god raised his eyebrows at Susan. “That means she’s a member of Offler’s League of Temperance,” said Susan. “They sign a pledge not to touch alcohol. I can’t think why. Of course, Offler’s a crocodile. They don’t go in bars much. They’re into water. ” “Not touch alcohol at all?” said the oh god. “Never!” said Violet. “My dad’s very strict about that sort of thing!” After a moment Susan felt forced to wave a hand across their locked gaze. “Can we get on?” she said. “Good. Who brought you here, Violet?” “I don’t know! I was doing the collection as usual, and then I thought I heard someone following me, and then it all went dark, and when I came to we were…Have you seen what it’s like outside?” “Yes. ” “Well, we were there. The big one was carrying me. The one they call Banjo. He’s not bad, just a bit…odd. Sort of…slow. He just watches me. The others are thugs. Watch out for the one with the glass eye. They’re all afraid of him. Except Banjo. ” “Glass eye?” “He’s dressed like an Assassin. He’s called Teatime. I think they’re trying to steal something…They spent ages carting the teeth out. Little teeth everywhere…It was horrible! Thank you,” she added to the oh god, who had helped her onto her feet. “They’ve piled them up in a magic circle downstairs,” said Susan. Violet’s eyes and mouth formed three Os. It was like looking at a pink bowling ball. “What for?” “I think they’re using them to control the children. By magic. ” Violet’s mouth opened wider. “That’s horrid. ” Horrible, thought Susan. The word is “horrible. ” “Horrid” is a childish word selected to impress nearby males with one’s fragility, if I’m any judge. She knew it was unkind and counter-productive of her to think like that. She also knew it was probably an accurate observation, which only made it worse. “Yes,” she said. “There was a wizard! He’s got a pointy hat!” “I think we should get her out of here,” said the oh god, in a tone of voice that Susan considered was altogether too dramatic. “Good idea,” she conceded. “Let’s go. ” Catseye’s boots had snapped their laces. It was as if he’d been pulled upward so fast they simply couldn’t keep up. That worried Medium Dave. So did the smell. There was no smell at all in the rest of the tower, but just here there was a lingering odor of mushrooms. His forehead wrinkled. Medium Dave was a thief and a murderer and therefore had a highly developed moral sense. He preferred not to steal from poor people, and not only because they never had anything worth stealing. If it was necessary to hurt anyone, he tried to leave wounds that would heal. And when in the course of his activities he had to kill people, then he made some effort to see that they did not suffer much or at least made as few noises as possible. This whole business was getting on his nerves. Usually, he didn’t even notice that he had any. There was a wrongness to everything that grated on his bones. And a pair of boots was all that remained of old Catseye. He drew his sword. Above him, the creeping shadows moved and flowed away. Susan edged up to the entrance to the stairways and peered around into the point of a crossbow. “Now, all of you step out where I can see you,” said Peachy conversationally. “And don’t touch that sword, lady. You’ll probably hurt yourself. ” Susan tried to make herself unseen, and failed. Usually it was so easy to do that that it happened automatically, usually with embarrassing results. She could be idly reading a book while people searched the room for her. But here, despite every effort, she seemed to remain obstinately visible. “You don’t own this place,” she said, stepping back. “No, but you see this crossbow? I own this crossbow. So you just walk ahead of me, right, and we’ll all go and see Mister Teatime. ” “Excuse me, I just want to check something,” said Bilious. To Susan’s amazement he leaned over and touched the point of the arrow. “Here! What did you do that for?” said Peachy, stepping back. “I felt it, but of course a certain amount of pain sensation would be part of normal sensory response,” said the oh god. “I warn you, there’s a very good chance that I might be immortal. ” “Yes, but we probably aren’t,” said Susan. “Immortal, eh?” said Peachy. “So if I was to shoot you inna head, you wouldn’t die?” “I suppose when you put it like that…I do know I feel pain…” “Right. You just keep moving, then. ” “When something happens,” said Susan, out of the corner of her mouth, “you two try to get downstairs and out, all right? If the worst comes to the worst, the horse will take you out of here. ” “If something happens,” whispered the oh god. “When,” said Susan. Behind them, Peachy looked around. He knew he’d feel a lot better when any of the others turned up. It was almost a relief to have prisoners. Out of the corner of her eye Susan saw something move on the stairs on the opposite side of the shaft. For a moment she thought she saw several flashes like metal blades catching the light. She heard a gasp behind her. The man with the crossbow was standing very still and staring at the opposite stairs. “Oh, noooo,” he said, under his breath. “What is it?” said Susan. He stared at her. “You can see it, too?” “The thing like a lot of blades clicking together?” said Susan. “Oh, noooo …” “It was only there for a moment,” said Susan. “It’s gone now,” she said. “Somewhere else,” she added. “It’s the Scissor Man…” “Who’s he?” said the oh god. “No one!” snapped Peachy, trying to pull himself together. “There’s no such thing as the Scissor Man, all right?” “Ah… yes. When you were little, did you suck your thumb?” said Susan. “Because the only Scissor Man I know is the one people used to frighten children with. They said he’d turn up and—” “Shutupshutupshutup!” said Peachy, prodding her with the crossbow. “Kids believe all kinds of crap! But I’m grown up now, right, and I can open beer bottles with other people’s teeth an—oh, gods …” Susan heard the snip, snip. It sounded very close now. Peachy had his eyes shut. “Is there anything behind me?” he quavered. Susan pushed the others aside and waved frantically toward the bottom of the stairs. “No,” she said, as they hurried away. “Is there anything standing on the stairs at all?” “No. ” “Right! If you see that one-eyed bastard you tell him he can keep the money!” He turned and ran. When Susan turned to go up the stairs the Scissor Man was there. |
It wasn’t man-shaped. It was something like an ostrich, and something like a lizard on its hind legs, but almost entirely like something made out of blades. Every time it moved a thousand blades went snip, snip. Its long silver neck curved and a head made of shears stared down at her. “You’re not looking for me,” she said. “You’re not my nightmare. ” The blades tilted this way and that. The Scissor Man was trying to think. “I remember you came for Twyla,” said Susan, stepping forward. “That damn governess had told her what happens to little girls who suck their thumbs, remember? Remember the poker ? I bet you needed a hell of a lot of sharpening afterward…” The creature lowered its head, stepped carefully around her in as polite a way as it could manage, and clanked on down the stairs after Peachy. Susan ran on toward the top of the tower. Sideney put a green filter over his lantern and pressed down with a small silver rod that had an emerald set on its tip. A piece of the lock moved. There was a whirring from inside the door and something went click. He sagged with relief. It is said that the prospect of hanging concentrates the mind wonderfully, but it was Valium compared to being watched by Mister Teatime. “I, er, think that’s the third lock,” he said. “Green light is what opens it. I remember the fabulous lock of the Hall of Murgle, which could only be opened by the Hubward wind, although that was—” “I commend your expertise,” said Teatime. “And the other four?” Sideney looked up nervously at the silent bulk of Banjo, and licked his lips. “Well, of course, if I’m right, and the locks depend on certain conditions, well, we could be here for years…” he ventured. “Supposing they can only be opened by, say, a small blond child holding a mouse? On a Tuesday? In the rain?” “You can find out what the nature of the spell is?” said Teatime. “Yes, yes, of course, yes. ” Sideney waved his hands urgently. “That’s how I worked out this one. Reverse thaumaturgy, yes, certainly. Er. In time. ” “We have lots of time,” said Teatime. “Perhaps a little more time than that,” Sideney quavered. “The processes are very, very, very…difficult. ” “Oh dear. If it’s too much for you, you’ve only got to say,” said Teatime. “No!” Sideney yipped, and then managed to get some self-control. “No. No. No, I can…I’m sure I shall work them out soon—” “ Jolly good,” said Teatime. The student wizard looked down. A wisp of vapor oozed from the crack between the doors. “Do you know what’s in here, Mister Teatime?” “No. ” “Ah. Right. ” Sideney stared mournfully at the fourth lock. It was amazing how much you remembered when someone like Teatime was around. He gave him a nervous look. “There’s not going to be any more violent deaths, are there?” he said. “I just can’t stand the sight of violent deaths!” Teatime put a comforting arm around his shoulders. “Don’t worry ,” he said. “I’m on your side. A violent death is the last thing that’ll happen to you. ” “Mister Teatime?” He turned. Medium Dave stepped onto the landing. “Someone else is in the tower,” he said. “They’ve got Catseye. I don’t know how. I’ve got Peachy watching the stairs and I ain’t sure where Chickenwire is. ” Teatime looked back to Sideney, who started prodding at the fourth lock again in a feverish attempt not to die. “Why are you telling me? I thought I was paying you big strong men a lot of money to deal with this sort of thing. ” Medium Dave’s lips framed some words, but when he spoke he said, “All right, but what are we up against here? Eh? Old Man Trouble or the bogeyman or what?” Teatime sighed. “Some of the Tooth Fairy’s employees, I assume,” he said. “Not if they’re like the ones that were here,” said Medium Dave. “They were just civilians. It looks like the ground opened and swallowed Catseye up. ” He thought about this. “I mean the ceiling,” he corrected himself. A horrible image had just passed across his under-used imagination. Teatime walked across to the stairwell and looked down. Far below, the pile of teeth looked like a white circle. “And the girl’s gone,” said Medium Dave. “Really? I thought I said she should be killed. ” Medium Dave hesitated. The boys had been brought up by Ma Lilywhite to be respectful to women as delicate and fragile creatures, and were soundly thrashed if disrespectful tendencies were perceived by Ma’s incredibly sensitive radar. And it was truly incredibly sensitive. Ma could hear what you were doing three rooms away, a terrible thing for a growing lad. That sort of thing leaves a mark. Ma Lilywhite certainly could. As for the others, they had no objections in practice to the disposal of anyone who got between them and large sums of money, but there was a general unspoken resentment at being told by Teatime to kill someone just because he had no further use for them. It wasn’t that it was unprofessional. Only Assassins thought like that. It was just that there were things you did do, and things you didn’t do. And this was one of the things you didn’t do. “We thought…well, you never know…” “She wasn’t necessary,” said Teatime. “Few people are. ” Sideney thumbed hurriedly through his notebooks. “Anyway, the place is a maze—” Medium Dave said. “Sadly, this is so,” said Teatime. “But I am sure they will be able to find us. It’s probably too much to hope that they intend something heroic. ” Violet and the oh god hurried down the stairs. “Do you know how to get back?” said Violet. “Don’t you?” “I think there’s a…a kind of soft place. If you walk at it knowing it’s there you go through. ” “You know where it is?” “No! I’ve never been here before! They had a bag on my head when we came! All I ever did was take the teeth from under the pillows!” Violet started to sob. “You just get this list and about five minutes’ training and they even dock you ten pence a week for the ladder and I know I made that mistake with little William Rubin but they should of said , you’re supposed to take any teeth you—” “Er…mistake?” said Bilious, trying to get her to hurry. “Just because he slept with his head under the pillow but they give you the pliers anyway and no one told me that you shouldn’t—” She certainly did have a pleasant voice, Bilious told himself. It was just that in a funny way it grated, too. It was like listening to a talking flute. “I think we’d just better get outside,” he said. “In case they hear us,” he hinted. “What sort of godding do you do?” said Violet. “Er…oh, I…this and that…I…er…” Bilious tried to think through the pounding headache. And then he had one of those ideas, the kind that only sound good after a lot of alcohol. Someone else may have drunk the drinks, but he managed to snag the idea. “I’m actually self-employed,” he said, as brightly as he could manage. “How can you be a self-employed god?” “Ah, well, you see, if any other god wants, perhaps, you know, a holiday or something, I cover for them. Yes. That’s what I do. ” Unwisely, in the circumstances, he let his inventiveness impress him. “Oh, yes. I’m very busy. Rushed off my feet. They’re always employing me. You’ve no idea. They don’t think twice about pushing off for a month as a big white bull or a swan or something and it’s always, ‘Oh, Bilious, old chap, just take care of things while I’m away, will you? Answer the prayers and so on. ’ I hardly get a minute to myself but of course you can’t turn down work these days. ” Violet was round-eyed with fascination. “And are you covering for anyone right now?” she asked. “Um, yes…the God of Hangovers, actually…” “A God of Hangovers? How awful!” Bilious looked down at his stained and wretched toga. “I suppose it is…” he mumbled. “You’re not very good at it. ” “You don’t have to tell me. ” “You’re more cut out to be one of the important gods,” said Violet, admiringly. “I can just see you as Io or Fate or one of those. ” Bilious stared at her with his mouth open. “I could tell at once you weren’t right,” she went on. “Not for some horrible little god. You could even be Offler with calves like yours. ” “Could I? I mean…oh, yes. Sometimes. |
Of course, I have to wear fangs—” And then someone was holding a sword to his throat. “What’s this?” said Chickenwire. “Lover’s Lane?” “You leave him alone, you!” shouted Violet. “He’s a god! You’ll be really sorry!” Bilious swallowed, but very gently. It was a sharp sword. “A god, eh?” said Chickenwire. “What of?” Bilious tried to swallow again. “Oh, bit o’ this, bit o’ that,” he mumbled. “Cor,” said Chickenwire. “Well, I’m impressed. I can see I’m going to have to be dead careful here, eh? Don’t want you smiting me with thunderbolts, do I? Puts a crimp in the day, that sort of thing—” Bilious didn’t dare move his head. But out of the corner of his eye he was sure he could see shadows moving very fast across the walls. “Dear me, out of thunderbolts, are we?” Chickenwire sneered. “Well, y’know, I’ve never—” There was a creak. Chickenwire’s face was a few inches from Bilious. The oh god saw his expression change. The man’s eyes rolled. His lips said “…nur…” Bilious risked stepping back. Chickenwire’s sword didn’t move. He stood there, trembling slightly, like a man who wants to turn round to see what’s behind him but doesn’t dare to in case he does. As far as Bilious was concerned, it had just been a creak. He looked up at the thing on the landing above. “Who put that there?” said Violet. It was just a wardrobe. Dark oak, a bit of fancy woodwork glued on in an effort to disguise the undisguisable fact that it was just an upright box. It was a wardrobe. “You didn’t, you know, try to cast a thunderbolt and go on a few letters too many?” she went on. “Huh?” said Bilious, looking from the stricken man to the wardrobe. It was so ordinary it was…odd. “I mean, thunderbolts begin with T and wardrobes…” Violet’s lips moved silently. Part of Bilious thought: I’m attracted to a girl who actually has to shut down all other brain functions in order to think about the order of the letters of the alphabet. On the other hand, she’s attracted to someone who’s wearing a toga that looks as though a family of weasels have had a party in it, so maybe I’ll stop this thought right here. But the major part of his brain thought: why’s this man making little bubbling noises? It’s just a wardrobe , for my sake! “No, no,” mumbled Chickenwire. “I don’t wanna !” The sword clanged on the floor. He took a step backward up the stairs, but very slowly, as if he was doing it despite every effort his muscles could muster. “Don’t want to what?” said Violet. Chickenwire spun round. Bilious had never seen that happen before. People turned round quickly, yes, but Chickenwire just revolved as if some giant hand had been placed on his head and twisted a hundred and eighty degrees. “No. No. No,” Chickenwire whined. “No. ” He tottered up the steps. “You got to help me,” he whispered. “What’s the matter?” said Bilious. “It’s just a wardrobe, isn’t it? It’s for putting all your old clothes in so that there’s no room for your new clothes. ” The doors of the wardrobe swung open. Chickenwire managed to thrust out his arms and grab the sides and, for a moment, he stood quite still. Then he was pulled into the wardrobe in one sudden movement and the doors slammed shut. The little brass key turned in the lock with a click. “We ought to get him out,” said the oh god, running up the steps. “Why?” Violet demanded. “They are not very nice people! I know that one. When he brought me food he made…suggestive comments. ” “Yes, but…” Bilious hadn’t ever seen a face like that, outside of a mirror. Chickenwire had looked very, very sick. He turned the key and opened the doors. “Oh dear…” “I don’t want to see! I don’t want to see!” said Violet, looking over his shoulder. Bilious reached down and picked up a pair of boots that stood neatly in the middle of the wardrobe’s floor. Then he put them back carefully and walked around the wardrobe. It was plywood. The words “Dratley and Sons, Phedre Road, Ankh-Morpork” were stamped in one corner in faded ink. “Is it magic?” said Violet nervously. “I don’t know if something magic has the maker’s name on it,” said Bilious. “There are magic wardrobes,” said Violet nervously. “If you go into them, you come out in a magic land. ” Bilious looked at the boots again. “Um…yes,” he said. I THINK I MUST TELL YOU SOMETHING , said Death. “Yes, I think you should,” said Ridcully. “I’ve got little devils running round the place eating socks and pencils, earlier tonight we sobered up someone who thinks he’s a God of Hangovers and half my wizards are trying to cheer up the Cheerful Fairy. We thought something must’ve happened to the Hogfather. We were right, right?” “ Hex was right, Archchancellor,” Ponder corrected him. H EX ? W HAT IS H EX ? “Er…Hex thinks—that is, calculates —that there’s been a big change in the nature of belief today,” said Ponder. He felt, he did not know why, that Death was probably not in favor of unliving things that thought. M R. H EX WAS REMARKABLY ASTUTE. T HE H OGFATHER HAS BEEN …Death paused. T HERE IS NO SENSIBLE HUMAN WORD. D EAD, IN A WAY, BUT NOT EXACTLY …A GOD CANNOT BE KILLED. N EVER COMPLETELY KILLED. H E HAS BEEN, SHALL WE SAY, SEVERELY REDUCED. “Ye gods!” said Ridcully. “Who’d want to kill off the old boy?” H E HAS ENEMIES. “What did he do? Miss a chimney?” E VERY LIVING THING HAS ENEMIES. “What, everything?” Y ES. E VERYTHING. P OWERFUL ENEMIES. B UT THEY HAVE GONE TOO FAR THIS TIME. N OW THEY ARE USING PEOPLE. “Who are?” T HOSE WHO THINK THE UNIVERSE SHOULD BE A LOT OF ROCKS MOVING IN CURVES. H AVE YOU EVER HEARD OF THE A UDITORS ? “I suppose the Bursar may have done—” N OT AUDITORS OF MONEY. A UDITORS OF REALITY. T HEY THINK OF LIFE AS A STAIN ON THE UNIVERSE. A PESTILENCE. M ESSY. G ETTING IN THE WAY. “In the way of what?” T HE EFFICIENT RUNNING OF THE UNIVERSE. “I thought it was run for us…Well, for the Professor of Applied Anthropics, actually, but we’re allowed to tag along,” said Ridcully. He scratched his chin. “And I could certainly run a marvelous university here if only we didn’t have to have these damn students underfoot all the time. ” Q UITE SO. “They want to get rid of us?” T HEY WANT YOU TO BE…LESS…DAMN , I’ VE FORGOTTEN THE WORD. U NTRUTHFUL ? T HE H OGFATHER IS A SYMBOL OF THIS …Death snapped his fingers, causing echoes to bounce off the walls, and added, WISTFUL LYING ? “Untruthful?” said Ridcully. “ Me ? I’m as honest as the day is long! Yes, what is it this time?” Ponder had tugged at his robe and now he whispered something in his ear. Ridcully cleared his throat. “I am reminded that this is in fact the shortest day of the year,” he said. “However, this does not undermine the point that I just made, although I thank my colleague for his invaluable support and constant readiness to correct minor if not downright trivial errors. I am a remarkably truthful man, sir. Things said at University council meetings don’t count. ” I MEAN HUMANITY IN GENERAL. E R …T HE ACT OF TELLING THE UNIVERSE IT IS OTHER THAN IT IS ? “You’ve got me there,” said Ridcully. “Anyway, why’re you doing the job?” S OMEONE MUST. I T IS VITALLY IMPORTANT. T HEY MUST BE SEEN, AND BELIEVED. B EFORE DAWN, THERE MUST BE ENOUGH BELIEF IN THE H OGFATHER. “Why?” said Ridcully. S O THAT THE SUN WILL COME UP. The two wizards gawped at him. I SELDOM JOKE , said Death. At which point there was a scream of horror. “That sounded like the Bursar,” said Ridcully. “And he’s been doing so well up to now. ” The reason for the Bursar’s scream lay on the floor of his bedroom. It was a man. He was dead. No one alive had that kind of expression. Some of the other wizards had got there first. Ridcully pushed his way through the crowd. “Ye gods,” he said. “What a face! He looks as though he died of fright! What happened?” “Well,” said the Dean, “as far as I can tell, the Bursar opened his wardrobe and found the man inside. ” “Really? I wouldn’t have said the poor old Bursar was all that frightening. ” “ No , Archchancellor. The corpse fell out on him. ” The Bursar was standing in the corner, wearing his old familiar expression of good-humored concussion. |
“You all right, old fellow?” said Ridcully. “What’s eleven percent of 1,276?” “One hundred and forty point three six,” said the Bursar promptly. “Ah, right as rain,” said Ridcully cheerfully. “I don’t see why,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Just because he can do things with numbers doesn’t mean everything else is fine. ” “Doesn’t need to be,” said Ridcully. “Numbers is what he has to do. The poor chap might be slightly yo-yo, but I’ve been reading about it. He’s one of these idiot servants. ” “Savants,” said the Dean patiently. “The word is savants, Ridcully. ” “Whatever. Those chaps who can tell you what day of the week the first of Grune was a hundred years ago—” “—Tuesday—” said the Bursar. “—but can’t tie their boot laces,” said Ridcully. “What was a corpse doing in his wardrobe? And no one is to say ‘Not a lot,’ or anythin’ tasteless like that. Haven’t had a corpse in a wardrobe since that business with Archchancellor Buckleby. ” “We all warned Buckleby that the lock was too stiff,” said the Dean. “Just out of interest, why was the Bursar fiddling with his wardrobe at this time of night?” said Ridcully. The wizards looked sheepish. “We were…playing Sardines, Archchancellor,” said the Dean. “What’s that?” “It’s like Hide and Seek, but when you find someone you have to squeeze in with them,” said the Dean. “I just want to be clear about this,” said Ridcully. “My senior wizards have spent the evening playing Hide and Seek?” “Oh, not the whole evening,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “We played Grandmother’s Footsteps and I Spy for quite a while until the Senior Wrangler made a scene just because we wouldn’t let him spell chandelier with an S. ” “Party games? You fellows?” The Dean sidled closer. “It’s Miss Smith,” he mumbled. “When we don’t join in she bursts into tears. ” “Who’s Miss Smith?” “The Cheerful Fairy,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes glumly. “If you don’t say yes to everything her lip wobbles like a plate of jelly. It’s unbearable. ” “We just joined in to stop her weeping,” said the Dean. “It’s amazing how one woman can be so soggy. ” “If we’re not cheerful she bursts into tears,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “The Senior Wrangler’s doing some juggling for her at the moment. ” “But he can’t juggle!” “I think that’s cheering her up a bit. ” “What you’re tellin’ me, then, is that my wizards are prancing around playin’ children’s games just to cheer up some dejected fairy?” “Er…yes. ” “I thought you had to clap your hands and say you believed in ’em,” said Ridcully. “Correct me if I’m wrong. ” “That’s just for the little shiny ones,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “Not for the ones in saggy cardigans with half a dozen hankies stuffed up their sleeves. ” Ridcully looked at the corpse again. “Anyone know who he is? Looks a bit of a ruffian to me. And where’s his boots, may I ask?” The Dean took a small glass cube from his pocket and ran it over the corpse. “Quite a large thaumic reading, gentlemen,” he said. “I think he got here by magic. ” He rummaged in the man’s pockets and pulled out a handful of small white things. “Ugh,” he said. “Teeth?” said Ridcully. “Who goes around with a pocket full of teeth?” “A very bad fighter?” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “I’ll go and get Modo to take the poor fellow away, shall I?” “If we can get a reading off the thaumameter, perhaps Hex—” Ridcully began. “Now, Ridcully,” said the Dean, “I really think there must be some problems that can be resolved without having to deal with that damn thinking mill. ” Death looked up at Hex. A MACHINE FOR THINKING ? “Er…yes, sir,” said Ponder Stibbons. “You see, when you said…Well, you see, Hex believes everything…But, look, the sun really will come up, won’t it? That’s its job. ” L EAVE US. Ponder backed away, and then scurried out of the room. The ants flowed along their tubes. Cogwheels spun. The big wheel with the sheep skulls on it creaked around slowly. A mouse squeaked, somewhere in the works. W ELL ? said Death. After a while, the pen began to write. +++ Big Red Lever Time +++ Query +++ N O. T HEY SAY YOU ARE A THINKER. E XTEND LOGICALLY THE RESULT OF THE HUMAN RACE CEASING TO BELIEVE IN THE H OGFATHER. W ILL THE SUN COME UP ? A NSWER. It took several minutes. The wheels spun. The ants ran. The mouse squeaked. An egg timer came down on a spring. It bounced aimlessly for a while, and then jerked back up again. Hex wrote: +++ The Sun Will Not Come Up +++ C ORRECT. H OW MAY THIS BE PREVENTED ? A NSWER. +++ Regular and Consistent Belief +++ G OOD. I HAVE A TASK FOR YOU, THINKING ENGINE. +++ Yes. I Am Preparing An Area Of Write-Only Memory +++ W HAT IS THAT ? +++ You Would Say: To Know In Your Bones +++ G OOD. H ERE IS YOUR INSTRUCTION. B ELIEVE IN THE H OGFATHER. +++ Yes +++ D O YOU BELIEVE ? A NSWER. +++ YES +++ D O…YOU…BELIEVE ? A NSWER. +++ YES +++ There was a change in the ill-assembled heap of pipes and tubes that was Hex. The big wheel creaked into a new position. From the other side of the wall came the hum of busy bees. G OOD. Death turned to leave the room, but stopped when Hex began to write furiously. He went back and looked at the emerging paper. +++ Dear Hogfather, For Hogswatch I Want— O H, NO. Y OU CAN’T WRITE LETT —Death paused, and then said, Y OU CAN, CAN’T YOU. +++ Yes. I Am Entitled +++ Death waited until the pen had stopped, and picked up the paper. B UT YOU ARE A MACHINE. T HINGS HAVE NO DESIRES. A DOORKNOB WANTS NOTHING, EVEN THOUGH IT IS A COMPLEX MACHINE. +++ All Things Strive +++ Y OU HAVE A POINT , said Death. He thought of tiny red petals in the black depths, and read to the end of the list. I DON’T KNOW WHAT MOST OF THESE THINGS ARE. I DON’T THINK THE SACK WILL, EITHER. +++ I Regret This +++ B UT WE WILL DO THE BEST WE CAN , Said Death. F RANKLY , I SHALL BE GLAD WHEN TONIGHT’S OVER. I T’S MUCH HARDER TO GIVE THAN TO RECEIVE. He rummaged in his sack. L ET ME SEE …H OW OLD ARE YOU ? Susan crept up the stairs, one hand on the hilt of the sword. Ponder Stibbons had been worried to find himself, as a wizard, awaiting the arrival of the Hogfather. It’s amazing how people define roles for themselves and put handcuffs on their experience and are constantly surprised by the things a roulette universe spins at them. Here am I, they say, a mere wholesale fish monger, at the controls of a giant airliner because as it turns out all the crew had the Coronation Chicken. Who’d have thought it? Here am I, a housewife who merely went out this morning to bank the proceeds of the Playgroup Association’s Car Boot Sale, on the run with one million in stolen cash and a rather handsome man from the Battery Chickens’ Liberation Organization. Amazing! Here am I, a perfectly ordinary hockey player, suddenly realizing I’m the Son of God with five hundred devoted followers in a nice little commune in Empowerment, Southern California. Who’d have thought it? Here am I, thought Susan, a very practically minded governess who can add up faster upside down than most people can the right way up, climbing up a tooth-shaped tower belonging to the Tooth Fairy and armed with a sword belonging to Death… Again! I wish one month, just one damn month , could go by without something like this happening to me. She could hear voices above her. Someone said something about a lock. She peered over the edge of the stairwell. It looked as though people had been camping out up here. There were boxes and sleeping rolls strewn around. A couple of men were sitting on boxes watching a third man who was working on a door in one curved wall. One of the men was the biggest Susan had ever seen, one of those huge fat men who contrive to indicate that a lot of the fat under their shapeless clothes is muscle. The other— “Hello,” said a cheerful voice by her ear. “What’s your name?” She made herself turn her head slowly. First she saw the gray, glinting eye. Then the yellow-white one with the tiny dot of a pupil came into view. Around them was a friendly pink and white face topped by curly hair. |
It was actually quite pretty, in a boyish sort of way, except that those mismatched eyes staring out of it suggested that it had been stolen from someone else. She started to move her hand but the boy was there first, dragging the sword scabbard out of her belt. “Ah, ah!” he chided, turning and fending her off as she tried to grab it. “Well, well, well. My word. White bone handle, rather tasteless skull and bone decoration…Death himself’s second favorite weapon, am I right? Oh, my! This must be Hogswatch! And this must mean that you are Susan Sto-Helit. Nobility. I’d bow,” he added, dancing back, “but I’m afraid you’d do something dreadful—” There was a click, and a little gasp of excitement from the wizard working on the door. “Yes! Yes! Left-handed using a wooden pick! That’s simple !” He saw that even Susan was looking at him, and coughed nervously. “Er, I’ve got the fifth lock open, Mister Teatime! Not a problem! They’re just based on Woddeley’s Occult Sequence! Any fool could do it if they knew that!” “ I know it,” said Teatime, without taking his eyes off Susan. “Ah…” It was not technically audible, but nevertheless Susan could almost hear the wizard’s mind back-pedaling. Up ahead was the conclusion that Teatime had no time for people he didn’t need. “…with…inter…est…ing subtleties,” he said slowly. “Yes. Very tricky. I’ll, er, just have a look at number six…” “How do you know who I am?” said Susan. “Oh, easy ,” said Teatime. “ Twurp’s Peerage. Family motto Non temetis messor. We have to read it, you know, in class. Hah, old Mericet calls it the Guide to the Turf. No one laughs except him, of course. Oh, yes, I know about you. Quite a lot. Your father was well known. Went a long way very fast. As for your grandfather…honestly, that motto. Is that good taste? Of course, you don’t need to fear him, do you? Or do you?” Susan tried to fade. It didn’t work. She could feel herself staying embarrassingly solid. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “Who are you, anyway?” “I beg your pardon. My name is Teatime, Jonathan Teatime. At your service. ” Susan lined up the syllables in her head. “You mean…like around four o’clock in the afternoon?” she said. “No. I did say Teh-ah-tim-eh,” said Teatime. “I spoke very clearly. Please don’t try to break my concentration by annoying me. I only get annoyed at important things. How are you getting on, Mr. Sideney? If it’s just according to Woddeley’s Sequence, number six should be copper and blue-green light. Unless, of course, there are any subtleties …” “Er, doing it right now, Mister Teatime—” “Do you think your grandfather will try to rescue you? Do you think he will? But now I have his sword, you see. I wonder—” There was another click. “Sixth lock, Mister Teatime!” “Really. ” “Er…don’t you want me to start on the seventh?” “Oh, well, if you like. Pure white light will be the key,” said Teatime, still not looking away from Susan. “But it may not be all important now. Thank you, anyway. You’ve been most helpful. ” “Er—” “Yes, you may go. ” Susan noticed that Sideney didn’t even bother to pick up his books and tools, but hurried down the stairs as if he expected to be called back and was trying to run faster than the sound. “Is that all you’re here for?” she said. “A robbery?” He was dressed like an Assassin, after all, and there was always one way to annoy an Assassin. “Like a thief?” Teatime danced excitedly. “A thief? Me? I’m not a thief, madam. But if I were, I would be the kind that steals fire from the gods. ” “We’ve already got fire. ” “There must be an upgrade by now. No, these gentlemen are thieves. Common robbers. Decent types, although you wouldn’t necessarily want to watch them eat, for example. That’s Medium Dave and exhibit B is Banjo. He can talk. ” Medium Dave nodded at Susan. She saw the look in his eyes. Maybe there was something she could use… She’d need something. Even her hair was a mess. She couldn’t step behind time, she couldn’t fade into the background, and now even her hair had let her down. She was normal. Here, she was what she’d always wanted to be. Bloody, bloody damn. Sideney prayed as he ran down the stairs. He didn’t believe in any gods, since most wizards seldom like to encourage them, but he prayed anyway the fervent prayers of an atheist who hopes to be wrong. But no one called him back. And no one ran after him. So, being of a serious turn of mind under his normal state of sub-critical fear, he slowed down in case he lost his footing. It was then that he noticed that the steps underfoot weren’t the smooth whiteness they had been everywhere else but were very large, pitted flagstones. And the light had changed, and then they weren’t stairs any more and he staggered as he encountered flat ground where steps should have been. His outstretched hand brushed against a crumbling brick. And the ghosts of the past poured in, and he knew where he was. He was in the yard of Gammer Wimblestone’s dame school. His mother wanted him to learn his letters and be a wizard, but she also thought that long curls on a five-year-old boy looked very smart. This was the hunting ground of Ronnie Jenks. Adult memory and understanding said that Ronnie was just an unintelligent bullet-headed seven-year-old bully with muscles where his brain should have been. The eye of childhood, rather more accurately, dreaded him as a force like a personalized earthquake with one nostril bunged up with bogies, both knees scabbed, both fists balled and all five brain cells concentrated in a kind of cerebral grunt. Oh, gods. There was the tree Ronnie used to hide behind. It looked as big and menacing as he remembered it. But…if somehow he’d ended up back there, gods knew how, well, he might be a bit on the skinny side but he was a damn sight bigger than Ronnie Jenks now. Gods, yes , he’d kick those evil little trousers all the— And then, as a shadow blotted out the sun, he realized he was wearing curls. Teatime looked thoughtfully at the door. “I suppose I should open it,” he said, “after coming all this way…” “You’re controlling children by their teeth,” said Susan. “It does sound odd, doesn’t it, when you put it like that,” said Teatime. “But that’s sympathetic magic for you. Is your grandfather going to try to rescue you, do you think? But no…I don’t think he can. Not here, I think. I don’t think that he can come here. So he sent you, did he?” “Certainly not! He—” Susan stopped. Oh, he had , she told herself, feeling even more of a fool. He certainly had. He was learning about humans, all right. For a walking skeleton, he could be quite clever… But…how clever was Teatime? Just a bit too excited at his cleverness to realize that if Death—She tried to stamp on the thought, just in case Teatime could read it in her eyes. “I don’t think he’ll try,” she said. “He’s not as clever as you, Mister Teatime. ” “Teh-ah-tim-eh,” said Teatime, automatically. “That’s a shame. ” “Do you think you’re going to get away with this?” “Oh dear. Do people really say that?” And suddenly Teatime was much closer. “I’ve got away with it. No more Hogfather. And that’s only the start. We’ll keep the teeth coming in, of course. The possibilities—” There was a rumble like an avalanche, a long way off. The dormant Banjo had awakened, causing tremors on his lower slopes. His enormous hands, which had been resting on his knees, started to bunch. “What’s dis?” he said. Teatime stopped and, for a moment, looked puzzled. “What’s this what?” “You said no more Hogfather,” said Banjo. He stood up, like a mountain range rising gently in the squeeze between colliding continents. His hands still stayed in the vicinity of his knees. Teatime stared at him and then glanced at Medium Dave. “He does know what we’ve been doing, does he?” he said. “You did tell him?” Medium Dave shrugged. “Dere’s got to be a Hogfather,” said Banjo. “Dere’s always a Hogfather. ” Susan looked down. Gray blotches were speeding across the white marble. She was standing in a pool of gray. So was Banjo. |
And around Teatime the dots bounced and recoiled like wasps around a pot of jam. Looking for something, she thought. “You don’t believe in the Hogfather, do you?” said Teatime. “A big boy like you?” “Yeah,” said Banjo. “So what’s dis ‘no more Hogfather’?” Teatime pointed at Susan. “ She did it,” he said. “She killed him. ” The sheer playground effrontery of it shocked Susan. “No I didn’t,” she said. “He—” “Did!” “Didn’t!” “Did!” Banjo’s big bald head turned toward her. “What’s dis about the Hogfather?” he said. “I don’t think he’s dead,” said Susan. “But Teatime has made him very ill—” “Who cares?” said Teatime, dancing away. “When this is over, Banjo, you’ll have as many presents as you want. Trust me!” “Dere’s got to be a Hogfather,” Banjo rumbled. “Else dere’s no Hogswatch. ” “It’s just another solar festival,” said Teatime. “It—” Medium Dave stood up. He had his hand on his sword. “We’re going, Teatime,” he said. “Me and Banjo are going. I don’t like any of this. I don’t mind robbing, I don’t mind thieving, but this isn’t honest. Banjo? You come with me right now!” “What’s dis about no more Hogfather?” said Banjo. Teatime pointed to Susan. “You grab her, Banjo. It’s all her fault!” Banjo lumbered a few steps in Susan’s direction, and then stopped. “Our mam said no hittin’ girls,” he rumbled. “No pullin’ dere hair…” Teatime rolled his one good eye. Around his feet the grayness seemed to be boiling in the stone, following his feet as they moved. And it was around Banjo, too. Searching, Susan thought. It’s looking for a way in. “I think I know you, Teatime,” she said, as sweetly as she could for Banjo’s sake. “You’re the mad kid they’re all scared of, right?” “Banjo?” snapped Teatime. “I said grab her—” “Our mam said—” “The giggling excitable one even the bullies never touched because if they did he went insane and kicked and bit,” said Susan. “The kid who didn’t know the difference between chucking a stone at a cat and setting it on fire. ” To her delight he glared at her. “Shut up,” he said. “I bet no one wanted to play with you,” said Susan. “Not the kid with no friends. Kids know about a mind like yours even if they don’t know the right words for it—” “I said shut up! Get her, Banjo!” That was it. She could hear it in Teatime’s voice. There was a touch of vibrato that hadn’t been there before. “The kind of little boy,” she said, watching his face, “who looks up dolls’ dresses…” “I didn’t !” Banjo looked worried. “Our mam said—” “Oh, to blazes with your mam!” snapped Teatime. There was a whisper of steel as Medium Dave drew his sword. “What’d you say about our mam?” he whispered. Now he’s having to concentrate on three people, Susan thought. “I bet no one ever played with you,” she said. “I bet there were things people had to hush up, eh?” “Banjo! You do what I tell you!” Teatime screamed. The monstrous man was beside her now. She could see his face twisted in an agony of indecision. His enormous fists clenched and unclenched and his lips moved as some kind of horrible debate raged in his head. “Our…our mam…our mam said…” The gray marks flowed across the floor and formed a pool of shadow which grew darker and higher with astonishing speed. It towered over the three men, and grew a shape. “ Have you been a bad boy, you little perisher ?” The huge woman towered over all three men. In one meaty hand it was holding a bundle of birch twigs as thick as a man’s arm. The thing growled. Medium Dave looked up into the enormous face of Ma Lilywhite. Every pore was a pothole. Every brown tooth was a tombstone. “You been letting him get into trouble, our Davey? You have, ain’t you?” He backed away. “No, Mum…no, Mum…” “ You need a good hiding, Banjo? You been playing with girls again ?” Banjo sagged on to his knees, tears of misery rolling down his face. “Sorry Mum sorry sorry Mum noooohhh Mum sorry Mum sorry sorry—” Then the figure turned to Medium Dave again. The sword dropped out of his hand. His face seemed to melt. Medium Dave started to cry. “No Mum no Mum no Mum nooooh Mum—” He gave a gurgle and collapsed, clutching his chest. And vanished. Teatime started to laugh. Susan tapped him on the shoulder and, as he looked round, hit him as hard as she could across the face. That was the plan, at least. His hand moved faster and caught her wrist. It was like striking an iron bar. “Oh, no ,” he said. “I don’t think so. ” Out of the corner of her eye Susan saw Banjo crawling across the floor to where his brother had been. Ma Lilywhite had vanished. “This place gets into your head, doesn’t it?” Teatime said. “It pokes around to find out how to deal with you. Well, I ’m in touch with my inner child. ” He reached out with his other hand and grabbed her hair, pulling her head down. Susan screamed. “And it’s much more fun,” he whispered. Susan felt his grip lessen. There was a wet thump like a piece of steak hitting a slab and Teatime went past her, on his back. “No pullin’ girls’ hair,” rumbled Banjo. “That’s bad. ” Teatime bounced up like an acrobat and steadied himself on the railing of the stairwell. Then he drew the sword. The blade was invisible in the bright light of the tower. “It’s true what the stories say, then,” he said. “So thin you can’t see it. I’m going to have such fun with it. ” He waved it at them. “So light. ” “You wouldn’t dare use it. My grandfather will come after you,” said Susan, walking toward him. She saw one eye twitch. “He comes after everyone. But I’ll be ready for him,” said Teatime. “He’s very single-minded,” said Susan, closer now. “Ah, a man after my own heart. ” “Could be, Mister Tea time. ” He brought the sword around. She didn’t even have time to duck. And she didn’t even try to when he swung the sword back again. “It doesn’t work here,” she said, as he stared at it in astonishment. “The blade doesn’t exist here. There’s no Death here!” She slapped him across the face. “Hi!” she said brightly. “I’m the inner baby-sitter!” She didn’t punch. She just thrust out an arm, palm first, catching him under the chin and lifting him backward over the rail. He somersaulted. She never knew how. He somehow managed to gain purchase on clear air. His free arm grabbed at hers, her feet came off the ground, and she was over the rail. She caught it with her other hand—although later she wondered if the rail hadn’t managed to catch her instead. Teatime swung from her arm, staring upward with a thoughtful expression. She saw him grip the sword hilt in his teeth and reach down to his belt— The question “Is this person mad enough to try to kill someone holding him?” was asked and answered very, very fast…She kicked down and hit him on the ear. The cloth of her sleeve began to tear. Teatime tried to get another grip. She kicked again and the dress ripped. For an instant he held onto nothing and then, still wearing the expression of someone trying to solve a complex problem, he fell away, spinning, getting smaller… He hit the pile of teeth, sending them splashing across the marble. He jerked for a moment… And vanished. A hand like a bunch of bananas pulled Susan back over the rail. “You can get into trouble, hittin’ girls,” said Banjo. “No playin’ with girls. ” There was a click behind them. The doors had swung open. Cold white mist rolled out across the floor. “Our mam—” said Banjo, trying to work things out. “Our mam was here—” “Yes,” said Susan. “But it weren’t our mam, ’cos they buried our mam—” “Yes. ” “We watched ’em fill in the grave and everything. ” “Yes,” said Susan, and added to herself, I bet you did. “And where’s our Davey gone?” “Er…somewhere else, Banjo. ” “Somewhere nice?” said the huge man hesitantly. Susan grasped with relief the opportunity to tell the truth, or at least not definitely lie. “It could be,” she said. “Better’n here?” “You never know. Some people would say the odds are in favor. ” Banjo turned his pink piggy eyes on her. For a moment a thirty-five-year-old man looked out through the pink clouds of a five-year-old face. “That’s good,” he said. “He’ll be able to see our mam again. |
” This much conversation seemed to exhaust him. He sagged. “I wanna go home,” he said. She stared at his big, stained face, shrugged hopelessly, pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and held it up to his mouth. “Spit,” she commanded. He obeyed. She dabbed the handkerchief over the worst parts and then tucked it into his hand. “Have a good blow,” she suggested, and then carefully leaned out of range until the echoes of the blast had died away. “You can keep the hanky. Please,” she added, meaning it wholeheartedly. “Now tuck your shirt in. ” “Yes, miss. ” “Now, go downstairs and sweep all the teeth out of the circle. Can you do that?” Banjo nodded. “What can you do?” Susan prompted. Banjo concentrated. “Sweep all the teeth out of the circle, miss. ” “Good. Off you go. ” Susan watched him plod off, and then looked at the white doorway. She was sure the wizard had only got as far as the sixth lock. The room beyond the door was entirely white, and the mist that swirled at knee level deadened even the sound of her footsteps. All there was was a bed. It was a large four-poster, old and dusty. She thought it was unoccupied and then she saw the figure, lying among the mounds of pillows. It looked very much like a frail old lady in a mobcap. The old woman turned her head and smiled at Susan. “Hello, my dear. ” Susan couldn’t remember a grandmother. Her father’s mother had died when she was young, and the other side of the family…well, she’d never had a grandmother. But this was the sort she’d have wanted. The kind, the nasty realistic side of her mind said, that hardly ever existed. Susan thought she heard a child laugh. And another one. Somewhere almost out of hearing, children were at play. It was always a pleasant, lulling sound. Always provided, of course, you couldn’t hear the actual words. “No,” said Susan. “Sorry, dear?” said the old lady. “You’re not the Tooth Fairy. ” Oh, no…there was even a damn patchwork quilt… “Oh, I am , dear. ” “Oh, Grandma, what big teeth you have…Good grief, you’ve even got a shawl, oh dear. ” “I don’t understand, lovey—” “You forgot the rocking chair,” said Susan. “I always thought there’d be a rocking chair…” There was a pop behind her, and then a dying creak-creak. She didn’t even turn round. “If you’ve included a kitten playing with a ball of wool it’ll go very hard with you,” she said sternly, and picked up the candlestick by the bed. It seemed heavy enough. “I don’t think you’re real,” she said levelly. “There’s not a little old woman in a shawl running this place. You’re out of my head. That’s how you defend yourself…You poke around in people’s heads and find the things that work—” She swung the candlestick. It passed through the figure in the bed. “See?” she said. “You’re not even real. ” “Oh, I am real, dear,” said the old woman, as her outline changed. “The candlestick wasn’t. ” Susan looked down at the new shape. “Nope,” she said. “It’s horrible, but it doesn’t frighten me. No, nor does that. ” It changed again, and again. “No, nor does my father. Good grief, you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel, aren’t you? I like spiders. Snakes don’t worry me. Dogs? No. Rats are fine, I like rats. Sorry, is anyone frightened of that ?” She grabbed at the thing and this time the shape stayed. It looked like a small, wizened monkey, but with big deep eyes under a brow overhanging like a balcony. Its hair was gray and lank. It struggled weakly in her grasp, and wheezed. “I don’t frighten easily,” said Susan, “but you’d be amazed at how angry I can become. ” The creature hung limp. “I…I…” it muttered. She let it down again. “You’re a bogeyman, aren’t you?” she said. It collapsed in a heap when she took her hand way. “…Not a…The …” it said. “What do you mean, the ?” said Susan. “ The bogeyman,” said the bogeyman. And she saw how rangy it was, how white and gray streaked its hair, how the skin was stretched over the bones… “The first bogeyman?” “I…there were…I do remember when the land was different. Ice. Many times of…ice. And the…what do you call them?” The creature wheezed. “…The lands, the big lands…all different…” Susan sat down on the bed. “You mean continents?” “…all different. ” The black sunken eyes glinted at her and suddenly the thing reared up, bony arms waving. “I was the dark in the cave! I was the shadow in the trees! You’ve heard about…the primal scream? That was…at me ! I was…” It folded up and started coughing. “And when…that thing, you know, that thing…all light and bright…lightning you could carry, hot, little sunshine, and then there was no more dark, just shadows, and then you made axes, axes in the forest, and then…and then…” Susan sat down on the bed. “There’s still plenty of bogeymen,” she said. “Hiding under beds! Lurking in cupboards! But,” it fought for breath, “if you had seen me…in the old days…when they came down into the deep caves to draw their hunting pictures…I could roar in their heads…so that their stomachs dropped out of their bottoms…” “All the old skills are dying out,” said Susan gravely. “…Oh, others came later…They never knew that first fine terror. All they knew,” even whispering, the bogeyman managed to get a sneer in its voice, “was dark corners. I had been the dark! I was the…first! And now I was no better than them…frightening maids, curdling cream…hiding in shadows at the stub of the year…and then one night, I thought…why?” Susan nodded. Bogeymen weren’t bright. The moment of existential uncertainty probably took a lot longer in heads where the brain cells bounced so very slowly from one side of the skull to the other. But…Granddad had thought like that. You hung around with humans long enough and you stopped being what they imagined you to be and wanted to become something of your own. Umbrellas and silver hairbrushes… “You thought: what was the point of it all?” she said. “…frightening children…lurking…and then I started to watch them. Didn’t really used to be children back in the ice times…just big humans, little humans, not children …and…and there was a different world in their heads…In their heads, that’s where the old days were now. The old days. When it was all young. ” “You came out from under the bed…” “I watched over them…kept ’em safe…” Susan tried not to shudder. “And the teeth?” “I…oh, you can’t leave teeth around, anyone might get them, do terrible things. I liked them, I didn’t want anyone to hurt them…” it bubbled. “I never wanted to hurt them, I just used to watch, I kept the teeth all safe…and, and, and sometimes I just sit here listening to them…” It mumbled on. Susan listened in embarrassed amazement, not knowing whether to take pity on the thing or, and this was a developing option, to tread on it. “…and the teeth…they remember…” It started to shake. “The money?” Susan prompted. “I don’t see many rich bogeymen around. ” “…money everywhere…buried in holes…old treasure…back of sofas…it adds up…investments…money for the tooth, very important, part of the magic, makes it safe, makes it proper, otherwise it’s thieving …and I labeled ’em all, and kept ’em safe, and…and then I was old, but I found people…” The Tooth Fairy sniggered, and for a moment Susan felt sorry for the men in the ancient caves. “They don’t ask questions, do they?” it bubbled. “…You give ’em money and they all do their jobs and they don’t ask questions…” “It’s more than their job’s worth,” said Susan. “…and then they came…stealing…” Susan gave in. Old gods do new jobs. “You look terrible. ” “…thank you very much…” “I mean ill. ” “…very old…all those men, too much effort…” The bogeyman groaned. “…you…don’t die here,” it panted. “Just get old, listening to the laughter…” Susan nodded. It was in the air. She couldn’t hear words, just a distant chatter, as if it was at the other end of a long corridor. “…and this place…it grew up round me…” “The trees,” said Susan. “And the sky. Out of their heads…” “…dying…the little children…you’ve got to…” The figure faded. Susan sat for a while, listening to the distant chatter. Worlds of belief, she thought. Just like oysters. |
A little piece of shit gets in and then a pearl grows up around it. She got up and went downstairs. Banjo had found a broom and mop somewhere. The circle was empty and, with surprising initiative, the man was carefully washing the chalk away. “Banjo?” “Yes, miss. ” “You like it here?” “There’s trees, miss. ” That probably counts as a “yes,” Susan decided. “The sky doesn’t worry you?” He looked at her in puzzlement. “No, miss?” “Can you count, Banjo?” He looked smug. “Yes, miss. On m’fingers, miss. ” “So you can count up to…?” Susan prompted. “Thirteen, miss,” said Banjo proudly. She looked at his big hands. “Good grief. ” Well, she thought, and why not? He’s big and trustworthy and what other kind of life has he got? “I think it would be a good idea if you did the Tooth Fairy’s job, Banjo. ” “Will that be all right, miss? Won’t the Tooth Fairy mind?” “You…do it until she comes back. ” “All right, miss. ” “I’ll…er…get people to keep an eye on you, until you get settled in. I think food comes in on the cart. You’re not to let people cheat you. ” She looked at his hands and then up and up the lower slopes until she saw the peak of Mount Banjo, and added, “Not that I think they’ll try, mind you. ” “Yes, miss. I will keep things tidy, miss. Er…” The big pink face looked at her. “Yes, Banjo?” “Can I have a puppy, miss? I had a kitten once, miss, but our mam drowned it ’cos it was dirty. ” Susan’s memory threw up a name. “A puppy called Spot?” “Yes, miss. Spot, miss. ” “I think it’ll turn up quite soon, Banjo. ” He seemed to take this entirely on trust. “Thank you, miss. ” “And now I’ve got to go. ” “Right, miss. ” She looked back up the tower. Death’s land might be dark, but when you were there you never thought anything bad was going to happen to you. You were beyond the places where it could. But here— When you were grown up you only feared, well, logical things. Poverty. Illness. Being found out. At least you weren’t mad with terror because of something under the stairs. The world wasn’t full of arbitrary light and shade. The wonderful world of childhood? Well, it wasn’t a cutdown version of the adult one, that was certain. It was more like the adult one written in big heavy letters. Everything was… more. More everything. She left Banjo to his sweeping and stepped out into the perpetually sunlit world. Bilious and Violet hurried toward her. Bilious was waving a branch like a club. “You don’t need that,” said Susan. She wanted some sleep. “We talked about it and we thought we ought to come back and help,” said Bilious. “Ah. Democratic courage,” said Susan. “Well, they’re all gone. To wherever they go. ” Bilious lowered the branch thankfully. “It wasn’t that—” he began. “Look, you two can make yourselves useful,” said Susan. “There’s a mess in there. Go and help Banjo. ” “Banjo?” “He’s…more or less running the place now. ” Violet laughed. “But he’s—” “He’s in charge,” said Susan wearily. “All right,” said Bilious. “Anyway, I’m sure we can tell him what to do—” “No! Too many people have told him what to do. He knows what to do. Just help him get started, all right? But…” “If the Hogfather comes back now, you’ll vanish, won’t you?” She didn’t know how to phrase the question. “I’m, er, giving up my old job,” said Bilious. “Er…I’m going to go on working as a holiday relief for the other gods. ” He gave her a pleading look. “Really?” Susan looked at Violet. Oh, well, maybe if she believes in him, at least…It might work. You never know. “Good,” she said. “Have fun. Now I’m going home. This is a hell of a way to spend Hogswatch. ” She found Binky waiting by the stream. The Auditors fluttered anxiously. And, as always happens in their species when something goes radically wrong and needs fixing instantly, they settled down to try to work out who to blame. One said, It was… And then it stopped. The Auditors lived by consensus, which made picking scapegoats a little problematical. It brightened up. After all, if everyone was to blame, then it was no one’s actual fault. That’s what collective responsibility meant, after all. It was more like bad luck, or something. Another said, Unfortunately, people might get the wrong idea. We may be asked questions. One said, What about Death? He interfered, after all. One said, Er…not exactly. One said, Oh, come on. He got the girl involved. One said, Er…no. She got herself involved. One said, Yes, but he told her… One said, No. He didn’t. In fact he specifically did not tell— It paused, and then said, Damn! One said, On the other hand… The robes turned toward it. Yes? One said, There’s no actual evidence. Nothing written down. Some humans got excited and decided to attack the Tooth Fairy’s country. This is unfortunate, but nothing to do with us. We are shocked, of course. One said, There’s still the Hogfather. Things are going to be noticed. Questions may be asked. They hovered for a while, unspeaking. Eventually one said, We may have to take… It paused, loath even to think the word, but managed to continue…a risk. Bed, thought Susan, as the mists rolled past her. And in the morning, decent human things like coffee and porridge. And bed. Real things— Binky stopped. She stared at his ears for a moment, and then urged him forward. He whinnied, and didn’t budge. A skeletal hand had grabbed his bridle. Death materialized. I T IS NOT OVER. M ORE MUST BE DONE. T HEY TORMENT HIM STILL. Susan sagged. “What is? Who are?” M OVE FORWARD. I WILL STEER. Death climbed into the saddle and reached around her for the reins. “Look, I went—” Susan began. Y ES. I KNOW. T HE CONTROL OF BELIEF , said Death, as the horse moved forward again. O NLY A VERY SIMPLE MIND COULD THINK OF THAT. M AGIC SO OLD IT’S HARDLY MAGIC. W HAT A SIMPLE WAY TO MAKE MILLIONS OF CHILDREN CEASE TO BELIEVE IN THE H OGFATHER. “And what were you doing?” Susan demanded. I TOO HAVE DONE WHAT I SET OUT TO DO. I HAVE KEPT A SPACE. A MILLION CARPETS WITH SOOTY BOOT MARKS, MILLIONS OF FILLED STOCKINGS, ALL THOSE ROOFS WITH RUNNER MARKS ON THEM …D ISBELIEF WILL FIND IT HARD GOING IN THE FACE OF THAT. A LBERT SAYS HE NEVER WANTS TO DRINK ANOTHER SHERRY FOR DAYS. T HE H OGFATHER WILL HAVE SOMETHING TO COME BACK TO, AT LEAST. “What have I got to do now?” Y OU MUST BRING THE H OGFATHER BACK. “Oh, must I? For peace and goodwill and the tinkling of fairy bells? Who cares. He’s just some fat old clown who makes people feel smug at Hogswatch! I’ve been through all this for some old man who prowls around kids’ bedrooms?” N O. S O THAT THE SUN WILL RISE. “What has astronomy got to do with the Hogfather?” O LD GODS DO NEW JOBS. The Senior Wrangler wasn’t attending the Feast. He got one of the maids to bring a tray up to his rooms, where he was Entertaining and doing all those things a man does when he finds himself unexpectedly tête-à-tête with the opposite sex, like trying to shine his boots on his trousers and clean his fingernails with his other fingernails. “A little more wine, Gwendoline? It’s hardly alcoholic ,” he said, leaning over her. “I don’t mind if I do, Mr. Wrangler. ” “Oh, call me Horace, please. And perhaps a little something for your chicken?” “I’m afraid she seems to have wandered off somewhere,” said the Cheerful Fairy. “I’m afraid I’m, I’m, I’m rather dull company…” She blew her nose noisily. “Oh, I certainly wouldn’t say that,” said the Senior Wrangler. He wished he’d had time to tidy up his rooms a bit, or at least get some of the more embarrassing bits of laundry off the stuffed rhinoceros. “Everyone’s been so kind,” said the Cheerful Fairy, dabbing at her streaming eyes. “Who was the skinny one that kept making the funny faces for me?” “That was the Bursar. Why don’t you—” “ He seemed very cheerful, anyway. ” “It’s the dried frog pills, he eats them by the handful,” said the Senior Wrangler dismissively. “I say, why don’t—” “Oh dear. I hope they’re not addictive. ” “I’m sure he wouldn’t keep on eating them if they were addictive,” said the Senior Wrangler. |
“Now, why don’t you have another glass of wine, and then…and then…” a happy thought struck him “…and then…and then perhaps I could show you Archchancellor Bowell’s Remembrance? It’s got a-a-a-a very interesting ceiling. My word, yes. ” “That would be very nice,” said the Cheerful Fairy. “Would it cheer me up, do you think?” “Oh, it would, it would ,” said the Senior Wrangler. “Definitely! Good! So I’ll, er, I’ll just go and…just go and…I’ll…” He pointed vaguely in the direction of his dressing room, while hopping from one foot to the other. “I’ll just go and, er…go…just…” He fled into the dressing room and slammed the door behind him. His wild eyes scanned the shelves and hangers. “Clean robe,” he mumbled. “Comb face, wash socks, fresh hair, where’s that Insteadofshave lotion—” From the other side of the door came the adorable sound of the Cheerful Fairy blowing her nose. From this side came the sound of the Senior Wrangler’s muffled scream as, made careless by haste and a very poor sense of smell, he mistakenly splashed his face with the turpentine he used for treating his feet. Somewhere overhead a very small plump child with a bow and arrow and ridiculously unaerodynamic wings buzzed ineffectually against a shut window on which the frost was tracing the outline of a rather handsome Auriental lady. The other window already had an icy picture of a vase of sunflowers. In the Great Hall one of the tables had already collapsed. It was one of the customs of the Feast that although there were many courses each wizard went at his own speed, a tradition instituted to prevent the slow ones holding everyone else up. And they could also have seconds if they wished, so that if a wizard was particularly attracted to soup he could go round and round for an hour before starting on the preliminary stages of the fish courses. “How’re you feeling now, old chap?” said the Dean, who was sitting next to the Bursar. “Back on the dried frog pills?” “I, er, I, er, no, I’m not too bad,” said the Bursar. “It was, of course, rather a, rather a shock when—” “That’s a shame, because here’s your Hogswatch present,” said the Dean, passing over a small box. It rattled. “You can open it now if you like. ” “Oh, well, how nice—” “It’s from me,” said the Dean. “What a lovely—” “I bought it with my own money, you know,” said the Dean, waving a turkey leg airily. “The wrapping paper is a very nice—” “More than a dollar, I might add. ” “My goodness—” The Bursar pulled off the last of the wrapping paper. “It’s a box for keeping dried frog pills in. See? It’s got ‘Dried Frog Pills’ on it, see?” The Bursar shook it. “Oh, how nice,” he said weakly. “It’s got some pills in it already. How thoughtful. They will come in handy. ” “Yes,” said the Dean. “I took them off your dressing table. After all, I was down a dollar as it was. ” The Bursar nodded gratefully and put the little box neatly beside his plate. They’d actually allowed him knives this evening. They’d actually allowed him to eat other things than those things that could only be scraped up with a wooden spoon. He eyed the nearest roast pig with nervous anticipation, and tucked his napkin firmly under his chin. “Er, excuse me, Mr. Stibbons,” he quavered. “Would you be so good as to pass me the apple sauce tankard—” There was a sound like coarse fabric ripping, somewhere in the air in front of the Bursar, and a crash as something landed on top of the roast pig. Roast potatoes and gravy filled the air. The apple that had been in the pig’s mouth was violently expelled and hit the Bursar on the forehead. He blinked, looked down, and found he was about to plunge his fork into a human head. “Ahaha,” he murmured, as his eyes started to glaze. The wizards heaved aside the overturned dishes and smashed crockery. “He just fell out of the air!” “Is he an Assassin? Not one of their student pranks, is it?” “Why’s he holding a sword without a sharp bit?” “Is he dead?” “I think so!” “I didn’t even have any of that salmon mousse! Will you look at it? His foot’s in it! It’s all over the place! Do you want yours?” Ponder Stibbons fought his way through the throng. He knew his more senior fellows when they were feeling helpful. They were like a glass of water to a drowning man. “Give him air!” he protested. “How do we know if he needs any?” said the Dean. Ponder put his ear to the fallen youth’s chest. “He’s not breathing!” “Breathing spell, breathing spell,” muttered the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Er…Spolt’s Forthright Respirator, perhaps? I think I’ve got it written down somewhere—” Ridcully reached through the wizards and pulled out the black-clad man by a leg. He held him upside down in his big hand and thumped him heavily on the back. He met their astonished gaze. “Used to do this on the farm,” he said. “Works a treat on baby goats. ” “Oh, now, really ,” said the Dean, “I don’t—” The corpse made a noise somewhere between a choke and a cough. “Make some space, you fellows!” the Archchancellor bellowed, clearing an area of table with one sweep of his spare arm. “Hey, I hadn’t had any of that Prawn Escoffé!” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “I didn’t even know we had any,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Someone, and I name no names, Dean, shoved it behind the soft-shelled crabs so they could keep it for themselves. I call that cheap. ” Teatime opened his eyes. It said a lot for his constitution that it survived a very close-up view of Ridcully’s nose, which filled the immediate universe like a big pink planet. “Excuse me, excuse me,” said Ponder, leaning over with his notebook open, “but this is vitally important for the advancement of natural philosophy. Did you see any bright lights? Was there a shining tunnel? Did any deceased relatives attempt to speak to you? What word most describes the—” Ridcully pulled him away. “What’s all this, Mr. Stibbons?” “I really should talk to him, sir. He’s had a near-death experience!” “We all have. It’s called ‘living,’” said the Archchancellor shortly. “Pour the poor lad a glass of spirits and put that damn pencil away. ” “Uh…This must be Unseen University?” said Teatime. “And you are all wizards?” “Now, just you lie still,” said Ridcully. But Teatime had already risen on his elbows. “There was a sword,” he muttered. “Oh, it’s fallen on the floor,” said the Dean, reaching down. “But it looks as though it’s—Did I do that?” The wizards looked at the large curved slice of table falling away. Something had cut through everything—wood, cloth, plates, cutlery, food. The Dean swore that a candle flame that had been in the path of the unseen blade was only half a flame for a moment, until the wick realized that this was no way to behave. The Dean raised his hand. The other wizards scattered. “Looks like a thin blue line in the air,” he said, wonderingly. “Excuse me, sir,” said Teatime, taking it from him. “I really must be off. ” He ran from the hall. “He won’t get far,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “The main doors are locked in accordance with Archchancellor Spode’s Rules. ” “Won’t get far while holding a sword that appears to be able to cut through anything,” said Ridcully, to the sound of falling wood. “I wonder what all that was about?” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, and then turned his attention to the remains of the Feast. “Anyway, at least this joint’s been nicely carved…” “Bu-bu-bu—” They all turned. The Bursar was holding his hand in front of him. The cut surface of a fork gleamed at the wizards. “Nice to know his new present will come in handy,” said the Dean. “It’s the thought that counts. ” Under the table the Blue Hen of Happiness relieved itself on the Bursar’s foot. T HERE ARE…ENEMIES , said Death, as Binky galloped through icy mountains. “They’re all dead—” O THER ENEMIES. Y OU MAY AS WELL KNOW THIS. D OWN IN THE DEEPEST KINGDOMS OF THE SEA, WHERE THERE IS NO LIGHT, THERE LIVES A TYPE OF CREATURE WITH NO BRAIN AND NO EYES AND NO MOUTH. I T DOES NOTHING BUT LIVE AND PUT FORTH PETALS OF PERFECT CRIMSON WHERE NONE ARE THERE TO SEE. |
I T IS NOTHING EXCEPT A TINY YES IN THE NIGHT. A ND YET…AND YET…IT HAS ENEMIES THAT BEAR ON IT A VICIOUS, UNBENDING MALICE, WHO WISH NOT ONLY FOR ITS TINY LIFE TO BE OVER BUT ALSO THAT IT HAD NEVER EXISTED. A RE YOU WITH ME SO FAR ? “Well, yes, but—” G OOD. N OW, IMAGINE WHAT THEY THINK OF HUMANITY. Susan was shocked. She had never heard her grandfather speak in anything other than calm tones. Now there was a cutting edge in his words. “What are they?” she said. W E MUST HURRY. T HERE IS NOT MUCH TIME. “I thought you always had time. I mean…whatever it is you want to stop, you can go back in time and—” A ND MEDDLE ? “You’ve done it before…” T HIS TIME IT IS OTHERS WHO ARE DOING IT. A ND THEY HAVE NO RIGHT. “What others?” T HEY HAVE NO NAME. C ALL THEM THE AUDITORS. T HEY RUN THE UNIVERSE. T HEY SEE TO IT THAT GRAVITY WORKS AND THE ATOMS SPIN, OR WHATEVER IT IS ATOMS DO. A ND THEY HATE LIFE. “Why?” I T IS…IRREGULAR. I T WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN. T HEY LIKE STONES, MOVING IN CURVES. A ND THEY HATE HUMANS MOST OF ALL. Death sighed. I N MANY WAYS, THEY LACK A SENSE OF HUMOR. “Why the Hog—” I T IS THE THINGS YOU BELIEVE WHICH MAKE YOU HUMAN. G OOD THINGS AND BAD THINGS, IT’S ALL THE SAME. The mists parted. Sharp peaks were around them, lit by the glow off the snow. “These look like the mountains where the Castle of Bones was,” she said. T HEY ARE , said Death. I N A SENSE. H E HAS GONE BACK TO A PLACE HE KNOWS. A N EARLY PLACE … Binky cantered low over the snow. “And what are we looking for?” said Susan. Y OU WILL KNOW WHEN YOU SEE IT. “Snow? Trees? I mean, could I have a clue? What are we here for?” I TOLD YOU. T O ENSURE THAT THE SUN COMES UP. “Of course the sun will come up!” N O. “There’s no magic that’ll stop the sun coming up!” I WISH I WAS AS CLEVER AS YOU. Susan stared down out of sheer annoyance, and saw something below. Small dark shapes moved across the whiteness, running as if they were in pursuit of something. “There’s…some sort of chase…” she conceded. “I can see some sort of animals but I can’t see what they’re after—” Then she saw movement in the snow, a blurred, dark shape dodging and skidding and never clear. Binky dropped until his hooves grazed the tops of the pine trees, which bent in his wake. A rumble followed him across the forest, dragging broken branches and a smoke of snow behind it. Now they were lower she could see the hunters clearly. They were large dogs. Their quarry was indistinct, dodging among snowdrifts, keeping to the cover of snow-laden bushes— A drift exploded. Something big and long and blue-black rose through the flying snow like a sounding whale. “It’s a pig!” A BOAR. T HEY DRIVE IT TOWARD THE CLIFF. T HEY’RE DESPERATE NOW. She could hear the panting of the creature. The dogs made no sound at all. Blood streamed onto the snow from the wounds they had already managed to inflict. “This…boar,” said Susan. “…It’s…” Y ES. “They want to kill the Hogf—” N OT KILL. H E KNOWS HOW TO DIE. O H, YES …I N THIS SHAPE, HE KNOWS HOW TO DIE. H E’S HAD A LOT OF EXPERIENCE. N O, THEY WANT TO TAKE AWAY HIS REAL LIFE, TAKE AWAY HIS SOUL, TAKE AWAY EVERYTHING. T HEY MUST NOT BE ALLOWED TO BRING HIM DOWN. “Well, stop them!” Y OU MUST. T HIS IS A HUMAN THING. The dogs moved oddly. They weren’t running but flowing, crossing the snow faster than the mere movement of their legs would suggest. “They don’t look like real dogs…” N O. “What can I do?” Death nodded his head toward the boar. Binky was keeping level with it now, barely a few feet away. Realization dawned. “I can’t ride that!” said Susan. W HY NOT ? Y OU HAVE HAD AN EDUCATION. “Enough to know that pigs don’t let people ride them!” M ERE ACCUMULATION OF OBSERVATIONAL EVIDENCE IS NOT PROOF. Susan glanced ahead. The snow field had a cut-off look. Y OU MUST , said her grandfather’s voice in her head. W HEN HE REACHES THE EDGE THERE HE WILL STAND AT BAY. H E MUST NOT. U NDERSTAND ? T HESE ARE NOT REAL DOGS. I F THEY CATCH HIM HE WON’T JUST DIE, HE WILL…NEVER BE … Susan leapt. For a moment she floated through the air, dress streaming behind her, arms outstretched… Landing on the animal’s back was like hitting a very, very firm chair. It stumbled for a moment and then righted itself. Susan’s arms clung to its neck and her face was buried in its sharp bristles. She could feel the heat under her. It was like riding a furnace. And it stank of sweat, and blood, and pig. A lot of pig. There was a lack of landscape in front of her. The boar plowed into the snow on the edge of the drop, almost flinging her off, and turned to face the hounds. There were a lot of them. Susan was familiar with dogs. They’d had them at home like other houses had rugs. And these weren’t that big floppy sort. She rammed her heels in and grabbed a pig’s ear in each hand. It was like holding a pair of hairy shovels. “Turn left!” she screamed, and hauled. She put everything into the command. It promised tears before bedtime if disobeyed. To her amazement the boar grunted, pranced on the lip of the precipice and scrambled away, the hounds floundering as they turned to follow. This was a plateau. From here it seemed to be all edge, with no way down except the very simple and terminal one. The dogs were flying at the boar’s heels again. Susan looked around in the gray, lightless air. There had to be somewhere, some way… There was. It was a shoulder of rock, a giant knife edge connecting this plain to the hills beyond. It was sharp and narrow, a thin line of snow with chilly depths on either side. It was better than nothing. It was nothing with snow on it. The boar reached the edge and hesitated. Susan put her head down and dug her heels in again. Snout down, legs moving like pistons, the beast plunged out onto the ridge. Snow sprayed up as its trotters sought for purchase. It made up for lack of grace by sheer manic effort, legs moving like a tap dancer climbing a moving staircase that was heading down. “That’s right, that’s right, that’s—” A trotter slipped. For a moment the boar seemed to stand on two, the others scrabbling at icy rock. Susan flung herself the other way, clinging to the neck, and felt the dragging abyss under her feet. There was nothing there. She told herself, He’ll catch me if I fall, he’ll catch me if I fall, he’ll catch me if I fall … Powdered ice made her eyes sting. A flailing trotter almost slammed against her head. An older voice said, No, he won’t. If I fall now I don’t deserve to be caught. The creature’s eye was inches away. And then she knew… …Out of the depths of eyes of all but the most unusual of animals comes an echo. Out of the dark eye in front of her, someone looked back… A foot caught the rock and she concentrated her whole being on it, kicking herself upward in one last effort. Pig and woman rocked for a moment and then a trotter caught a footing and the boar plunged forward along the ridge. Susan risked a look behind. The dogs still moved oddly. There was a slight jerkiness about their movements, as if they flowed from position to position rather than moved by ordinary muscles. Not dogs, she thought. Dog shapes. There was another shock underfoot. Snow flew up. The world tilted. She felt the shape of the boar change when its muscles bunched and sent it soaring as a slab of ice and rock came away and began the long slide into darkness. Susan was thrown off when the creature landed, and tumbled into deep snow. She flailed around madly, expecting at any minute to begin sliding. Instead her hand found a snow-encrusted branch. A few feet away the boar lay on its side, steaming and panting. She pulled herself upright. The spur here had widened out into a hill, with a few frosted trees on it. The dogs had reached the gap and were milling round, struggling to prevent themselves slipping. They could easily clear the distance, she could see. Even the boar had managed it with her on its back. She put both hands around the branch and heaved; it came away with a crack, like a broken icicle, and she waved it like a club. “Come on,” she said. “Jump! Just you try it! Come on !” One did. |
The branch caught it as it landed, and then Susan spun and brought the branch back on the upswing, lifting the dazed animal off its feet and out over the edge. For a moment the shape wavered and then, howling, it dropped out of sight. She danced a few steps of rage and triumph. “Yes! Yes! Who wants some? Anyone else?” The other dogs looked her in the eye, decided that no one did, and that there wasn’t. Finally, after one or two nervous attempts, they managed to turn, still sliding, and tried to make it back to the plateau. A figure barred their way. It hadn’t been there a moment ago but it looked permanent now. It seemed to have been made of snow, three balls of snow piled on one another. It had black dots for eyes. A semicircle of more dots formed the semblance of a mouth. There was a carrot for the nose. And, for the arms, two twigs. At this distance, anyway. One of them was holding a curved stick. A raven wearing a damp piece of red paper landed on one arm. “Bob bob bob?” it suggested. “Merry Solstice? Tweetie tweet? What are you waiting for? Hogswatch?” The dogs backed away. The snow broke off the snowman in chunks, revealing a gaunt figure in a flapping black robe. Death spat out the carrot. H O. H O. H O. The gray bodies smeared and rippled as the hounds sought desperately to change their shape. YOU COULDN’T RESIST IT ? I N THE END ? A MISTAKE , I FANCY. He touched the scythe. There was a click as the blade flashed into life. I T GETS UNDER YOUR SKIN, LIFE , said Death, stepping forward. S PEAKING METAPHORICALLY, OF COURSE. I T’S A HABIT THAT’S HARD TO GIVE UP. O NE PUFF OF BREATH IS NEVER ENOUGH. Y OU’LL FIND YOU WANT TO TAKE ANOTHER. A dog started to slip on the snow and scrabbled desperately to save itself from the long, cold drop. A ND, YOU SEE, THE MORE YOU STRUGGLE FOR EVERY MOMENT, THE MORE ALIVE YOU STAY …W HICH IS WHERE I COME IN, AS A MATTER OF FACT. The leading dog managed, for a moment, to become a gray cowled figure before being dragged back into shape. F EAR, TOO, IS AN ANCHOR , said Death. A LL THOSE SENSES, WIDE OPEN TO EVERY FRAGMENT OF THE WORLD. T HAT BEATING HEART. T HAT RUSH OF BLOOD. C AN YOU NOT FEEL IT, DRAGGING YOU BACK ? Once again the Auditor managed to retain a shape for a few seconds, and managed to say: You cannot do this, there are rules! Y ES. T HERE ARE RULES. B UT YOU BROKE THEM. H OW DARE YOU ? H OW DARE YOU ? The scythe blade was a thin blue outline in the gray light. Death raised a thin finger to where his lips might have been, and suddenly looked thoughtful. A ND NOW THERE REMAINS ONLY ONE FINAL QUESTION , he said. He raised his hands, and seemed to grow. Light flared in his eye sockets. When he spoke next, avalanches fell in the mountains. H AVE YOU BEEN NAUGHTY…OR NICE ? H O. H O. H O. Susan heard the wails die away. The boar lay in white snow that was now red with blood. She knelt down and tried to lift its head. It was dead. One eye stared at nothing. The tongue lolled. Sobs welled up inside her. The tiny part of Susan that watched, the inner baby-sitter, said it was just exhaustion and excitement and the backwash of adrenaline. She couldn’t be crying over a dead pig. The rest of her drummed on its flank with both fists. “No, you can’t! We saved you! Dying isn’t how it’s supposed to go!” A breeze blew up. Something stirred in the landscape, something under the snow. The branches on the ancient trees shook gently, dislodging little needles of ice. The sun rose. The light streamed over Susan like a silent gale. It was dazzling. She crouched back, raising her forearm to cover her eyes. The great red ball turned frost to fire along the winter branches. Gold light slammed into the mountain peaks, making every one a blinding, silent volcano. It rolled onward, gushing into the valleys and thundering up the slopes, unstoppable… There was a groan. A man lay in the snow where the boar had been. He was naked except for an animal skin loincloth. His hair was long and had been woven into a thick plait down his back, so matted with blood and grease that it looked like felt. And he was bleeding everywhere the hounds had caught him. Susan watched for a moment, and then, thinking with something other than her head, methodically tore some strips from her petticoat to bandage the more unpleasant wounds. Capability, said the small part of her mind. A rational head in emergencies. Rational something, anyway. It’s probably some kind of character flaw. The man was tattooed. Blue whorls and spirals haunted his skin, under the blood. He opened his eyes and stared at the sky. “Can you get up?” His gaze flicked to her. He tried moving and then fell back. Eventually she managed to pull the man up into a sitting position. He swayed as she put one of his arms across her shoulders and then heaved him to his feet. She did her best to ignore the stink, which had an almost physical force. Downhill seemed the best option. Even if his brain wasn’t working yet, his feet seemed to get the idea. They lurched down through the freezing woods, the snow glowing orange in the risen sun. Cold blue gloom lurked in hollows like little cups of winter. Beside her, the tattooed man made a gurgling sound. He slipped out of her grasp and landed on his knees in the snow, clutching at his throat and choking. His breath sounded like a saw. “What now ? What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” He rolled his eyes at her and pawed at his throat again. “Something stuck?” She slapped him as hard as she could on the back, but now he was on his hands and knees, fighting for breath. She put her hands under his shoulders and pulled him upright, and put her arms around his waist. Oh, gods, how was it supposed to go, she’d gone to classes about it, now, didn’t you have to bunch up one fist and then put the other hand around it and then pull up and in like this — The man coughed and something bounced off a tree and landed in the snow. She knelt down to have a look. It was a small black bean. A bird trilled, high on a branch. She looked up. A wren bobbed at her and fluttered to another twig. When she looked back, the man was different. He had clothes now, heavy furs, with a fur hood and fur boots. He was supporting himself on a stone-tipped spear, and looked a lot stronger. Something hurried through the wood, barely visible except by its shadow. For a moment she glimpsed a white hare before it sprang away on a new path. She looked back. Now the furs had gone and the man looked older, although he had the same eyes. He was wearing thick white robes, and looked very much like a priest. When a bird called again she didn’t look away. And she realized that she’d been mistaken in thinking that the man changed like the turning of pages. All the images were there at once, and many others, too. What you saw depended on how you looked. Yes. It’s a good job I’m cool and totally used to this sort of thing, she thought. Otherwise I’d be rather worried… Now they were at the edge of the forest. A little way off, four huge boars stood and steamed, in front of a sleigh that looked as if it had been put together out of crudely trimmed trees. There were faces in the blackened wood, possibly carved by stone, possibly carved by rain and wind. The Hogfather climbed aboard and sat down. He’d put on weight in the last few yards and now it was almost impossible to see anything other than the huge, red-robed man, ice crystals settling here and there on the cloth. Only in the occasional sparkle of frost was there a hint of hair or tusk. He shifted on the seat and then reached down to extricate a false beard, which he held up questioningly. S ORRY , said a voice behind Susan. T HAT WAS MINE. The Hogfather nodded at Death, as one craftsman to another, and then at Susan. She wasn’t sure if she was being thanked—it was more a gesture of recognition, of acknowledgment that something that needed doing had indeed been done. But it felt like thanks. Then he shook the reins and clicked his teeth and the sleigh slid away. They watched it go. |
“I remember hearing,” said Susan distantly, “that the idea of the Hogfather wearing a red and white outfit was invented quite recently. ” N O. I T WAS REMEMBERED. Now the Hogfather was a red dot on the other side of the valley. “Well, that about wraps it up for this dress,” said Susan. “I’d just like to ask, just out of academic interest…you were sure I was going to survive, were you?” I WAS QUITE CONFIDENT. “Oh, good. ” I WILL GIVE YOU A LIFT BACK , said Death, after a while. “Thank you. Now…tell me…” W HAT WOULD HAVE HAPPENED IF YOU HADN’T SAVED HIM ? “Yes! The sun would have risen just the same, yes?” N O. “Oh, come on. You can’t expect me to believe that. It’s an astronomical fact. ” T HE SUN WOULD NOT HAVE RISEN. She turned on him. “It’s been a long night, Grandfather! I’m tired and I need a bath! I don’t need silliness!” T HE SUN WOULD NOT HAVE RISEN. “Really? Then what would have happened, pray?” A MERE BALL OF FLAMING GAS WOULD HAVE ILLUMINATED THE WORLD. They walked in silence for a moment. “Ah,” said Susan dully. “Trickery with words. I would have thought you’d have been more literal-minded than that. ” I AM NOTHING IF NOT LITERAL-MINDED. T RICKERY WITH WORDS IS WHERE HUMANS LIVE. “All right,” said Susan. “I’m not stupid. You’re saying humans need… fantasies to make life bearable. ” R EALLY ? A S IF IT WAS SOME KIND OF PINK PILL ? N O. H UMANS NEED FANTASY TO BE HUMAN. T O BE THE PLACE WHERE THE FALLING ANGEL MEETS THE RISING APE. “Tooth fairies? Hogfathers? Little—” Y ES. A S PRACTICE. Y OU HAVE TO START OUT LEARNING TO BELIEVE THE LITTLE LIES. “So we can believe the big ones?” Y ES. J USTICE. M ERCY. D UTY. T HAT SORT OF THING. “They’re not the same at all!” Y OU THINK SO ? T HEN TAKE THE UNIVERSE AND GRIND IT DOWN TO THE FINEST POWDER AND SIEVE IT THROUGH THE FINEST SIEVE AND THEN SHOW ME ONE ATOM OF JUSTICE, ONE MOLECULE OF MERCY. A ND YET —Death waved a hand. A ND YET YOU ACT AS IF THERE IS SOME IDEAL ORDER IN THE WORLD, AS IF THERE IS SOME…SOME RIGHTNESS IN THE UNIVERSE BY WHICH IT MAY BE JUDGED. “Yes, but people have got to believe that, or what’s the point —” M Y POINT EXACTLY. She tried to assemble her thoughts. T HERE IS A PLACE WHERE TWO GALAXIES HAVE BEEN COLLIDING FOR A MILLION YEARS , said Death, apropos of nothing. D ON’T TRY TO TELL ME THAT’S RIGHT. “Yes, but people don’t think about that,” said Susan. “Somewhere there was a bed…” C ORRECT. S TARS EXPLODE, WORLDS COLLIDE, THERE’S HARDLY ANYWHERE IN THE UNIVERSE WHERE HUMANS CAN LIVE WITHOUT BEING FROZEN OR FRIED, AND YET YOU BELIEVE THAT A…A BED IS A NORMAL THING. I T IS THE MOST AMAZING TALENT. “Talent?” O H, YES. A VERY SPECIAL KIND OF STUPIDITY. Y OU THINK THE WHOLE UNIVERSE IS INSIDE YOUR HEADS. “You make us sound mad,” said Susan. A nice warm bed… N O. Y OU NEED TO BELIEVE IN THINGS THAT AREN’T TRUE. H OW ELSE CAN THEY BECOME ? said Death, helping her up onto Binky. “These mountains,” said Susan, as the horse rose. “Are they real mountains, or some sort of shadows?” Y ES. Susan knew that was all she was going to get. “Er…I lost the sword. It’s somewhere in the Tooth Fairy’s country. ” Death shrugged. I CAN MAKE ANOTHER. “Can you?” O H, YES. I T WILL GIVE ME SOMETHING TO DO. D ON’T WORRY ABOUT IT. The Senior Wrangler hummed cheerfully to himself as he ran a comb through his beard for the second time and liberally sprinkled it with what would turn out to be a preparation of weasel extract for demon removal rather than, as he had assumed, a pleasant masculine scent. * Then he stepped out into his study. “Sorry for the delay, but—” he began. There was no one there. Only, very far off, the sound of someone blowing their nose mingling with the glingleglingleglingle of fading magic. The light was already gilding the top of the Tower of Art when Binky trotted to a standstill on the air beside the nursery balcony. Susan climbed down onto the fresh snow and stood uncertainly for a moment. When someone has gone out of their way to drop you home it’s only courteous to ask them in. On the other hand… W OULD YOU LIKE TO VISIT FOR H OGSWATCH DINNER ? said Death. He sounded hopeful. A LBERT IS FRYING A PUDDING. “ Frying a pudding?” A LBERT UNDERSTANDS FRYING. A ND I BELIEVE HE’S MAKING JAM. H E CERTAINLY KEPT TALKING ABOUT IT. “I…er…they’re really expecting me here,” said Susan. “The Gaiters do a lot of entertaining. His business friends. Probably the whole day will be…I’ll more or less have to look after the children…” S OMEONE SHOULD. “Er…would you like a drink before you go?” said Susan, giving in. A CUP OF COCOA WOULD BE APPROPRIATE IN THE CIRCUMSTANCES. “Right. There’s biscuits in the tin on the mantelpiece. ” Susan headed with relief into the tiny kitchen. Death sat down in the creaking wicker chair, buried his feet in the rug and looked around with interest. He heard the clatter of cups, and then a sound like indrawn breath, and then silence. Death helped himself to a biscuit from the tin. There were two full stockings hanging from the mantelpiece. He prodded them with professional satisfaction, and then sat down again and observed the nursery wallpaper. It seemed to be pictures of rabbits in waistcoats, among other fauna. He was not surprised. Death occasionally turned up in person even for rabbits, simply to see that the whole process was working properly. He’d never seen one wearing a waistcoat. He wouldn’t have expected waistcoats. At least, he wouldn’t have expected waistcoats if he hadn’t had some experience of the way humans portrayed the universe. As it was, it was only a blessing they hadn’t been given gold watches and top hats as well. Humans liked dancing pigs, too. And lambs in hats. As far as Death was aware, the sole reason for any human association with pigs and lambs was as a prelude to chops and sausages. Quite why they should dress up for children’s wallpaper as well was a mystery. Hello, little folk, this is what you’re going to eat…He felt that if only he could find the key to it, he’d know a lot more about human beings. His gaze traveled to the door. Susan’s governess coat and hat were hanging on it. The coat was gray, and so was the hat. Gray and round and dull. Death didn’t know many things about the human psyche, but he did know protective coloration when he saw it. Dullness. Only humans could have invented it. What imaginations they had. The door opened. To his horror, Death saw a small child of unidentifiable sex come out of the bedroom, amble sleepily across the floor and unhook the stockings from the mantelpiece. It was halfway back before it noticed him and then it simply stopped and regarded him thoughtfully. He knew that young children could see him because they hadn’t yet developed that convenient and selective blindness that comes with the intimation of personal mortality. He felt a little embarrassed. “Susan’s gotta poker, you know,” it said, as if anxious to be helpful. W ELL, WELL. I NDEED. M Y GOODNESS ME. “I fort— thought all of you knew that now. Larst— last week she picked a bogey up by its nose. ” Death tried to imagine this. He felt sure he’d heard the sentence wrong, but it didn’t sound a whole lot better however he rearranged the words. “I’ll give Gawain his stocking and then I’ll come an’ watch,” said the child. It padded out. E R …S USAN ? Death said, calling in reinforcements. Susan backed out of the kitchen, a black kettle in her hand. There was a figure behind her. In the half-light the sword gleamed blue along its blade. Its glitter reflected off one glass eye. “Well, well ,” said Teatime, quietly, glancing at Death. “Now this is unexpected. A family affair?” The sword hummed back and forth. “I wonder,” said Teatime, “is it possible to kill Death? This must be a very special sword and it certainly works here …” He raised a hand to his mouth for a moment and gave a little chuckle. “And of course it might well not be regarded as murder. Possibly it is a civic act. It would be, as they say, The Big One. Stand up, sir. |
You may have some personal knowledge about your vulnerability but I’m pretty certain that Susan here would quite definitely die, so I’d rather you didn’t try any last-minute stuff. ” I AM LAST-MINUTE STUFF , said Death, standing up. Teatime circled around carefully, the sword’s tip making little curves in the air. From the next room came the sound of someone trying to blow a whistle quietly. Susan glanced at her grandfather. “I don’t remember them asking for anything that made a noise,” she said. O H, THERE HAS TO BE SOMETHING IN THE STOCKING THAT MAKES A NOISE , said Death. O THERWISE WHAT IS 4:30 A. M. FOR ? “There are children?” said Teatime. “Oh, yes, of course. Call them. ” “Certainly not!” “It will be instructive,” said Teatime. “Educational. And when your adversary is Death, you cannot help but be the good guy. ” He pointed the sword at Susan. “I said call them. ” Susan glanced hopefully at her grandfather. He nodded. For a moment she thought she saw the glow in one eye socket flicker off and on, Death’s equivalent of a wink. He’s got a plan. He can stop time. He can do anything. He’s got a plan. “Gawain? Twyla?” The muffled noises stopped in the next room. There was a padding of feet and two solemn faces appeared round the door. “Ah, come in, come in , curly haired tots,” said Teatime genially. Gawain gave him a steely stare. His next mistake, thought Susan. If he’d called them little bastards he’d have them bang on his side. But they know when you’re sending them up. “I’ve caught this bogeyman,” said Teatime. “What shall we do with him, eh?” The two faces turned to Death. Twyla put her thumb in her mouth. “It’s only a skeleton,” said Gawain critically. Susan opened her mouth, and the sword swung toward her. She shut it again. “Yes, a nasty, creepy, horrible skeleton,” said Teatime. “Scary, eh?” There was a very faint pop as Twyla took her thumb out of her mouth. “He’s eating a bittit,” she said. “Biscuit,” Susan corrected automatically. She started to swing the kettle in an absentminded way. “A creepy bony man in a black robe!” said Teatime, aware that things weren’t going in quite the right direction. He spun round to face Susan. “You’re fidgeting with that kettle,” he said. “So I expect you’re thinking of doing something creative. Put it down, please. Slowly. ” Susan knelt down gently and put the kettle on the hearth. “Huh, that’s not very creepy, it’s just bones,” said Gawain dismissively. “And anyway Willie the groom down at the stables has promised me a real horse skull. And anyway I’m going to make a hat out of it like General Tacticus had when he wanted to frighten people. And anyway it’s just standing there. It’s not even making woo-woo noises. And anyway you’re creepy. Your eye’s weird. ” “Really? Then let’s see how creepy I can be,” said Teatime. Blue fire crackled along the sword as he raised it. Susan closed her hand over the poker. Teatime saw her start to turn. He stepped behind Death, sword raised… Susan threw the poker overarm. It made a ripping noise as it shot through the air, and trailed sparks. It hit Death’s robe and vanished. He blinked. Teatime smiled at Susan. He turned and peered dreamily at the sword in his hand. It fell out of his fingers. Death turned and caught it by the handle as it tumbled, and turned its fall into an upward curve. Teatime looked down at the poker in his chest as he folded up. “Oh, no,” he said. “It couldn’t have gone through you. There are so many ribs and things!” There was another pop as Twyla extracted her thumb and said, “It only kills monsters. ” “Stop time now ,” commanded Susan. Death snapped his fingers. The room took on the grayish purple of stationary time. The clock paused its ticking. “You winked at me! I thought you had a plan !” I NDEED. O H, YES. I PLANNED TO SEE WHAT YOU WOULD DO. “ Just that ?” Y OU ARE VERY RESOURCEFUL. A ND OF COURSE YOU HAVE HAD AN EDUCATION. “ What ?” I DID ADD THE SPARKLY STARS AND THE NOISE, THOUGH. I THOUGHT THEY WOULD BE APPROPRIATE. “And if I hadn’t done anything?” I DARESAY I WOULD HAVE THOUGHT OF SOMETHING. A T THE LAST MINUTE. “That was the last minute!” T HERE IS ALWAYS TIME FOR ANOTHER LAST MINUTE. “The children had to watch that!” E DUCATIONAL. T HE WORLD WILL TEACH THEM ABOUT MONSTERS SOON ENOUGH. L ET THEM REMEMBER THERE’S ALWAYS THE POKER. “But they saw he’s human—” I THINK THEY HAD A VERY GOOD IDEA OF WHAT HE WAS. Death prodded the fallen Teatime with his foot. S TOP PLAYING DEAD , M ISTER T EH-AH-TIM-EH. The ghost of the Assassin sprang up like a jack-in-the-box, all slightly crazed smiles. “You got it right!” O F COURSE. Teatime began to fade. I’ LL TAKE THE BODY , said Death. T HAT WILL PREVENT INCONVENIENT QUESTIONS. “What did he do it all for?” said Susan. “I mean, why? Money? Power?” S OME PEOPLE WILL DO ANYTHING FOR THE SHEER FASCINATION OF DOING IT , said Death. O R FOR FAME. O R BECAUSE THEY SHOULDN’T. Death picked up the corpse and slung it over his shoulder. There was a sound of something bouncing on the hearth. He turned, and hesitated. E R…YOU DID KNOW THE POKER WOULD GO THROUGH ME ? Susan realized she was shaking. “Of course. In this room it’s pretty powerful. ” Y OU WERE NEVER IN ANY DOUBT ? Susan hesitated, and then smiled. “I was quite confident,” she said. A H. Her grandfather stared at her for a moment and she thought she detected just the tiniest flicker of uncertainty. O F COURSE. O F COURSE. T ELL ME, ARE YOU LIKELY TO TAKE UP TEACHING ON A LARGER SCALE ? “I hadn’t planned to. ” Death turned toward the balcony, and then seemed to remember something else. He fumbled inside his robe. I HAVE MADE THIS FOR YOU. She reached out and took a square of damp cardboard. Water dripped off the bottom. Somewhere in the middle, a few brown feathers seemed to have been glued on. “Thank you. Er…what is it?” A LBERT SAID THERE OUGHT TO BE SNOW ON IT, BUT IT APPEARS TO HAVE MELTED , said Death. I T IS, OF COURSE, A H OGSWATCH CARD. “Oh…” T HERE SHOULD HAVE BEEN A ROBIN ON IT AS WELL, BUT I HAD CONSIDERABLE DIFFICULTY IN GETTING IT TO STAY ON. “Ah…” I T WAS NOT AT ALL CO-OPERATIVE. “Really…?” I T DID NOT SEEM TO GET INTO THE H OGSWATCH SPIRIT AT ALL. “Oh. Er. Good. Granddad?” Y ES ? “Why? I mean, why did you do all this?” He stood quite still for a moment, as if he was trying out sentences in his mind. I THINK IT’S SOMETHING TO DO WITH HARVESTS , he said at last. Y ES. T HAT’S RIGHT. A ND BECAUSE HUMANS ARE SO INTERESTING THAT THEY HAVE EVEN INVENTED DULLNESS. Q UITE ASTONISHING. “Oh. ” W ELL THEN …H APPY H OGSWATCH. “Yes. Happy Hogswatch. ” Death paused again, at the window. A ND GOOD NIGHT, CHILDREN…EVERYWHERE. The raven fluttered down onto a log covered in snow. Its prosthetic red breast had been torn and fluttered uselessly behind it. “Not so much as a lift home,” it muttered. “Look at this, willya? Snow and frozen wastes, everywhere. I couldn’t fly another damn inch. I could starve to death here, you know? Hah! People’re going on about recycling the whole time, but you just try a bit of practical ecology and they just…don’t…want…to…know. Hah! I bet a robin ’d have a lift home. Oh, yes. ” S QUEAK , said the Death of Rats sympathetically, and sniffed. The raven watched the small hooded figure scrabble at the snow. “So I’ll just freeze to death here, shall I?” it said gloomily. “A pathetic bundle of feathers with my little feet curled up with the cold. It’s not even as if I’m gonna make anyone a good meal, and let me tell you it’s a disgrace to die thin in my spec—” It became aware that under the snow was a rather grubbier whiteness. Further scraping by the rat exposed something that could very possibly have been an ear. The raven stared. “It’s a sheep !” it said. The Death of Rats nodded. “A whole sheep!” * S QUEAK. “Oh, wow!” said the raven, hopping forward with its eyes spinning. “Hey, it’s barely cool!” The Death of Rats patted it happily on a wing. S QUEAK-EEK. EEK-SQUEAK … “Why, thanks. And the same to you…” Far, far away and a long, long time ago, a shop door opened. |
The little toy maker bustled in from the workshop in the rear, and then stopped, with amazing foresight, dead. Y OU HAVE A BIG WOODEN ROCKING HORSE IN THE WINDOW , said the new customer. “Ah, yes, yes, yes. ” The shopkeeper fiddled nervously with his square-rimmed spectacles. He hadn’t heard the bell, and this was worrying him. “But I’m afraid that’s just for show, that is a special order for Lord—” N O. I WILL BUY IT. “No, because, you see—” T HERE ARE OTHER TOYS ? “Yes, indeed, but—” T HEN I WILL TAKE THE HORSE. H OW MUCH WOULD THIS LORDSHIP HAVE PAID YOU ? “Er, we’d agreed twelve dollars but—” I WILL GIVE YOU FIFTY , said the customer. The little shopkeeper stopped in mid-remonstrate and started up in mid-greed. There were other toys, he told himself quickly. And this customer, he thought with considerable prescience, looked like someone who did not take no for an answer and seldom even bothered to ask the question. Lord Selachii would be angry, but Lord Selachii wasn’t here. The stranger, on the other hand, was here. Incredibly here. “Er…well, in the circumstances…er…shall I wrap it up for you?” N O. I WILL TAKE IT AS IT IS. T HANK YOU. I WILL LEAVE VIA THE BACK WAY, IF IT’S ALL THE SAME TO YOU. “Er…how did you get in ?” said the shopkeeper, pulling the horse out of the window. T HROUGH THE WALL. S O MUCH MORE CONVENIENT THAN CHIMNEYS, DON’T YOU THINK ? The apparition dropped a small clinking bag on the counter and lifted the horse easily. The shopkeeper wasn’t in a position to hold onto anything. Even yesterday’s dinner was threatening to leave him. The figure looked at the other shelves. Y OU MAKE GOOD TOYS. “Er…thank you. ” I NCIDENTALLY , said the customer, as he left, T HERE IS A SMALL BOY OUT THERE WITH HIS NOSE FROZEN TO THE WINDOW. S OME WARM WATER SHOULD DO THE TRICK. Death walked out to where Binky was waiting in the snow and tied the toy horse behind the saddle. A LBERT WILL BE VERY PLEASED. I CAN’T WAIT TO SEE HIS FACE. H O. H O. H O. As the light of Hogswatch slid down the towers of Unseen University, the Librarian slipped into the Great Hall with some sheet music clenched firmly in his feet. As the light of Hogswatch lit the towers of Unseen University, the Archchancellor sat down with a sigh in his study and pulled off his boots. It had been a damn long night, no doubt about it. Lots of strange things. First time he’d ever seen the Senior Wrangler burst into tears, for one thing. Ridcully glanced at the door to the new bathroom. Well, he’d sorted out the teething troubles, and a nice warm shower would be very refreshing. And then he could go along to the organ recital all nice and clean. He removed his hat, and someone fell out of it with a tinkling sound. A small gnome rolled across the floor. “ Oh , another one. I thought we’d got rid of you fellows,” said Ridcully. “And what are you ?” The gnome looked at him nervously. “ Er…you know whenever there was another magical appearance you heard the sound of, er, bells?” it said. Its expression suggested it was owning up to something it just knew was going to get it a smack. “ Yes ?” The gnome held up some rather small hand bells and waved them nervously. They went glingleglingleglingle, in a very sad way. “ Good, eh? That was me. I’m the Glingleglingleglingle Fairy. ” “ Get out. ” “ I also do sparkly fairy dust effects that go twing too, if you like …” “ Go away !” “ How about ‘The Bells of St. Ungulant’s’?” said the gnome desperately. “Very seasonal. Very nice. Why not join in? It goes: ‘The bells [ clong ] of St. [ clang ] …’” Ridcully scored a direct hit with the rubber duck, and the gnome escaped through the bath overflow. Cursing and spontaneous hand bell ringing echoed away down the pipes. In perfect peace at last, the Archchancellor pulled off his robe. The organ’s storage tanks were wheezing at the rivets by the time the Librarian had finished pumping. Satisfied, he knuckled his way up to the seat and paused to survey, with great satisfaction, the keyboards in front of him. Bloody Stupid Johnson’s approach to music was similar to his approach in every field that was caressed by his genius in the same way that a potato field is touched by a late frost. Make it loud, he said. Make it wide. Make it all-embracing. And thus the Great Organ of Unseen University was the only one in the world where you could play an entire symphony scored for thunderstorm and squashed toad noises. Warm water cascaded off Mustrum Ridcully’s pointy bathing cap. Mr. Johnson had, surely not on purpose, designed a perfect bathroom—at least, perfect for singing in. Echoes and resonating pipeways smoothed out all those little imperfections and gave even the weediest singer a rolling, dark brown voice. And so Ridcully sang. “— as I walked out one dadadadada for to something or other and to take the dadada, I did espy a fair pretty may-ay-den I think it was, and I —” The organ pipes hummed with pent-up energy. The Librarian cracked his knuckles. This took some time. Then he pulled the pressure release valve. The hum became an urgent thrumming. Very carefully, he let in the clutch. Ridcully stopped singing as the tones of the organ came through the wall. Bath-time music, eh? he thought. Just the job. It was a shame it was muffled by all the bathroom fixtures, though. It was at this point he espied a small lever marked “Musical pipes. ” Ridcully, never being a man to wonder what any kind of switch did when it was so much easier and quicker to find out by pulling it, did so. But instead of the music he was expecting he was rewarded simply with several large panels sliding silently aside, revealing row upon row of brass nozzles. The Librarian was lost now, dreaming on the wings of music. His hands and feet danced over the keyboards, picking their way toward the crescendo which ended the first movement of Bubbla’s Catastrophe Suite. One foot kicked the “Afterburner” lever and the other spun the valve of the nitrous oxide cylinder. Ridcully tapped the nozzles. Nothing happened. He looked at the controls again, and realized that he’d never pulled the little brass lever marked “Organ Interlock. ” He did so. This did not cause a torrent of pleasant bath-time accompaniment, however. There was merely a thud and a distant gurgling, which grew in volume. He gave up, and went back to soaping his chest. “— running of the deer, the playing of…huh? What —” Later that day he had the bathroom nailed up again and a notice placed on the door, on which was written: “Not to be used in any circumstances. This is IMPORTANT. ” However, when Modo nailed the door up he didn’t hammer the nails in all the way but left just a bit sticking up so that his pliers would grip later on, when he was told to remove them. He never presumed and he never complained, he just had a good working knowledge of the wizardly mind. They never did find the soap. Ponder and his fellow students watched Hex carefully. “It can’t just, you know, stop ,” said Adrian “Mad Drongo” Turnipseed. “The ants are just standing still,” said Ponder. He sighed. “All right, put the wretched thing back. ” Adrian carefully replaced the small fluffy teddy bear above Hex’s keyboard. Things immediately began to whir. The ants started to trot again. The mouse squeaked. They’d tried this three times. Ponder looked again at the single sentence Hex had written. +++ Mine! Waaaah! +++ “I don’t actually think,” he said, gloomily, “that I want to tell the Archchancellor that this machine stops working if we take its fluffy teddy bear away. I just don’t think I want to live in that kind of world. ” “Er,” said Mad Drongo, “you could always, you know, sort of say it needs to work with the FTB enabled…?” “You think that’s better?” said Ponder, reluctantly. It wasn’t as if it was even a very realistic interpretation of a bear. “You mean, better than ‘fluffy teddy bear’?” Ponder nodded. “It’s better,” he said. Of all the presents he got from the Hogfather, Gawain told Susan, the best of all was the marble. |
And she’d said, what marble? And he’d said, the glass marble I found in the fireplace. It wins all the games. It seems to move in a different way. The beggars walked their erratic and occasionally backward walk along the city streets, while fresh morning snow began to fall. Occasionally one of them belched happily. They all wore paper hats, except for Foul Ole Ron, who’d eaten his. A tin can was passed from hand to hand. It contained a mixture of fine wines and spirits and something in a can that Arnold Sideways had stolen from behind a paint factory in Phedre Road. “The goose was good,” said the Duck Man, picking his teeth. “I’m surprised you et it, what with that duck on your head,” said Coffin Henry, picking his nose. “What duck?” said the Duck Man. “What were that greasy stuff?” said Arnold Sideways. “That, my dear fellow, was pâté de foie gras. All the way from Genua, I’ll wager. And very good, too. ” “Dun’arf make you fart, don’t it?” “Ah, the world of haute cuisine,” said the Duck Man happily. They reached, by fits and starts, the back door of their favorite restaurant. The Duck Man looked at it dreamily, eyes filmy with recollection. “I used to dine here almost every night,” he said. “Why’d you stop?” said Coffin Henry. “I…I don’t really know,” said the Duck Man. “It’s…rather a blur, I’m afraid. Back in the days when I…think I was someone else. But still,” he said, patting Arnold’s head, “as they say, ‘Better a meal of old boots where friendship is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith. ’ Forward, please, Ron. ” They positioned Foul Ole Ron in front of the back door and then knocked on it. When a waiter opened it Foul Ole Ron grinned at him, exposing what remained of his teeth and his famous halitosis, which was still all there. “Millennium hand and shrimp!” he said, touching his forelock. “Compliments of the season,” the Duck Man translated. The man went to shut the door but Arnold Sideways was ready for him and had wedged his boot in the crack. * “We thought you might like us to come round at lunchtime and sing a merry Hogswatch glee for your customers,” said the Duck Man. Beside him, Coffin Henry began one of his volcanic bouts of coughing, which even sounded green. “No charge, of course. ” “It being Hogswatch,” said Arnold. The beggars, despite being too disreputable even to belong to the Beggars’ Guild, lived quite well by their own low standards. This was generally by careful application of the Certainty Principle. People would give them all sorts of things if they were certain to go away. A few minutes later they wandered off again, pushing a happy Arnold who was surrounded by hastily wrapped packages. “People can be so kind,” said the Duck Man. “Millennium hand and shrimp. ” Arnold started to investigate the charitable donations as they maneuvered his trolley through the slush and drifts. “Tastes…sort of familiar,” he said. “Familiar like what?” “Like mud and old boots. ” “Garn! That’s posh grub, that is. ” “Yeah, yeah…” Arnold chewed for a while. “You don’t think we’ve become posh all of a sudden?” “Dunno. You posh, Ron?” “Buggrit. ” “Yep. Sounds posh to me. ” The snow began to settle gently on the River Ankh. “Still…Happy New Year, Arnold. ” “Happy New Year, Duck Man. And your duck. ” “What duck?” “Happy New Year, Henry. ” “Happy New Year, Ron. ” “Buggrem!” “And god bless us, every one,” said Arnold Sideways. The curtain of snow hid them from view. “Which god?” “Dunno. What’ve you got?” “Duck Man?” “Yes, Henry?” “You know that stalled ox you mentioned?” “Yes, Henry?” “How come it’d stalled? Run out of grass, or something?” “Ah…it was more a figure of speech, Henry. ” “Not an ox?” “Not exactly. What I meant was—” And then there was only the snow. After a while, it began to melt in the sun. About the Author Terry Pratchett’s novels have sold more than thirty million (give or take a few million) copies worldwide. He lives in England. www. terrypratchettbooks. com Visit www. AuthorTracker. com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author. Praise for Terry Pratchett’s DISCWORLD “Smart and funny. ” Denver Post “Humorously entertaining (and subtly thought-provoking) fantasy…Pratchett’s Discworld books are filled with humor and magic, but they’re rooted in, of all things, real life and cold, hard, reason. ” Contra Costa Times “Terry Pratchett may still be pegged as a comic novelist but…he’s a lot more. In his range of invented characters, his adroit storytelling, and his clear-eyed acceptance of humankind’s foibles, he reminds us of no one in English literature as much as Geoffrey Chaucer. No kidding. ” Washington Post Book World “Terry Pratchett seems constitutionally unable to write a page without at least a twitch of the grin muscles…. [But] the notions Pratchett plays with are nae so narrow or nae so silly as your ordinary British farce. Seriously. ” San Diego Union-Tribune “A master of laugh-out-loud fiction…Pratchett’s ‘Monty Python’-like plots are almost impossible to describe. ” Chicago Tribune “Discworld is more complicated and satisfactory than Oz…. It has the energy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and the inventiveness of Alice in Wonderland. It also has an intelligent wit and a truly original grim and comic grasp of the nature of things. ” A. S. Byatt “Think J. R. R. Tolkien with a sharper, more satiric edge. ” Houston Chronicle “What makes Terry Pratchett’s fantasies so entertaining is that their humor depends on the characters first, on the plot second, rather than the other way around. The story isn’t there simply to lead from one slapstick pratfall to another pun. Its humor is genuine and unforced. ” Ottawa Citizen “Pratchett, for those not yet lucky enough to have discovered him, is one of England’s most highly regarded satirists. Nothing—not religion, not politics, not anything—is safe from him. ” South Bend Tribune “He is head and shoulders above the best of the rest. He is screamingly funny. He is wise. He has style. ” Daily Telegraph (London) “Pratchett’s writing is hilarious. ” Cleveland Plain Dealer “The Discworld novels are a phenomenon. ” Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel “Consistently, inventively mad…wild and wonderful. ” Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine “Pratchett has now moved beyond the limits of humorous fantasy and should be recognized as one of the most significant contemporary English language satirists. ” Publishers Weekly “If Terry Pratchett is not yet an institution, he should be. ” Fantasy & Science Fiction “Pratchett’s humor is international, satirical, devious, knowing, irreverent, unsparing, and, above all, funny. ” Kirkus Reviews “Pratchett demonstrates just how great the distance is between one-or-two joke writers and the comic masters whose work will be read into the next century. ” Locus “Terry Pratchett ought to be in a padded cell. And forced to write a book a month. ” Barbara Michaels B OOKS BY T ERRY P RATCHETT The Carpet People The Dark Side of the Sun Strata • Truckers Diggers • Wings Only You Can Save Mankind Johnny and the Dead • Johnny and the Bomb The Unadulterated Cat (with Gray Jollife) Good Omens (with Neil Gaiman) T HE D ISCWORLD ® S ERIES : Going Postal • Monstrous Regiment • Night Watch The Last Hero • The Truth • Thief of Time The Fifth Elephant • Carpe Jugulum The Last Continent • Jingo Hogfather • Feet of Clay • Maskerade Interesting Times • Soul Music • Men at Arms Lords and Ladies • Small Gods Witches Abroad • Reaper Man Moving Pictures • Eric (with Josh Kirby) Guards! Guards! • Pyramids Wyrd Sisters • Sourcery • Mort • Equal Rites The Light Fantastic • The Color of Magic The Art of Discworld (with Paul Kidby) Mort: A Discworld Big Comic (with Graham Higgins) The Streets of Ankh-Morpork (with Stephen Briggs) The Discworld Companion (with Stephen Briggs) The Discworld Mapp (with Stephen Briggs) The Pratchett Portfolio (with Paul Kidby) Copyright This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. |
Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. HOGFATHER. Copyright © 1996 by Terry Pratchett and Lyn Pratchett. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. EPub Edition AUGUST 2007 ISBN: 9780061807701 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 About the Publisher Australia HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd. 25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321) Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia http://www. harpercollinsebooks. com. au Canada HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900 Toronto, ON, M5R, 3L2, Canada http://www. harpercollinsebooks. ca New Zealand HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited P. O. Box 1 Auckland, New Zealand http://www. harpercollinsebooks. co. nz United Kingdom HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 77-85 Fulham Palace Road London, W6 8JB, UK http://www. harpercollinsebooks. co. uk United States HarperCollins Publishers Inc. 10 East 53rd Street New York, NY 10022 http://www. harpercollinsebooks. com * That is to say, those who deserve to shed blood. Or possibly not. You never quite know with some kids. * This exchange contains almost all you need to know about human civilization. At least, those bits of it that are now under the sea, fenced off or still smoking. * It’s a sad and terrible thing that high-born folk really have thought that the servants would be totally fooled if spirits were put into decanters that were cunningly labeled backward. And also throughout history the more politically conscious butler has taken it on trust, and with rather more justification, that his employers will not notice if the whiskey is topped up with eniru. * Peachy was not someone you generally asked questions of, except the sort that go like: “If-if-if-if I give you all my money could you possibly not break the other leg, thank you so much?” * Chickenwire had got his name from his own individual contribution to the science of this very specialized “concrete overshoe” form of waste disposal. An unfortunate drawback of the process was the tendency for bits of the client to eventually detach and float to the surface, causing much comment in the general population. Enough chicken wire, he’d pointed out, would solve that, while also allowing the ingress of crabs and fish going about their vital recycling activities. † Ankh-Morpork’s underworld, which was so big that the over-world floated around on top of it like a very small hen trying to mother a nest of ostrich chicks, already had Big Dave, Fat Dave, Mad Dave, Wee Davey, and Lanky Dai. Everyone had to find their niche. * This is very similar to the suggestion put forward by the Quirmian philosopher Ventre, who said, “Possibly the gods exist, and possibly they do not. So why not believe in them in any case? If it’s all true you’ll go to a lovely place when you die, and if it isn’t then you’ve lost nothing, right?” When he died he woke up in a circle of gods holding nasty-looking sticks and one of them said, “We’re going to show you what we think of Mr. Clever Dick in these parts…” * He’d done his best. But black and purple and vomit yellow weren’t a good color combination for paper chains, and no Hogswatch fairy doll should be nailed up by its head. * Such as the Electric Drill Chuck Key Fairy. * Who was (according to Sideney’s mother) a bit of a catch since her father owned a half-share in an eel pie shop in Gleam Street, you must know her, got all her own teeth and a wooden leg you’d hardly notice, got a sister called Continence, lovely girl, why didn’t she invite her along for tea next time he was over, not that she hardly saw her son the big wizard at all these days, but you never knew and if the magic thing didn’t work out then a quarter-share in a thriving eel pie business was not to be sneezed at… * Not, that is, things that he wanted to do, or wanted done to him. Just things that he dreamed of, in the armpit of a bad night. * In fact, when she was eight she’d found a collection of animal skulls in an attic, relict of some former duke of an inquiring turn of mind. Her father had been a bit preoccupied with affairs of state and she’d made twenty-seven dollars before being found out. The hippopotamus molar had, with hindsight, been a mistake. Skulls never frightened her, even then. * The CEH was always ready to fight for the rights of the differently tall, and was not put off by the fact that most pixies and gnomes weren’t the least interested in dressing up in little pointy hats with bells on when there were other far more interesting things to do. All that tinkly-wee stuff was for the old folks back home in the forest—when a tiny man hit Ankh-Morpork he preferred to get drunk, kick some serious ankle and search for tiny women. In fact the CEH now had to spend so much time explaining to people that they hadn’t got enough rights that they barely had any time left to fight for them. * Often they lived to a time scale to suit themselves. Many of the senior ones, of course, lived entirely in the past, but several were like the Professor of Anthropics, who had invented an entire temporal system based on the belief that all the other ones were a mere illusion. Many people are aware of the Weak and Strong Anthropic Principles. The Weak One says, basically, that it was jolly amazing of the universe to be constructed in such a way that humans could evolve to a point where they make a living in, for example, universities, while the Strong One says that, on the contrary, the whole point of the universe was that humans should not only work in universities but also write for huge sums books with words like “Cosmic” and “Chaos” in the titles. † The UU Professor of Anthropics had developed the Special and Inevitable Anthropic Principle, which was that the entire reason for the existence of the universe was the eventual evolution of the UU Professor of Anthropics. But this was only a formal statement of the theory which absolutely everyone, with only some minor details of a “Fill in name here” nature, secretly believes to be true. † And they are correct. The universe clearly operates for the benefit of humanity. This can be readily seen from the convenient way the sun comes up in the morning, when people are ready to start the day. * The ceremony still carries on, of course. If you left off traditions because you didn’t know why they started you’d be no better than a foreigner. * Ignorant: a state of not knowing what a pronoun is, or how to find the square root of 27. 4, and merely knowing childish and useless things like which of the seventy almost identical-looking species of the purple sea snake are the deadly ones, how to treat the poisonous pith of the Sago-sago tree to make a nourishing gruel, how to foretell the weather by the movements of the tree-climbing Burglar Crab, how to navigate across a thousand miles of featureless ocean by means of a piece of string and a small clay model of your grandfather, how to get essential vitamins from the liver of the ferocious Ice Bear, and other such trivial matters. It’s a strange thing that when everyone becomes educated, everyone knows about the pronoun but no one knows about the Sago-sago. *† Credulous: having views about the world, the universe and humanity’s place in it that are shared only by very unsophisticated people and the most intelligent and advanced mathematicians and physicists. * It’s amazing how good governments are, given their track record in almost every other field, at hushing up things like alien encounters. One reason may be that the aliens themselves are too embarrassed to talk about it. |
It’s not known why most of the space-going races of the universe want to undertake rummaging in Earthling underwear as a prelude to formal contact. But representatives of several hundred races have taken to hanging out, unsuspected by one another, in rural corners of the planet and, as a result of this, keep on abducting other would-be abductees. Some have been in fact abducted while waiting to carry out an abduction on a couple of other aliens trying to abduct the aliens who were, as a result of misunderstood instructions, trying to form cattle into circles and mutilate crops. The planet Earth is now banned to all alien races until they can compare notes and find out how many, if any, real humans they have actually got. It is gloomily suspected that there is only one—who is big, hairy and has very large feet. The truth may be out there, but lies are inside your head. * “The red rosy hen greets the dawn of the day. ” In fact the hen is not the bird traditionally associated with heralding a new sunrise, but Mrs. Huggs, while collecting many old folk songs for posterity, has taken care to rewrite them where necessary to avoid, as she put it, “offending those of a refined disposition with unwarranted coarseness. ” Much to her surprise, people often couldn’t spot the unwarranted coarseness until it had been pointed out to them. Sometimes a chicken is nothing but a bird. * He’d have to admit that the answer would be “five and a bit,” but at least he could come up with it. * It had been Ma Lilywhite’s dying wish, although she hadn’t known it at the time. Her last words to her son were “You try and get to the horses, I’ll try to hold ’em off on the stairs, and if anything happens to me, take care of the dummy!” * They generally know in time to have their best robe cleaned, do some serious damage to the wine cellar and have a really good last meal. It’s a nicer version of Death Row, with the bonus of no lawyers. * It was, in fact, a pleasant masculine scent. But only to female weasels. * Which had died in its sleep. Of natural causes. At a great age. After a long and happy life, insofar as a sheep can be happy. And would probably be quite pleased to know that it could help somebody as it passed away. * Arnold had no legs but, since there were many occasions when a boot was handy on the streets, Coffin Henry had affixed one to the end of a pole for him. He was deadly with it, and any muggers hard-pressed enough to try to rob the beggars often found themselves kicked on the top of the head by a man three feet high. Table of Contents Cover Title Page Dedication Contents Begin Reading About the Author Praise Other Books by Terry Pratchett Copyright About the Publisher Terry Pratchett Thief of Time A Novel of Discworld ® Contents Begin Reading About the Author Praise Other Books by Terry Pratchett Copyright About the Publisher Begin Reading A ccording to the First Scroll of Wen the Eternally Surprised , Wen stepped out of the cave where he had received enlightenment and into the dawning light of the first day of the rest of his life. He stared at the rising sun for some time, because he had never seen it before. He prodded with a sandal the dozing form of Clodpool the Apprentice, and said: “I have seen. Now I understand. ” Then he stopped and looked at the thing next to Clodpool. “What is that amazing thing?” he said. “Er…er…it’s a tree, master,” said Clodpool, still not quite awake. “Remember? It was there yesterday. ” “There was no yesterday. ” “Er…er…I think there was , master,” said Clodpool, struggling to his feet. “Remember? We came up here, and I cooked a meal, and had the rind off your sklang because you didn’t want it. ” “I remember yesterday,” said Wen, thoughtfully. “But the memory is in my head now. Was yesterday real? Or is it only the memory that is real? Truly, yesterday I was not born. ” Clodpool’s face became a mask of agonized incomprehension. “Dear stupid Clodpool, I have learned everything,” said Wen. “In the cup of the hand there is no past, no future. There is only now. There is no time but the present. We have a great deal to do. ” Clodpool hesitated. There was something new about his master. There was a glow in his eyes and, when he moved, there were strange silvery-blue lights in the air, like reflections from liquid mirrors. “She has told me everything,” Wen went on. “I know that time was made for men, not the other way around. I have learned how to shape it and bend it. I know how to make a moment last forever, because it already has. And I can teach these skills even to you, Clodpool. I have heard the heartbeat of the universe. I know the answers to many questions. Ask me. ” The apprentice gave him a bleary look. It was too early in the morning for it to be early in the morning. That was the only thing that he currently knew for sure. “Er…what does master want for breakfast?” he said. Wen looked down from their camp, and across the snowfields and purple mountains to the golden daylight creating the world, and mused upon certain aspects of humanity. “Ah,” he said. “One of the difficult ones. ” For something to exist, it has to be observed. For something to exist, it has to have a position in time and space. And this explains why nine-tenths of the mass of the universe is unaccounted for. Nine-tenths of the universe is the knowledge of the position and direction of everything in the other tenth. Every atom has its biography, every star its file, every chemical exchange its equivalent of the inspector with a clipboard. It is unaccounted for because it is doing the accounting for the rest of it, and you cannot see the back of your own head. * Nine-tenths of the universe, in fact, is the paperwork. And if you want the story, then remember that a story does not unwind. It weaves. Events that start in different places and different times all bear down on that one tiny point in space-time, which is the perfect moment. Suppose an emperor was persuaded to wear a new suit of clothes whose material was so fine that, to the common eye, the clothes weren’t there. And suppose a little boy pointed out this fact in a loud clear voice… Then you have The Story Of The Emperor Who Had No Clothes. But if you knew a bit more, it would be The Story Of The Boy Who Got A Well-Deserved Thrashing From His Dad For Being Rude To Royalty, And Was Locked Up. Or The Story Of The Whole Crowd That Was Rounded Up By The Guards And Told “This Didn’t Happen, Okay? Does Anyone Want To Argue?” Or it could be a story of how a whole kingdom suddenly saw the benefits of the “new clothes,” and developed an enthusiasm for healthy sports * in a lively and refreshing atmosphere that gets many new adherents every year, which led to a recession caused by the collapse of the conventional clothing industry. It could even be a story about The Great Pneumonia Epidemic of ’09. It all depends on how much you know. Suppose you’d watched the slow accretion of snow over thousands of years as it was compressed and pushed over the deep rock until the glacier calved its icebergs into the sea, and you watched an iceberg drift out through the chilly waters, and you got to know its cargo of happy polar bears and seals as they looked forward to a brave new life in the other hemisphere where they say the ice floes are lined with crunchy penguins, and then wham— tragedy loomed in the shape of thousands of tons of unaccountably floating iron and an exciting soundtrack… …you’d want to know the whole story. And this one starts with desks. This is the desk of a professional. It is clear that their job is their life. There are…human touches, but they are the human touches that strict usage allows in a chilly world of duty and routine. Mostly they’re on the only piece of real color in this picture of blacks and grays. It’s a coffee mug. Someone somewhere wanted to make it a jolly mug. |
It bears a rather unconvincing picture of a teddy bear, and the legend “To The World’s Greatest Grandad,” and the slight change in the style of lettering on the word “Grandad” makes it clear that this has come from one of those stalls that have hundreds of mugs like these, declaring that they’re for the world’s greatest Grandad/Dad/Mum/Granny/Uncle/Aunt/Blank. Only someone whose life contains very little else, one feels, would treasure a piece of gimcrackery like this. It currently holds tea, with a slice of lemon. The bleak desktop also contains a paper knife in the shape of a scythe, and a number of hourglasses. Death picks up the mug in a skeletal hand……and took a sip, pausing only to look again at the wording he’d seen thousands of times before, and then put it down. V ERY WELL , he said, in tones of funeral bells. S HOW ME. The last item on the desktop was a mechanical contrivance. “Contrivance” was exactly the right kind of word for it. Most of it was two discs. One was horizontal, and contained a circlet of very small squares of what would prove to be carpet. The other was set vertically, and had a large number of arms, each one of which held a very small slice of buttered toast. Each slice was set so that it could spin freely as the turning of the wheel brought it down toward the carpet disc. I BELIEVE I AM BEGINNING TO GET THE IDEA, said Death. The small figure by the machine saluted smartly and beamed, if a rat skull could beam. It pulled a pair of goggles over its eye sockets, hitched up its robe, and clambered into the machine. Death was never quite sure why he allowed the Death of Rats to have an independent existence. After all, being Death meant being the Death of everything , including rodents of all descriptions. But perhaps everyone needs a tiny part of themselves that can, metaphorically, be allowed to run naked in the rain, * to think the unthinkable thoughts, to hide in corners and spy on the world, to do the forbidden but enjoyable deeds. Slowly, the Death of Rats pushed the treadles. The wheels began to spin. “Exciting, eh?” said a hoarse voice by Death’s ear. It belonged to Quoth, the raven, who had attached himself to the household as the Death of Rats’ personal transport and crony. He was, he always said, only in it for the eyeballs. The carpets began to turn. The tiny toasties slapped down, sometimes with a buttery squelch, sometimes without. Quoth watched carefully, in case any eyeballs were involved. Death saw that some time and effort had been spent devising a mechanism to rebutter each returning slice. An even more complex one measured the number of buttered carpets. After a couple of complete turns the lever of the buttered carpet ratio device had moved to 60 percent, and the wheels stopped. W ELL? said Death. T HIS PROVES NOTHING. I F YOU DID IT AGAIN, IT COULD WELL BE THAT— The Death of Rats shifted a gear lever, and began to pedal again. S QUEAK , it commanded. Death obediently leaned closer. This time the needle went only as high as 40 percent. Death leaned closer still. The eight pieces of toast that had been buttered this time were, in their entirety, the pieces that had been missed first time around. Spidery cogwheels whirred in the machine. A sign emerged, rather shakily, on springs, with an effect that was the visual equivalent of the word “boing. ” A moment later two sparklers spluttered fitfully into life and sizzled away on either side of the word MALIGNITY. Death nodded. It was just as he’d suspected. He crossed his study, the Death of Rats scampering ahead of him, and reached a full-length mirror. It was dark, like the bottom of a well. There was a pattern of skulls and bones around the frame, for the sake of appearances; Death could not look himself in the skull in a mirror with cherubs and roses around it. The Death of Rats climbed the frame in a scrabble of claws and looked at Death expectantly from the top. Quoth fluttered over, and pecked briefly at his own reflection, on the basis that anything was worth a try. S HOW ME, said Death. S HOW ME…MY THOUGHTS. A chessboard appeared, but it was triangular and so big that only the nearest point could be seen. Right on this point was the world—turtle, elephants, the little orbiting sun and all. It was the Discworld, which existed only just this side of total improbability and, therefore, in border country. In border country, the border gets crossed and sometimes things creep into the universe that have rather more on their minds than a better life for their children and a wonderful future in the fruit-picking and domestic-service industries. On every other black-and-white triangle of the chessboard, all the way to infinity, was a small gray shape, rather like an empty hooded robe. W HY NOW? thought Death. He recognized them. They were not life-forms. They were…nonlife-forms. They were the observers of the operation of the universe, its clerks, its auditors. They saw to it that things spun and rocks fell. And they believed that for a thing to exist it had to have a position in time and space. Humanity had arrived as a nasty shock. Humanity practically was things that didn’t have a position in time and space, such as imagination, pity, hope, history, and belief. Take those away and all you had was an ape that fell out of trees a lot. Intelligent life was, therefore, an anomaly. It made the filing untidy. The Auditors hated things like that. Periodically, they tried to tidy things up a little. A year ago astronomers across the Discworld had been puzzled to see the stars gently wheel across the sky as the world-turtle executed a roll. The thickness of the world never allowed them to see why, but Great A’Tuin’s ancient head had snaked out and down and had snapped right out of the sky the speeding asteroid that would, had it hit, have meant that no one would ever have needed to buy a diary ever again. No, the world could take care of obvious threats like that. So now the gray robes preferred more subtle, cowardly skirmishes, in their endless desire for a universe where nothing happened that was not completely predictable. The buttered side–down effect was only a trivial but telling indicator. It showed an increase in activity. Give up, was their eternal message. Go back to being blobs in the ocean. Blobs were easy. But the great game went on at many levels, Death knew. And often it was hardly possible to know who was playing. E VERY CAUSE HAS ITS EFFECT , he said aloud. S O EVERY EFFECT HAS ITS CAUSE. He nodded at the Death of Rats. S HOW ME, said Death. S HOW ME…A BEGINNING. Tick It was a bitter winter’s night. The man hammered on the back door, sending snow sliding off the roof. The girl, who had been admiring her new hat in the mirror, tweaked the already low neckline of her dress for slightly more exposure, just in case the caller was male, and went and opened the door. A figure was outlined against the freezing starlight. Flakes were already building up on his cloak. “Mrs. Ogg? The midwife?” he said. “It’s Miss, actually,” she said proudly. “And witch, too, o’course. ” She indicated her new, black, pointy hat. She was still at the stage of wearing it in the house. “You must come at once. It’s very urgent. ” The girl looked suddenly panic-stricken. “Is it Mrs. Weaver? I didn’t reckon she was due for another couple of we—” “I have come a long way,” said the figure. “They say you are the best in the world. ” “What? Me? I’ve only delivered one!” said Miss Ogg, now looking hunted. “Biddy Spective is a lot more experienced than me! And old Minnie Forthwright! Mrs. Weaver was going to be my first solo, ’cos she’s built like a wardro—” “I do beg your pardon. I will not trespass further on your time. ” The stranger retreated into the flake-speckled shadows. “Hello?” said Miss Ogg. “Hello?” But there was nothing there, except footprints. Which stopped in the middle of the snow-covered path… Tick There was a hammering on the door. Mrs. Ogg put down the child that had been sitting on her knee, and went and raised the latch. |
A dark figure stood outlined against the warm summer-evening sky, and there was something strange about its shoulders. “Mrs. Ogg? You are married now?” “Yep. Twice,” said Mrs. Ogg, cheerfully. “What can I do for y—” “You must come at once. It’s very urgent. ” “I didn’t know anyone was—” “I have come a long way,” said the figure. Mrs. Ogg paused. There was something in the way he had pronounced long. And now she could see that the whiteness on the cloak was snow, melting fast. Faint memory stirred. “Well, now,” she said, because she’d learned a lot in the last twenty years or so, “that’s as may be, and I’ll always do the best I can, ask anyone. But I wouldn’t say I’m the best. Always learnin’ something new, that’s me. ” “Oh. In that case, I will call at a more convenient…moment. ” “Why’ve you got snow on—?” But, without ever quite vanishing, the stranger was no longer present… Tick There was a hammering on the door. Nanny Ogg carefully put down her brandy nightcap, and stared at the wall for a moment. Now a lifetime of edge witchery * had honed senses that most people never really knew they had, and something in her head went “click. ” On the hob, the kettle for her hot-water bottle was just coming to the boil. She laid down her pipe, got up, and opened the door on this springtime midnight. “You’ve come a long way, I’m thinking,” she said, showing no surprise at the dark figure. “That is true, Mrs. Ogg. ” “Everyone who knows me calls me Nanny. ” She looked down at the melting snow dripping off the cloak. It hadn’t snowed up here for a month. “And it’s urgent, I expect?” she said, as memory unrolled. “Indeed. ” “And now you got to say ‘you must come at once. ’” “You must come at once. ” “Well, now,” she said. “I’d say, yes , I’m a pretty good midwife, though I do say it myself. I’ve seen hundreds into the world. Even trolls, which is no errand for the inexperienced. I know birthing backward and forward and damn near sideways at times. Always been ready to learn something new, though. ” She looked down modestly. “I wouldn’t say I’m the best,” she said, “but I can’t think of anyone better, I have to say. ” “You must leave with me now. ” “Oh, I must, must I?” said Nanny Ogg. “Yes!” An edge witch thinks fast, because edges can shift so quickly. And she learns to tell when a mythology is unfolding, and when the best you can do is put yourself in its path and run to keep up. “Right-o. I’ll just go and get—” “There is no time. ” “But I can’t just walk right out and—” “ Now. ” Nanny reached behind the door for her birthing bag, always kept there for just such occasions as this, full of the things she knew she’d want and a few of the things she always prayed she’d never need. “Right,” she said. She left. Tick The kettle was just boiling when Nanny walked back into her kitchen. She stared at it for a moment, and then moved it off the fire. There was still a drop of brandy left in the glass by her chair. She drained that, then refilled the glass to the brim from the bottle. She picked up her pipe. The bowl was still warm. She pulled on it, and the coals crackled. Then she took something out of her bag, which was now a good deal emptier and, brandy glass in her hand, sat down to look at it. “Well,” she said at last, “that was…very unusual…” Tick Death watched the image fade. A few flakes of snow that had blown out of the mirror had already melted on the floor, but there was still a whiff of pipe smoke in the air. A H YES, I SEE, he said. A BIRTHING, IN STRANGE CIRCUMSTANCES. B UT IS THAT WHAT THE PROBLEM WAS OR WAS THAT WHAT THE SOLUTION WILL BE? S QUEAK, said the Death of Rats. Q UITE SO, said Death. Y OU MAY VERY WELL BE RIGHT. I DO KNOW THAT THE MIDWIFE WILL NEVER TELL ME. The Death of Rats looked surprised. S QUEAK? Death smiled. D EATH ? A SKING AFTER THE LIFE OF A CHILD? NO. SHE WOULD NOT. “’Scuse me,” said the raven, “but how come Miss Ogg became Mrs. Ogg? Sounds a bit of a rural arrangement, if you catch my meaning. ” W ITCHES ARE MATRILINEAL, said Death. T HEY FIND IT MUCH EASIER TO CHANGE MEN THAN TO CHANGE NAMES. He went back to his desk and opened a drawer. There was a thick book there, bound in night. On the cover, where a book like this might otherwise say “Our Wedding” or “Acme Photo Album” it said MEMORIES. Death turned the heavy pages carefully. Some of the memories escaped as he did so, forming brief pictures in the air before the page turned, and then went flying and fading into the distant, dark corners of the room. There were snatches of sound, too, of laughter, tears, screams, and, for some reason, a brief burst of xylophone music that caused him to pause for a moment. An immortal has a great deal to remember. Sometimes it’s better to put things where they will be safe. One ancient memory, brown and cracking around the edges, lingered in the air over the desk. It showed five figures, four on horseback, one in a chariot, all apparently riding out of a thunderstorm. The horses were at a full gallop. There was a lot of smoke and flame and general excitement. A H, THE OLD DAYS , said Death, BEFORE THERE WAS THIS FASHION FOR HAVING A SOLO CAREER. S QUEAK? the Death of Rats inquired. O H, YES, said Death. O NCE THERE WERE FIVE OF US. F IVE HORSEMEN. B UT YOU KNOW HOW THINGS ARE. T HERE’S ALWAYS A ROW. C REATIVE DISAGREEMENTS, ROOMS BEING TRASHED, THAT SORT OF THING. He sighed. A ND THINGS SAID THAT PERHAPS SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN SAID. He turned a few more pages and sighed again. When you needed an ally, and you were Death, on whom could you absolutely rely? His thoughtful gaze fell on the teddy bear mug. Of course, there was always family. Yes. He’d promised not to do this again, but he’d never got the hang of promises. He got up and went back to the mirror. There was not a lot of time. Things in the mirror were closer than they appeared. There was slithering noise, a breathless moment of silence, and a crash like a bag of skittles being dropped. The Death of Rats winced. The raven took off hurriedly. H ELP ME UP, PLEASE, said a voice from the shadows. A ND THEN PLEASE CLEAN UP THE DAMN BUTTER. Tick This desk was a field of galaxies. Things twinkled. There were complex wheels and spirals, brilliant against the blackness… Jeremy always liked the moment when he had a clock in pieces, with every wheel and spring carefully laid out on the black velvet cloth in front of him. It was like looking at Time, dismantled, controllable, every part of it understood… He wished his life was like that. It would be nice to reduce it to bits, spread them all out on the table, clean and oil them properly, and put them together so that they coiled and spun as they ought to. But sometimes it seemed that the life of Jeremy had been assembled by a not very competent craftsman who had allowed a number of small but important things to go ping into the corners of the room. He wished he liked people more, but somehow he could never get on with them. He never knew what to say. If life was a party, he wasn’t even in the kitchen. He envied the people who made it as far as the kitchen. There would probably be the remains of the dip to eat, and a bottle or two of cheap wine that someone had brought along that’d probably be okay if you took out the drowned cigarette stubs. There might even be a girl in the kitchen, perhaps, although Jeremy knew the limits of his imagination. But Jeremy never even got an invitation. Clocks, now…clocks were different. He knew what made clocks tick. His full name was Jeremy Clockson, and that was no accident. He’d been a member of the Guild of Clockmakers since he was a few days old, and everyone knew what that meant. It meant his life had begun in a basket, on a doorstep. Everyone knew how it worked. All the guilds took in the foundlings that arrived with the morning milk. It was an ancient form of charity, and there were far worse fates. The orphans got a life, and an upbringing of a sort, and a trade, and a future, and a name. Many a fine lady or master craftsman or city dignitary had telltale surnames like Ludd or Doughy or Pune or Clockson. |
They’d been named after trade heroes or patron deities, and this turned them into a kind of family. The older ones remembered where they came from, and at Hogswatch they were liberal with donations of food and clothing to the various younger brothers and sisters of the basket. It wasn’t perfect, but then, what is? So Jeremy had grown up healthy, and rather strange, and with a gift for his adoptive craft that almost made up for every other personal endowment that he did not possess. The shop bell rang. He sighed and put down his eyeglass. He didn’t rush, though. There was a lot to look at in the shop. Sometimes he even had to cough to attract the customer’s attention. That being said, sometimes Jeremy had to cough to attract the attention of his reflection when he was shaving. Jeremy tried to be an interesting person. The trouble was that he was the kind of person who, having decided to be an interesting person, would first of all try to find a book called How to Be an Interesting Person and then see whether there were any courses available. He was puzzled that people seemed to think he was a boring conversationalist. Why, he could talk about all kinds of clocks. Mechanical clocks, magical clocks, water clocks, fire clocks, floral clocks, candle clocks, sand clocks, cuckoo clocks, the rare Hershebian beetle clocks…But for some reason he always ran out of listeners before he ran out of clocks. He stepped out into his shop and stopped. “Oh…I’m so sorry to have kept you,” he said. It was a woman. And two trolls had taken up positions just inside the door. Their dark glasses and huge ill-fitting black suits put them down as people who put people down. One of them cracked his knuckles when he saw Jeremy looking at him. The woman was wrapped in an enormous and expensive white fur coat, which may have explained the trolls. Long black hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her face was made up so pale that it was almost the shade of the coat. She was…quite attractive, thought Jeremy, who was admittedly no judge whatsoever, but it was a monochromatic beauty. He wondered if she was a zombie. There were quite a few in the city now, and the prudent ones had taken it with them when they died and probably could afford a coat like that. “A beetle clock?” she said. She had turned away from the glass dome. “Oh, er, yes…the Hershebian lawyer beetle has a very consistent daily routine,” said Jeremy. “I, er, only keep it for, um, interest. ” “How very…organic,” said the woman. She extended a black-gloved hand, palm down. “We are Myria LeJean. Lady Myria LeJean. ” Jeremy obediently held out a hand. Patient men at the Clockmakers’ Guild had spent a long time teaching him how to Relate To People before giving it up in despair, but some things had stuck. Her ladyship looked at the waiting hand. Finally, one of the trolls lumbered over. “Der lady does not shake hands,” it said, in a reverberating whisper. “She are not a tactile kinda person. ” “Oh?” said Jeremy. “But enough of this, perhaps,” said Lady LeJean, stepping back. “You make clocks, and we—” There was a jingling noise from Jeremy’s shirt pocket. He pulled out a large watch. “If that was chiming the hour, you are fast,” said the woman. “Er…um…no…you might find it a good idea to, um, put your hands over your ears…” It was three o’clock. And every clock struck it at once. Cuckoos cuckoo’d, the hour pins fell out of the candle clock, the water clocks gurgled and seesawed back as the buckets emptied, bells clanged, gongs banged, chimes tinkled, and the Ephebian lawyer beetle turned a somersault. The trolls had clapped their huge hands over their ears, but Lady LeJean merely stood with her hands on her hips, head on one side, until the last echo died away. “All correct, we see,” she said. “What?” said Jeremy. He’d been thinking: perhaps a vampire, then? “You keep all your clocks at the right time,” said Lady LeJean. “You’re very particular about that, Mr. Jeremy?” “A clock that doesn’t tell the right time is…wrong,” said Jeremy. Now he was wishing she’d go away. Her eyes were worrying him. He’d heard about people having gray eyes, and her eyes were gray, like the eyes of a blind person, but she was clearly looking at him and through him. “Yes, there was a little bit of trouble over that, wasn’t there?” said Lady LeJean. “I…I don’t…I don’t…don’t know what you’re—” “At the Clockmakers’ Guild? Williamson, who kept his clock five minutes fast? And you—” “I am much better now,” said Jeremy stiffly. “I have medicine. The guild was very kind. Now please go away. ” “Mr. Jeremy, we want you to build us a clock that is accurate. ” “All my clocks are accurate,” said Jeremy, staring at his feet. He wasn’t due to take his medicine for another five hours and seventeen minutes, but he was feeling the need for it now. “And now I must ask—” “How accurate are your clocks?” “Better than a second in eleven months,” said Jeremy promptly. “That is very good?” “Yes. ” It had been very good. That was why the guild had been so understanding. Genius is always allowed some leeway, once the hammer has been pried from its hands and the blood has been cleaned up. “We want much better accuracy than that. ” “It can’t be done. ” “Oh? You mean that you can’t do it?” “No, I can’t. And if I can’t, then nor can any other clockmaker in the city. I’d know about it if they could!” “So proud? Are you sure?” “I’d know. ” And he would. He’d know for certain. The candle clocks and the water clocks…they were toys, which he kept out of a sort of respect for the early days of timekeeping, and even then he’d spent weeks experimenting with waxes and buckets and had turned out primitive clocks that you could, well, very nearly set your watch by. It was okay that they couldn’t be that accurate. They were simple, organic things, parodies of time. They didn’t grind across his nerves. But a real clock…well, that was a mechanism, a thing of numbers, and numbers had to be perfect. She put her head on one side again. “How do you test to that accuracy?” she said. They’d often asked him that in the guild, once his talent had revealed itself. He hadn’t been able to answer the question then, either, because it didn’t make sense. You built a clock to be accurate. A portrait painter painted a picture. If it looked like the subject, then it was an accurate picture. If you built the clock right, it would be accurate. You didn’t have to test it. You’d know. “I’d know,” he said. “ We want you to build a clock that is very accurate. ” “How accurate?” “ Accurate. ” “But I can only build to the limit of my materials,” said Jeremy. “I have…developed certain techniques, but there are things like…the vibration of the traffic in the street, little changes in temperature, that sort of thing. ” Lady LeJean was now inspecting a range of fat imppowered watches. She picked one up and opened the back. There was the tiny saddle, and the pedals, but they were forlorn and empty. “No imps?” she said. “I keep them for historical interest,” said Jeremy. “They were barely accurate to a few seconds a minute, and they’d stop completely overnight. They were only any good if your idea of accuracy was ‘around two-ish. ’” He grimaced when he used the term. It felt like fingernails on a blackboard. “How about invar?” said the lady, still apparently inspecting the museum of clocks. Jeremy looked shocked. “The alloy? I didn’t think anyone outside the guild knew about that. And it is very expensive. Worth a lot more than its weight in gold. ” Lady LeJean straightened up. “Money is no object,” she said. “Would invar allow you to reach total accuracy?” “No. I already use it. It’s true that it is not affected by temperature, but there are always… barriers. Smaller and smaller interferences become bigger and bigger problems. It’s Xeno’s paradox. ” “Ah, yes. He was the Ephebian philosopher who said you couldn’t hit a running man with an arrow, wasn’t he?” said the lady. “In theory, because—” “But Xeno came up with four paradoxes, I believe,” said Lady LeJean. |
“They involved the idea that there is such a thing as the smallest possible unit of time. And it must exist, mustn’t it? Consider the present. It must have a length, because one end of it is connected to the past and the other is connected to the future, and if it didn’t have a length then the present couldn’t exist at all. There would be no time for it to be the present in. ” Jeremy was suddenly in love. He hadn’t felt like this since he’d taken the back off the nursery clock when he was fourteen months old. “Then you’re talking about…the fabled ‘tick of the universe,’” he said. “And no gear cutter could possibly make gears that small…” “It depends on what you would call a gear. Have you read this?” Lady LeJean waved a hand at one of the trolls, who lumbered over and dropped an oblong package on Jeremy’s counter. He undid it. It contained a small book. “ Grim Fairy Tales? ” he said. “Read the story about the glass clock of Bad Schüschein,” said Lady LeJean. “Children’s stories?” said Jeremy. “What can they tell me?” “Who knows? We will call again tomorrow,” said Lady LeJean, “to hear about your plans. In the meantime, here is a little token of our good faith. ” The troll laid a large leather bag on the counter. It clinked with the heavy, rich clink of gold. Jeremy didn’t pay it a great deal of attention. He had quite a lot of gold. Even skilled clockmakers came to buy his clocks. Gold was useful because it gave him the time to work on more clocks. These earned him more gold. Gold was, more or less, something that occupied the space between clocks. “I can also obtain invar for you, in large quantities,” she said. “That will be part of your payment, although I agree that even invar will not serve your purpose. Mr. Jeremy, both you and I know that your payment for making the first truly accurate clock will be the opportunity to make the first truly accurate clock, yes?” He smiled, nervously. “It would be…wonderful, if it could be done,” he said. “Really, it would…be the end of clockmaking. ” “Yes,” said Lady LeJean. “No one would ever have to make a clock again. ” Tick This desk is neat. There is a pile of books on it, and a ruler. There is also, at the moment, a clock made out of cardboard. Miss Susan picked it up. The other teachers in the school were known as Stephanie and Joan and so on, but to her class she was very strictly Miss Susan. “Strict,” in fact, was a word that seemed to cover everything about Miss Susan and, in the classroom, she insisted on the Miss in the same way that a king insists upon Your Majesty , and for pretty much the same reason. Miss Susan wore black, which the headmistress disapproved of but could do nothing about because black was , well, a respectable color. She was young, but with an indefinable air of age about her. She wore her hair, which was blond-white with one black streak, in a tight bun; the headmistress disapproved of that, too—it suggested an Archaic Image Of Teaching, she said, with the assurance of someone who could pronounce a capital letter. But she didn’t ever dare disapprove of the way Miss Susan moved, because Miss Susan moved like a tiger. It was always very hard to disapprove of Miss Susan in her presence, because if you did, she gave you a Look. It was not in any way a threatening look. It was cool and calm. You just didn’t want to see it again. The Look worked in the classroom, too. Take homework, another Archaic Practice the headmistress was ineffectively Against. No dog ever ate the homework of one of Miss Susan’s students, because there was something about Miss Susan that went home with them; the dog brought them a pen and watched imploringly while they finished it, instead. Miss Susan seemed to have an unerring instinct for spotting laziness, and effort, too. Contrary to the headmistress’s instructions, Miss Susan did not let the children do what they liked. She let them do what she liked. It had turned out to be a lot more interesting for everyone. Miss Susan held up the cardboard clock and said: “Who can tell me what this is?” A forest of hands shot up. “Yes, Miranda?” “It’s a clock, miss. ” Miss Susan smiled, carefully avoided the hand that was being waved by a boy called Vincent who was also making frantically keen “ooo, ooo, ooo” noises, and chose the boy behind him. “Nearly right,” she said. “Yes, Samuel?” “It’s all cardboard made to look like a clock,” said the boy. “Correct. Always see what’s really there. And I’m supposed to teach you to tell the time with this. ” Miss Susan gave it a sneer and tossed it away. “Shall we try a different way?” she said and snapped her fingers. “Yes!” the class chorused, and then it went “aah!” as the walls, floor, and ceiling dropped away and the desks were all hovering high over the city. A few feet away was the huge cracked face of the tower clock of Unseen University. The children nudged one another excitedly. The fact that their boots were over one hundred feet of fresh air didn’t seem to bother them. Oddly, too, they did not seem surprised. This was just an interesting thing. They acted like connoisseurs who had seen other interesting things. You did, when you were in Miss Susan’s class. “Now, Melanie,” said Miss Susan, as a pigeon landed on her desk. “The big hand is on the twelve and the enormous hand is nearly on the ten, so it’s…” Vincent’s hand shot up. “…Ooo, miss, ooo, ooo…” “Nearly twelve o’clock,” Melanie managed. “Well done. But here … ” The air blurred. Now the desks, still in perfect formation, were firmly on the cobbles of a plaza in a different city. So was the classroom. There were the cupboards, and the Nature Table, and the blackboard. But the walls had vanished. No one in the plaza paid the visitors any attention but, oddly, no one tried to walk into them either. The air was warmer, and smelled of sea and swamp. “Anyone know where this is?” said Miss Susan. “Ooo, me, miss, ooo, ooo…” Vincent could only stretch his body taller if his feet left the ground. “How about you, Penelope?” said Miss Susan. “Oh, miss ,” said a deflated Vincent. Penelope, who was beautiful, docile, and, frankly, dim, looked around at the thronged square and the whitewashed, awning-hung buildings with an expression close to panic. “We came here in Geography last week,” said Miss Susan. “City surrounded by swamps. On the Vieux River. Famous cookery. Lots of seafood…?” Penelope’s exquisite brow creased. The pigeon on Miss Susan’s desk fluttered down and joined the other pigeons prospecting for scraps among the flagstones, cooing very gently to them in pidgin pigeon. Aware that a lot could happen while people waited for Penelope to complete a thought process, Miss Susan waved at a clock on a shop across the square and said: “And who can tell me the time here in Genua, please?” “Ooo, miss, miss , ooo…” A boy called Gordon cautiously admitted that it might be three o’clock, to the audible disappointment of the inflatable Vincent. “That’s right,” said Miss Susan. “Can anyone tell me why it’s three o’clock in Genua while it’s twelve o’clock in Ankh-Morpork?” There was no avoiding it this time. If Vincent’s hand had gone up any faster it would have fried by air friction. “ Yes , Vincent?” “Ooo miss speed of light miss it goes at six hundred miles an hour and at the moment the sun’s rising on the rim near Genua so twelve o’clock takes three hours to get to us miss!” Miss Susan sighed. “Very good, Vincent,” she said and stood up. Every eye in the room watched her as she crossed over to the Stationery Cupboard. It seemed to have traveled with them and now, if there had been anyone to note such things, they might have seen faint lines in the air that denoted walls and windows and doors. |
And if they were intelligent observers, they’d have said: so…this classroom is in some way still in Ankh-Morpork and also in Genua, is it? Is this a trick? Is this real? Is it imagination? Or is it that, to this particular teacher, there is not much of a difference? The inside of the cupboard was also present, and it was in that shadowy, paper-smelling recess that she kept the stars. There were gold stars and silver stars. One gold star was worth three silver ones. The headmistress disapproved of those, as well. She said they encouraged Competitiveness. Miss Susan said that was the point, and the headmistress scuttled away before she got the Look. Silver stars weren’t awarded frequently, and gold stars happened less than once a fortnight, and were vied for accordingly. Right now Miss Susan selected a silver star. Pretty soon Vincent the Keen would have a galaxy of his very own. To give him his due, he was quite disinterested in which kind of star he got. Quantity, that was what he liked. Miss Susan had privately marked him down as Boy Most Likely To Be Killed One Day By His Wife. She walked back to her desk and laid the star, tantalizingly, in front of her. “And an extra special question,” she said, with a hint of malice. “Does that mean it’s ‘then’ there when it’s ‘now’ here?” The hand slowed halfway in its rise. “Ooo…” Vincent began and then stopped. “Doesn’t make sense, miss…” “Questions don’t have to make sense, Vincent,” said Miss Susan. “But answers do. ” There was a kind of sigh from Penelope. To Miss Susan’s surprise, the face that one day would surely cause her father to have to hire bodyguards was emerging from its normal happy daydream and wrapping itself around an answer. Her alabaster hand was rising, too. The class watched expectantly. “Yes, Penelope?” “It’s…” “Yes?” “It’s always ‘now’ everywhere, miss?” “Exactly right. Well done! All right, Vincent, you can have the silver star. And for you, Penelope…” Miss Susan went back to the cupboard of stars. Getting Penelope to step off her cloud long enough even to answer a question was worth a star, but a deep philosophical statement had to make it a gold one. “I want you all to open your notebooks and write down what Penelope just told us,” she said brightly as she sat down. And then she saw the inkwell on her desk beginning to rise like Penelope’s hand. It was a ceramic pot, made to drop neatly into a round hole in the woodwork. It came up smoothly and turned out to be balanced on the cheerful skull of the Death of Rats. It winked one blue-glowing eye socket at Miss Susan. With quick little movements, not even looking down, she whisked the inkwell aside with one hand and reached for a thick volume of stories with the other. She brought it down so hard on the hole that blue-black ink splashed from the inkwell onto the cobbles. Then she raised the desk lid and peeped inside. There was, of course, nothing there. At least, nothing macabre. …Unless you counted the piece of chocolate half-gnawed by rat teeth and a note in heavy gothic lettering saying SEE ME and signed by a very familiar alpha-and-omega symbol and the word Grandfather. Susan picked up the note and screwed it into a ball, aware that she was trembling with rage. How dare he? And to send the rat, too! She tossed the ball into the wastepaper basket. She never missed. Sometimes the basket moved in order to ensure that this was the case. “And now we’ll go and see what the time is in Klatch,” she told the watching children. On the desk, the book had fallen open at a certain page. And, later on, it would be story time. And Miss Susan would wonder, too late, why the book had been on her desk when she had never even seen it before. And a splash of blue-black ink would stay on the cobbles of the square in Genua, until the evening rainstorm washed it away. Tick The first words read by seekers of enlightenment in the secret, gong-banging, yeti-haunted valleys near the hub of the world are read when they look into the Life of Wen the Eternally Surprised. The first question they ask is: “Why was he eternally surprised?” And they are told: “Wen considered the nature of time and understood that the universe is, instant by instant, re-created anew. Therefore, he understood, there is, in truth, no Past, only a memory of the Past. Blink your eyes, and the world you see next did not exist when you closed them. Therefore, he said, the only appropriate state of the mind is surprise. The only appropriate state of the heart is joy. The sky you see now, you have never seen before. The perfect moment is now. Be glad of it. ” The first words read by the young Lu-Tze when he sought perplexity in the dark, teeming, rain-soaked city of Ankh-Morpork were “Rooms For Rent, Very Reasonable. ” And he was glad of it. Tick Where there is suitable country for grain, people farm. They know the taste of good soil. They grow grain. Where there is good steel country, furnaces turn the sky to sunset-red all night. The hammers never stop. They make steel. There is coal country, and beef country, and grass country. The world is full of countries where one thing shapes the land and the people. And up here in the high valleys around the hub of the world, where the snow is never far away, this is enlightenment country. Here are people that know that there is no steel, only the idea of steel. * They give names to new things, and things that don’t exist. They seek the essence of being and the nature of the soul. They make wisdom. Temples command every glacier-headed valley, where there are particles of ice in the wind, even at the height of summer. There are the Listening Monks, seeking to discern within the hubbub of the world the faint echoes of the sounds that set the universe in motion. There are the Brothers of Cool, a reserved and secretive sect, which believes that only through ultimate coolness can the universe be comprehended, and that black works with everything, and that chrome will never truly go out of style. In their vertiginous temple criss-crossed with tightropes, the Balancing Monks test the tension of the world and then set out on long, perilous journeys to restore its equilibrium. The results may be seen on high mountains and isolated islets. They are small brass weights, none of them bigger than a fist. They work. Well, obviously they work. The world has not tipped up yet. And in the highest, greenest, airiest valley of all, where apricots are grown and the streams have floating ice in them even on the hottest day, is the monastery of Oi Dong and the fighting monks’ Order of Wen. The other sects call them the History Monks. Not much is known about what they do, although some have remarked on the strange fact that it is always a wonderful spring day in the little valley and the cherry trees are always in bloom. The rumor is that the monks have some kind of duty to see that tomorrow happens according to some mystic plan devised by some man who kept on being surprised. In fact, for some time now, and it would be impossible and ridiculous to say how long, the truth has been stranger and more dangerous. The job of the History Monks is to see that tomorrow happens at all. The Master of Novices met with Rinpo, chief acolyte to the abbot. At the moment, at least, the position of chief acolyte was a very important post. In his current condition, the abbot needed many things done for him and his attention span was low. In circumstances like this, there is always someone willing to carry the load. There are Rinpos everywhere. “It’s Ludd again,” said the Master of Novices. “Oh, dear. Surely one naughty child can’t trouble you?” “One ordinary naughty child, no. Where is this one from?” “Master Soto sent him. You know? Of our Ankh-Morpork section? He found him in the city. The boy has a natural talent, I understand,” said Rinpo. The Master of Novices looked shocked. “Talent! He is a wicked thief! He’d been apprenticed to the Guild of Thieves!” he said. “Well? Children sometimes steal. Beat them a little, and they stop stealing. Basic education,” said Rinpo. “Ah. |
There is a problem. ” “Yes?” “He is very, very fast. Around him, things go missing. Little things. Unimportant things. But even when he is watched closely, he is never seen to take them. ” “Then perhaps he does not?” “He walks through a room and things vanish!” said the Master of Novices. “He’s that fast? It’s just as well Soto did find him, then. But a thief is—” “They turn up later, in odd places,” said the Master of Novices, apparently grudging the admission. “He does it out of mischief, I’m sure. ” The breeze blew the scent of cherry blossom across the terrace. “Look, I am used to disobedience,” said the Master of Novices. “That is part of a novice’s life. But he is also tardy. ” “Tardy?” “He turns up late for his lessons. ” “How can a pupil be tardy here ?” “Mr. Ludd doesn’t seem to care. Mr. Ludd seems to think he can do as he pleases. He is also…smart. ” The acolyte nodded. Ah. Smart. The word had a very specific meaning, here in the valley. A smart boy thought he knew more than his tutors, and answered back, and interrupted. A smart boy was worse than a stupid one. “He does not accept discipline?” said the acolyte. “Yesterday, when I was lecturing the class for Temporal Theory in the Stone Room, I caught him just staring at the wall. Clearly not paying attention. But when I called out to him to solve the problem I’d chalked on the blackboard, knowing full well that he could not, he did so. Instantly. And correctly. ” “Well? You did say he was a smart boy. ” The Master of Novices looked embarrassed. “Except…it was not the right problem. I had been instructing the Fifth Djim field agents earlier and had left part of the test on the board. An extremely complex phase space problem involving residual harmonics in n histories. None of them got it right. To be honest, even I had to look up the answer. ” “So, I take it, you punished him for not answering the right question?” “Obviously. But that sort of behavior is disruptive. Most of the time I think he’s not all there. He never pays attention, he always knows the answers, and he can never tell you how he knows. We can’t keep thrashing him. He is a bad example to the other pupils. There’s no educating a smart boy. ” The acolyte thoughtfully watched a flight of white doves circle the monastery roofs. “We cannot send him away now,” he said at last. “Soto said he saw him perform the Stance of the Coyote! That’s how he was found! Can you imagine that? He’d had no training at all! Can you imagine what would happen if someone with that kind of skill ran around loose? Thank goodness Soto was alert. ” “But he has turned him into my problem. The boy disrupts tranquillity. ” Rinpo sighed. The Master of Novices was a good and conscientious man, he knew, but it had been a long time since he’d been out in the world. People like Soto spent every day in the world of time. They learned flexibility, because if you were stiff out there, you were dead. People like Soto…now, there was an idea… He looked toward the other end of the terrace, where a couple of servants were sweeping up the fallen cherry blossom. “I see a harmonious solution,” he said. “Oh, yes?” “An unusually talented boy like Ludd needs a master, not the discipline of the schoolroom. ” “Possibly, but—” The Master of Novices followed Rinpo’s gaze. “Oh,” he said, and he smiled in a way that was not entirely nice. This smile contained a certain anticipatory element, a hint that trouble might be in store for someone who, in his opinion, richly deserved it. “A name occurs,” said Rinpo. “To me also,” said the Master of Novices. “A name I’ve heard too often,” Rinpo went on. “I suppose that either he will break the boy, or the boy will break him, or it is always possible that they will break each other…” the master mused. “So, in the patois of the world,” said Rinpo, “there is no actual downside. ” “Would the abbot approve, though?” said the Master, testing a welcome idea for any weak points. “He has always had a certain rather tiresome regard for…the sweeper. ” “The abbot is a dear kind man but at the moment his teeth are giving him trouble and he is not walking at all well,” said Rinpo. “And these are difficult times. I’m sure he will be pleased to accept our joint recommendation. Why, it’s practically a minor matter of day-to-day affairs. ” And thus the future was decided. They were not bad men. They had worked hard on behalf of the valley for hundreds of years. But it is possible, after a while, to develop certain dangerous habits of thought. One is that, while all important enterprises need careful organization, it is the organization that needs organizing, rather than the enterprise. And another is that tranquillity is always a good thing. Tick There was a row of alarm clocks on the table by Jeremy’s bed. He did not need them, because he woke up when he wanted to. They were there for testing. He set them for seven, and woke up at 6:59 to check that they went off on time. Tonight he went to bed early, with a drink of water and the Grim Fairy Tales. He had never been interested in stories, at any age, and had never quite understood the basic concept. He’d never read a work of fiction all the way through. He did remember, as a small boy, being really annoyed at the depiction of Hickory Dickory Dock in a rag book of nursery rhymes because the clock in the drawing was completely wrong for the period. He tried to read Grim Fairy Tales. They had titles like “How the Wicked Queen Danced in Red-Hot Shoes!” and “The Old Lady in the Oven. ” There was simply no mention of clocks of any sort in any of them. Their authors seemed to have a thing about not mentioning clocks. “The Glass Clock of Bad Schüschein,” on the other hand, did have a clock. Of a sort. And it was…odd. A wicked man—readers could see he was wicked because it said he was wicked, right there on the page—built a clock of glass in which he captured Time herself, but things went wrong because there was one part of the clock, a spring, that he couldn’t make out of glass, and it broke under the strain, and Time was set free, and the man aged ten thousand years in a second and crumbled to dust and—not surprisingly, in Jeremy’s opinion—was never seen again. The story ended with a moral: Large Enterprises Depend Upon Small Details. Jeremy couldn’t see why it couldn’t have just as well been: It’s Wrong To Trap Nonexistent Women in Clocks, or: It Would Have Worked With A Glass Spring. But even to Jeremy’s inexperienced eye, there was something wrong with the whole story. It read as though the writer was trying to make sense of something he’d seen, or been told, and had misunderstood things. And—hah!—although it was set hundreds of years ago when even in Uberwald there were only natural cuckoo clocks, the artist had drawn a long case clock of the sort that wasn’t around even fifteen years ago. The stupidity of some people! You’d laugh if it wasn’t so tragic! He put the book aside and spent the rest of the evening doing a little design work for the guild. They paid him handsomely for this, provided he promised never to turn up in person. Then he put the work on the bedside table by the clocks. He blew out the candle. He went to sleep. He dreamed. The glass clock ticked. It stood in the middle of the workshop’s wooden floor, giving off a silvery light. Jeremy walked around it, or perhaps it spun gently around him. It was taller than a man. Within the transparent case red and blue lights twinkled like stars. The air smelled of acid. Now his point of view dived into the thing, the crystalline thing, plunging down through the layers of glass and quartz. They rose past him, their smoothness becoming walls hundreds of miles high, and still he fell between slabs that were becoming rough, grainy … … full of holes. The blue and red lights were here too, pouring past him. And only now was there sound. It came from the darkness ahead, a slow beat that was ridiculously familiar, a heartbeat magnified a million times … …tchum…tchum…… each beat slower than mountains and bigger than worlds, dark and blood-red. |
He heard a few beats and then his fall slowed, stopped, and he began to soar back up through the sleeting light until a brightness ahead became a room. He had to remember all this! It was all so clear, once you saw it! So simple! So easy! He could see every part, how they interlocked, how they were made … And now it began to fade. Of course, it was only a dream. He told himself that and was comforted by it. But he had gone to some lengths with this one, he had to admit. For example, there was a mug of tea steaming on the nearby workbench, and the sound of voices on the other side of the door … There was a knocking at the door. Jeremy wondered if the dream would end when the door was opened, and then the door disappeared and the knocking went on. It was coming from downstairs. The time was 6:47. Jeremy glanced at the alarm clocks to make sure they were right, then pulled his dressing gown around him and hurried downstairs. He opened the front door a crack. There was no one there. “Nah, dahn ’ere, mister. ” Someone lower down was a dwarf. “Name of Clockson?” it said. “Yes…?” A clipboard was thrust through the gap. “Sign ’ere, where it says ‘Sign ’Ere. ’ Thank you. Okay, lads…” Behind him, a couple of trolls tipped up a handcart. A large wooden crate crashed onto the cobbles. “What is this?” said Jeremy. “Express package,” said the dwarf, taking the clipboard. “Come all the way from Uberwald. Must’ve cost someone a packet. Look at all them seals and stickers on it. ” “Can’t you bring it in—” Jeremy began, but the cart was already moving off, with the merry jingle and tinkle of fragile items. It started to rain. Jeremy peered at the label on the crate. It was certainly addressed to him, in a neat round hand, and just above it was the seal with the double-headed bat of Uberwald. There was no other marking anywhere except, near the bottom, the words:. Then the crate started to swear. It was muffled, and in a foreign language, but all swearing has a certain international content. “Er…hello?” said Jeremy. The crate rocked and landed on one of the long sides, with extra cursing. There was some thumping from inside, some louder swearing, and the crate teetered upright again with the alleged top the right way up. A piece of board slid aside and a crowbar dropped out and onto the street with a clang. The voice that had lately been swearing said, “If you would be tho good?” Jeremy inserted the bar into a likely looking crack, and pulled. The crate sprang apart. He dropped the bar. There was a…a creature inside. “I don’t know,” it said, pulling bits of packing material off itself, “eight bloody dayth with no problemth, and thothe idiotth get it wrong on the doorthtep. ” It nodded at Jeremy. “Good morning, thur. I thuppothe you are Mithter Jeremy?” “Yes, but—” “My name ith Igor, thur. My credentialth, thur. ” A hand like an industrial accident held together with stitches thrust a sheaf of papers toward Jeremy. He recoiled instinctively, and then felt embarrassed and took them. “I think there has been a mistake,” he said. “No, no mithtake,” said Igor, pulling a carpetbag out of the ruins of the crate. “You need an athithtant. And when it cometh to athithtanth, you cannot go wrong with an Igor. Everyone knowth that. Could we go in out of the rain, thur? It maketh my kneeth rutht. ” “But I don’t need an assist—” Jeremy began, but that was wrong, wasn’t it? He just couldn’t keep assistants. They always left within a week. “Morning, sir!” said a cheery voice. Another cart had pulled up. This one was painted a gleaming, hygienic white, and was full of milk churns, and had R. S OAK , D AIRYMAN painted on the side. Distracted, Jeremy looked up at the beaming face of Mr. Soak, who was holding a bottle of milk in each hand. “One pint, squire, as per usual. And perhaps another one if you’ve got company?” “Er, er, er…yes, thank you. ” “And the yogurt is particularly fine this week, squire,” said Mr. Soak encouragingly. “Er, er, I think not, Mr. Soak. ” “Need any eggs, cream, butter, buttermilk, or cheese?” “Not as such, Mr. Soak. ” “Right you are, then,” said Mr. Soak, unabashed. “See you tomorrow, then. ” “Er, yes,” said Jeremy, as the cart moved on. Mr. Soak was a friend, which in Jeremy’s limited social vocabulary meant “someone I speak to once or twice a week. ” He approved of the milkman, because he was regular and punctual and had the bottles at the doorstep every morning on the stroke of 7 A. M. “Er, er…goodbye,” he said. He turned to Igor. “How did you know I needed—” he tried. But the strange man had gone indoors, and a frantic Jeremy tracked him down in the workshop. “Oh yeth , very nice,” said Igor, who was taking it all in with the air of a connoisseur. “That’s a Turnball Mk3 micro-lathe, ithn’t it? I thaw it in their catalogue. Very nithe indee—” “I didn’t ask anyone for an assistant!” said Jeremy. “Who sent you?” “We are Igorth, thur. ” “Yes, you said! Look, I don’t—” “No, thur. ‘We R Igorth,’ thur. The organithathion , thur. ” “What organization?” “For plathementh , thur. You thee, thur, the thing ith…an Igor often findth himthelf between marthterth through no fault of hith own, you thee. And on the other hand—” “—you have two thumbs…” breathed Jeremy, who had just noticed and couldn’t stop himself. “Two on each hand!” “Oh, yeth, thur, very handy,” said Igor, not even glancing down, “on the other hand there ith no thortage of people wanting an Igor. So my aunt Igorina runth our thelect little agenthy. ” “For… lots of Igors?” said Jeremy. “Oh, there’th a fair number of uth. We’re a big family. ” Igor handed Jeremy a card. He read: W E R I GORS A Spare Hand When Needed T HE O LD R ATHAUS B AD S CHÜSCHEIN c-mail: Yethmarthter Uberwald Jeremy stared at the semaphore address. His normal ignorance of anything that wasn’t to do with clocks did not apply here. He’d been quite interested in the new cross-continent semaphore system after hearing that it made quite a lot of use of clockwork mechanisms to speed up the message flow. So you could send a clacks message to hire an Igor? Well, that explained the speed, at least. “Rathaus,” he said. “That means something like a council hall, doesn’t it?” “Normally, thur… normally ,” said Igor reassuringly. “Do you really have semaphore addresses in Uberwald?” “Oh, yeth. We are ready to grathp the future with both handth, thur. ” “—And four thumbs—” “Yeth, thur. We can grathp like anything. ” “And then you mailed yourself here?” “Thertainly, thur. We Igors are no thtrangers to dithcomfort. ” Jeremy looked down at the paperwork he’d been handed, and a name caught his eye. The top paper was signed. In a way, at least. There was a message in neat capitals, as neat as printing, and a name at the end. HE WILL BE USEFUL LEJEAN He remembered. “Oh, Lady LeJean is behind this? She had you sent to me?” “That’th correct, thur. ” Feeling that Igor was expecting more of him, Jeremy made a show of reading through the rest of what turned out to be references. Some of them were written in what he could only hope was dried brown ink, one was in crayon, and several were singed around the edges. They were all fulsome. After a while, though, a certain tendency could be noted among the signatories. “This one is signed by someone called Mad Doctor Scoop,” he said. “Oh, he wathn’t actually named Mad, thur. It wath more like a nickname, ath it were. ” “Was he mad, then?” “Who can thay, thur,” said Igor calmly. “And Crazed Baron Haha? It says under Reason for Leaving that he was crushed by a burning windmill. ” “Cathe of mithtaken identity, thur. ” “Really?” “Yeth, thur. I underthtand the mob mithtook him for Thcreaming Doctor Berthserk, thur. ” “Oh. Ah, yes. ” Jeremy glanced down. “Who you also worked for, I see. ” “Yeth, thur. ” “And who died of blood poisoning?” “Yeth, thur. Cauthed by a dirty pitchfork. ” “And…Nipsie the Impaler?” “Er…would you believe he ran a kebab thhop, thur?” “Did he?” “Not conventionally tho, thur. ” “You mean he was mad, too?” “Ah. |
Well, he did have hith little wayth, I mutht admit, but an Igor never patheth judgment on hith marthter or mithtreth, thur. That ith the Code of the Igorth, thur,” he added patiently. “It would be a funny old world if we were all alike, thur. ” Jeremy was completely baffled as to his next move. He’d never been very good at talking to people, and this, apart from Lady LeJean and a wrangle with Mr. Soak over an unwanted cheese, was the longest conversation he’d had for a year. Perhaps it was because it was hard to think of Igor as coming under the heading of people. Up until now, Jeremy’s definition of “people” had not included anyone with more stitches than a handbag. “I’m not sure I’ve got any work for you, though,” he said. “I’ve got a new commission, but I’m not sure how…anyway, I’m not insane!” “That’th not compulthory, thur. ” “I’ve actually got a piece of paper that says I’m not, you know. ” “Well done , thur. ” “Not many people have one of those!” “Very true, thur. ” “I take medicine, you know. ” “Well done, thur,” said Igor. “I’ll jutht go and make thome breakfatht, thall I? While you get drethed…marthter. ” Jeremy clutched at his damp dressing gown. “I will be down shortly,” he said, and hurried up the stairs. Igor’s gaze took in the racks of tools. There was not a speck of dust on them; the files, hammers, and pliers were ranged according to size, and the items on the workbench were positioned with geometrical exactitude. He pulled open a drawer. Screws were laid in perfect rows. He looked around at the walls. They were bare, except for the shelves of clocks. This was surprising—even Dribbling Doctor Vibes had a calendar on the wall, which added a splash of color. Admittedly, it was from the Acid Bath and Restraint Co. , in Ugli, and the color it splashed was mostly red, but at least it showed some recognition of a world outside the four walls. Igor was puzzled. Igor had never worked for a sane person before. He’d worked for a number of…well, the world called them madmen, and he’d worked for several normal people, in that they only indulged in minor and socially acceptable insanities, but he couldn’t recall ever working for a completely sane person. Obviously, he reasoned, if sticking screws up your nose was madness, then numbering them and keeping them in careful compartments was sanity, which was the opposite— Ah. No. It wasn’t, was it… He smiled. He was beginning to feel quite at home already. Tick Lu-Tze the Sweeper was in his Garden of Five Surprises, carefully cultivating his mountains. His broom leaned against the hedge. Above him, looming over the temple gardens, the big stone statue of Wen the Eternally Surprised sat with its face locked in a permanent wide-eyed expression of, yes, pleasant surprise. As a hobby, mountains appeal to those people who in normal circumstances are said to have a great deal of time on their hands. Lu-Tze had no time at all. Time was something that largely happened to other people; he viewed it in the same way that people on the shore viewed the sea. It was big and it was out there, and sometimes it was an invigorating thing to dip a toe into, but you couldn’t live in it all the time. Besides, it always made his skin wrinkle. At the moment, in the never-ending, ever re-created moment of this peaceful, sunlit little valley, he was fiddling with the little mirrors and shovels and morphic resonators and even stranger devices required to make a mountain grow to no more than six inches high. The cherry trees were still in bloom. They always were in bloom, here. A gong rang, somewhere back in the temple. A flock of white doves took off from the monastery roof. A shadow fell over the mountain. Lu-Tze glanced at the person who had entered the garden. He made the perfunctory symbol of servitude to the rather annoyed-looking boy in the novice’s robe. “Yes, master?” he said. “I am looking for the one they call Lu-Tze,” said the boy. “Personally, I don’t think he really exists. ” “I’ve got glaciation,” said Lu-Tze, ignoring this. “At last. See, master? It’s only an inch long, but already it’s carving its own little valley. Magnificent, isn’t it?” “Yes, yes, very good,” said the novice, being kind to an underling. “Isn’t this the garden of Lu-Tze?” “You mean, Lu-Tze who is famous for his bonsai mountains?” The novice looked from the line of plates to the little wrinkled smiling man. “ You are Lu-Tze? But you’re just a sweeper! I’ve seen you cleaning out the dormitories! I’ve seen people kick you!” Lu-Tze, apparently not hearing this, picked up a plate about a foot across on which a small cinder cone was smoking. “What do you think of this, master?” he said. “Volcanic. And it is bloody hard to do, excuse my Klatchian. ” The novice took a step forward, and leaned down and looked directly into the sweeper’s eyes. Lu-Tze was not often disconcerted, but he was now. “You are Lu-Tze?” “Yes, lad. I am Lu-Tze. ” The novice took a deep breath and thrust out a skinny arm. It was holding a small scroll. “From the abbot…er, venerable one!” The scroll wobbled in the nervous hand. “Most people call me Lu-Tze, lad. Or Sweeper. Until they get to know me better, some call me ‘get out the way,’” said Lu-Tze, carefully wrapping up his tools. “I’ve never been very venerable, except in cases of bad spelling. ” He looked around the saucers for the miniature shovel he used for glacial work, and couldn’t see it anywhere. Surely he’d put it down just a moment ago? The acolyte was watching him with an expression of awe mixed with residual suspicion. A reputation like Lu-Tze’s got around. This was the man who had—well, who had done practically everything , if you listened to all the rumors. But he didn’t look as though he had. He was just a little bald man with a wispy beard and a faint, amiable smile. Lu-Tze patted the young man on the shoulder in an effort to put him at his ease. “Let us see what the abbot wants,” he said, unrolling the rice paper. “Oh. You are to take me to see him, it says here. ” A look of panic froze the novice’s face. “What? How can I do that? Novices aren’t allowed inside the Inner Temple!” “Really? In that case, let me take you , to take me , to see him ,” said Lu-Tze. “You are allowed into the Inner Temple?” said the novice, and then put his hand over his mouth. “But you’re just a swe—oh…” “That’s right! Not even a proper monk, let alone a dong ,” said the sweeper cheerfully. “Amazing, isn’t it?” “But people talk about you as if you were as high as the abbot!” “Oh, dear me, no,” said Lu-Tze. “I’m nothing like as holy. Never really got a grip on the cosmic harmony. ” “But you’ve done all those incredible—” “Oh, I didn’t say I’m not good at what I do,” said Lu-Tze, as he ambled with his broom over his shoulder. “Just not holy. Shall we go?” “Er…Lu-Tze?” said the novice, following him along the ancient brick path. “Yes?” “Why is this called Garden of Five Surprises?” “What was your name back in the world, hasty young man?” said Lu-Tze. “Newgate. Newgate Ludd, ven—” Lu-Tze held up a warning finger. “Ah?” “Sweeper, I mean. ” “Ludd, eh? Ankh-Morpork lad?” “Yes, Sweeper,” said the boy. The sudden dejected tones suggested he knew what was coming next. “Raised by the Thieves’ Guild? One of ‘Ludd’s Lads’?” The boy formerly known as Newgate looked the old man in the eye and, when he replied, it was in the singsong voice of someone who’d answered the question too many times. “Yes, Sweeper. Yes, I was a foundling. Yes, we get called Ludd’s Lads and Lasses after one of the founders of the guild. Yes, that’s my adopted surname. Yes, it was a good life and sometimes I wish I still had it. ” Lu-Tze appeared not to hear this. “Who sent you here?” “A monk called Soto discovered me. He said I had talent. ” “Marco? The one with all the hair?” “That’s right. Only I thought the rule was that all monks were shaved. ” “Oh, Soto says he is bald under the hair,” said Lu-Tze. “He says the hair is a separate creature that just happens to live on him. They gave him a field posting really quickly after he came up with that one. |
Hardworking fellow, mark you, and friendly as anything provided you don’t touch his hair. Important lesson there: you don’t survive in the field by obeying all the rules, including those relating to mental processes. And what name were you given when you were enrolled?” “Lobsang, ven—uh, Sweeper. ” “Lobsang Ludd?” “Er…yes, Sweeper. ” “Amazing. So, Lobsang Ludd, you tried to count my surprises, did you? Everybody does. Surprise is the nature of Time, and five is the number of Surprise. ” “Yes, Sweeper. I found the little bridge that tilts and throws you in the carp pool…” “Good. Good. ” “…and I have found the bronze sculpture of a butterfly that flaps its wings when you breathe on it…” “That’s two. ” “There’s the surprising way those little daisies spray you with venomous pollen…” “Ah, yes. Many people find them extremely surprising. ” “And I believe the fourth surprise is the yodeling stick insect. ” “Well done,” said Lu-Tze, beaming. “It’s very good, isn’t it. ” “But I can’t find the fifth surprise. ” “Really? Let me know when you find it,” said Lu-Tze. Lobsang Ludd thought about this as he trailed after the sweeper. “The Garden of Five Surprises is a test,” he said, at last. “Oh, yes. Nearly everything is. ” Lobsang nodded. It was like the Garden of the Four Elements. Every novice found the bronze symbols of three of them—in the carp pond, under a rock, painted on a kite—but none of Lobsang’s classmates found Fire. There didn’t appear to be a fire anywhere in the garden. After a while Lobsang had reasoned thus: there were, in fact, five elements, as they had been taught. Four made up the universe, and the fifth, Surprise, allowed it to keep on happening. No one had said that the four in the garden were the material four, so the fourth element in the Garden could be Surprise at the fact that Fire wasn’t there. Besides, fire was not generally found in a garden, and the other signs were, truly, in their element. So he’d gone down to the bakeries and opened one of the ovens and there, glowing red-hot below the loaves, was the symbol of Fire. “Then…I expect that the fifth surprise is: there is no fifth surprise,” he said. “Nice try, but no cylindrical smoking thing,” said Lu-Tze. “And is it not written ‘Oo, you are so sharp you’ll cut yourself one of these days’?” “Um…I haven’t read that in the sacred texts yet, Sweeper,” said Lobsang uncertainly. “No, you wouldn’t have,” said Lu-Tze. They stepped out of the brittle sunlight into the deep cold of the temple, and walked on through ancient halls and down stairways cut into the rock. The sound of distant chanting followed them. Lu-Tze, who was not holy and therefore could think unholy thoughts, occasionally wondered whether the chanting monks were chanting anything , or were just going “aahaaahahah. ” You could never tell with all that echo. He turned off the main passage and reached for the handles of a pair of large, red-lacquered doors. Then he looked behind him. Lobsang had stopped dead, some yards away. “Coming?” “But not even dongs are allowed in there!” said Lobsang. “You have to be a Third-Djim ting at least!” “Yeah, right. It’s a shortcut. Come on, it’s drafty out here. ” With extreme reluctance, expecting at any moment the outraged scream of authority, Lobsang trailed after the sweeper. And he was just a sweeper! One of the people who swept the floors and washed the clothes and cleaned the privies! No one had ever mentioned it! Novices heard about Lu-Tze from their very first day—how he’d gone into some of the most tangled knots of time and unraveled them, how he’d constantly dodged the traffic on the crossroads of history, how he could divert time with a word and used this to develop the most subtle arts of battle… …and here was a little skinny man who was sort of generically ethnic, so that he looked as though he could have come from anywhere, in a robe than had once been white before it fell to all those stains and patches, and the sandals repaired with string. And the friendly grin, as if he was constantly waiting for something amusing to happen. And no belt at all , just another piece of string to hold his robe closed. Even some novices got to the level of gray dong in their first year! The dojo was busy with senior monks at practice. Lobsang had to dodge aside as a pair of fighters whirled past, arms and legs blurring as each sought an opening, paring time into thinner and thinner slivers— “You! Sweeper!” He looked around, but the shout had been directed at Lu-Tze. A ting , only just elevated to the Third Djim by the fresh look of his belt, was advancing on the little man, his face red with fury. “What for are you coming in here, cleaner of filth? This is forbidden!” Lu-Tze’s little smile didn’t change. But he reached in his robe and brought out a small bag. “’S a shortcut,” he said. He pulled a pinch of tobacco and, while the ting loomed over him, began to roll a cigarette. “And there’s dirt everywhere, too. I’ll certainly have a word with the man who does this floor. ” “How dare you insult!” screamed the monk. “Back to the kitchens with you, sweeper!” Cowering behind Lu-Tze, Lobsang realized that the entire dojo had stopped to watch this. One or two of the monks were whispering to one another. The man in the brown robe of the dojo master was watching impassively from his chair, with his chin on his hand. With great patience and infuriating delicacy, like a samurai arranging flowers, Lu-Tze marshaled the shreds of tobacco in the flimsy cigarette paper. “No, I reckon I’ll go out of that door over there, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Impudence! Then you are ready to fight, enemy of dust?” The man leapt back and raised his hands to form the Combat of the Hake. He spun around and planted a kick on a heavy leather sack, hitting it so hard that its supporting chain broke. Then he was back to face Lu-Tze, hands now held in the Advancement of the Snake. “Ai! Shao! Hai-eee—” he began. The dojo master stood up. “Hold!” he commanded. “Do you not want to know the name of the man you are about to destroy?” The fighter held his stance, glaring at Lu-Tze. “I don’t need to know name of sweeper,” he said. Lu-Tze rolled the cigarette into a skinny cylinder and winked at the angry man, which only stoked the anger. “It is always wise to know the name of a sweeper, boy,” said the dojo master. “And my question was not addressed to you. ” Tick Jeremy stared at his bedsheets. They were covered in writing. His own handwriting. It trailed across the pillow and onto the wall. There were sketches, too, scored deeply into the plaster. He found his pencil under the bed. He’d even sharpened it. In his sleep, he’d sharpened a pencil! And by the look of it, he’d been writing and drawing for hours. Trying to draw a dream. With, down one side of his eiderdown, a list of parts. It had all made absolute sense when he’d seen it, like a hammer or a stick or Wheelbright’s Gravity Escapement. It had been like meeting an old friend. And now…he stared at the scrawled lines. He’d been writing so fast he’d ignored punctuation and some of the letters, too. But he could see some sense in there. He’d heard of this sort of thing. Great inventions sometimes did arise from dreams and daydreams. Didn’t Hepzibah Whitlow have the idea of the adjustable pendulum clock as a result of his work as the public hangman? Didn’t Wilframe Balderton always say that the idea for the Fish Tail Escapement came after he’d eaten too much lobster? Yes, it had all been so clear in the dream. By daylight, it needed a bit more work. There was a clatter of dishes from the little kitchen behind his workshop. He hurried down, dragging the sheet behind him. “I usually have—” he began. “—toatht, thur,” said Igor, turning away from the range. “Lightly browned, I thuthpect. ” “How did you know that?” “An Igor learnth to antithipate, thur,” said Igor. “What a wonderful little kitchen, thur. I’ve never theen a drawer marked ‘Thpoonth’ which jutht hath thpoonth in it. ” “Are you any good at working with glass, Igor?” said Jeremy, ignoring this. |
“No, thur,” said Igor, buttering the toast. “You’re not?” “No, thur. I am bloody amathing at it, thur. Many of my marthterth had needed… thpethial apparatuth not readily obtainable elthwhere, thur. What wath it you wanted?” “How would we go about building this ?” Jeremy spread the sheet on the table. The slice of toast dropped from Igor’s black-nailed fingers. “Is there something wrong?” said Jeremy. “I thought thomeone wath walking over my grave, thur,” said Igor, still looking shocked. “Er…you haven’t actually ever had a grave, have you?” said Jeremy. “Jutht a figure of thpeech, thur, jutht a figure of thpeech,” said Igor, looking hurt. “This is an idea I’ve…I’ve had for a clock…” “The Glath Clock,” said Igor. “Yeth. I know about it. My grandfather Igor helped build the firtht one. ” “The first one? But it’s just a story for children! And I dreamed about it, and—” “Grandfather Igor alwayth thed there wath thomething very thtrange about all that,” said Igor. “The explothion and everything. ” “It exploded? Because of the metal spring?” “Not exactly an explothion,” said Igor. “We’re no thtrangerth to explothionth, uth Igorth. It wath… very odd. And we’re no thtrangerth to odd, either. ” “Are you telling me it really existed?” Igor seemed embarrassed about this. “Yeth,” he said, “and then again, no. ” “Things either exist or they don’t,” said Jeremy. “I am very clear about that. I have medicine. ” “It exithted,” said Igor, “and then, after it did, it never had. Thith ith what my grandfather told me, and he built that clock with thethe very handth!” Jeremy looked down. Igor’s hands were gnarled, and, now he came to look at them, had a lot of scar tissue around the wrists. “We really believe in heirloomth in our family,” said Igor, catching his gaze. “Sort of…hand-me-downs, ahahaha,” said Jeremy. He wondered where his medicine was. “Very droll, thur,” said Igor. “But Grandfather Igor alwayth thaid that afterward it wath like…a dream, thur. ” “A dream…” “The workthop wath different. The clock wathn’t there. Demented Doctor Wingle, that wath hith marthter at the time, wathn’t working on the glath clock at all but on a way of extracting thunthine from orangeth. Thingth were different and they alwayth had been, thur. Like it never happened. ” “But it turned up in a book for children!” “Yeth, thur. Bit of a conundrum, thur. ” Jeremy stared at the sheet with its burden of scribbles. An accurate clock. That’s all it was. A clock that’d make all other clocks unnecessary, Lady LeJean had said. Building a clock like that would mean the clockmaker went down in timekeeping history. True, the book had said that Time had got trapped in the clock, but Jeremy had no interest whatsoever in things that were Made Up. Anyway, a clock measured. Distance didn’t get tangled up in a tape measure. All a clock did was count teeth on a wheel. Or…light… Light with teeth. He’d seen that in the dream. Light not as something bright in the sky, but as an excited line, going up and down like a wave… “Could you …build something like this?” he said. Igor looked at the drawings again. “Yeth,” he said, nodding. Then he pointed to several large glass containers around the drawing of the central column of the clock. “And I know what thethe are,” he said. “In my dr—I mean, I imagined them as fizzing,” said Jeremy. “Very, very thecret knowledge, thothe jarth,” said Igor. “Can you get copper rodth here, thur?” “In Ankh-Morpork? Easily. ” “And thinc?” “Lots of it, yes. ” “Thulphuric athid?” “By the carboy, yes. ” “I mutht have died and gone to heaven,” said Igor. “Jutht put me near enough copper and thinc and athid, thur,” he said, “and then we thall thee thparkth. ” Tick “My name,” said Lu-Tze, leaning on his broom as the irate ting raised a hand, “is Lu-Tze. ” The dojo went silent. The attacker paused in midbellow. “—Ai! Hao— gng! Gnh? Ohsheeeeeeohsheeeeeee …” The man did not move but seemed instead to turn in on himself, sagging from the martial stance into a kind of horrified, penitent crouch. Lu-Tze bent over and struck a match on his unprotesting chin. “What’s your name, lad?” he said, lighting his ragged cigarette. “His name is mud, Lu-Tze,” said the dojo master, striding forward. He gave the unmoving challenger a kick. “Well, Mud, you know the rules. Face the man you have challenged, or give up the belt. ” The figure remained very still for a moment, and then cautiously, in a manner almost theatrically designed not to give offense, started to fumble with his belt. “No, no, we don’t need that,” said Lu-Tze kindly. “It was a good challenge. A decent ‘Ai!’ and a very passable ‘Hai-eee!,’ I thought. Good martial gibberish all around, such as you don’t often hear these days. And we would not want his trousers falling down at a time like this, would we?” He sniffed and added, “ Especially at a time like this. ” He patted the shrinking man on the shoulder. “Just you recall the rule your teacher here taught you on day one, eh? And…why don’t you go and clean yourself up? I mean, some of us have to tidy up in here. ” Then he turned and nodded to the dojo master. “While I am here, master, I should like to show young Lobsang the Device of Erratic Balls. ” The dojo master bowed deeply. “It is yours, Lu-Tze the Sweeper. ” As Lobsang followed the ambling Lu-Tze, he heard the dojo master, who like all teachers never missed an opportunity to drive home a lesson, say: “Dojo! What is Rule One!” Even the cowering challenger mumbled along with the chorus: “Do not act incautiously when confronting a little bald wrinkly smiling man!” “Good rule, Rule One,” said Lu-Tze, leading his new acolyte into the next room. “I have met many people who could have heeded it to good advantage. ” He stopped without looking at Lobsang Ludd, and held out his hand. “And now, if you please, you will return the little shovel you stole from me when first we met. ” “But I came nowhere near you, master!” Lu-Tze’s smile did not flicker. “Oh. Yes. That is true. My apologies. The ramblings of an old man. Is it not written ‘I’d forget my own head if it wasn’t nailed on?’ Let us proceed. ” The floor in here was wood, but the walls were high and padded. There were reddish brown stains here and there. “Er…we have one of these in the novices’ dojo, Sweeper,” said Lobsang. “But the balls in that are made of soft leather, yes?” said the old man, approaching a tall wooden cube. A row of holes was halfway up the side that faced down the length of the room. “And they travel quite slowly, I recall. ” “Er…yes,” said Lobsang, watching him pull on a very large lever. Down below there was the sound of metal on metal, and then the urgent gushing water. Air began to wheeze from joints in the box. “These are wooden,” said Lu-Tze calmly. “Catch one. ” Something touched Lobsang’s ear and behind him the padding shook as a ball buried itself deeply and then dropped to the floor. “Perhaps a shade slower…” said Lu-Tze, turning a knob. After fifteen random balls, Lobsang caught one in his stomach. Lu-Tze sighed and pushed the big lever back. “Well done,” he said. “Sweeper, I’m not used to—” said the boy, picking himself up. “Oh, I knew you wouldn’t catch one,” said Lu-Tze. “Even our boisterous friend out there in the dojo wouldn’t catch one at that speed. ” “But you said you had slowed it down!” “Only so that it wouldn’t kill you. Just a test, see. Everything’s a test. Let’s go, lad. Can’t keep the abbot waiting. ” Trailing cigarette smoke, Lu-Tze ambled away. Lobsang followed, getting more and more nervous. This was Lu-Tze, the dojo had proved that. And he knew it, anyway. He’d looked at the little round face as it gazed amicably at the angry fighter and known it. But…just a sweeper? No insignia? No status? Well, obviously status, because the dojo master couldn’t have bowed lower for the abbot. But… And now he was following the man along passages where even a monk was not allowed to go, on pain of death. Sooner or later, there was surely going to be trouble. “Sweeper, I really ought to be back at my duties in the kitchens—” he began. “Oh, yes. |
Kitchen duties,” said Lu-Tze. “To teach you the virtues of obedience and hard work, right?” “Yes, Sweeper. ” “Are they working?” “Oh…yes. ” “Really?” “Well…no. ” “They’re not all they’re cracked up to be, I have to tell you,” said Lu-Tze. “Whereas, my lad, what we have here,” he stepped through an archway, “is an education!” It was the biggest room Lobsang had ever seen. Shafts of light speared down from glazed holes in the roof. And below, more than a hundred yards across and tended by senior monks who walked above it on delicate wire walkways… Lobsang had heard about the Mandala. It was as if someone had taken tons of colored sands and thrown them across the floor in a great swirl of colored chaos. But there was order fighting for survival in the chaos, rising and falling and spreading. Millions of randomly tumbling sand grains would nevertheless make a piece of pattern, which would replicate and spread across the circle, rebounding or merging with other patterns and eventually dissolving into the general disorder. It happened again and again, turning the mandala into a silent raging war of color. Lu-Tze stepped out onto a frail-looking wood-and-rope bridge. “Well?” he said. “What d’you think?” Lobsang took a deep breath. He felt that if he fell off the bridge he’d drop into the surging colors and never, ever hit the floor. He blinked and rubbed his forehead. “It’s…evil,” he said. “Really?” said Lu-Tze. “Not many people say that the first time. They use words like ‘wonderful. ’” “It’s going wrong!” “What?” Lobsang clutched the rope railing. “The patterns—” he began. “History repeating,” said Lu-Tze. “They’re always there. ” “No, they’re—” Lobsang tried to take it all in. There were patterns under the pattern, disguised as part of the chaos. “I mean…the other patterns…” He slumped forward. The air was cold, the world was spinning, and the ground rushed up to enfold him. And stopped a few inches away. The air around him sizzled, as though it was being gently fried. “Newgate Ludd?” “Lu-Tze?” he said. “The Mandala is…” But where were the colors, why was the air wet and smelling of the city?…and then the ghost memories faded away. As they disappeared, they said: how can we be memories, when we have yet to happen? Surely what you remember is climbing all the way up onto the roof of the Bakers’ Guild and finding that someone had loosened all the capping stones, because that just happened? And a last dying memory said, hey, that happened months ago… “No, we’re not Lu-Tze, mysterious falling kid,” said the voice that had addressed him. “Can you turn around?” Newgate managed, with great difficulty, to move his head. It felt as though he was stuck in tar. A heavy young man in a grubby yellow robe was sitting on an upturned box a few feet away. He looked a bit like a monk, except for his hair, because his hair looked a bit like an entirely separate organism. To say that it was black and bound up in a ponytail is to miss the opportunity of using the term “elephantine. ” It was hair with personality. “Mostly my name’s Soto” said the man underneath. “Marco Soto. I won’t bother memorizing yours until we know if you’re going to live or not, eh? So tell me…have you ever considered the rewards of the spiritual life?” “Right now? Certainly!” said…yes, Newgate, he thought, that’s my name, yes? So why do I remember Lobsang? “Er…I was thinking about the possibility of taking up a new line of work!” “Good career move,” said Soto. “Is this some kind of magic?” Newgate tried to move but hung, turning gently, in the air just above the waiting ground. “Not exactly. You seem to have shaped time. ” “Me? How did I do that?” “You don’t know?” “No!” “Hah, will you listen to him?” said Soto, as if talking to a genial companion. “There’s probably the spin time of a whole Procrastinator being used up to prevent your little trick causing untold harm to the entire world, and you don’t know how you did it?” “No!” “Then we will train you. It is a good life, and offers excellent prospects. At least,” Soto added, sniffing, “better than those that confront you now. ” Newgate strained to turn his head further. “Train me in what, exactly?” The man sighed. “Still asking questions, kid? Are you coming or not?” “How—” “Look, I’m offering you the opportunity of a lifetime, do you understand?” “Why is it the opportunity of a lifetime, Mr. Soto?” “No, you misunderstand me. You , that is Newgate Ludd, are being offered, that is by me , the opportunity of having a lifetime. Which is more than you will have shortly. ” Newgate hesitated. He was aware of a tingling in his body. In a sense, it was still falling. He didn’t know how he knew this, but the knowledge was as real as the cobbles just below him. If he made the wrong choice, the fall would simply continue. It had been easy so far. The last few inches would be terminally hard. “I must admit, I don’t like the way my life is going at the moment,” he said. “It may be advantageous to find a new direction. ” “Good. ” The behaired man pulled something out of his robe. It looked like a folded abacus, but when he opened it up, parts of it vanished with little flashes of light, as if they’d moved somewhere where they could not be seen. “What are you doing?” “Do you know what kinetic energy is?” “No. ” “It’s what you have far too much of. ” Soto’s fingers danced on the beads, sometimes disappearing and reappearing. “I imagine you weigh about a hundred and ten pounds…yes?” He pocketed the little device and strolled off to a nearby cart. He did something that Newgate couldn’t see, and came back. “In a few seconds you will complete your fall,” he said, reaching under him to place something on the ground. “Try to think of it as a new start in life. ” Newgate fell. He hit the ground. The air flashed purple, and the laden cart across the street jerked a foot into the air and collapsed heavily. One wheel bounced away. Soto leaned down and shook Newgate’s unresisting hand. “How do you do,” he said. “Any bruises?” “It does hurt a bit—” said the shaken Newgate. “Maybe you’re a bit heavier than you look. Allow me…” Soto grabbed Newgate under the shoulders and began to tug him off into the mists. “Can I go and—” “No. ” “But the guild—” “You don’t exist at the guild. ” “That’s stupid, I’m in the guild records—” “No, you’re not. We’ll see to that. ” “How? You can’t rewrite history!” “Bet you a dollar?” “What have I joined?” “We’re the most secret society that you can imagine. ” “Really? Who are you, then?” “The Monks of History. ” “Huh? I’ve never heard of you!” “See? That’s how good we are. ” And that was how good they were. And then the time has just flown past. And now the present came back. “Are you all right, lad?” Lobsang opened his eyes. His arm felt as though it was being wrenched out of his body. He looked up along the length of the arm of Lu-Tze, who was lying flat on the swaying bridge, holding him. “What happened?” “I think maybe you were overcome with the excitement, lad. Or vertigo, maybe. Just don’t look down. ” There was a roaring below Lobsang, like a swarm of very angry bees. Automatically, he began to turn his head. “ I said, don’t look down! Just relax. ” Lu-Tze got to his feet. He raised Lobsang at arm’s length, as though he was a feather, until the boy’s sandals were over the wood of the bridge. Below, monks were running along the walkways and shouting. “Now, keep your eyes shut… don’t look down! …and I’ll just walk us both to the far side, all right?” “I…er…I remembered…back in the city, when Soto found me…I remembered…” said Lobsang weakly, tottering along behind the monk. “Only to be expected,” said Lu-Tze, “in the circumstances. ” “But…but I remember that back then I remembered about being here. You and the Mandala!” “Is it not written in the sacred text, ‘There’s a lot goes on we don’t know about, in my opinion’?” said Lu-Tze. “I…have not yet come across that one, either, Sweeper,” said Lobsang. He felt cooler air around him, which suggested they had reached the rock tunnel on the far side of the room. |
“Sadly, in the writings they have here you probably won’t,” said Lu-Tze. “Ah…you can open your eyes now. ” They walked on, with Lobsang rubbing his head to take away the strangeness of his thoughts. Behind them, the livid swirls in the wheel of color, that had centered on the spot where Lobsang would have fallen, gradually faded and healed. According to the First Scroll of Wen the Eternally Surprised , Wen and Clodpool reached the green valley between the towering mountains and Wen said: “This is the place. Here there will be a temple dedicated to the folding and unfolding of time. I can see it. ” “I can’t, master,” said Clodpool. Wen said, “It’s over there. ” He pointed, and his arm vanished. “Ah,” said Clodpool. “Over there. ” A few cherry blossom petals drifted down onto Wen’s head from one of the trees that grew wild along the streamlets. “And this perfect day will last forever,” he said. “The air is crisp, the sun is bright, there is ice in the streams…every day in this valley will be this perfect day. ” “Could get a bit repetitive, master,” said Clodpool. “That is because you don’t yet know how to deal with time,” said Wen. “But I will teach you to deal with time as you would deal with a coat, to be worn when necessary and discarded when not. ” “Will I have to wash it?” said Clodpool. Wen gave him a long, slow look. “That was either a very complex piece of thinking on your part, Clodpool, or you were just trying to overextend a metaphor in a rather stupid way. Which, do you think, it was?” Clodpool looked at his feet. Then he looked at the sky. Then he looked at Wen. “I think I am stupid, master. ” “Good,” said Wen. “It is fortuitous that you are my apprentice at this time, because if I can teach you, Clodpool, I can teach anyone. ” Clodpool looked relieved, and bowed. “You do me too much honor, master. ” “And there is a second part to my plan,” said Wen. “Ah,” said Clodpool, with an expression that he thought made him look wise, although in reality it made him look like someone remembering a painful bowel movement. “A plan with a second part is always a good plan, master. ” “Find me sands of all colors and a flat rock. I will show you a way to make the currents of time visible. ” “Oh, right. ” “And there is a third part to my plan. ” “A third part, eh?” “I can teach a gifted few to control their time, to slow it and speed it up, and store it and direct it like the water in these streams. But most people will not, I fear, let themselves become able to do this. We have to help them. We will have to build…devices that will store and release time to where it is needed, because men cannot progress if they are carried like leaves on a stream. People need to be able to waste time, make time, lose time, and buy time. This will be our major task. ” Clodpool’s face twisted with the effort of understanding. Then he slowly raised a hand. Wen sighed. “You’re going to ask what happened to the coat, aren’t you,” he said. Clodpool nodded. “Forget about the coat, Clodpool. The coat is not important. Just remember that you are the blank paper on which I will write—” Wen held up a hand as Clodpool opened his mouth. “Just another metaphor, just another metaphor. And now, please make some lunch. ” “Metaphorically or really, master?” “Both. ” A flight of white birds burst out of the trees and wheeled overhead before swooping off across the valley. “There will be doves,” said Wen, as Clodpool hurried off to light a fire. “Every day, there will be doves. ” Lu-Tze left the novice in the anteroom. It may have surprised those who disliked him that he took a moment to straighten his robe before he entered the presence of the abbot, but Lu-Tze at least cared for people even if he did not care for rules. He pinched out his cigarette and stuck it behind his ear, too. He had known the abbot for almost six hundred years, and respected him. There weren’t many people Lu-Tze respected. Mostly, they just got tolerated. Usually, the sweeper got on with people in inverse proportion to their local importance, and the reverse was true. The senior monks…well, there could be no such thing as bad thoughts among people so enlightened, but it is true that the sight of Lu-Tze ambling insolently through the temple did tarnish a few karmas. To a certain type of thinker the sweeper was a personal insult, with his lack of any formal education or official status, and his silly little Way, and his incredible successes. So it was surprising that the abbot liked him, because never had there been an inhabitant of the valley so unlike the sweeper, so learned, so impractical, and so frail. But then, surprise is the nature of the universe. Lu-Tze nodded to the minor acolytes who opened the big varnished doors. “How is His Reverence today?” he said. “The teeth are still giving him trouble, Lu-Tze, but he is maintaining continuity and has just taken his first steps in a very satisfactory manner. ” “Yes, I thought I heard the gongs. ” The group of monks clustered in the center of the room stepped aside as Lu-Tze approached the playpen. It was, unfortunately, necessary. The abbot had never mastered the arts of circular aging. He had, therefore, been forced to achieve longevity in a more traditional way, via serial reincarnation. “Ah, Sweeper,” he burbled, awkwardly tossing aside a yellow ball and brightening up. “And how are the mountains? Wanna bikkit wanna bikkit!” “I’m definitely getting vulcanism, Reverend One. It’s very encouraging. ” “And you are in persistent good health?” said the abbot, while his pudgy little hand banged a wooden giraffe against the bars. “Yes, Your Reverence. It’s good to see you up and about again. ” “Only for a few steps so far, alas bikkit bikkit wanna bikkit. Unfortunately, young bodies have a mind of their own BIKKIT !” “You sent me a message, Your Reverence? It said ‘Put this one to the test. ’” “And what did you think of our want bikkit want bikkit want bikkit NOW young Lobsang Ludd?” An acolyte hurried forward with a plate of rusks. “Would you care for a rusk, by the way?” the abbot added. “Mmmn nicey bikkit!” “No, Reverend One, I have already eaten,” said the sweeper. “Ludd is a puzzle, is he not? His tutors have nicey bikkit mmm mmm bikkit told me he is very talented but somehow not all there. But you had never met him and don’t know his history and so mmm bikkit I would value your uninfluenced observations mmm BIKKIT. ” “He is beyond fast,” said Lu-Tze. “I think he may begin to react to things before they happen. ” “How can anyone tell that? Want teddy want teddy wanna wanna TEDDY! ” “I put him in front of the Machine of Erratic Balls in the senior dojo and he was moving toward the right hole fractionally before the ball came out. ” “Some kind of gurgle telepathy, then?” “If a simple machine has a mind of its own, I think we’re in really big trouble,” said Lu-Tze. He took a deep breath. “And in the Hall of the Mandala he saw the patterns in the chaos. ” “You let a neophyte see the Mandala ?” said chief acolyte Rinpo, horrified. “If you want to see if someone can swim, push him in the river,” said Lu-Tze, shrugging. “What other way is there?” “But to look at it without the proper training—” “He saw the patterns,” said Lu-Tze. “And reacted to the Mandala. ” He did not add: and the Mandala reacted to him. He wanted to think about that. When you look into the abyss, it’s not supposed to wave back. “It was teddyteddyteddywahwah strictly forbidden, even so,” said the abbot. Clumsily, he fumbled among the toys on his mat and picked up a large wooden brick with a jolly blue elephant printed on it and hurled it awkwardly at Rinpo. “Sometimes you presume too much, Sweeper lookit ’lefant !” There was some applause from the acolytes at the prowess in animal recognition. “He saw the patterns. He knows what is happening. He just doesn’t know what he knows,” said Lu-Tze doggedly. “And within a few seconds of meeting me he stole a small object of value, and I’m still wondering how he did it. |
Can he really be as fast as that without training? Who is this boy?” Tick Who is this girl? Madam Frout, headmistress of the Frout Academy and pioneer of the Frout Method of Learning Through Fun, often found herself thinking that when she had to interview Miss Susan. Of course, the girl was an employee, but…well, Madam Frout wasn’t very good at discipline, which was possibly why she’d invented the Method, which didn’t require any. She generally relied on talking to people in a jolly tone of voice until they gave in out of sheer embarrassment on her behalf. Miss Susan didn’t appear ever to be embarrassed about anything. “The reason I’ve called you here, Susan, that is, er, the reason is—” Madam Frout faltered. “There have been complaints?” said Miss Susan. “Er, no…er…although Miss Smith has told me that the children coming up from your class are, er, restless. Their reading ability is, she says, rather unfortunately advanced…” “Miss Smith thinks a good book is about a boy and his dog chasing a big red ball,” said Miss Susan. “My children have learned to expect a plot. No wonder they get impatient. We’re reading Grim Fairy Tales at the moment. ” “That is rather rude of you, Susan. ” “No, Madam. That is rather polite of me. It would have been rude of me to say that there is a circle of Hell reserved for teachers like Miss Smith. ” “But that’s a dreadf—” Madam Frout stopped and began again. “You should not be teaching them to read at all yet!” she snapped. But it was the snap of a soggy twig. Madam Frout cringed back in her chair when Miss Susan looked up. The girl had this terrible ability to give you Her Full Attention. You had to be a better person than Madam Frout to survive the intensity of that attention. It inspected your soul, putting little red circles around the bits it didn’t like. When Miss Susan looked at you, it was as if she was giving you marks. “I mean,” the headmistress mumbled, “childhood is a time for play and—” “Learning,” said Miss Susan. “Learning through play ,” said Madam Frout, grateful to find familiar territory. “After all, kittens and puppies—” “—grow up to be cats and dogs, which are even less interesting,” said Miss Susan, “whereas children should grow up to be adults. ” Madam Frout sighed. There was no way she was going to make any progress. It was always like this. She knew she was powerless. News about Miss Susan had got around. Worried parents who’d turned to Learning Through Play because they despaired of their offspring ever Learning By Paying Attention To What Anyone Said were finding them coming home a little quieter, a little more thoughtful, and with a pile of homework which, amazingly, they did without prompting and even with the dog helping them. And they came home with stories about Miss Susan. Miss Susan spoke all languages. Miss Susan knew everything about everything. Miss Susan had wonderful ideas for school trips… …and that was particularly puzzling, because as far as Madam Frout knew, none had been officially organized. There was invariably a busy silence from Miss Susan’s classroom when she went past. This annoyed her. It harked back to the bad old days when children were Regimented in classrooms that were no better than Torture Chambers for Little Minds. But other teachers said that there were noises. Sometimes there was the faint sound of waves, or a jungle. Just once, Madam Frout could have sworn, if she was the sort to swear, that as she passed, there was a full-scale battle going on. This had often been the case with Learning Through Play, but this time the addition of the trumpets, the swish of arrows, and the screams of the fallen seemed to be going too far. She’d thrown open the door, and felt something hiss through the air above her head. Miss Susan had been sitting on a stool, reading from a book, with the class cross-legged in a quiet and fascinated semicircle around her. It was the sort of old-fashioned image Madam Frout hated, as if the children were Supplicants around some sort of Altar of Knowledge. No one had said anything. All the watching children and Miss Susan made it clear in polite silence that they were waiting for her to go away. She’d flounced back into the corridor and the door clicked shut behind her. Then she noticed the long, crude arrow that was still vibrating in the opposite wall of the corridor. Madam Frout had looked back at the door, with its familiar green paint, and then back at the arrow. Which was gone. She transferred Jason to Miss Susan’s class. It had been a cruel thing to do, but Madam Frout considered that there was now some kind of undeclared war going on. If children were weapons, Jason would have been banned by international treaty. Jason had doting parents and an attention span of minus several seconds, except when it came to inventive cruelty to small furry animals, when he could be quite patient. Jason kicked, punched, bit, and spat. His artwork had even frightened the life out of Miss Smith, who could generally find something nice to say about any child. He was definitely a boy with special needs. In the view of the staff, they began with an exorcism. Madam Frout had stooped to listening at the keyhole. She had heard Jason’s first tantrum of the day, and then silence. She couldn’t quite make out what Miss Susan said next. When she found an excuse to venture into the classroom half an hour later, Jason was helping two little girls make a cardboard rabbit. Later his parents said they were amazed at the change, although apparently now he would only go to sleep with the light on. Madam Frout tried to question her newest teacher. Glowing references were all very well, but she was an employee , after all. The trouble was, Susan had a way of saying things to her, Madam Frout had found, so that she went away feeling quite satisfied and only realized that she hadn’t really had a proper answer at all when she was back in her office, by which time it was always too late. And it continued to be too late because suddenly the school had a waiting list. Parents were fighting to get their children enrolled in Miss Susan’s class. As for some of the stories they brought home…well, everyone knew children had such vivid imaginations, didn’t they? Even so, there was this essay by Richenda Higgs. Madam Frout fumbled for her glasses, which she was too vain to wear all the time and kept on a string around her neck, and looked at it again. In its entirety, it read “A man with all bones came to talk to us he was not scarey at all, he had a big white hors. We pated the hors. He had a sighyve. He told us interesting things and to be careful when crosing the road. ” Madam Frout handed the paper across the desk to Miss Susan, who looked at it gravely. She pulled out a red pencil, made a few little alterations, then handed it back. “Well?” said Madam Frout. “Yes, she’s not very good at punctuation, I’m afraid. A good attempt at ‘scythe,’ though. ” “Who…what’s this about a big white horse in the classroom?” Madam Frout managed. Miss Susan looked at her pityingly and said, “Madam, who could possibly bring a horse into a classroom? We’re up two flights of stairs here. ” Madam Frout was not going to be deterred this time. She held up another short essay. “Today we were talked at by Mr. Slumph who he is a bogeyman but he is nice now. He tole us what to do abot the other kind. You can put the blanket ove your head but it is bettr if you put it ove the bogeymans head then he think he do not exist and he is vanishs. He tole us lots of stores abot people he jump out on and he said sins Miss is our teachr he think no bogeymen will be in our houses bcos one thing a bogey dos not like is Miss finding him. ” “Bogeymen, Susan?” said Miss Frout. “What imaginations children have,” said Miss Susan with a straight face. “Are you introducing young children to the occult?” said Madam Frout suspiciously. This sort of thing caused a lot of trouble with parents, she was well aware. “Oh yes. ” “ What? Why?” “So that it doesn’t come as a shock,” said Miss Susan calmly. “But Mrs. |
Robertson told me that her Emma was going around the house looking for monsters in the cupboards! And up until now she’s always been afraid of them!” “Did she have a stick?” said Susan. “She’d got her father’s sword!” “Good for her. ” “Look, Susan…I think I see what you’re trying to do,” said Madam Frout, who didn’t really, “but parents do not understand this sort of thing. ” “Yes,” said Miss Susan. “Sometimes I really think people ought to have to pass a proper exam before they’re allowed to be parents. Not just the practical, I mean. ” “Nevertheless, we must respect their views,” said Madam Frout, but rather weakly because occasionally she’d thought the same thing. There had been the matter of Parents’ Evening. Madam had been too tense to pay much attention to what her newest teacher was doing. All she’d been aware of was Miss Susan sitting and talking quietly to the couples, right up to the point where Jason’s mother picked up her chair and chased Jason’s father out of the room. Next day a huge bunch of flowers had arrived for Susan from Jason’s mother, and an even bigger bunch from Jason’s father. Quite a few other couples had also come away from Miss Susan’s desk looking worried or harassed. Certainly Madam Frout, when the time came to pay next term’s fees, had never known people cough up so readily. And there it was again. Madam Frout the headmistress, who had to worry about reputations and costs and fees, just occasionally heard the distant voice of Miss Frout who had been quite a good if rather shy teacher, and it was whistling and cheering Susan on. Susan looked concerned. “You are not satisfied with my work, Madam?” Madam Frout was stuck. No, she wasn’t satisfied, but for all the wrong reasons. And it was dawning on her as this interview progressed that she didn’t dare sack Miss Susan or, worse, let her leave of her own accord. If she set up a school and news got around, The Learning Through Play School would simply hemorrhage pupils and, importantly, fees. “Well, of course…no, not…inmanyways…” shebegan, and became aware that Miss Susan was staring past her. There was…Madam Frout groped for her glasses, and found their string had got tangled with the buttons of her blouse. She peered at the mantelpiece and tried to make sense of the blur. “Why, it looks like a…a white rat, in a little black robe,” she said. “And walking on its hind legs, too! Can you see it?” “I can’t imagine how a rat could wear a robe,” said Miss Susan. Then she sighed and snapped her fingers. The finger snapping wasn’t essential, but time stopped. At least, stopped for everyone but Miss Susan. And the rat on the mantelpiece. Which was, in fact, the skeleton of a rat, although this was not preventing it from trying to steal Madam Frout’s jar of boiled sweets for Good Children. Susan strode over and grasped the collar of the tiny robe. S QUEAK? said the Death of Rats. “I thought it was you!” snapped Susan. “How dare you come here again! I thought you’d got the message the other day. And don’t think I didn’t see you when you turned up to collect Henry the Hamster last month! Do you know how hard it is to teach geography when you can see someone kicking the poo out of a treadmill?” The rat sniggered: S NH. S NH. S NH. “And you’re eating a sweet! Put it in the bin right now!” Susan dropped the rat onto the desk in front of the temporally frozen Madam Frout, and paused. She’d always tried to be good about this sort of thing, but sometimes you just had to acknowledge who you were. So she pulled open the bottom drawer to check the level in the bottle which was Madam’s shield and comforter in the wonderful world that was education, and was pleased to see that the old girl was going a bit easier on the stuff these days. Most people have some means of filling up the gap between perception and reality, and, after all, in those circumstances there are far worse things than gin. She also spent a little while going through Madam’s private papers, and this has to be said about Susan: it did not occur to her that there was anything wrong about this, although she’d quite understand that it was probably wrong if you weren’t Susan Sto Helit, of course. The papers were in quite a good safe that would have occupied a competent thief for at least twenty minutes. The fact that the door swung open at her touch suggested that special rules applied here. No door was closed to Miss Susan. It ran in the family. Some genetics are passed on via the soul. When she’d brought herself up to date on the school’s affairs, mostly to indicate to the rat that she wasn’t just someone who could be summoned at a moment’s notice, she stood up. “All right,” she said. “You’re just going to pester me, aren’t you,” she said wearily. “Forever and ever and ever. ” The Death of Rats looked at her with its skull on one side. S QUEAK , it said winsomely. “Well, yes, I like him,” she said. “In a way. But, I mean, you know, it’s not right. Why does he need me ? He’s Death! He’s not exactly powerless! I’m just human!” The rat squeaked again, jumped down onto the floor, and ran through the closed door. It reappeared for a moment, and beckoned to her… “Oh, all right,” said Susan to herself. “Make that mostly human. ” Tick And who is this Lu-Tze? Sooner or later every novice had to ask this rather complex question. Sometimes it would be years before they found out that the little man who swept their floors, and uncomplainingly carted away the contents of the dormitory cesspit, and occasionally came out with outlandish foreign sayings was the legendary hero they’d been told they would meet one day. And then, when they’d confronted him, the brightest of them confronted themselves. Mostly sweepers came from the villages in the valley. They were part of the staff of the monastery but they had no status. They did all the tedious, unregarded jobs. They were…figures in the background, pruning the cherry trees, washing the floors, cleaning out the carp pools, and always sweeping. They had no names. That is, a thoughtful novice would understand that the sweepers must have names, some form by which they were known to other sweepers, but within the temple grounds at least they had no names, only instructions. No one knew where they went at night. They were just sweepers. But so was Lu-Tze. One day a group of senior novices, for mischief, kicked over the little shrine that Lu-Tze kept beside his sleeping mat. Next morning, no sweepers turned up for work. They stayed in their huts, with the doors barred. After making inquiries, the abbot, who at that time was fifty years old again, summoned the three novices to his room. There were three brooms leaning against the wall. He spoke as follows: “You know that the dreadful Battle of Five Cities did not happen because the messenger got there in time?” They did. You learned this early in your studies. And they bowed nervously, because this was the abbot, after all. “And you know then that when the messenger’s horse threw a shoe he espied a man trudging beside the road carrying a small portable forge and pushing an anvil on a barrow?” They knew. “And you know that man was Lu-Tze?” They did. “You surely know that Janda Trapp, Grand Master of Okidoki, Toro-fu, and Chang-fu, has only ever yielded to one man?” They knew. “And you know that man is Lu-Tze?” They did. “You know the little shrine you kicked over last night?” They knew. “You know it had an owner?” There was silence. Then the brightest of the novices looked up at the abbot in horror, swallowed, picked up one of the three brooms, and walked out of the room. The other two were slower of brain and had to follow the story all the way through to the end. Then one of them said, “But it was only a sweeper’s shrine!” “You will take up the brooms and sweep,” said the abbot, “and you will sweep every day, and you will sweep until the day you find Lu-Tze and dare to say ‘Sweeper, it was I who knocked over and scattered your shrine and now I will in humility accompany you to the dojo of the Tenth Djim, in order to learn the Right Way. |
’ Only then, if you are still able, may you resume your studies here. Understood?” * Older monks sometimes complained, but someone would always say: “Remember that Lu-Tze’s Way is not our Way. Remember he learned everything by sweeping unheeded while students were being educated. Remember, he has been everywhere and done many things. Perhaps he is a little…strange, but remember that he walked into a citadel full of armed men and traps and nevertheless saw to it that the Pash of Muntab choked innocently on a fish bone. No monk is better than Lu-Tze at finding the Time and the Place. ” Some, who did not know, would say: “What is this Way that gives him so much power?” And they were told: “It is the Way of Mrs. Marietta Cosmopilite, 3 Quirm Street, Ankh-Morpork, Rooms To Rent Very Reasonable. No, we don’t understand it, either. Some subsendential rubbish, apparently. ” Tick Lu-Tze listened to the senior monks, while leaning on his broom. Listening was an art he had developed over the years, having learned that if you listened hard and long enough people would tell you more than they thought they knew. “Soto is a good field operative,” he said at last. “Weird, but good. ” “The fall even showed up on the Mandala,” said Rinpo. “The boy knew none of the appropriate actions. Soto said he’d done it reflexively. He said he thought the boy was as close to null as he has ever witnessed. He had him put on a cart for the mountains within the hour. He then spent three whole days performing the Closing of the Flower at the Guild of Thieves, where the boy had apparently been left as a baby. ” “The closure was successful?” “We authorized the run time of two Procrastinators. Perhaps a few people will have faint memories, but the guild is a large and busy place. ” “No brothers, no sisters. No love of parents. Just the brotherhood of thieves,” said Lu-Tze sadly. “He was, however, a good thief. ” “I’ll bet. How old is he?” “Sixteen or seventeen, it appears. ” “Too old to teach, then. ” The senior monks exchanged glances. “We cannot teach him anything,” said the Master of Novices. “He—” Lu-Tze held up a skinny hand. “Let me guess. He knows it already?” “It’s as though he’s being told something that had momentarily slipped his memory,” said Rinpo. “And then he gets bored and angry. He’s not all there, in my opinion. ” Lu-Tze scratched in his stained beard. “Mystery boy,” he said thoughtfully. “Naturally talented. ” “And we ask ourselves wanna potty wanna potty poo why now, why at this time?” said the abbot, chewing the foot of a toy yak. “Ah, but is it not said ‘There is a Time and Place for Everything’?” said Lu-Tze. “Anyway, reverend sirs, you have taught pupils for hundreds of years. I am but a sweeper. ” Absent-mindedly, he stuck out his hand just as the yak left the fumbling fingers of the abbot, and caught it in midair. “Lu-Tze,” said the Master of Novices, “to be brief, we were unable to teach you. Remember?” “But then I found my Way,” said Lu-Tze. “Will you teach him?” said the abbot. “The boy needs to mmm brmmm find himself. ” “Is it not written: ‘I have only one pair of hands’?” said Lu-Tze. Rinpo looked at the Master of Novices. “I don’t know,” he said. “None of us ever see this stuff you quote. ” Still looking thoughtful, as if his mind were busy elsewhere, Lu-Tze said, “It could only be here and now. For it is written: ‘It never rains but it pours. ’” Rinpo looked puzzled, and then enlightenment dawned. “A jug,” he said, looking pleased. “A jug never rains, but it pours!” Lu-Tze shook his head sadly. “And the sound of one hand clapping is a ‘cl,’” he said. “Very well, Your Reverence. I help him find a Way. Will there be anything else, reverend sirs?” Tick Lobsang stood up when Lu-Tze returned to the anteroom, but he did it hesitantly, embarrassed at appearing to show respect. “Okay, here are the rules,” said Lu-Tze, walking straight past. “Word one is, you don’t call me ‘master’ and I don’t name you after some damn insect. It’s not my job to discipline you, it’s yours. For it is written: ‘I can’t be having with that kind of a thing. ’ Do what I tell you and we’ll get along fine. All right?” “What? You want me as an apprentice ?” said Lobsang, running to keep up. “No, I don’t want you as an apprentice, not at my age, but you’re going to be so we’d both better make the best of it, okay?” “And you will teach me everything ?” “I don’t know about ‘everything. ’ I mean, I don’t know much forensic mineralogy. But I will teach you all that I know which is useful for you to know, yes. ” “When?” “It is getting late—” “At dawn tomorrow?” “Oh, before dawn. I will wake you. ” Tick Some distance away from Madam Frout’s Academy, in Esoteric Street, were a number of gentlemen’s clubs. It would be far too cynical to say that here the term “gentleman” was simply defined as “someone who can afford five hundred dollars a year”; they also had to be approved of by a great many other gentlemen who could afford the same fee. And they didn’t much like the company of ladies. This was not to say that they were that kind of gentlemen, who had their own, rather better decorated clubs in another part of town, where there was generally a lot more going on. These gentlemen were gentlemen of a class who were, on the whole, bullied by ladies from an early age. Their lives were steered by nurses, governesses, matrons, mothers, and wives, and after four or five decades of that the average mild-mannered gentleman gave up and escaped as politely as possible to one of these clubs, where he could snooze the afternoon away in a leather armchair with the top button of his trousers undone. * The most select of these clubs was Fidgett’s, and it operated like this: Susan didn’t need to make herself invisible, because she knew that the members of Fidgett’s would simply not see her, or believe that she really existed even if they did. Women weren’t allowed in the club at all except under Rule Thirty-four B, which grudgingly allowed for female members of the family or respectable married ladies over thirty to be entertained to tea in the Green Drawing Room between 3:15 and 4:30 P. M. , provided at least one member of staff was present at all times. This had been the case for so long that many members now interpreted it as being the only seventy-five minutes in the day when women were actually allowed to exist and, therefore, any women seen in the club at any other time were a figment of their imagination. In the case of Susan, in her rather strict black school-teaching outfit and button boots that somehow appeared to have higher heels when she was being Death’s granddaughter, this might well have been true. The boots echoed on the marble floor as she made her way to the library. It was a mystery to her why Death had started using the place. Of course, he did have many of the qualities of a gentleman; he had a place in the country—a far, dark country—was unfailingly punctual, was courteous to all those he met—and sooner or later he met everyone —was well if soberly dressed, at home in any company, and, proverbially, a good horseman. The fact that he was the Grim Reaper was the only bit that didn’t quite fit. Most of the overstuffed chairs in the library were occupied by contented lunchers dozing happily under tented copies of the Ankh-Morpork Times. Susan looked around until she found the copy from which projected the bottom half of a black robe and two bony feet. There was also a scythe leaning against the back of the armchair. She raised the paper. G OOD AFTERNOON, said Death. H AVE YOU HAD LUNCH? I T WAS JAM ROLY-POLY. “Why do you do this, Grandfather? You know you don’t sleep. ” I FIND IT RESTFUL. A RE YOU WELL? “I was until the rat arrived. ” Y OUR CAREER PROGRESSES? Y OU KNOW I CARE FOR YOU. “Thank you,” said Susan shortly. “Now, why did—” W OULD A LITTLE SMALL TALK HURT? Susan sighed. She knew what was behind that, and it wasn’t a happy thought. It was a small, sad, and wobbly little thought, and it ran: each of them had no one else but the other. There. |
It was a thought that sobbed into its own handkerchief, but it was true. Oh, Death had his manservant, Albert, and of course there was the Death of Rats, if you could call that company… And as far as Susan was concerned… Well, she was partly immortal, and that was all there was to it. She could see things that were really there, * she could put time on and take it off like an overcoat. Rules that applied to everyone else, like gravity, applied to her only when she let them. And, however hard you tried, this sort of thing did tend to get in the way of relationships. It was hard to deal with people when a tiny part of you saw them as a temporary collection of atoms that would not be around in another few decades. And there she met the tiny part of Death which found it hard to deal with people when it thought of them as real. Not a day went past that she didn’t regret her curious ancestry. And then she’d wonder what it could possibly be like to walk the world unaware at every step of the rocks beneath your feet and the stars overhead, to have a mere five senses, to be almost blind and nearly deaf… T HE CHILDREN ARE WELL? I LIKED THEIR PAINTINGS OF ME. “Yes. How is Albert?” H E IS WELL. …and not really have any small talk, Susan added to herself. There wasn’t room for small talk in a big universe. T HE WORLD IS COMING TO AN END. Well, that was big talk. “When?” N EXT W EDNESDAY. “Why?” T HE A UDITORS ARE BACK , said Death. “Those evil little things?” Y ES. “I hate them. ” I , OF COURSE, DO NOT HAVE ANY EMOTIONS, said Death, poker-faced as only a skull can be. “What are they up to this time?” I CANNOT SAY. “I thought you could remember the future!” Y ES. B UT SOMETHING HAS CHANGED. A FTER WEDNESDAY, THERE IS NO FUTURE. “There must be something, even if it’s only debris!” N O. A FTER ONE O’CLOCK NEXT W EDNESDAY THERE IS NOTHING. J UST ONE O’CLOCK NEXT W EDNESDAY, FOREVER AND EVER. N O ONE WILL LIVE. N O ONE WILL DIE. T HAT IS WHAT I NOW SEE. T HE FUTURE HAS CHANGED. D O YOU UNDERSTAND? “And what has this got to do with me?” Susan knew this would sound stupid to anyone else. I WOULD HAVE THOUGHT THE END OF THE WORLD IS EVERYONE’S RESPONSIBILITY, WOULDN’T YOU? “ You know what I mean!” I BELIEVE THIS HAS TO DO WITH THE NATURE OF TIME, WHICH IS BOTH IMMORTAL AND HUMAN. T HERE HAVE BEEN CERTAIN…RIPPLES. “They’re going to do something to Time? I thought they weren’t allowed to do things like that. ” N O. B UT HUMANS CAN. I T HAS BEEN DONE ONCE BEFORE. “No one would be that stu—” Susan stopped. Of course someone would be that stupid. Some humans would do anything to see if it was possible to do it. If you put a large switch in some cave somewhere, with a sign on it saying “End-of-the-World Switch. PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH,” the paint wouldn’t even have time to dry. She thought some more. Death was watching her intently. Then she said: “Funnily enough, there is this book I’ve been reading to the class. I found it on my desk one day. It’s called Grim Fairy Tales …” A H, HAPPY TALES FOR LITTLE FOLK , said Death without a trace of irony. “…which is mostly about wicked people dying in horrible ways. It’s strange, really. The children seem quite happy with the idea. It doesn’t seem to worry them. ” Death said nothing. “Except in the case of the Glass Clock of Bad Schüschein,” said Susan, watching his skull. “They found that quite upsetting, even though it’s got a kind of happy ending. ” I T MAY BE BECAUSE THE STORY IS TRUE. Susan had known Death long enough not to argue. “I think I understand,” she said. “You made sure the book was there. ” Y ES. O H, THE RUBBISH ABOUT THE HANDSOME PRINCE AND SO ON IS AN OBVIOUS ADDITION. T HE AUDITORS DID NOT INVENT THE CLOCK, OF COURSE. T HAT WAS THE WORK OF A MADMAN. B UT THEY ARE GOOD AT ADAPTING. T HEY CANNOT CREATE, BUT THEY CAN ADAPT. A ND THE CLOCK IS BEING REBUILT. “Was time really stopped?” T RAPPED. O NLY FOR A MOMENT, BUT THE RESULTS STILL LIE ALL AROUND US. H ISTORY WAS SHATTERED, FRAGMENTED. P ASTS WERE NO LONGER LINKED TO FUTURES. T HE H ISTORY M ONKS HAD TO REBUILD IT PRACTICALLY FROM SCRATCH. Susan did not waste breath saying things like “That’s impossible” at a time like this. Only people who believed that they lived in the real world said things like that. “That must have taken some…time,” she said. T IME, OF COURSE, WAS NOT THE ISSUE. T HEY USE A FORM OF YEARS BASED ON THE HUMAN PULSE RATE. O F THOSE YEARS, IT TOOK ABOUT FIVE HUNDRED. “But if history was shattered, where did they get—” Death steepled his fingers. T HINK TEMPORALLY , S USAN. I BELIEVE THEY STOLE SOME TIME FROM SOME EARLIER AGE OF THE WORLD, WHERE IT WAS BEING WASTED ON A LOT OF REPTILES. WHAT IS TIME TO A BIG LIZARD, AFTER ALL? H AVE YOU SEEN THOSE PROCRASTINATORS THE MONKS USE? W ONDERFUL THINGS. T HEY CAN MOVE TIME, STORE IT, STRETCH IT…QUITE INGENIOUS. AS FOR W HEN THIS HAPPENED, THE QUESTION ALSO MAKES NO SENSE. WHEN THE BOTTLE IS BROKEN, DOES IT MATTER WHERE THE GLASS WAS HIT? T HE SHARDS OF THE EVENT ITSELF NO LONGER EXIST IN THIS REBUILT HISTORY, IN ANY CASE. “Hold on, hold on…how can you take a piece of, oh, some old century, and stitch it into a modern one? Wouldn’t people notice that…” Susan flailed a bit, “oh, that people have got the wrong armor and the buildings are all wrong, and they’re still in the middle of wars that happened centuries ago?” I N MY EXPERIENCE , S USAN, WITHIN THEIR HEADS TOO MANY HUMANS SPEND A LOT OF TIME IN THE MIDDLE OF WARS THAT HAPPENED CENTURIES AGO. “Very insightful, but what I meant was—” Y OU MUST NOT CONFUSE THE CONTENT WITH THE CONTAINER. Death sighed. Y OU ARE MOSTLY HUMAN. Y OU NEED A METAPHOR. A N OBJECT LESSON IS CLEARLY IN ORDER. C OME. He stood up and stalked into the dining room across the hall. There were still a few late lunchers frozen in their work, napkins tucked under their chin, in an atmosphere of happy carbohydrates. Death walked up to a table that had been set for dinner, and gripped a corner of the tablecloth. T IME IS THE CLOTH, HE SAID. T HE CUTLERY AND PLATES ARE THE EVENTS THAT TAKE PLACE WITHIN TIME— There was a drum roll. Susan glanced down. The Death of Rats was seated in front of a tiny drum kit. O BSERVE. Death pulled the cloth away. There was a rattle of cutlery and a moment of uncertainty regarding a vase of flowers, but almost all the tableware remained in place. “I see,” said Susan. T HE TABLE REMAINS SET, BUT THE CLOTH CAN NOW BE USED FOR ANOTHER MEAL. “However, you knocked the salt over,” said Susan. T HE TECHNIQUE IS NOT PERFECT. “And there are stains on the cloth from the previous meal, Grandfather. ” Death beamed. Y ES, he said. A S METAPHORS GO IT IS RATHER GOOD, DON’T YOU THINK? “People would notice!” R EALLY? H UMANS ARE THE MOST UNOBSERVANT CREATURES IN THE UNIVERSE. O H, THERE ARE LOTS OF ANOMALIES, OF COURSE, A CERTAIN AMOUNT OF SPILLED SALT, BUT HISTORIANS EXPLAIN THEM AWAY. T HEY ARE SO VERY USEFUL IN THAT RESPECT. There was something called The Rules, Susan knew. They weren’t written down, in the same way that mountains weren’t written down. They were far more fundamental to the operation of the universe than mere mechanical things like gravity. The Auditors might hate the untidiness caused by the emergence of life, but The Rules did not allow them to do anything about it. The ascent of mankind must have been a boon to them. At last there was a species that could be persuaded to shoot itself in the foot. “I don’t know what you expect me to do about it,” she said. E VERYTHING THAT YOU CAN , said Death. I, BY CUSTOM AND PRACTICE, HAVE OTHER DUTIES AT THIS TIME. “Such as?” I MPORTANT MATTERS. “That you can’t tell me about?” T HAT I DO NOT INTEND TO TELL YOU ABOUT. BUT THEY ARE IMPORTANT. I N ANY CASE, YOUR INSIGHT IS VALUABLE. Y OU HAVE WAYS OF THINKING THAT WILL BE USEFUL. Y OU CAN GO WHERE I CANNOT. I HAVE ONLY SEEN THE FUTURE. B UT YOU CAN CHANGE IT. “Where is this clock being rebuilt?” I CANNOT TELL. I HAVE DONE WELL TO DEDUCE WHAT I HAVE. T HE ISSUE IS CLOUDED FROM ME. “Why?” B ECAUSE THINGS HAVE BEEN HIDDEN. S OMEONE IS INVOLVED…WHO IS NOT SUBJECT TO ME. |
Death looked awkward. “An immortal?” S OMEONE SUBJECT TO…SOMEONE ELSE. “You’re going to have to be a lot clearer than that. ” S USAN…YOU KNOW THAT I ADOPTED AND RAISED YOUR MOTHER, AND FOUND A SUITABLE HUSBAND FOR HER— “Yes, yes,” snapped Susan. “How could I forget? I look in my mirror every day. ” T HIS IS…DIFFICULT FOR ME. T HE TRUTH IS , I WAS NOT THE ONLY ONE TO INVOLVE MYSELF LIKE THAT. WHY LOOK SURPRISED ? I S IT NOT WELL KNOWN THAT GODS DO THIS SORT OF THING ALL THE TIME? “Gods, yes, but people like you—” P EOPLE LIKE US ARE STILL LIKE PEOPLE… Susan did an unusual thing and listened. That’s not an easy task for a teacher. S USAN, YOU WILL KNOW THAT WE WHO ARE…OUTSIDE OF HUMANITY— “I’m not outside humanity,” said Susan sharply. “I just have a few…extra talents. ” I DID NOT MEAN YOU, OF COURSE. I MEANT THE OTHERS WHO ARE NOT HUMAN AND YET PART OF ITS UNIVERSE—WAR, AND DESTINY, AND PESTILENCE, AND THE REST OF US—WE ARE ENVISAGED AS HUMAN BY HUMANS AND THUS, IN VARIOUS FASHIONS, WE TAKE ON SOME ASPECTS OF HUMANITY. I T CAN BE NO OTHER WAY, EVEN OUR VERY BODY SHAPE FORCES UPON OUR MINDS A CERTAIN WAY OF OBSERVING THE UNIVERSE. W E PICK UP HUMAN TRAITS…CURIOSITY, ANGER, RESTLESSNESS… “This is basic stuff, Grandfather. ” Y ES. A ND YOU KNOW, THEREFORE, THAT SOME OF US…TAKE AN INTEREST IN HUMANITY. “I know. I am one of the results. ” Y ES. E R…AND SOME OF US TAKE AN INTEREST WHICH IS, ER, MORE… “Interesting?” …PERSONAL. A ND YOU HAVE HEARD ME SPEAK OF THE…PERSONIFICATION OF TIME… “You didn’t tell me much. She lives in a palace of glass, you once said. ” Susan felt a small, shameful, and yet curiously satisfying sensation in seeing Death discomforted. He looked like someone who was being forced to reveal a skeleton in the closet. Y ES. E R…SHE FELL IN LOVE WITH A HUMAN… “How very roman tick ,” said Susan, inserting the k. Now she was being childishly perverse, she knew, but life as Death’s granddaughter was not easy and just occasionally she had the irresistible urge to annoy. A H. A PUN, OR PLAY ON WORDS, said Death wearily, ALTHOUGH I SUSPECT YOU WERE MERELY TRYING TO BE TIRESOME. “Well, that sort of thing used to happen a lot in antiquity, didn’t it?” said Susan. “Poets were always falling in love with moonlight, or hyacinths, or something, and goddesses were forever—” B UT THIS WAS REAL, said Death. “How real do you mean?” T IME HAD A SON. “How could—” T IME HAD A SON. S OMEONE MOSTLY MORTAL. S OMEONE LIKE YOU. Tick A member of the Clockmakers’ Guild called on Jeremy once a week. It was nothing formal. In any case there was often some work for him to do, or some results to be collected, because whatever else you might say about him, the boy had a genius for clocks. Informally, the visit was also a delicate way to make sure that the lad was taking his medicine and wasn’t noticeably crazy. The clockmakers were well aware that the intricate mechanisms of the human brain could occasionally throw a screw. The guild’s members tended to be meticulous people, always in pursuit of an inhuman accuracy, and this took its toll. It could cause problems. Springs were not the only things that got wound up. The guild committee were, by and large, kind and understanding men. They were not, on the whole, men accustomed to guile. Dr. Hopkins, the guild’s secretary, was surprised when the door of the shop was opened by a man who appeared to have survived a very serious accident. “Er…I’m here to see Mr. Jeremy,” he managed. “Yeth, sir. The marthter ith in, thur. ” “And you, mm, are…?” “Igor, thur. Mr. Jeremy wath kind enough to take me on, thur. ” “You work for him?” said Dr. Hopkins, looking Igor up and down. “Yeth, thur. ” “Mm…have you been standing too close to any dangerous machinery?” “ No , thur. He is in the workshop, thur. ” “Mr. Igor?” said Dr. Hopkins, as he was ushered into the shop, “you do know that Mr. Jeremy has to take medicine, don’t you?” “Yeth, thur. He mentionth it often. ” “And he, mm, his general health is…?” “Good, thur. He ith enthuthiathtic for hith work, thur. Bright-eyed and buthy-tailed. ” “Buthy-tailed, eh?” said Dr. Hopkins weakly. “Mm…Mr. Jeremy doesn’t usually keep servants. I’m afraid he threw a clock at the head of the last assistant he had. ” “Really, thur?” “Mm, he hasn’t thrown a clock at your head, has he?” “No, thur. He acth quite normally,” said Igor, a man with four thumbs and stitches all around his neck. He opened the door into the workshop. “Dr. Hopkinth, Mr. Jeremy. I will make thome tea, thur. ” Jeremy was sitting bolt upright at the table, his eyes gleaming. “Ah, doctor,” he said. “How kind of you to come. ” Dr. Hopkins took in the workshop. There had been changes. Quite a large piece of lathe-and-plaster wall, covered in penciled sketches, had been removed from somewhere and stood on an easel on one side of the room. The benches, usually the resting places of clocks in various stages of assembly, were covered with lumps of crystal and slabs of glass. And there was a strong smell of acid. “Mm…something new?” Dr. Hopkins ventured. “Yes, doctor. I’ve been examining the properties of certain superdense crystals,” said Jeremy. Dr. Hopkins took a deep breath of relief. “Ah, geology. A wonderful hobby! I’m so glad. It’s not good to think about clocks all the time, you know!” he added, jovially, and with a soupçon of hope. Jeremy’s brow wrinkled, as if the brain behind it was trying to fit around an unfamiliar concept. “Yes,” he said at last. “Did you know, doctor, that copper octirate vibrates exactly two million, four hundred thousand and seventy-eight times a second?” “As much as that, eh?” said Dr. Hopkins. “My word. ” “Indeed. And light shone through a natural prism of Octivium quartz splits into only three colors?” “Fascinating,” said Dr. Hopkins, reflecting that it could be worse. “Mm…is it me, or is there a rather… sharp smell in the air?” “Drains,” said Jeremy. “We’ve been cleaning them. With acid. Which is what we needed the acid for. For cleaning the drains. ” “Drains, eh?” Dr. Hopkins blinked. He wasn’t at home in the world of drains. There was a crackling sound and blue light flickered under the door of the kitchen. “Your, mm, man, Igor,” he said. “All right, is he?” “Yes, thank you, doctor. He’s from Uberwald, you know. ” “Oh. Very…big, Uberwald. Very big country. ” That was one of only two things Dr. Hopkins knew about Uberwald. He coughed nervously and mentioned the other one. “People there can be a bit strange, I’ve heard. ” “Igor says he’s never had anything to do with that kind of person,” said Jeremy calmly. “Good. Good. That is good,” said the doctor. Jeremy’s fixed smile was beginning to unnerve him. “He, mm, seems to have a lot of scars and stitches. ” “Yes. It’s cultural. ” “Cultural, is it?” Dr. Hopkins looked relieved. He was a man who tried to see the best in everybody, but the city had got rather complicated since he was a boy, with dwarfs, and trolls, and golems, and even zombies. He wasn’t sure he liked everything that was happening, but a lot of it was “cultural,” apparently, and you couldn’t object to that, so he didn’t. “Cultural” sort of solved problems by explaining that they weren’t really there. The light under the door went out. A moment later Igor came in with two cups of tea on a tray. It was good tea, the doctor had to admit, but the acid in the air was making his eyes water. “So, mm, how is the work on the new navigation tables going?” he said. “Ginger bithcuit, thur?” said Igor, by his ear. “Oh, er, yes…Oh, I say, these are rather good, Mister Igor. ” “Take two, thur. ” “Thank you. ” Now Dr. Hopkins sprayed crumbs as he spoke. “The navigation tables—” he repeated. “I am afraid I have not been able to make very much progress,” said Jeremy. “I have been engaged on the properties of crystals. ” “Oh. Yes. You said. Well, of course we are very grateful for any time that you feel you can spare,” said Dr. Hopkins. “And if I may say so, mm, it is good to see you with a new interest. Too much concentration on one thing is, mm, conducive to ill humors of the brain. |
” “I have medicine,” said Jeremy. “Yes, of course. Er…as a matter of fact, since I happened to be going past the apothecary today…” Dr. Hopkins pulled a large, paper-wrapped bottle out of his pocket. “Thank you. ” Jeremy indicated the shelf behind him. “As you can see, I have nearly run out. ” “Yes, I thought you might,” said Dr. Hopkins, as if the level of the bottle on Jeremy’s shelf wasn’t something the clockmakers kept a very careful eye on. “Well, I shall be going, then. Well done with the crystals. I used to collect butterflies when I was a boy. Wonderful things, hobbies. Give me a killing jar and a net and I was as happy as a little lark. ” Jeremy still smiled at him. There was something glassy about the smile. Dr. Hopkins swallowed the remainder of his tea and put the cup back in the saucer. “And now I really must be on my way,” he mumbled. “So much to do. Don’t wish to keep you from your work. Crystals, eh? Wonderful things. So pretty. ” “Are they?” said Jeremy. He hesitated, as though he was trying to solve a minor problem. “Oh, yes. Patterns of light. ” “Twinkly,” said Dr. Hopkins. Igor was waiting by the street door when Dr. Hopkins reached it. He nodded. “Mm…you are sure about the medicine?” he said quietly. “Oh yeth, thur. Every day I watch him pour out a thpoonful. ” “Oh, good. He can be a little, er…sometimes he doesn’t get on well with people. ” “Yeth, thur?” “Very, um, very particular about accuracy…” “Yeth, thur. ” “…which is a good thing, of course. Wonderful thing, accuracy,” said Dr. Hopkins and sniffed. “Up to a point, of course. Well, good day to you. ” “Good day, thur. ” When Igor returned to the workshop Jeremy was carefully pouring the blue medicine into a spoon. When the spoon was exactly full, he tipped it into the sink. “They check, you know,” he said. “They think I don’t notice. ” “I’m thure they mean well, thur. ” “I’m afraid I can’t think so well when I take the medicine,” he said. “In fact I think I’m getting on a lot better without it, don’t you? It slows me down. ” Igor took refuge in silence. In his experience, many of the world’s greatest discoveries were made by men who would be considered mad by conventional standards. Insanity depended on your point of view, he always said, and if it was the view through your own underpants then everything looked fine. But young Master Jeremy was beginning to worry him. He never laughed, and Igor liked a good maniacal laugh. You could trust it. Since giving up the medicine Jeremy had not, as Igor had expected, begun to gibber and shout things like “Mad! They said I was mad! But I shall show them all! Ahahahaha!” He’d simply become more—focused. Then there was that smile. Igor was not easily frightened, because otherwise he wouldn’t be able to look in a mirror, but he was becoming a little troubled. “Now, where were we…” said Jeremy. “Oh, yes…give me a hand here. ” Together they moved the table aside. Under it, dozens of glass jars hissed. “Not enough power,” said Igor. “Altho we have not got the mirrorth right yet, thur. ” Jeremy pulled the cloth off the device on the workbench. Glass and crystal glittered, and in some cases glittered very strangely. As Jeremy had remarked yesterday, in the clarity that was returning now that he was carefully pouring one spoonful of his medicine down the sink twice a day, some of the angles looked wrong. One crystal had disappeared when he’d locked it into place, but it was clearly still there because he could see the light reflecting off it. “And we’ve thtill got too much metal in it, thur,” Igor grumbled. “It wath the thpring that did for the latht one. ” “We will find a way,” said Jeremy. “Homemade lightning ith never ath good ath the real thort,” said Igor. “Good enough to test the principle,” said Jeremy. “Tetht the printhiple, tetht the printhiple,” muttered Igor. “Thorry, thur, but Igorth do not ‘tetht the printhiple. ’ Thtrap it to the bench and put a good thick bolt of lightning, that’th our motto. That’th how you tetht thomething. ” “You seem ill at ease, Igor. ” “Well, I’m thorry, thur,” said Igor. “It’th the climate dithagreeing with me. I’m uthed to regular thunderthtormth. ” “I’ve heard that some people really seem to come alive in thunderstorms,” said Jeremy, carefully adjusting the angle of a crystal. “Ah, that wath when I worked for Baron Finklethtein,” said Igor. Jeremy stood back. This wasn’t the clock, of course. There was still a lot more work to do (but he could see it in front of him, if he closed his eyes) before they had a clock. This was just an essay, to see if he was on the right lines. He was on the right lines. He knew it. Tick Susan walked back through the motionless streets, sat down in Madam Frout’s office, and let herself sink back into the stream of time. She had never found out how this worked. It just did. Time didn’t stop for the rest of the world, and it didn’t stop for her—it was just that she entered a kind of loop of time, and everything else stayed exactly as it was until she’d finished what she needed to do. It was another inherited family trait. It worked best if you didn’t think about it, just like tightrope walking. Anyway, now she had other things to think about. Madam Frout turned her gaze back from the rat-free mantelpiece. “Oh,” she said. “It seems to have gone. ” “It was probably a trick of the light, madam,” said Susan. Mostly mortal. Someone like me , she thought. “Yes, er, of course…” Madam Frout managed to get her glasses on, despite the fact that the string was still tangled with the button. It meant that she’d moored herself to her own chest, but she was damned if she was going to do anything about it now. Susan could unnerve a glacier. All she had to do was sit quietly, looking polite and alert. “What precisely was it you wanted, madam?” she said. “It’s only that I’ve left the class doing algebra, and they get restless when they’ve finished. ” “Algebra?” said Madam Frout, perforce staring at her own bosom, which no one else had ever done. “But that’s far too difficult for seven-year-olds!” “Yes, but I didn’t tell them that and so far they haven’t found out,” said Susan. It was time to move things along. “I expect you wanted to see me about my letter, madam?” she said. Madam Frout looked blank. “Wh—” she began. Susan sighed and snapped her fingers. She walked around and opened a drawer by the motionless Madam Frout, removed a sheet of paper, and spent some time carefully writing a letter. She let the ink dry, rustled the paper a bit to make it look slightly secondhand, and then put it just under the top of the pile of paperwork beside Madam Frout, with enough of it peeking out so that it would be easy to see. She returned to her seat. She snapped her fingers again. “—at letter?” said Madam Frout. And then she looked down at her desk. “Oh. ” It was a cruel thing to do, Susan knew. But while Madam Frout was not by any means a bad person and was quite kind to children, in a haphazard way, she was silly. And Susan did not have a lot of time for silly. “Yes, I asked if I might have a few days’ leave,” said Susan. “Pressing family matters, I am afraid. I have prepared some work for the children to get on with, of course. ” Madam Frout hesitated. Susan didn’t have time for this, either. She snapped her fingers. “M Y GOODNESS, THAT’ D BE A RELIEF ,” she said in a voice whose harmonics went all the way into the subconscious. “I F WE DON’T SLOW HER DOWN WE’LL RUN OUT OF THINGS TO TEACH THEM! S HE HAS BEEN PERFORMING SMALL MIRACLES ON A DAILY BASIS AND DESERVES A RAISE. ” Then she sat back, snapped her fingers again, and watched the words settle into the forefront of Madam Frout’s mind. The woman’s lips actually moved. “Why, yes, of course,” she murmured at last. “You have been working very hard…and…and—” and there are some things even a voice of eldritch command can’t achieve and one of them is to get extra money out of a head teacher, “we shall have to think about a little increment for you one of these days. |
” Susan returned to the classroom and spent the rest of the day performing small miracles, which included removing the glue from Richenda’s hair, emptying the wee out of Billy’s shoes, and treating the class to a short visit to the continent of Fourecks. When their parents came to pick them up, they were all waving crayoned pictures of kangaroos, and Susan had to hope that the red dust on their shoes—red mud in the case of Billy’s, whose sense of timing had not improved—would pass unnoticed. It probably would. Fidgett’s was not the only place where adults didn’t see what couldn’t possibly be true. Now she sat back. There was something pleasant about an empty classroom. Of course, as any teacher would point out, one nice thing was that there were no children in it, and particularly no Jason. But the tables and shelves around the room showed evidence of a term well spent. Paintings lined the walls and showed good use of perspective and color. The class had built a full-size white horse out of cardboard boxes, during which time they’d learned a lot about horses and Susan learned about Jason’s remarkably accurate powers of observation. She’d had to take the cardboard tube away from him and explain that this was a polite horse. It had been a long day. She raised the lid of her desk and took out Grim Fairy Tales. This dislodged some paperwork, which in turn revealed a small cardboard box decorated in black and gold. It had been a little present from Vincent’s parents. She stared at the box. Every day she had to go through this. It was ridiculous. It wasn’t even as if Higgs & Meakins did good chocolates. They were just butter and sugar and— She scrabbled among the sad little scraps of brown paper inside the box and pulled out a chocolate. No one could be expected not to have just one chocolate, after all. She put it in her mouth. Damn damn damn damn! It was nougat inside! Her one chocolate today and it was damn artificial damn pink-and-white damn sickly damn stupid nougat ! Well, no one could be expected to believe that counted. * She was entitled to another— The teacher part of her, which had eyes in the back of its head, caught the blur of movement. She spun around. “No running with scythes!” The Death of Rats stopped jogging along the Nature Table and gave her a guilty look. S QUEAK? “And no going into the Stationery Cupboard, either,” said Susan automatically. She slammed the desk lid shut. S QUEAK! “Yes, you were. I could hear you thinking about it. ” It was possible to deal with the Death of Rats provided you thought of him as a very small Jason. The Stationery Cupboard! That was one of the great battlegrounds of classroom history, that and the playhouse. But the ownership of the playhouse usually sorted itself out without Susan’s intervention, so that all she had to do was be ready with ointment, a nose blow, and mild sympathy for the losers, whereas the Stationery Cupboard was a war of attrition. It contained pots of powder paint, and reams of paper, and boxes of crayons, and more idiosyncratic items like a spare pair of pants for Billy, who did his best. It also contained The Scissors, which under classroom rules were treated as some kind of Doomsday Machine, and, of course, the boxes of stars. The only people allowed in the cupboard were Susan and, usually, Vincent. Despite everything Susan had tried, short of actual deception, he was always the official “best at everything” and won the coveted honor every day, which was to go into the Stationery Cupboard and fetch the pencils and hand them out. For the rest of the class, and especially Jason, the Stationery Cupboard was some mystic magic realm to be entered whenever possible. Honestly, thought Susan, once you learned the arts of defending the Stationery Cupboard, outwitting Jason, and keeping the class pet alive until the end of term, you’ve mastered at least half of teaching. She signed the register, watered the sad plants on the windowsill, went and fetched some fresh privet from the hedge for the stick insects that were the successors to Henry the Hamster (chosen on the basis that it was quite hard to tell when they were dead), tidied a few errant crayons away, and looked around the classroom at all those little chairs. It sometimes worried her that nearly everyone she knew well was three feet high. She was never certain that she trusted her grandfather at times like this. It was all to do with The Rules. He couldn’t interfere, but he knew her weaknesses and he could wind her up and send her out into the world… Someone like me. Yes, he’d known how to engage her interest. Someone like me. Suddenly there’s some dangerous clock somewhere in the world, and suddenly I’m told that there’s someone like me. Someone like me. Except not like me. At least I knew my parents. And she’d listened to Death’s account of the tall dark woman wandering from room to room in the endless castle of glass, weeping for the child she’d given birth to and could see every day but could never touch… Where do I even begin? Tick Lobsang learned a lot. He learned that every room had at least four corners. He learned that the sweepers started work when the sky was light enough to see the dust, and continued until sunset. As a master, Lu-Tze was kind enough. He would always point out those bits that Lobsang had not done properly. After the initial anger, and the taunting of his former classmates, Lobsang found that the work had a certain charm. Days drifted past under his broom… …until, almost with an audible click in his brain, he decided that enough was enough. He finished his section of passageway, and found Lu-Tze dreamily pushing his brush along a terrace. “Sweeper?” “Yes, lad?” “What is it you are trying to tell me?” “I’m sorry?” “I didn’t expect to become a…a sweeper! You’re Lu-Tze! I expected to be apprentice to…well, to the hero!” “You did?” Lu-Tze scratched his beard. “Oh, dear. Damn. Yes, I can see the problem. You should’ve said. Why didn’t you say? I don’t really do that sort of thing anymore. ” “You don’t ?” “All that playing with history, running about, unsettling people…no, not really. I was never quite certain we should be doing it, to be honest. No, sweeping is good enough for me. There’s something… real about a nice clean floor. ” “This is a test, isn’t it,” said Lobsang coldly. “Oh, yes. ” “I mean, I understand how it works. The master makes the pupil do all the menial jobs, and then it turns out that really the pupil is learning things of great value…and I don’t think I’m learning anything , really, except that people are pretty messy and inconsiderate. ” “Not a bad lesson, all the same,” said Lu-Tze. “Is it not written, ‘Hard work never did anybody any harm’?” “ Where is this written, Lu-Tze?” said Lobsang, thoroughly exasperated. The sweeper brightened up. “Ah,” he said. “Perhaps the pupil is ready to learn. Then you don’t wish to know the Way of the Sweeper, you wish to learn instead the Way of Mrs. Cosmopilite?” “Who?” “We have swept well. Let’s go to the gardens. For is it not written, ‘It does you good to get out in the fresh air’?” “Is it?” said Lobsang, still bewildered. Lu-Tze pulled a small tattered notebook out of his pocket. “In here, it is,” he said. “I should know. ” Tick Lu-Tze patiently adjusted a tiny mirror to redirect sunlight more favorably on one of the bonsai mountains. He hummed tunelessly under his breath. Lobsang, sitting cross-legged on the stones, carefully turned the yellowing pages of the ancient notebook on which was written, in faded ink, THE WAY OF MRS. COSMOPILITE. “Well?” said Lu-Tze. “The Way has an answer for everything, does it?” “Yes. ” “Then…” Lobsang nodded at the little volcano, which was gently smoking, “…how does that work? It is on a saucer!” Lu-Tze stared straight ahead, his lips moving. “Page seventy-six, I think,” he said. Lobsang turned to the page. “‘Because,’” he read. “Good answer,” said Lu-Tze, gently caressing a minute crag with a camel-hair brush. |
“Just ‘Because,’ master? No reason ?” “Reason? What reason can a mountain have? And, as you accumulate years, you will learn that most answers boil down, eventually, to ‘Because. ’” Lobsang said nothing. The Book of the Way was giving him problems. What he wanted to say was this: Lu-Tze, this reads like a book of the sayings of an old lady. It’s the sort of thing old ladies say. What kind of koan is, “It won’t get better if you pick at it,” or “Eat it up, it’ll make your hair curly,” or “Everything comes to he who waits”? This is stuff you get in Hogswatch crackers! “Really?” said Lu-Tze, still apparently engrossed in a mountain. “I didn’t say anything. ” “Oh. I thought you did. Do you miss Ankh-Morpork?” “Yes. I didn’t have to sweep floors there. ” “Were you a good thief?” “I was a fantastic thief. ” A breeze blew a scent of cherry blossom. Just once, thought Lu-Tze, it would be nice to pick cherries. “I have been to Ankh-Morpork,” he said, straightening up and moving on to the next mountain. “You have seen the visitors we get here?” “Yes,” said Lobsang. “Everyone laughs at them. ” “Really?” Lu-Tze raised his eyebrows. “When they have trekked thousands of miles seeking the truth?” “But did not Wen say that if the truth is anywhere, it is everywhere?” said Lobsang. “Well done. I see you’ve learned something , at least. But one day it seemed to me that everyone else had decided that wisdom can only be found a long way off. So I went to Ankh-Morpork. They were all coming here, so it seemed only fair. ” “Seeking enlightenment ?” “No. The wise man does not seek enlightenment, he waits for it. So while I was waiting, it occurred to me that seeking perplexity might be more fun,” said Lu-Tze. “After all, enlightenment begins where perplexity ends. And I found perplexity. And a kind of enlightenment, too. I had not been there five minutes, for example, when some men in an alley tried to enlighten me of what little I possessed, giving me a valuable lesson in the ridiculousness of material things. ” “But why Ankh-Morpork?” said Lobsang. “Look in the back of the book,” said Lu-Tze. There was a yellow, crackling scrap of paper tucked in there. The boy unfolded it. “Oh, this is just a bit of the Almanack ,” he said. “It’s very popular there. ” “Yes. A seeker after wisdom left it here. ” “Er…it’s just got the phases of the Moon on this page…” “Other side,” said the sweeper. Lobsang turned the paper over. “It’s just an advert from the Ankh-Morpork Guild of Merchants,” said Lobsang. “‘Ankh-Morpork Has Everything!’” He stared at the smiling Lu-Tze. “And…you thought that—” “Ah, I am old and simple and understand,” said the sweeper. “Whereas you are young and complicated. Didn’t Wen see portents in the swirl of gruel in his bowl, and the flight of birds? This was actually written. I mean, flights of birds are quite complex, but these were words. And I saw the opening of the Way. My Way. ” “And you went all the way to Ankh-Morpork…” said Lobsang weakly. “And I fetched up, calm of mind but empty of pocket, in Quirm Street,” said the sweeper, smiling serenely at the recollection, “and espied a sign in a window saying ‘Rooms to Rent. ’ Thus I met Mrs. Cosmopilite, who opened the door when I knocked and then when I hesitated, not being sure of the language, she said, ‘I haven’t got all day, you know. ’ Almost to a word, one of the sayings of Wen! Instantly I knew that I had found what I was seeking! During the days I washed dishes in an eating house for twenty pence a day and all the scraps I could take away, and in the evenings I helped Mrs. Cosmopilite clean the house and listened carefully to her conversation. She was a natural sweeper with a good rhythmical motion and had bottomless wisdom. Within the first two days she uttered to me the actual words said by Wen upon understanding the true nature of Time! It was when I asked for a reduced rate because, of course, I did not sleep in a bed, and she said, ‘ I was not born yesterday, Mr. Tze! ’ Astonishing! And she could never have seen the Sacred Texts!” Lobsang’s face was a carefully drawn picture. “‘I was not born yesterday’?” he said. “Ah, yes, of course, as a novice you would not have got that far,” said Lu-Tze. “It was when he fell asleep in a cave and in a dream saw Time appear to him and show him that the universe is re-created from second to second, endlessly. And he stepped out from the cave into the truly new world and said, ‘I was not born—yesterday!’” “Oh, yes,” said Lobsang. “But—” “Ah, Mrs. Cosmopilite,” said Lu-Tze, his eyes misting over. “What a woman for keeping things clean! If she was a sweeper here, no one would be allowed to walk on the floor! Her house! So amazing! A palace! New sheets every other week! And cook? Just to taste her Beans Baked Upon The Toast a man would give up a cycle of the universe!” “Um,” said Lobsang. “I stayed for three months, sweeping her house as is fitting for the pupil, and then I returned here, my way clear before me. ” “And…er…these stories about you…” “Oh, all true. Most of them. A bit of exaggeration, but mostly true. ” “The one about the citadel in Muntab and the Pash and the fish bone?” “Oh, yes. ” “But how did you get in where half a dozen trained and armed men couldn’t even—” “I’m a little man and I carry a broom,” said Lu-Tze simply. “Everyone has some mess that needs clearing up. What harm is a man with a broom?” “What? And that was it ?” “Well, the rest was a matter of cookery, really. The Pash was not a good man, but he was a glutton for his fish pie. ” “No martial arts?” said Lobsang. “Oh, always a last resort. History needs shepherds, not butchers. ” “Do you know okidoki ?” “Just a lot of bunny hops. ” “ Shiitake ?” “If I wanted to thrust my hand into hot sand I would go to the seaside. ” “ Upsidazi ?” “A waste of good bricks. ” “ No-Kando ?” “You made that one up. ” “ Tung-pi ?” “Bad-tempered flower arranging. ” “ Deja-fu ?” That got a reaction. Lu-Tze’s eyebrows raised. “ Deja-fu ? You heard that rumor? Time as a weapon?” he said. “Ha! None of the monks here knows deja-fu. I’d soon hear about it if they did. Look, boy, violence is the resort of the violent. In most tight corners a broomstick suffices. ” “Only most, eh?” said Lobsang, not trying to hide the sarcasm. “Oh, I see. You wish to face me in the dojo? For it’s a very old truth: when the pupil can beat the master, there is nothing the master cannot tell him, because the apprenticeship is ended. You want to learn?” “Ah! I knew there was something to learn!” Lu-Tze stood up. “Why you?” he said. “Why here? Why now? ‘There is a Time and a Place for Everything. ’ Why this time and this place? If I take you to the dojo, you will return what you stole from me! Now!” He looked down at the teak table where he worked on his mountains. The little shovel was there. A few cherry blossom petals fluttered to the ground. “I see,” he said. “You are that fast? I did not see you. ” Lobsang said nothing. “It is a small and worthless thing,” said Lu-Tze. “Why did you take it, please?” “To see if I could. I was bored. ” “Ah. We shall see if we can make life more interesting for you, then. No wonder you are bored, when you can already slice time like that. ” Lu-Tze turned the little shovel over and over in his hand. “Very fast,” he said. He leaned down and blew the petals away from a tiny glacier. “You slice time as fast as a Tenth Djim. And as yet barely trained. You must have been a great thief! And now…oh dear…I shall have to face you in the dojo…” “No, there is no need!” said Lobsang, because now Lu-Tze looked frightened and humiliated and, somehow, small and brittle-boned. “I insist,” said the old man. “Let us get it done now. For it is written, ‘There is no time like the present,’ which is Mrs. Cosmopilite’s most profound understanding. ” He sighed, and looked up at the giant statue of Wen, which loomed over the terrace. “Look at him,” he said. “He was a lad, eh? Completely blissed out on the universe. Saw the past and future as one living person , and wrote the Books of History to tell how the story should go. |
We can’t imagine what those eyes saw. And he never raised a hand to any man in his life. ” “Look, I really didn’t want to—” “And you’ve looked at the other statues?” said Lu-Tze, as if he’d completely forgotten about the dojo. Distractedly, Lobsang followed his gaze. Up on the raised stone platform that ran the whole length of the gardens were hundreds of smaller statues, mostly carved of wood, all of them painted in garish colors. Figures with more eyes than legs, more tails than teeth, monstrous amalgamations of fish and squid and tiger and parsnip, things put together as if the creator of the universe had tipped out his box of spare parts and stuck them together, things painted pink and orange and purple and gold, looked down over the valley. “Oh, the dlang —” Lobsang began. “Demons? That’s one word for them,” said the sweeper. “The abbot called them The Enemies of Mind. Wen wrote a scroll about them, you know. And he said that was the worst. ” He pointed to a little hooded gray shape, which looked out of place among the festival of wild extremities. “Doesn’t look very dangerous,” said Lobsang. “Look, Sweeper, I don’t want to—” “They can be very dangerous, things that don’t look dangerous,” said Lu-Tze. “Not looking dangerous is what makes them dangerous. For it is written, ‘You can’t tell a book by its cover. ’” “Lu-Tze, I really don’t want to fight you—” “Oh, your tutors will tell you that the discipline of a martial art enables you to slice time, and that’s true as far as it goes,” said Lu-Tze, apparently not listening. “But so can sweeping, as perhaps you have found. Always find the perfect moment, Wen said. People just seem so keen on using it to kick other people on the back of the neck. ” “But it wasn’t a challenge, I just wanted you to show me—” “And I shall. Come on. I made a bargain. I must keep it, old fool that I am. ” The nearest dojo was the Dojo of the Tenth Djim. It was empty except for two monks blurring as they danced across the mat and wrapped Time around themselves. Lu-Tze had been right, Lobsang knew. Time was a resource. You could learn to let it move fast or slow, so that a monk could walk easily through a crowd and yet be moving so fast that no one could see him. Or he could stand still for a few seconds, and watch the sun and moon chase one another across a flickering sky. He could meditate for a day in a minute. Here, in the valley, a day lasted forever. The blurred fighters became a couple of hesitant monks when they saw Lu-Tze. He bowed. “I beg the use of this dojo for a short period while my apprentice teaches me the folly of old age,” he said. “I really didn’t mean—” Lobsang began, but Lu-Tze elbowed him in the ribs. The monks gave the old man a nervous look. “It’s yours, Lu-Tze,” said one of them. They hurried out, almost tripping over their own feet as they kept looking back. “Time and its control is what we should teach here,” said Lu-Tze, watching them go. “The martial arts are an aid. That is all they are. At least, that’s all they were meant to be. Even out in the world a well-trained person may perceive, in the fray, how flexible time may be. Here, we can build on that. Compress time. Stretch time. Hold the moment. Punching people’s kidneys out through their nose is only a foolish byproduct. ” Lu-Tze took down a razor-edged pika sword from the rack and handed it to the shocked boy. “You’ve seen one of these before? They’re not really for novices, but you show promise. ” “Yes, Sweeper, but—” “Know how to use it?” “I’m good at the practice ones, but they’re just made of—” “Take it, then, and attack me. ” There was a rustling noise above them. Lobsang looked up, and saw monks pouring into the observation gallery above the dojo. There were some very senior ones among them. News gets around quickly in a little world. “Rule Two,” said Lu-Tze, “is: Never refuse a weapon. ” He took a few steps back. “In your own time, boy. ” Lobsang wielded the curved sword uncertainly. “Well?” said Lu-Tze. “I can’t just—” “Is this the Dojo of the Tenth Djim?” said Lu-Tze. “Why, mercy me, I do believe it is. That means there are no rules, doesn’t it? Any weapon, any strategy…anything is allowed. Do you understand? Are you stupid?” “But I can’t kill someone just because they’ve asked me to!” “Why not? What happened to Mr. Manners?” “But—” “You are holding a deadly weapon! You are facing an unarmed man in a pose of submission! Are you frightened?” “Yes! Yes, I am!” “Good. That’s Rule Three,” said Lu-Tze quietly. “See how much you’re learning already? Wiped the smile off your face, have I? All right, put the sword on the rack and take—yes, take a dakka stick. The most you can do with that is bruise my old bones. ” “I would prefer if you wore the protective padding—” “You’re that good with the stick, are you?” “I’m very fast—” “Then if you don’t fight right now I shall wrest it from you and break it over your head,” said Lu-Tze, drawing back. “Ready? The only defense is to attack well, I’m told. ” Lobsang raised the stick in reluctant salute. Lu-Tze folded his hands and, as Lobsang danced toward him, closed his eyes and smiled to himself. Lobsang raised the stick. And hesitated. Lu-Tze was grinning. Rule Two, Rule Three…what had been Rule One? Always remember Rule One… “Lu-Tze!” The abbot’s chief acolyte arrived panting in the doorway, waving urgently. Lu-Tze opened one eye, and then the other one, and then winked at Lobsang. “Narrow escape there, eh?” he said. He turned to the acolyte. “Yes, exalted sir?” “You must come immediately! And all monks who are cleared for a tour in the world! To the Mandala Hall! Now!” There was a scuffling in the gallery and several monks pushed their way out through the crowd. “Ah, excitement,” said Lu-Tze, taking the stick from Lobsang’s unresisting hands and putting it back into the rack. The hall was emptying fast. Around the whole of Oi Dong, gongs were being banged frantically. “What’s happening?” said Lobsang, as the last of the monks surged past. “I daresay we shall soon be told,” said Lu-Tze, starting to roll himself a cigarette. “Hadn’t we better hurry? Everyone’s going!” The sound of flapping sandals died away in the distance. “Nothing seems to be on fire,” said Lu-Tze calmly. “Besides, if we wait a little then by the time we get there everyone will have stopped shouting and perhaps they will be making some sense. Let us take the Clock Path. The display is particularly fine at this time of day. ” “But…but…” “It is written, ‘You’ve got to learn to walk before you can run,’” said Lu-Tze, putting his broom over his shoulder. “Mrs. Cosmopilite again?” “Amazing woman. Dusted like a demon, too. ” The Clock Path wound out from the main complex, up through the terraced gardens, and then rejoined the wider path as it tunneled into the cliff wall. Novices always asked why it was called the Clock Path, since there was no sign of a clock anywhere. More gongs started to bang, but they were muffled by the greenery. Lobsang heard more running feet up on the main path. Down here, hummingbirds flickered from flower to flower, oblivious to any excitement. “I wonder was time it is?” said Lu-Tze, who was walking ahead. Everything is a test. Lobsang glanced around at the flower bed. “A quarter past nine,” he said. “Oh? And how do you know that?” “The Field Marigold is open, the Red Sandwort is opening, the Purple Bindweed is closed, and the Yellow Goat’s Beard is closing,” said Lobsang. “You worked out the floral clock all by yourself?” “Yes. It’s obvious. ” “Really? What time is it when the White Waterlily opens?” “Six in the morning. ” “You came to look?” “Yes. You planted this garden, did you?” “One of my little…efforts. ” “It’s beautiful. ” “It’s not very accurate in the small hours. There aren’t too many night-blooming plants that grow well up here. They open for the moths, you know—” “It’s how time wants to be measured,” said Lobsang. “Really? Of course I’m not an expert,” said Lu-Tze. He pinched out the end of his cigarette and stuck it behind his ear. “Oh well, let’s keep going. |
Everyone may have stopped arguing at cross purposes by now. How do you feel about going through the Mandala Hall again?” “Oh, I’ll be fine, I’d just…forgotten about it, that’s all. ” “Really? And you’d never seen it before, too. But time plays funny tricks on us all. Why, I once—” Lu-Tze stopped, and stared at the apprentice. “Are you all right?” he said. “You’ve gone pale. ” Lobsang grimaced and shook his head. “Something…felt odd,” he said. He vaguely waved a hand in the direction of the lowlands, spread out in a blue and gray pattern on the horizon. “Something…over there…” The glass clock. The great glass house and here, where it shouldn’t be, the glass clock. It was barely here; it showed up as shimmering lines in the air, as if it was possible to capture the sparkle of light off a shiny surface without the surface itself. Everything here was transparent—delicate chairs, tables, vases of flowers. And now he realized that glass was not a word to use here. Crystal might be better, or ice—the thin, flawless ice you sometimes got after a sharp frost. Everything was visible only by its edges. He could make out staircases through distant walls. Above and below and to every side, the glass rooms went on forever. And yet it was all familiar. It felt like home. Sound filled the glass rooms. It streamed away in clear sharp notes, like the tones made by a wet finger around a wineglass rim. There was movement, too—a haze in the air beyond the transparent walls, shifting and wavering and…watching him… “How can it come from over there? And how do you mean, odd?” said the voice of Lu-Tze. Lobsang blinked. This was the odd place, the one right here, the rigid and unbending world… And then the feeling passed and faded. “Just…odd. For a moment,” he mumbled. There was dampness on his cheek. He raised his hand, and touched wetness. “It’s that rancid yak butter they put in the tea, I’ve always said so,” said Lu-Tze. “Mrs. Cosmopilite never—now that is unusual,” he said, looking up. “What? What?” said Lobsang, looking blankly at his wet fingertips and then up at the cloudless sky. “A Procrastinator going overspeed. ” He shifted position. “Can’t you feel it?” “I can’t hear anything!” said Lobsang “Not hear, feel. Coming up through your sandals? Oops, there goes another one…and another one. You can’t feel it? That one’s…that’s old Sixty-Six, they’ve never got it properly balanced. We’ll hear them in a minute…oh, dear. Look at the flowers. Do look at the flowers!” Lobsang turned. The Ice Plants were opening. The Field Sowthistle was closing. “Time leak,” said Lu-Tze. “Hark at that! You can hear them now, eh? They’re dumping time randomly! Come on!” According to the Second Scroll of Wen the Eternally Surprised , Wen the Eternally Surprised sawed the first Procrastinator from the trunk of a wamwam tree, carved certain symbols on it, fitted it with a bronze spindle, and summoned the apprentice, Clodpool. “Ah. Very nice, master,” said Clodpool. “A prayer wheel, yes?” “No, this is nothing like as complex,” said Wen. “It merely stores and moves time. ” “That simple, eh?” “And now I shall test it,” said Wen. He gave it a half turn with his hand. “Ah. Very nice, master,” said Clodpool. “A prayer wheel, yes?” “No, this is nothing like as complex,” said Wen. “It merely stores and moves time. ” “That simple, eh?” “And now I shall test it,” said Wen. He moved it a little less this time. “That simple, eh?” “And now I shall test it,” said Wen. This time he twisted it gently to and fro. “That si-si-si…That simple-ple, eh eheh simple, eh?” said Clodpool. “And I have tested it,” said Wen. “It worked, master?” “Yes, I think so. ” Wen stood up. “Give me the rope that you used to carry the firewood. And…yes, a pit from one of those cherries that you picked yesterday. ” He wound the frayed rope around the cylinder and tossed the pit onto a patch of mud. Clodpool jumped out of the way. “See those mountains?” said Wen, tugging the rope. The cylinder spun and balanced there, humming gently. “Oh yes, master,” said Clodpool obediently. There was practically nothing up here but mountains; there were so many that sometimes they were impossible to see, because they got in the way. “How much time does stone need?” said Wen. “Or the deep sea? We shall move it,” he placed his left hand just above the spinning blur, “to where it is needed. ” He looked down at the cherry pit. His lips moved silently, as though he was working through some complex puzzle. Then he pointed his right hand at the pit. “Stand back,” he said and gently let a finger touch the cylinder. There was no sound except the crack of the air as it moved aside, and a hiss of steam from the mud. Wen looked up at the new tree, and smiled. “I did say you should stand back,” he said. “I, er, I shall get down now, then, shall I?” said a voice among the blossom-laden branches. “But carefully,” said Wen, and sighed as Clodpool crashed down in a shower of petals. “There will always be cherry blossom here,” he said. Lu-Tze hitched up his robe and scurried back down the path. Lobsang ran after him. A high-pitched whine seemed to be coming out of the rocks themselves. The sweeper skidded at the carp pond now erupting in strange waves, and headed down a shady track alongside a stream. Red ibises erupted into flight— He stopped and threw himself flat on the paving slabs. “Get down now !” But Lobsang was already headlong. He heard something pass overhead with a plangent sound. He looked back and saw the last ibis tumbling in the air, shedding feathers, and shrinking as it flew. It squawked and vanished with a “pop. ” Not vanished entirely. An egg followed the same trajectory for a few seconds, and then smashed on the stones. “Random time! Come on, come on!” shouted Lu-Tze. He scrambled to his feet again, headed toward an ornamental grill in the cliff face ahead of them, and with surprising strength wrenched it out of the wall. “It’s a bit of a drop but if you roll when you land you’ll be okay,” he said, lowering himself into the hole. “Where does it go to?” “The Procrastinators, of course!” “But novices aren’t allowed in there under pain of death!” “That’s a coincidence,” said Lu-Tze, lowering himself to the tips of his fingers. “Because death is what awaits you if you stay out there, too. ” He dropped into the darkness. A moment later there was an unenlightened curse from below. Lobsang climbed in, hung by his fingertips, dropped, and rolled when he hit the floor below. “Well done,” said Lu-Tze in the gloom. “When in doubt, choose to live. This way!” The passageway opened into a wide corridor. The noise here was shattering. Something mechanical was in agony. There was a “crump” and, a few moments after, a babble of voices. Several dozen monks, wearing thick cork hats as well as their traditional robes, came running around the corner. Most of them were yelling. A few of the brighter ones were saving their breath in order to cover the ground more quickly. Lu-Tze grabbed one of them, who tried to struggle free. “Let me go!” “What’s happening?” “Just get out of here before they all go!” The monk shook himself free and sped after the rest of them. Lu-Tze bent down, picked up a fallen cork helmet, and solemnly handed it to Lobsang. “Health and safety at work,” he said. “Very important. ” “Will it protect me?” said Lobsang, putting it on. “Not really. But when they find your head, it may be recognizable. When we get into the hall, don’t touch anything. ” Lobsang had been expecting some vaulted, magnificent structure. People talked about the Procrastinator Hall as if it was some kind of huge cathedral. But what there was, at the end of the passage, was a haze of blue smoke. It was only when his eyes got accustomed to the swirling gloom that he saw the nearest cylinder. It was a squat pillar of rock, about three yards across and six yards high. It was spinning so fast that it was a blur. Around it the air flickered with slivers of silver-blue light. |
“See? They’re dumping! Over here! Quick!” He ran after Lu-Tze, and saw there were hundreds, no, thousands of the cylinders, some of them reaching all the way to the cavern roof… There were still monks in here. Some of them were running to and from the wells with buckets of water, which flashed into steam when they threw it over the smoking stone bearings at the base of the cylinders. “Idiots,” the sweeper muttered. He cupped his hands and shouted, “Where-is-the-overseer?” Lobsang pointed down, to the edge of a wooden podium built onto the wall of the hall. There was a rotting cork hat there, and a pair of ancient sandals. In between was a pile of gray dust. “Poor fellow,” said Lu-Tze. “A full fifty thousand years in one jolt, I’d say. ” He glared at the scurrying monks again. “Will you lot stop and come here! I ain’t going to ask you twice!” Several of them swept the sweat out of their eyes and trotted toward the podium, relieved to hear any kind of order, while behind them the Procrastinators screamed. “Right!” said Lu-Tze, as they were joined by more and more. “Now listen to me! This is just a surge cascade! You’ve all heard of them! We can deal with it! We just have to cross-link futures and pasts, fastest ones first—” “Poor Mr. Shoblang already tried that,” said a monk. He nodded at the sad pile. “Then I want two teams…” Lu-Tze stopped. “No, we haven’t got time! We’ll do it by the soles of our feet, like we used to do! One man to a spinner, just smack the bars when I say! Ready to go when I call the numbers!” Lu-Tze climbed onto the podium and ran his eye over a board covered with wooden bobbins. A red or blue nimbus hovered over each one. “What a mess,” he said. “What a mess. ” “What do they mean ?” said Lobsang. Lu-Tze hands hovered over the bobbins. “Okay. The red-tinted ones are winding time out, speeding it up,” he said. “The blue-tinted ones, they’re winding time in, slowing it down. Brightness of the color, that’s how fast they’re doing it. Except that now they’re all freewheeling because the surge cut them loose, understand?” “Loose from what?” “From the load. From the world. See up there?” He waved a hand toward two long racks that ran all the way along the cavern wall. Each one held a row of swiveling shutters, one line blue, one line dark red. “The more shutters showing a color, the more time winding or unwinding?” “Good lad! Got to keep it balanced! And the way we get through this is, we couple the spinners up in twos, so that they wind and unwind one another. Cancel themselves out. Poor old Shoblang was trying to put them back into service, I reckon. Can’t be done, not during a cascade. You’ve got to let it all fall over, and then pick up the pieces when it’s nice and quiet. ” He glanced at the bobbins, and then at the crowd of monks. “Right. You…one hundred to seventeen, and then forty-five to eighty-nine. Off you go. And you …five hundred and ninety-six to, let’s see…yes, four hundred and two…” “Seven hundred and ninety,” shouted Lobsang, pointing to a bobbin. “You what?” “Seven hundred and ninety!” “Don’t be daft. That’s still unwinding, lad. Four hundred and two is our man, right here. ” “Seven hundred and ninety is about to start winding time again!” “It’s still bright blue. ” “It’s going to unwind. I know it. Because…” the novice’s finger moved over the lines of bobbins, hesitated, and pointed to a bobbin on the other side of the board, “…it’s matching speeds with this one…” Lu-Tze peered. “It is written, ‘Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs!’” he said. “They’re forming a natural inversion. ” He squinted at Lobsang. “You’re not the reincarnation of someone, are you? That happens a lot in these parts. ” “I don’t think so. It’s just…obvious. ” “A moment ago you didn’t know anything about these!” “Yes, yes, but when you see them…it’s obvious. ” “Is it? Is it? All right. Then the board’s yours, wonder boy!” Lu-Tze stood back. “Mine? But I—” “Get on with it! That is an order. ” For a moment there was a suggestion of blue light around Lobsang. Lu-Tze wondered how much time he’d folded around himself in that second. Time enough to think, certainly. Then the boy called out half a dozen pairs of numbers. Lu-Tze turned to the monks. “Jump to it, boys. Mr. Lobsang has the board! You boys just watch those bearings!” “But he’s a novice—” one of the monks began, and stopped and backed away when he saw Lu-Tze’s expression. “All right, Sweeper…all right…” A moment later there was the sound of jumpers slamming into place. Lobsang called out another set of numbers. While the monks dashed to and fro to the butter pits for grease, Lu-Tze looked up at the nearest column. It was still spinning fast, but he was sure he could see the carvings. Lobsang ran his eye over the board again, and stared up at the rumbling cylinders, and then back to the lines of shutters. There wasn’t anything written down about all this, Lu-Tze knew. You couldn’t teach it in a classroom, although they tried. A good spin driver learned it through the soles of his feet, for all the theory that they taught you these days. He’d learn to feel the flows, to see the rows of Procrastinators as wells or fountains of time. Old Shoblang had been so good that he’d been able to pull a couple of hours of wasted time off a classroom of bored pupils without them even noticing, and dump it into a busy workshop a thousand miles away as neat as you pleased. And then there was that trick he used to do with an apple to amaze the apprentices. He’d put it on a pillar next to them, and then flick time at it off one of the small spindles. In an instant it’d be a collection of small, spindly trees before crumbling to dust. That’s what’ll happen to you if you get things wrong, he’d said. Lu-Tze glanced down at the piles of gray dust under the disintegrating hat as he hurried past. Well, maybe it was the way he’d wanted to go— A scream of tormented stone made him look up. “Keep those bearings greased, you lazy devils,” he yelled, running on down the rows. “And watch those rails! Hands off the splines! We’re doing fine!” As he ran he kept his eyes on the columns. They weren’t turning randomly now. Now, they had purpose. “I think you’re winning, lad!” he shouted to the figure on the podium. “Yes, but I can’t balance it! There’s too much time wound up and nowhere to put it!” “How much?” “Almost forty years!” Lu-Tze glanced at the shutters. Forty years looked about right, but surely— “ How much?” he said. “Forty! I’m sorry! There’s nothing to take it up!” “No problem! Steal it! Shed load! We can always pull it back later! Dump it!” “Where to?” “Find a big patch of sea!” The sweeper pointed to a crude map of the world painted on the wall. “Do you know how to—can you see how to give it the right spin and direction?” Once again, there was the blueness in the air. “Yes! I think so!” “Yes, I imagine you do! In your own time, then!” Lu-Tze shook his head. Forty years? He was worried about forty years ? Forty years was nothing! Apprentice drivers had dumped fifty thousand years before now. That was the thing about the sea. It just stayed big and wet. It always had been big and wet, it always would be big and wet. Oh, maybe fishermen would start to dredge up strange whiskery fish that they’d only ever seen before as fossils, but who cared what happened to a bunch of codfish? The sound changed. “What are you doing?” he shouted. “I’ve found space on number four hundred twenty-two! It can take another forty years! No sense in wasting time! I’m pulling it back now !” There was another change of tone. “Got it! I’m sure I’ve got it!” Some of the bigger cylinders were already slowing to a halt. Lobsang was moving pegs around the board now faster than the bewildered Lu-Tze could follow. And, overhead, the shutters were slamming back, one after another, showing age-blackened wood instead of color. No one could be that accurate, could they? “You’re down to months now, lad, months!” he shouted. |
“Keep it up! No…blimey, you’re down to days… days! Keep an eye on me!” The sweeper ran toward the end of the hall, to where the Procrastinators were smaller. Time was fine-tuned here, on cylinders of chalk and wood and other short-lived materials. To his amazement, some of them were already slowing. He raced down an aisle of oak columns a few feet high. But even the Procrastinators that could wind time in hours and minutes were falling silent. There was a squeaking noise. Beside him, one final little chalk cylinder at the end of a row rattled around on its bearing like a spinning top. Lu-Tze crept toward it, staring at it intently, one hand raised. The squeaking was the only sound now, apart from the occasional clink of cooling bearings. “Nearly there,” he called out. “Slowing down now…wait for it, wait…for…it…” The chalk Procrastinator, no bigger than a reel of cotton, slowed, spun…stopped. On the racks, the last two shutters closed. Lu-Tze’s hand fell. “ Now! Kill the board! No one touch nothing !” For a moment there was dead silence in the hall. The monks watched, holding their breath. This was a timeless moment of perfect balance. Tick And in that timeless moment the ghost of Mr. Shoblang, to whom the scene was hazy and fuzzy as a thought seen through gauze, said: “This is just impossible ! Did you see that?” S EE WHAT? said a dark figure behind him. Shoblang turned. “Oh,” he said, and added with sudden certainty, “you’re Death, right?” Y ES. I AM SORRY THAT I AM LATE. The spirit formerly known as Shoblang looked down at the pile of dust that represented his worldly habitation for the previous six hundred years. “So am I,” he said. He nudged Death in the ribs. E XCUSE ME? “I said ‘I’m sorry I’m late. ’ Badabingbadaboom. ” I BEG YOUR PARDON? “Er…you know…sorry I’m late. Like…dead?” Death nodded. O H, I SEE. I T WAS THE BADABINGBADABOOM I DID NOT UNDERSTAND. “Er…that was to show it was a joke,” said Shoblang. A H, YES. I CAN SEE HOW THAT WOULD BE NECESSARY. I N FACT, M R. S HOBLANG, WHILE YOU ARE LATE, YOU ARE ALSO EARLY. B ADABING-BADABOOM. “Pardon?” Y OU HAVE DIED BEFORE YOUR TIME. “Well, yes, I should think so!” D O YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHY? I T’S VERY UNUSUAL. “All I know is that spinners went wild and I must’ve copped a load when one of ’em went overspeed,” said Shoblang. “But, hey, what about that kid, eh? Look at the way he’s making the buggers dance! I wish I’d had him training under me! What am I saying? He could give me a few tips!” Death looked around. T O WHOM DO YOU REFER? “That boy up on the podium, see him?” N O, I ’M AFRAID I SEE NO ONE THERE. “What? Look, he’s right there ! Plain as the nose on your fa—well, obviously not on your face…” I SEE THE COLORED PEGS MOVING… “Well, who do you think is moving them? I mean, you are Death, right? I thought you could see everyone!” Death stared at the dancing bobbins. E VERYONE…THAT I SHOULD SEE , he said. He continued to stare. “Ahem,” said Shoblang. O H, YES. W HERE WERE WE? “Look, if I’m, er, too early, then can’t you—” E VERYTHING THAT HAPPENS, STAYS HAPPENED. “What kind of philosophy is that?” T HE ONLY ONE THAT WORKS. Death took out an hourglass and consulted it. I SEE THAT BECAUSE OF THIS PROBLEM YOU ARE NOT DUE TO REINCARNATE FOR SEVENTY-NINE YEARS. D O YOU HAVE ANYWHERE TO STAY? “Stay? I’m dead. It’s not like locking yourself out of your own house!” said Shoblang, who was beginning to fade. P ERHAPS YOU COULD BE BUMPED UP TO AN EARLIER BIRTH? Shoblang vanished. In the timeless moment, Death turned back to stare at the hall of spinners… Tick The chalk cylinder started to spin up again, squeaking gently. One by one, the oak Procrastinators began to revolve, picking up the rising load. This time there was no scream of bearings. They twirled slowly, like old ballerinas, this way and that, gradually taking up the strain as millions of humans in the world outside bent time around themselves. The creaking sounded like a tea clipper rounding Cape Wrath on a gentle breeze. Then the big stone cylinders groaned as they picked up the time their smaller brethren couldn’t handle. A rumbling underlaid the creaking now, but it was still gentle, controlled… Lu-Tze lowered his hand gently and straightened up. “A nice clean pick-up,” he said. “Well done, everyone. ” He turned to the astonished, panting monks and beckoned the most senior toward him. Lu-Tze pulled a ragged cigarette end out of its lodging behind his ear and said, “Well now, Rambut Handisides, what d’you think happened just now, eh?” “Er…well, there was a surge, which blew out—” “Nah, nah, after that,” said Lu-Tze, striking a match on the sole of his sandal. “See, what I don’t think happened was that you boys ran around like a lot of headless chickens and a novice got up on the platform and did the sweetest, smoothest bit of rebalancing that I’ve ever seen. That couldn’t have happened, because that sort of thing does not happen. Am I right?” The monks of the Procrastinator floor were not among the temple’s great political thinkers. Their job was to tend and grease and strip down and rebuild and follow the directions of the man on the platform. Rambut Handisides’s brow wrinkled. Lu-Tze sighed. “See, what I think happened,” he said helpfully, “was that you lads rose to the occasion, right, and left myself and the young man there aghast at the practical skills you all showed. The abbot will be impressed and blow happy bubbles. You could be looking at some extra momos in your thugpa come dinnertime, if you get my drift?” Handisides ran this up his mental flagpole and it did indeed send prayers to heaven. He began to smile. “ However ,” said Lu-Tze, stepping closer and lowering his voice, “I’ll probably be around again soon, this place looks as though it could do with a good sweeping, and if I don’t find you boys pin-sharp and prodding buttock inside a week, you and me will have a…talk. ” The smile vanished. “Yes, Sweeper. ” “You’ve got to test them all and see to those bearings…” “Yes, Sweeper. ” “And someone clean up Mr. Shoblang. ” “Yes, Sweeper. ” “Fair play to you, then. Me and young Lobsang here will be going. You’ve done a lot for his education. ” He took the unresisting Lobsang by the hand and led him out of the hall, past the long lines of turning, humming Procrastinators. A pall of blue smoke still hung under the high ceiling. “Truly it is written, ‘You could knock me down with a feather,’” he muttered, as they headed up the sloping passage. “You spotted that inversion before it happened. I’d have blown us into next week. At least. ” “Sorry, Sweeper. ” “Sorry? You don’t have to be sorry. I don’t know what you are , son. You’re too quick. You’re taking to this place like a duck to water. You don’t have to learn stuff that takes other people years to get the hang of. Old Shoblang, may he be reincarnated somewhere nice and warm, even he couldn’t balance the load down to a second. I mean, a second. Over a whole damn world !” He shuddered. “Here’s a tip. Don’t let it show. People can be funny about that sort of thing. ” “Yes, Sweeper. ” “And another thing,” said Lu-Tze, leading the way out into the light. “What was all that fuss just before the Procrastinators cut loose? You felt something?” “I don’t know. I just felt…everything went wrong for a moment. ” “Ever happened before?” “No-oo. It was a bit like what happened in the Mandala Hall. ” “Well, don’t talk about it to anyone else. Most of the high-ups these days probably don’t even know how the spinners work. No one cares about them anymore. No one notices something that works too well. Of course, in the old days you weren’t even allowed to become a monk until you’d spent six months in the hall, greasing, and cleaning, and fetching. And we were better for it! These days it’s all about learning obedience and cosmic harmony. Well, you learned that in the halls, in the old days. You learned if you didn’t jump out of the way when someone yelled ‘she’s dumping!,’ you got a couple of years where it hurt, and that there’s no harmony better than all the spinners turning sweetly. |
” The passage rose into the main temple complex. People were still scurrying around as they headed for the Mandala Hall. “You’re sure you can look at it again?” said Lu-Tze. “Yes, Sweeper. ” “Okay. You know best. ” The balconies overlooking the hall were crowded with monks, but Lu-Tze worked his way forward by polite yet firm use of his broom. The senior monks were clustered at the edge. Rinpo caught sight of him. “Ah, Sweeper,” he said. “Some dust delayed you?” “Spinners cut free and went overspeed,” muttered Lu-Tze. “Yes, but you were summoned by the abbot,” said the acolyte reproachfully. “Upon a time,” said Lu-Tze, “every man jack of us would have legged it down to the hall when the gongs went. ” “Yes, but—” “ BRRRRbrrrrbrrrr ,” said the abbot, and Lobsang saw now that he was being carried in a sling on the acolyte’s back, with an embroidered pixie hood on his head to keep the chill off. “Lu-Tze always was very keen on the practical approach BRRRbrrr. ” He blew milky suds into the acolyte’s ear. “I am glad matters have been resolved, Lu-Tze. ” The sweeper bowed, while the abbot started to beat the acolyte gently over the head with a wooden bear. “History has repeated, Lu-Tze DumDumBBBRRRR…” “Glass clock?” said Lu-Tze. The senior monks gasped. “How could you possibly know that?” said the chief acolyte. “We haven’t rerun the Mandala yet!” “It is written, ‘I’ve got a feeling in my water,’” said Lu-Tze. “And that was the only other time I ever heard of when all the spinners went wild like that. They all cut loose. Time slip. Someone’s building a glass clock again. ” “That is quite impossible,” said the acolyte. “We removed every trace!” “Hah! It is written, ‘I’m not as green as I’m cabbage-looking’!” snapped Lu-Tze. “Something like that you can’t kill. It leaks back. Stories. Dreams. Paintings on cave walls, whatever—” Lobsang looked down at the Mandala floor. Monks were clustered around a group of tall cylinders at the far end of the hall. They looked like Procrastinators, but only one small one was spinning slowly. The others were motionless, showing the mass of symbols that were carved into them from top to bottom. Pattern storage. The thought arrived in his head. That is where the Mandala’s patterns are kept, so they can be replayed. Today’s patterns on the little one, long-term storage on the big ones. Below him, the Mandala rippled, blotches of color and scraps of pattern drifting across its surface. One of the distant monks called out something, and the small cylinder stopped. The rolling sand grains were stilled. “This is how it looked twenty minutes ago,” said Rinpo. “See the blue-white dot there? And then it spreads—” “I know what I’m looking at,” said Lu-Tze grimly. “I was there when it happened, remember. Your Reverence, get them to run the old Glass Clock sequence! We haven’t got a lot of time!” “I really think we—” the acolyte began but was interrupted by a blow from a rubber brick. “ Wannapottywanna if Lu-Tze is right, then we must not waste time, gentlemen, and if he is wrong, then we have time to spare, is this not so? Pottynowwannawanna !” “Thank you,” said the sweeper. He cupped his hands. “Oi! You lot! Spindle two, fourth bhing , round about the nineteenth gupa ! And jump to it!” “I really must respectfully protest, Your Reverence,” said the acolyte. “We have practiced for just such an emergency as—” “Yeah, I know all about practicing procedures for emergencies,” said Lu-Tze. “And there’s always something missing. ” “Ridiculous! We take great pains to—” “You always leave out the damn emergency,” Lu-Tze turned back to the hall and the apprehensive workers. “Ready? Good! Put it on the floor now ! Or I shall have to come down there! And I don’t want to have to come down there!” There was some frantic activity by men around the cylinders, and a new pattern replaced the one below the balcony. The lines and colors were in different places, but a blue-white circle occupied the center. “There,” said Lu-Tze. “That was less than ten days before the clock struck. ” There was silence from the monks. Lu-Tze smiled grimly. “And ten days later—” “Time stopped,” said Lobsang. “That’s one way of putting it,” said Lu-Tze. He’d gone red in the face. One of the monks put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right , Sweeper,” he said soothingly. “We know you couldn’t have got there in time. ” “Being in time is supposed to be what we do ,” said Lu-Tze. “I was nearly at the damn door , Charlie. Too many castles, not enough time…” Behind him, the Mandala returned to its slow metering of the present. “It wasn’t your fault,” said the monk. Lu-Tze shook the hand free, and turned to face the abbot over the shoulder of the chief acolyte. “I want permission to track this one down right now, Reverend Sir!” he said. He tapped his nose. “I’ve got the smell of it! I’ve been waiting for this all these years! You won’t find me wanting this time!” In the silence, the abbot blew a bubble. “It’ll be in Uberwald again,” said Lu-Tze, a hint of pleading in his voice. “That’s where they mess around with the electrick. I know every inch of that place! Give me a couple of men and we can nip this right in the bud!” “ Bababababa …this needs discussion, Lu-Tze, but we thank you for your offer babababa ,” said the abbot. “Rinpo, I want all bdumbdumbdum senior field monks in the Room of Silence within five bababa minutes! Are the spinners working bdumbdum harmoniously?” One of the monks looked up from a scroll he’d been handed. “It appears so, Your Reverence. ” “My congratulations to the board master BIKKIT! ” “But Shoblang is dead,” murmured Lu-Tze. The abbot stopped blowing bubbles. “That is sad news. And he was a friend of yours, I understand. ” “Shouldn’t’ve happened like that,” the sweeper muttered. “Shouldn’t’ve happened like that. ” “Compose yourself, Lu-Tze. I will talk to you shortly. Bikkit! ” The chief acolyte, spurred on by a blow across the ear with a rubber monkey, hurried away. The press of monks began to thin out as they went about their duties. Lu-Tze and Lobsang were left on the balcony, looking down at the rippling Mandala. Lu-Tze cleared his throat. “See them spinners at the end?” he said. “The little one records the patterns for a day, and then anything interesting is stored in the big ones. ” “I just premembered you were going to say that. ” “Good word. Good word. The lad has talent. ” Lu-Tze lowered his voice. “Anyone watching us?” Lobsang looked around. “There’s a few people still here. ” Lu-Tze raised his voice again. “You been taught anything about the Big Crash?” “Only rumors, Sweeper. ” “Yeah, there were a lot of rumors. ‘The day time stood still,’ all that sort of thing. ” Lu-Tze sighed. “Y’know, most of what you get taught is lies. It has to be. Sometimes if you get the truth all at once, you can’t understand it. You knew Ankh-Morpork pretty well, did you? Ever go to the opera house?” “Only for pickpocket practice, Sweeper. ” “Ever wonder about it? Ever look at that little theater just over the road? Called The Dysk, I think. ” “Oh, yes! We got penny tickets and sat on the ground and threw nuts at the stage. ” “And it didn’t make you think ? Big opera house, all plush and gilt and big orchestras, and then there’s this little thatched theater, all bare wood and no seats, and one bloke playing a crumhorn for musical accompaniment?” Lobsang shrugged. “Well, no. That’s just how things are. ” Lu-Tze almost smiled. “Very flexible things, human minds,” he said. “It’s amazing what they can stretch to fit. We did a fine job there—” “Lu-Tze?” One of the lesser acolytes was waiting respectfully. “The abbot will see you now,” he said. “Ah, right,” said the sweeper. He nudged Lobsang and whispered, “We’re going to Ankh-Morpork, lad. ” “What? But you said you wanted to be sent to—” Lu-Tze winkled. “’Cos it is written ‘Them as asks, don’t get,’ see. There’s more than one way of choking a dangdang than stuffing it with pling , lad. ” “Is there?” “Oh yes, if you’ve got enough pling. Now let’s see the abbot, shall we? It’ll be time for his feed now. |
Solids, thank goodness. At least he’s done with the wet nurse. It was so embarrassing for him and the young lady, honestly, you didn’t know where to put your face and neither did he. I mean, mentally he’s nine hundred years old…” “That must make him very wise. ” “Pretty wise, pretty wise. But age and wisdom don’t necessarily go together, I’ve always found,” said Lu-Tze, as they approached the abbot’s rooms. “Some people just become stupid with more authority. Not His Reverence, of course. ” The abbot was in his high chair, and had recently flicked a spoonful of nourishing pap all over the chief acolyte, who was smiling like a man whose job depended on looking happy that parsnip-and-gooseberry custard was dribbling down his forehead. It occurred to Lobsang, not for the first time, that the abbot was a little bit more than purely random in his attacks on the man. The acolyte was, indeed, the kind of mildly objectionable person who engendered an irresistible urge by any right-thinking person to pour goo into his hair and hit him with a rubber yak, and the abbot was old enough to listen to his inner child. “You sent for me, Your Reverence,” said Lu-Tze, bowing. The abbot upturned his bowl down the chief acolyte’s robe. “ Wahahaahaha ah , yes…Lu-Tze. How old are you now?” “Eight hundred, Your Reverence. But that’s no age at all!” “Nevertheless, you have spent a lot of time in the world. I understood you were looking to retire and cultivate your gardens?” “Yes, but—” “But,” the abbot smiled angelically, “like an old warhorse, you say ‘haha!’ at the sound of trumpets, yes?” “I don’t think so,” said Lu-Tze. “There’s nothing funny about trumpets, really. ” “I meant that you long to be out in the field again. But you have been helping to train world operatives for many years, haven’t you? These gentlemen?” On one side of the room, a number of burly and muscular monks were sitting. They were kitted out for travel, with rolled sleeping mats on their backs, and they were dressed in loose black clothing. They nodded sheepishly at Lu-Tze, and their eyes above their half-masks looked embarrassed. “I did my best,” said Lu-Tze. “Of course, others trained them. I just tried to undo the damage. I never taught them to be ninjas. ” He nudged Lobsang. “That, apprentice, is Agatean for ‘the Passing Wind,’” he said in a stage whisper. “I am proposing to send them out immediately WAH! ” The abbot hit his high chair with his spoon. “That is my order, Lu-Tze. You are a legend…but you have been a legend for a long time. Why not trust in the future? Bikkit! ” “I see,” said Lu-Tze sadly. “Oh, well, it had to happen sometime. Thank you for your consideration, Your Reverence. ” “ Brrmbrrm …Lu-Tze, I have known you a long time! You will not go within a hundred miles of Uberwald, will you?” “Not at all, Your Reverence. ” “That is an order!” “I understand, of course. ” “You’ve disobeyed my baababa orders before, though. In Omnia, I remember. ” “Tactical decision made by the man on the spot, Your Reverence. It was more what you might call an interpretation of your order,” said Lu-Tze. “You mean, going where you had distinctly been told not to go and doing what you were absolutely forbidden to do?” “Yes, Your Reverence. Sometimes you have to move the seesaw by pushing the other end. When I did what shouldn’t be done in a place where I shouldn’t have been, I achieved what needed to be done in the place where it should have happened. ” The abbot gave Lu-Tze a long hard stare, the kind that babies are good at giving. “Lu-Tze, you are not nmnmnbooboo to go to Uberwald or anywhere near Uberwald, understand?” he said. “I do, Your Reverence. You are right, of course. But, in my dotage, may I travel another path, of wisdom rather than violence? I wish to show this young man…the Way. ” There was laughter from the other monks. “The Way of the Washerwoman?” said Rinpo. “Mrs. Cosmopilite is a dressmaker,” said Lu-Tze calmly. “Whose wisdom is in sayings like ‘It won’t get better if you pick it’?” said Rinpo, winking at the rest of the monks. “Few things get better if you pick at them,” said Lu-Tze, and now his calmness was a lake of tranquillity. “It may be a mean little Way but, small and unworthy though it is…it is my Way. ” He turned to the abbot. “That was how it used to be, Your Reverence. You recall? Master and pupil go out into the world, where the pupil may pick up practical instruction by precept and example, and then the pupil finds his own Way and at the end of his Way—” “—he finds himself bdum ,” said the abbot. “First, he finds a teacher,” said Lu-Tze. “He is lucky that you will bdumbdum be that teacher. ” “Reverend Sir,” said Lu-Tze, “it is in the nature of Ways that none can be sure who the teacher may be. All I can do is show him a path. ” “Which will be in the direction of bdum the city,” said the abbot. “Yes,” said Lu-Tze. “And Ankh-Morpork is a long way from Uberwald. You won’t send me to Uberwald because I am an old man. So, in all respect, I beg you to humor an old man. ” “I have no choice, when you put it like that,” said the abbot. “Reverend Sir—” began Rinpo, who felt that he did. The spoon was banged on the tray again. “Lu-Tze is a man of high reputation!” the abbot shouted. “I trust him implicitly to do the correct action! I just wish I could blumblum trust him to do what I blumblum want! I have forbidden him to go to Uberwald! Now do you wish me to forbid him not to go to Uberwald! BIKKIT! I have spoken! And now, will all you gentlemen be so good as to leave. I have urgent business to attend to. ” Lu-Tze bowed and grabbed Lobsang’s arm. “Come on, lad!” he whispered. “Let’s bugger off quick before anyone works it out!” On the way out they passed a lesser acolyte carrying a small potty with a pattern of bunny rabbits around it. “It’s not easy, reincarnating,” said Lu-Tze, running down the corridor. “Now we’ve got to be out of here before someone gets any funny ideas, lad. Grab your bag and bedroll!” “But no one would countermand the abbot’s orders, would they?” said Lobsang, as they skidded around a corner. “Ha! It’ll be his nap in ten minutes and if they give him a new toy when he wakes up he might end up being so busy banging square green pegs into round blue holes that he’ll forget what he said,” said Lu-Tze. “Politics, lad. Too many idiots will start saying what they’re sure the abbot would have meant. Off you go, now. I’ll see you in the Garden of Five Surprises in one minute. ” When Lobsang arrived, Lu-Tze was carefully tying one of the bonsai mountains into a bamboo framework. He fastened the last knot and placed it in a bag over one shoulder. “Won’t it get damaged?” said Lobsang. “It’s a mountain. How can it get damaged?” Lu-Tze picked up his broom. “And we’ll just drop in and have a chat with an old mate of mine before we leave, though. Maybe we’ll pick up some stuff. ” “What’s going on, Sweeper?” said Lobsang, trailing after him. “Well, it’s like this, lad. Me and the abbot and the bloke we’re going to see, we go back a long way. Things are a bit different now. The abbot can’t just say ‘Lu-Tze, you are an old rogue, it was you that put the idea of Uberwald into everyone’s heads in the first place, but I see you’re onto something so off you go and follow your nose. ’” “But I thought he was the supreme ruler!” “Exactly! And it’s very hard to get things done when you’re a supreme ruler. There’s too many people in the way, mucking things up. This way, the new lads can have fun running around Uberwald going ‘Hai!’ and we , my lad, will be heading for Ankh-Morpork. The abbot knows that. Almost knows that. ” “How do you know the new clock is being built in Ankh-Morpork?” said Lobsang trailing behind Lu-Tze as he took a mossy, sunken path that led through rhododendron thickets to the monastery wall. “I know. I’ll tell you, the day someone pulls the plug out of the bottom of the universe, the chain will lead all the way to Ankh-Morpork and some bugger saying ‘I just wanted to see what would happen. ’ All roads lead to Ankh-Morpork. |
” “I thought all roads led away from Ankh-Morpork. ” “Not the way we’re going. Ah, here we are…” Lu-Tze knocked at the door of a rough but large shed built right up against the wall. At the same moment there was an explosion within and someone—Lobsang corrected himself— half of someone tumbled very fast out of the unglazed window beside it and hit the path with bone-cracking force. Only when it stopped rolling did he realize that it was a wooden dummy in a monk’s robe. “Qu’s having fun, I see,” said Lu-Tze. He hadn’t moved as the dummy had sailed past his ear. The door burst open and a plump old monk looked out excitedly. “Did you see that? Did you see that?” he said. “And that was with just one spoonful!” He nodded at them. “Oh, hello, Lu-Tze. I was expecting you. I’ve got some things ready. ” “Got what?” said Lobsang. “Who’s the boy?” said Qu, ushering them in. “The untutored child is called Lobsang,” said Lu-Tze, looking around the shed. There was a smoking circle on the stone floor, with drifts of blackened sand around it. “New toys, Qu?” “Exploding mandala,” said Qu happily, bustling forward. “Just sprinkle the special sand in a simple design anywhere you like, and the first enemy to walk on it—bang, instant karma! Don’t touch that! ” Lu-Tze reached across and snatched from Lobsang’s inquisitive hands the begging bowl that he had just picked up from a table. “Remember Rule One,” he said and hurled the bowl across the room. Hidden blades slid out as it spun, and the bowl buried itself in a beam. “That would take a man’s head right off!” said Lobsang. And then they heard the faint ticking. “—Three, four, five…” said Qu. “Everybody duck… now! ” Lu-Tze pushed Lobsang to the floor a moment before the bowl exploded. Metal fragments scythed overhead. “I added just a little something extra since you last saw it,” said Qu proudly, as they got to their feet again. “A very versatile device. Plus, of course, you can use it to eat rice out of. Oh, and have you seen this?” He picked up a prayer drum. Both Lu-Tze and Lobsang took a step back. Qu twirled the drum a few times, and the weighted cords pattered against the skins. “The cord can be instantly removed for a handy garotte,” he said, “and the drum itself can be removed—like so—to reveal this useful dagger. ” “Plus, of course, you can use it to pray with?” said Lobsang. “Well spotted,” said Qu. “Quick boy. A prayer is always useful in the last resort. In fact we’ve been working on a very promising mantra incorporating sonic tones that have a particular effect on the human nervous syst—” “I don’t think we need any of this stuff, Qu,” said Lu-Tze. Qu sighed. “At least you could let us turn your broom into a secret weapon, Lu-Tze. I’ve shown you the plans—” “It is a secret weapon,” said Lu-Tze. “It’s a broom. ” “How about the new yaks we’ve been breeding? At the touch of a rein, their horns will instantly—” “We want the spinners, Qu. ” The monk suddenly looked guilty. “Spinners? What spinners?” Lu-Tze walked across the room and pressed a hand against part of the wall, which slid aside. “These spinners, Qu. Don’t muck me about, we haven’t got time. ” Lobsang saw what looked very much like two small Procrastinators, each one within a metal framework mounted on a board. There was a harness attached to each board. “You haven’t told the abbot about them yet, have you,” said Lu-Tze, unhooking one of the things. “He’d put a stop to them if you did, you know that. ” “I didn’t think anyone knew!” said Qu. “How did you —” Lu-Tze grinned. “No one notices a sweeper,” he said. “They’re still very experimental!” said Qu, close to panic. “I was going to tell the abbot, of course , but I was waiting until I had something to demonstrate! And it would be terrible if they fell into the wrong hands!” “Then we’ll see to it that they don’t,” said Lu-Tze, examining the straps. “How’re they powered now?” “Weights and ratchets were too unreliable,” said Qu. “I’m afraid I had to resort to…clockwork. ” Lu-Tze stiffened, and he glared at the monk. “ Clockwork?” “Only as a motive force, only as a motive force!” Qu protested. “There’s really no other choice!” “Too late now, it’ll have to do,” said Lu-Tze, unhooking the other board and passing it across to Lobsang. “There you go, lad. With a bit of sacking round it it’ll look just like a backpack. ” “What is it?” Qu sighed. “They’re portable Procrastinators. Try not to break them, please. ” “What will we need them for?” “I hope you don’t have to find out,” said Lu-Tze. “Thanks, Qu. ” “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer some time bombs?” said Qu hopefully. “Drop one on the floor and time will slow for—” “Thanks, but no. ” “The other monks were fully equipped,” said Qu. “But we’re traveling light,” said Lu-Tze firmly. “We’ll go out the back way, Qu, okay?” The back way led to a very narrow path and a small gate in the wall. Dismembered wooden dummies and patches of scorched rock indicated that Qu and his assistants often came this way. And then there was another path, beside one of the many icy streamlets. “Qu means well,” said Lu-Tze, walking fast. “But if you listen to him you end up clanking when you walk and exploding when you sit down. ” Lobsang ran to keep up. “It’ll take weeks to walk to Ankh-Morpork, Sweeper!” “We’ll slice our way there,” said Lu-Tze, and he stopped and turned. “You think you can do that?” “I’ve done it hundreds of times—” Lobsang began. “Back in Oi Dong, yes,” said Lu-Tze. “But there’s all kinds of checks and safeguards in the valley. Oh, didn’t you know that? Slicing in Oi Dong is easy , lad. It’s different out here. The air tries to get in the way. Do it wrong and the air is a rock. You have to shape the slice around you so that you move like a fish in water. Know how to do that?” “We learned a bit of the theory but—” “Soto said you stopped time for yourself back in the city. The Stance of the Coyote, it’s called. Very hard to do, and I don’t reckon they teach it in the Thieves’ Guild, eh?” “I suppose I was lucky, Sweeper. ” “Good. Keep it up. We’ll have plenty of time for you to practice before we leave the snow. Get it right before you tread on grass, or kiss your feet goodbye. ” They called it slicing time… There is a way of playing certain musical instruments that is called “circular breathing,” devised to allow people to play the didgeridoo or the bagpipes without actually imploding or being sucked down the tube. “Slicing time” was very much the same, except time was substituted for air and it was a lot quieter. A trained monk could stretch a second further than an hour… But that wasn’t enough. He’d be moving in a rigid world. He’d have to learn to see by echo light and hear by ghost sound and let time leach into his immediate universe. It wasn’t hard, once he found the confidence; the sliced world could almost seem normal, apart from the colors… It was like walking in sunsets, although the sun was fixed high in the sky and barely moved. The world ahead shaded toward violet and the world behind, when Lobsang looked around, was the shade of old blood. And it was lonely. But the worst of it, Lobsang realized, was the silence. There was noise, of a sort, but it was just a deep sizzle at the edge of hearing. His footsteps sounded strange and muffled, and the sound arrived in his ears out of sync with the tread of his feet. They reached the edge of the valley and stepped out of the perpetual springtime into the real world of the snows. Now the cold crept in, slowly, like a sadist’s knife. Lu-Tze strode on ahead, seemingly oblivious to it. Of course, that was one of the stories about him. Lu-Tze, it was said, would walk for miles during weather when the clouds themselves would freeze and crash out of the sky. Cold did not affect him, they said. And yet— In the stories Lu-Tze had been bigger, stronger…not a skinny little bald man who preferred not to fight— “Sweeper!” Lu-Tze stopped and turned. His outline blurred slightly, and Lobsang unwrapped himself from time. |
Color came back into the world, and while the cold ceased to have the force of a drill it still struck hard. “Yes, lad?” “You’re going to teach me, right?” “If there’s anything left that you don’t know, wonder boy,” said Lu-Tze drily. “You’re slicing well, I can see that. ” “I don’t know how you can stand this cold!” “Ah…you don’t know the secret?” “Is it the Way of Mrs. Cosmopilite that gives you such power?” Lu-Tze hitched up his robe and did a little dance in the snow, revealing skinny legs encased in thick, yellowing tubes. “Very good, very good,” he said. “She still sends me these double-knit combinations, silk on the inside, then three layers of wool, reinforced gussets, and a couple of handy trapdoors. Very reasonably priced at six dollars a pair because I’m an old customer. For it is written, ‘Wrap up warm or you’ll catch your death. ’” “It’s just a trick ?” Lu-Tze looked surprised. “What?” he said. “Well…I mean…it’s all tricks, isn’t it? Everyone thinks you’re a great hero and…you don’t fight, and they think you possess all kinds of strange knowledge and…and it’s just… tricking people. Isn’t it? Even the abbot? I thought you’d teach me…things worth knowing…” “I’ve got her address, if that’s what you want. If you mention my name—oh. I see you don’t mean that, right?” “I don’t want to be ungrateful, I just thought—” “You thought I should use mysterious powers derived from a lifetime of study just to keep my legs warm? Eh?” “Well—” “Debase the sacred teachings for the sake of my knees, you think?” “If you put it like that—” Then something made Lobsang look down. He was standing in six inches of snow. Lu-Tze was not. His sandals were standing in two puddles. The ice was melting away around his toes. His pink, warm toes. “Toes, now, that’s another matter,” said the sweeper. “Mrs. Cosmopilite is a wizard with longjohns, but she can’t turn a heel worth a damn. ” Lobsang looked up into a wink. “Always remember Rule One, eh?” Lu-Tze patted the shaken boy on the arm. “But you’re doing well,” he said. “Let’s have a quiet sit down and a brew up. ” He pointed to some rocks, that at least offered some protection from the wind; snow had piled up against them in big white mounds. “Lu-Tze?” “Yes, lad?” “I’ve got a question. Can you give me a straight answer?” “I’ll try, of course. ” “What the hell is going on?” Lu-Tze brushed the snow off a rock. “Oh,” he said. “One of the difficult questions. ” Tick Igor had to admit it. When it came to getting weird things done, sane beat mad hands down. He’d been used to masters who, despite doing wonderful handstands on the edge of the mental catastrophe curve, couldn’t put their own trousers on without a map. Like all Igors, he’d learned how to deal with them. In truth, it wasn’t a difficult job (although sometimes you had to work the graveyard shift), and once you got them settled into their routine you could get on with your own work and they wouldn’t bother you until the lightning rod needed raising. It wasn’t like that with Jeremy. He was truly a man you could set your watch by. Igor had never seen a life so organized, so slimmed down, so timed. He found himself thinking of his new master as the tick-tock man. One of Igor’s former masters had made a tick-tock man, all levers and gearwheels and cranks and clockwork. Instead of a brain, it had a long tape punched with holes. Instead of a heart, it had a big spring. Provided everything in the kitchen was very carefully positioned, the thing could sweep the floor and make a passable cup of tea. If it wasn’t carefully positioned, or if the ticking, clicking thing hit an unexpected bump, then it’d strip the plaster off the walls and make a furious cup of cat. Then his master had conceived the idea of making the thing live, so that it could punch its own tapes and wind its own spring. Igor, who knew exactly when to follow instructions to the letter, dutifully rigged up the classic rising-table-and-lightning rod arrangement on the evening of a really good storm. He didn’t see exactly what happened thereafter, because he wasn’t there when the lightning hit the clockwork. No, Igor was at a dead run halfway down the hill to the village, with all his possessions in a carpetbag. Even so, a white-hot cogwheel had whirred over his head and buried itself in a tree trunk. Loyalty to a master was very important, but it took second place to loyalty to Igordom. If the world was going to be full of lurching servants, then they were damn well going to be called Igor. It seemed to this Igor that if you could make a tick-tock man live, he’d be like Jeremy. And Jeremy was ticking faster as the clock neared completion. Igor didn’t much like the clock. He was a people person. He preferred things that bled. And as the clock grew, with its shimmering crystal parts that didn’t seem entirely all here , so Jeremy grew more absorbed and Igor grew more tense. There was definitely something new happening here, and Igors were avid to learn new things. But there were limits. Igors did not believe in “Forbidden Knowledge” and “Things Man Was Not Meant to Know” but obviously there were some things a man was not meant to know, such as what it felt like to have every single particle of your body sucked into a little hole, and that seemed to be one of the options available in the immediate future. And then there was Lady LeJean. She gave Igor the willies, and he was a man not usually subject to even the smallest willy. She wasn’t a zombie and she wasn’t a vampire, because she didn’t smell like one. She didn’t smell like anything. In Igor’s experience, everything smelled like something. And there was the other matter. “Her feet don’t touch the ground, thur,” he said. “Of course they do,” said Jeremy, buffing up part of the mechanism with his sleeve. “She’ll be here again in a minute and seventeen seconds. And I’m sure her feet will be touching the ground. ” “Oh, thometimeth they do, thur. But you watch when thhe goeth up or down a thtep, thur. Thhe doethn’t get it exactly right, thur. You can jutht thee the thadow under her thoeth. ” “Thoeth?” “On her feet, thur,” sighed Igor. The lisp could be a problem, and in truth any Igor could easily fix it, but it was part of being an Igor. You might as well stop limping. “Go and get ready by the door,” said Jeremy. “Floating in the air doesn’t make you a bad person. ” Igor shrugged. He was entertaining the idea that it didn’t mean you were a person at all and, incidentally, he was rather worried that Jeremy seemed to have dressed himself with a little more care this morning. He’d decided in these circumstances not to broach the subject of his hiring, but he had been working that one out. He’d been hired before his ladyship had engaged Jeremy to do this work? Well, all that showed was that she knew her man. But she’d hired him in Bad Schüschein, herself. And he’d got himself onto the mail coach that very day. And it turned out that Lady LeJean had visited Jeremy on that day, too. The only thing faster than the mail coach between Uberwald and Ankh-Morpork was magic, unless someone had found a way to travel by semaphore. And LeJean hardly looked like a witch. The shop’s clocks were putting up a barrage of noise to signal the passing of seven o’clock when Igor opened the front door. It always Did * to anticipate the knock. That was another part of The Code of the Igors. He wrenched it open. “Two pints, sir, lovely and fresh,” said Mr. Soak, handing him the bottles. “And a day like this just says fresh cream, doesn’t it?” Igor glared at him but took the bottles. “I prefer it when it’th going green,” he said haughtily. “Good day to you, Mr. Thoak. ” He shut the door. “It wasn’t her?” said Jeremy, when he arrived back in the workshop. “It wath the milkman, thur. ” “She’s twenty-five seconds late!” said Jeremy, looking concerned. “Do you think anything could have happened to her?” “Real ladieth are often fathionably late, thur,” said Igor, putting the milk away. It was icy cold under his fingers. “Well, I’m sure her ladyship is a real lady. |
” “I wouldn’t know about that, thur,” said Igor, who in fact had the aforesaid very strong doubts in that area. He walked back into the shop and got ready with his hand on the handle just as the knock came. Lady LeJean swept past Igor. The two trolls ignored him and took up their positions just inside the workshop. Igor put them down as hired rock, anyone’s for two dollars a day plus walking-around money. Her ladyship was impressed. The big clock was nearing completion. It wasn’t the squat, blocky thing that Igor’s grandfather had told him about. Jeremy had, much to Igor’s surprise—for there wasn’t a scrap of decoration anywhere in the house—gone for the impressive look. “Your grandfather helped to make the first one,” Jeremy had said. “So let’s build a grandfather’s clock, eh?” And there it stood—a slim, long-case clock in crystal and spun glass, reflecting the light in worrying ways. Igor had spent a fortune in the Street of Cunning Artificers. For enough money, you could buy anything in Ankh-Morpork, and that included people. He’d made sure that no crystal cutter or glass worker had done enough of the work to give them any sort of clue about the finished clock, but he’d worried needlessly about that. Money could buy a lot of disinterest. Besides, who would believe you could measure time with crystals? Only in the workshop did it all come together. Igor bustled around, polishing things, listening carefully as Jeremy showed off his creation. “—no need for any metal parts,” he was saying. “We’ve come up with a way of making the tamed lightning flow across glass, and we’ve found a workman who can make glass that bends slightly—” “We,” Igor noticed. Well, that was always the way of it. “We” discovering things meant the master asking for them and Igor thinking them up. Anyway, the flow of lightning was a family passion. With sand and chemicals and a few secrets, you could make lightning sit up and beg. Lady LeJean reached out with a gloved hand and touched the side of the clock. “This is the divider mechanism—” Jeremy began, picking up a crystalline array from the workbench. But her ladyship was still staring up at the clock. “You’ve given it a face and hands,” she said. “Why?” “Oh, it will function very well in the measurement of traditional time,” said Jeremy. “Glass gears throughout, of course. In theory it will never need adjusting. It will take its time from the universal tick. ” “Ah. You found it, then?” “The time it takes the smallest possible thing that can happen to happen. I know it exists. ” She looked almost impressed. “But the clock is still unfinished. ” “There is a certain amount of trial and error,” said Jeremy. “But we will do it. Igor says there will be a big storm on Monday. That should provide the power, he says. And then,” Jeremy’s face lit up with a smile, “I see no reason why every clock in the world shouldn’t say precisely the same time!” Lady LeJean glanced at Igor, who bustled with renewed haste. “The servant is satisfactory?” “Oh, he grumbles a bit. But he has got a good heart. And a spare, apparently. He is amazingly skilled in all crafts, too. ” “Yes, Igors generally are,” said the lady distantly. “They seem to have mastered the art of inheriting talents. ” She snapped her fingers, and one of the trolls stepped forward and produced a couple of bags. “Gold and invar,” she said. “As promised. ” “Hah, but invar will be worthless when we’ve finished the clock,” said Jeremy. “We’re sorry? You want more gold?” “No, no! You have been very generous. ” Right , thought Igor, dusting the workbench vigorously. “Until next time, then,” said Lady LeJean. The trolls were already turning toward the door. “You’ll be here for the start?” said Jeremy, as Igor hurried into the hall to get the front door open because, whatever he thought about her ladyship, there was such a thing as tradition. “Possibly. But we have every confidence in you, Jeremy. ” “Um…. ” Igor stiffened. He hadn’t heard that tone in Jeremy’s voice. In the voice of a master, it was a bad tone. Jeremy took a deep, nervous breath, as if contemplating some minute and difficult piece of clockwork that would, without tremendous care, unwind catastrophically and spray cogwheels across the floor. “Um…I was wondering, um, your ladyship, um…perhaps, um, you would like to take dinner with me, um, tonight, um…” Jeremy smiled. Igor had seen better smiles on a corpse. Lady LeJean’s expression flickered. It really did. It seemed to Igor to go from one expression to another as if they were a series of still pictures, with no perceptible movement of the features between each one. It went from her usual blankness to sudden thoughtfulness and then all the way to amazement. And then, to Igor’s own astonishment, it began to blush. “Why, Mr. Jeremy, I…I don’t know what to say,” her ladyship stammered, her icy composure turning into a warm puddle. “I really…I don’t know…perhaps some other time? I do have an important engagement, so glad to have met you, I must be going. Goodbye. ” Igor stood stiffly to attention, as upright as the average Igor could manage, and almost shut the door behind her ladyship as she hurried out of the building and down the steps. She ended up, just for a moment, half an inch above the street. It was only for a moment, and then she drifted downward. No one except Igor, glaring balefully through the crack between door and frame, could possibly have noticed. He darted back into the workshop. Jeremy still stood transfixed, blushing as pinkly as her ladyship had done. “I’ll jutht be nipping out to get that new glathwork for the multiplier, thur,” Igor said quickly. “It thould be done by now. Yeth?” Jeremy spun on his heel and marched very quickly over to the workbench. “You do that, Igor. Thank you,” he said, his voice slightly muffled. Lady LeJean’s party was down the street when Igor slipped out and moved quickly into the shadows. At the crossroads her ladyship waved one hand vaguely and the trolls headed off by themselves. Igor stayed with her. For all the trademark limp, Igors could move fast when they had to. They often had to, when the mob hit the windmill. * Out in the open, he could see more wrong things. She didn’t move quite right. It was as though she was controlling her body, rather than letting it control itself as normal humans do. Even zombies got the hang of things after a while. The effect was subtle, but Igors had very good eyesight. She moved like someone unused to wearing skin. The quarry headed down a narrow street, and Igor half hoped that some of the Thieves’ Guild were around. He’d very much like to see what happened if one of them gave her the tap on the noggin that was their prelude to negotiations. One had tried it with Igor yesterday, and if the man had been surprised at the metallic clang he’d been astonished to have his arm grabbed and broken with anatomical exactitude. In fact, she turned into an alleyway between a couple of the buildings. Igor hesitated. Letting yourself be outlined in the daylight at the mouth of an alley was item one on the local checklist of death. But, on the other hand, he wasn’t actually doing anything wrong, was he? And she didn’t look armed. There was no sound of footsteps in the alley. He waited a moment and stuck his head around the corner. There was no sign of Lady LeJean. There was also no way out of the alley—it was a dead end, full of rubbish. But there was a fading gray shape in the air that vanished even as he stared. It was a hooded robe, gray as fog. It merged into the general gloom and disappeared. She turned into an alleyway, and then she’s turned into…something else. Igor felt his hands twitch. Individual Igors might have their particular specialities, but all of them were expert surgeons and had an inbuilt desire not to see anybody wasted. Up in the mountains, where most of the employment was for woodchoppers and miners, having an Igor living locally was considered very fortunate. |
There was always the risk of an ax bouncing or a sawblade running wild, and then a man was glad to have an Igor around who could lend a hand—or even an entire arm, if you were lucky. And while they practiced their skills freely and generously in the community, the Igors were even more careful to use it among themselves. Magnificent eyesight, a stout pair of lungs, a wonderful digestive system…it was terrible to think of such exquisite workmanship going to the worms. So they made sure it didn’t. They kept it in the family. Igor really did have his grandfather’s hands. And now they were bunching into fists, all by themselves. Tick A very small kettle burned on a fire of wood shavings and dried yak dung. “It was…a long time ago,” said Lu-Tze. “Exactly when doesn’t matter, ’cos of what happened. In fact, asking exactly ‘when’ doesn’t make any sense anymore. It depends where you are. In some places it was hundreds of years ago. Some other places…well, maybe it hasn’t happened yet. There was this man in Uberwald. Invented a clock. An amazing clock. It measured the tick of the universe. Know what that is?” “No. ” “Me neither. The abbot’s your man for that kind of stuff. Lemme see…okay…think of the smallest amount of time that you can. Really small. So tiny that a second would be like a billion years. Got that? Well, the cosmic quantum tick…that’s what the abbot calls it…the cosmic quantum tick is much smaller than that. It’s the time it takes to go from now to then. The time it takes an atom to think of wobbling. It’s—” “It’s the time it takes for the smallest thing that’s possible to happen to happen?” said Lobsang. “Exactly. Well done,” said Lu-Tze. He took a deep breath. “It’s also the time it takes for the whole universe to be destroyed in the past and rebuilt in the future. Don’t look at me like that, that’s what the abbot said. ” “Has it been happening while we’ve been talking?” said Lobsang. “Millions of times. An oodleplex of times, probably. ” “How many’s that?” “It’s one of the abbot’s words. It means more numbers than you can imagine in a yonk. ” “What’s a yonk?” “A very long time. ” “And we don’t feel it? The universe is destroyed, and we don’t feel it?” “They say not. The first time it was explained to me I got a bit jumpy, but it’s far too quick for us to notice. ” Lobsang stared at the snow for a while. Then he said, “All right. Go on. ” “Someone in Uberwald built this clock out of glass. Powered by lightning, as I recall. It somehow got down to a level where it could tick with the universe. ” “Why did he want to do that?” “Listen, he lived in a big old castle on a crag in Uberwald. People like that don’t need a reason apart from ‘because I can. ’ They have a nightmare and try to make it happen. ” “But, look…you can’t make a clock like that, because it’s inside the universe, so it’ll…get rebuilt when the universe does, right?” Lu-Tze looked impressed, and said so. “I’m impressed,” he said. “It’d be like opening a box with the crowbar that’s inside. ” “The abbot believes part of the clock was outside, though. ” “You can’t have something outside the—” “Tell that to a man who has been working on the problem for nine lifetimes,” said Lu-Tze. “You want to hear the rest of the story?” “Yes, Sweeper. ” “ So… we were spread pretty thin in those days, but there was this young sweeper—” “You,” said Lobsang. “This is going to be you, right?” “Yes, yes,” said Lu-Tze testily. “I was sent to Uberwald. History hadn’t diverged much in those days, and we knew something big was going to happen around Bad Schüschein. I must have spent weeks looking. You know how many remote castles there are along the gorges? You can’t move for remote castles!” “That’s why you didn’t find the right one in time,” said Lobsang. “I remember what you told the abbot. ” “I was just down in the valley when the lightning struck the tower,” said Lu-Tze. “You know, it is written, ‘Big events always cast their shadows. ’ But I couldn’t detect where it was happening until too late. Half a mile sprint uphill faster than a lightning bolt…no one could do that. Nearly made it, though—I was actually through the door when it all went to hell!” “No point in blaming yourself, then. ” “Yes, but you know how it is—you keep thinking, ‘If only I’d got up earlier, or had gone a different way…’” said Lu-Tze. “And the clock struck,” said Lobsang. “No. It stuck. I told you part of it was outside the universe. It wouldn’t go with the flow. It was trying to count the tick, not move with it. ” “But the universe is huge! It can’t be stopped by a piece of clockwork!” Lu-Tze flicked the end of his cigarette into the fire. “The abbot says the size wouldn’t make any difference at all,” he said. “Look, it’s taken him nine lifetimes to know what he knows, so it’s not our fault if we can’t understand it, is it? History shattered. It was the only thing that could give. Very strange event. There were cracks left all over the place. The…oh, I can’t remember the words—the fastenings, which tell bits of the past which bits of the present they belong to, they were flapping all over the place. Some got lost forever. ” Lu-Tze stared into the dying flames. “We stitched it up as best we could,” he added. “Up and down history. Filling up holes with bits of time taken from somewhere else. It’s a patchwork, really. ” “Didn’t people notice?” “Why should they? Once we’d done it, it had always been like that. You’d be amazed what we got away with. F’r instance—” “I’m sure they spot it somehow. ” Lu-Tze gave Lobsang one of his sidelong glances. “Funny you should say that. I’ve always wondered about it. People say things like ‘Where did the time go?’ and ‘it seems like only yesterday. ’ We had to do it, anyway. And it’s healed up very nicely. ” “But…people would look in the history books and see—” “Words, lad. That’s all. Anyway, people have been messing around with time ever since they were people. Wasting it, killing it, sparing it, making it up. And they do it. People’s heads were made to play with time. Just like we do, except we’re better trained and have a few extra skills. And we’ve spent centuries working to bring it all back in line. You watch the Procrastinators even on a quiet day. Moving time, stretching it here, compressing it there…it’s a big job. I’m not going to see it smashed a second time. A second time, there won’t be enough left to repair. ” He stared at the embers. “Funny thing,” he said. “Wen himself had some very funny ideas about time, come the finish. Wrote some very strange stuff. He reckoned Time was alive. He said it acted like a living thing, anyway. Very strange ideas indeed. He said he’d met Time, and she was a woman. To him, anyway. Everyone says that was just a very complicated metaphor, and maybe I was just hit on the head or something, but on that day I looked at the glass clock just as it exploded and—” He stood up and grabbed his broom. “Best foot forward, lad. Another two or three seconds and we’ll be down in Bong Phut. ” “What were you going to say?” said Lobsang, hurrying to his feet. “Oh, just an old man rambling,” said Lu-Tze. “The mind wanders a bit when you get over seven hundred. Let’s get moving. ” “Sweeper?” “Yes, lad?” “Why are we carrying spinners on our backs?” “All in good time, lad. I hope. ” “We’re carrying time, right? If time stops, we can keep going? Like…divers?” “Full marks. ” “And—?” “Another question?” “Time is a ‘she’? None of the teachers have mentioned it and I don’t recall anything in the scrolls. ” “Don’t you think about that. Wen wrote…well, the Secret Scroll, it’s called. They keep it in a locked room. Only the abbots and the most senior monks ever get to see it. ” Lobsang couldn’t let that one pass. “So how did you—?” he began. “Well, you wouldn’t expect men like that to do the sweeping up in there, would you?” said Lu-Tze. “Terribly dusty, it got. ” “What was it about?” “I didn’t read much of it. Didn’t feel it was right,” said Lu-Tze. “You? What was it about, then?” “It was a love poem. And it was a good one…” Lu-Tze’s image blurred, as he sliced time. |
Then it faded and vanished. A line of footprints appeared across the snowfield. Lobsang wrapped time around himself, and followed. And a memory came from nowhere at all: Wen was right. Tick There were lots of places like the warehouse. There always are, in every old city, no matter how valuable the building land is. Sometimes, space just gets lost. A workshop is built, and then another beside it. Factories and storerooms and sheds and temporary lean-tos crawl toward one another, meet, and merge. Spaces between outside walls are roofed with tar paper. Odd-shaped bits of ground are colonized by someone’s nailing up a bit of wall and cutting a doorway. Old doorways are masked by piles of lumber or new tool racks. The old men who knew what was where move on and die, just like the flies who punctuate the thick cobwebs on the grubby windows. Young men, in this noisome world of whirring lathes and paint shops and cluttered workbenches, don’t have time to explore. And so there are spaces like this, a small warehouse with a crusted skylight that no fewer than four factory owners think is owned by one of the other three, when they think about it at all. In fact, each of them own one wall, and certainly no one now recalls who roofed the space. Beyond the walls on all four sides men and dwarfs bend iron, saw planks, make string, and turn screws. But in here is a silence known only to rats. The air moved, for the first time in years. Dust balls rolled across the floor. Little motes sparkled and spun in the light that forced its way down from the roof. In the surrounding area, invisible and subtle, matter began to move. It came from workmen’s sandwiches and gutter dirt and pigeon feathers, an atom here, a molecule there, and streamed, unheeded, into the center of the space. It spiraled. Eventually it became, after passing through some strange, ancient, and horrible shapes, Lady LeJean. She staggered but managed to stay upright. Other Auditors also appeared and, as they did so, it seemed for the first time that they had never really not been there. The dead grayness of the light merely took on shapes; they emerged like ships from a fog. You stare at the fog, and suddenly part of the fog is hull which has been there all along, and now there is nothing for it but the race for the lifeboats… Lady LeJean said: “I cannot keep doing this. It is too painful. ” One said, Ah…can you tell us what pain is like? We have often wondered. “No. No, I don’t think I can. It is…a body thing. It is not pleasant. From now on, I will retain the body. ” One said, That could be dangerous. Lady LeJean shrugged. “We have been through that before. It’s only a matter of appearance,” she said. “And it is remarkable how much easier it is to deal with humans in this form. ” One said, You shrugged. And you are talking with your mouth. A hole for food and air. “Yes. It is remarkable, isn’t it. ” Lady LeJean’s body found an old crate, pulled it over, and sat on it. She hardly had to think about muscle movements at all! One said, You aren’t eating , are you? “As yet, no. ” One said, As yet? That raises the whole dreadful subject of…orifices. One said, And how did you learn to shrug? “It comes with the body,” said her ladyship. “We never realized this, did we? Most of the things it does it appears to do automatically. Standing upright takes no effort whatsover. The whole business gets easier every time. ” The body shifted position slightly and crossed its legs. Amazing, she thought. It did it to be comfortable. I didn’t have to think about it at all. We never guessed. One said, There will be questions. The Auditors hated questions. They hated them almost as much as they hated decisions, and they hated decisions almost as much as they hated the idea of the individual personality. But what they hated most was things moving around randomly. “Believe me, everything will be fine,” said Lady LeJean. “We will not be breaking any of the rules, after all. All that will happen is that time will stop. Everything thereafter will be neat. Alive, but not moving. Tidy. ” One said, And we can get the filing finished. “Exactly,” said Lady LeJean. “And he wants to do it. That is the strange thing. He hardly thinks about the consequences. ” One said, Splendid. There was one of those pauses when no one is quite ready to speak yet. And then… One said, Tell us…what is it like? “What is what like?” One said, Being insane. Being human. “Strange. Disorganized. Several levels of thinking go on at once. There are…things we have no word for. For example, the idea of eating seems now to have a…an attraction. The body tells me this. ” One said, Attraction? As in gravity? “Ye-es. One is drawn toward food. ” One said, Food in large masses? “Even in small amounts. ” One said, But eating is simply a function. What is the…attraction of performing a function? Surely the knowledge that it is necessary for continued survival is sufficient? “I cannot say,” said Lady LeJean. One Auditor said, You persist in using a personal pronoun. And one added, And you have not died! To be an individual is to live, and to live is to die! “Yes. I know. But it is essential for humans to use the personal pronoun. It divides the universe into two parts. The darkness behind the eyes, where the little voice is, and everything else. It is…a horrible feeling. It is like being…questioned, all the time. ” One said, What is the little voice? “Sometimes thinking is like talking to another person, but that person is also you. ” She could tell this disturbed the other Auditors. “I do not wish to continue in this way any longer than necessary,” she added. And realized that she had lied. One said, We do not blame you. Lady LeJean nodded. The Auditors could see into human minds. They could see the pop and sizzle of the thoughts. But they could not read them. They could see the energies flow from node to node, they could see the brain glittering like a Hogswatch decoration. What they couldn’t see was what was happening. So they’d built one. It was the logical thing to do. They’d used human agents before, because early on they’d worked out that there were many, many humans who would do anything for sufficient gold. This was puzzling, because gold did not seem to the Auditors to hold any significant value for a human body—it needed iron and copper and zinc, but only the most minute traces of gold. Therefore, they’d reasoned, this was further evidence that the humans that required it were flawed, and this was why attempts to make use of them were doomed. But why were they flawed? Building a human being was easy; the Auditors knew exactly how to move matter around. The trouble was that the result didn’t do anything but lie there and, eventually, decompose. This was annoying, since clearly human beings, without any special training or education, seemed to be able to make working replicas quite easily. Then they learned that they could make a human body, which worked if an Auditor was inside it. There were, of course, huge risks. Death was one of them. The Auditors avoided death by never going so far as to get a life. They strove to be as indistinguishable as hydrogen atoms, and with none of the latter’s joie de vivre. Some luckless Auditor might be risking death by “operating” the body. But lengthy consultation decided that if the driver took care, and liaised at all times with the rest of the Auditors, this was minimal and worth taking, considering the goal. They built a woman. It was a logical choice. After all, while men wielded more obvious power than women, they often did so at the expense of personal danger, and no Auditor liked the prospect of personal danger. Beautiful women often achieved great things, on the other hand, merely by smiling at powerful men. The whole subject of “beauty” caused the Auditors a lot of difficulty. It made no sense at a molecular level. But research turned up the fact that the woman in the picture Woman Holding Ferret by Leonard of Quirm was considered the epitome of beauty, and so they’d based Lady LeJean on that. |
They had made changes, of course. The face in the picture was asymmetrical and full of minor flaws, which they had carefully removed. The result would have been successful beyond the Auditors’ wildest dreams, if they’d ever dreamed. Now that they had their stalking horse, their reliable human, anything was possible. They were learning fast, or at least collecting data, which they considered to be the same as learning. So was Lady LeJean. She had been a human for two weeks, two astonishing, shocking weeks. Whoever would have guessed that a brain operated like this? Or that colors had a meaning that went way, way beyond spectral analysis? How could she even begin to describe the blueness of blue? Or how much thinking the brain did all by itself? It was terrifying. Half the time her thoughts seemed not to be her own. She had been quite surprised to find that she did not want to tell the other Auditors this. She did not want to tell them a lot of things. And she didn’t have to! She had power. Oh, over Jeremy, that was not in question and was now, she had to admit, rather worrying. It was causing her body to do things by itself, like blush. But she had power over the other Auditors, too. She made them nervous. Of course she wanted the project to work. It was their goal. A tidy and predictable universe, where everything stayed in its place. If Auditors dreamed, this would be another dream. Except…except… The young man had smiled at her in a nervous, worrying way, and the universe was turning out to be a lot more chaotic than even the Auditors had ever suspected. A lot of the chaos was happening inside Lady LeJean’s head. Tick Lu-Tze and Lobsang passed through Bong Phut and Long Nap like ghosts in twilight. People and animals were bluish statues and were not, said Lu-Tze, to be touched in any circumstances. Lu-Tze stocked his travel bag with more food from some of the houses, making sure to leave little copper tokens in their place. “It means we’re obliged to them,” he said, filling Lobsang’s bag as well. “The next monk through here might have to give someone a minute or two. ” “A minute or two isn’t much. ” “For a dying woman to say goodbye to her children, it’s a lifetime,” said Lu-Tze. “Is it not written, ‘Every second counts’? Let’s go. ” “I’m tired , Sweeper. ” “I did say every second counts. ” “But everybody has to sleep!” “Yes, but not yet,” Lu-Tze insisted. “We can rest in the caves down at Songset. Can’t fold time while you’re asleep, see?” “Can’t we use these spinners?” “In theory, yes. ” “In theory? They could wind out time for us. We’d only sleep for a few seconds—” “They’re for emergencies only,” said Lu-Tze bluntly. “How do you define an emergency, Sweeper?” “An emergency is when I decide it’s time to use a clockwork spinner designed by Qu, wonder boy. A lifebelt’s for saving your life. That’s when I’ll trust an uncalibrated, un-blessed spinner powered by springs. When I have to. I know Qu says—” Lobsang blinked and shook his head. Lu-Tze grabbed his arm. “You felt something again?” “Ugh…like having a tooth out in my brain,” said Lobsang, rubbing his head. He pointed. “It came from over there. ” “A pain came from over there?” said Lu-Tze. He glared at the boy. “But we’ve never found a way of detecting which way —” He stopped, and rummaged in his sack. Then he used the sack to sweep snow off a flat boulder. “We’ll see what—” Glass house. This time Lobsang could concentrate on the tones that filled the air. Wet finger on a wineglass? Well, you could start there. But the finger would have to be finger of a god, on the glass of some celestial sphere. And the wonderful, complex, shifting tones did not simply fill the air, they were the air. The moving blur beyond the walls was getting closer now. It was just beyond the closest wall, then found the open doorway…and vanished. Something was behind Lobsang. He turned. There was nothing there that he could see, but he felt movement and, for just a moment, something warm brushed his cheek… “—the sand says,” said Lu-Tze, tipping a small bag onto the rock. The colored grains bounced and spread. They did not have the sensitivity of the Mandala itself, but there was a blue bloom in the chaos. He gave Lobsang a sharp look. “It’s been proved that no one can do what you just did,” he said. “We’ve never found any way of detecting where a disturbance in time is actually being caused. ” “Er…sorry. ” Lobsang raised a hand to his cheek. It was damp. “Er…what did I do?” “It takes a huge—” Lu-Tze stopped. “Ankh-Morpork’s that way,” he said. “Did you know that?” “No! Anyway, you said you had a feeling things would happen in Ankh-Morpork!” “Yes, but I’ve had a lifetime of experience and cynicism!” Lu-Tze scooped the sand back into its bag. “You’re just gifted. Come on. ” Four more seconds, sliced thinly, took them below the snowline, into scree slopes that slid under their feet and then through alder forests not much taller than themselves. And it was there they met the hunters, gathered around in a wide circle. The men did not pay them much attention. Monks were commonplace in these parts. The leader, or at least the one who was shouting, and this is usually the leader, did look up and waved them past. Lu-Tze stopped, though, and looked amiably at the thing in the center of the circle. It looked back at him. “Good catch,” he said. “What’re you going to do now, boys?” “Is it any business of yours?” said the leader. “No, no, just asking,” said Lu-Tze. “You boys up from the lowlands, yes?” “Yeah. You’d be amazed at what you can get for catching one of these. ” “Yes,” said Lu-Tze. “You would be amazed. ” Lobsang looked at the hunters. There was more than a dozen of them, all heavily armed and watching Lu-Tze carefully. “Nine hundred dollars for a good pelt and another thousand for the feet,” said their leader. “That much, eh?” said Lu-Tze. “That’s a lot of money for a pair of feet. ” “That’s ’cos they’re big feet,” said the hunter. “And you know what they say about men with big feet, eh?” “They need bigger shoes?” “Yeah, right,” said the hunter, grinning. “Load of nonsense, really, but there’s rich old boys with young wives over on the Counterweight Continent who’ll pay a fortune for a powdered yeti foot. ” “And there was me thinking they’re a protected species,” said Lu-Tze, leaning his broom against a tree. “They’re only a kind of troll. Who’s going to protect them out here?” said the hunter. Behind him, the local guides, who did know Rule One, turned and ran. “Me,” said Lu-Tze. “Oh?” said the hunter, and this time the grin was nasty. “You don’t even have a weapon. ” He turned to look at the fleeing guides. “You’re one of the weird monks from up in the valleys, aren’t you?” “That’s right,” said Lu-Tze. “Small, grinning, weird monk. Totally unarmed. ” “And there’s fifteen of us,” said the hunter. “ Well armed, as you can see. ” “It’s very important that you are all heavily armed,” said Lu-Tze, pulling his sleeves out of the way. “It makes it fairer. ” He rubbed his hands together. No one seemed inclined to retreat. “Er…any of you boys heard of any rules?” he said after a while. “Rules?” said one of the hunters. “What rules?” “Oh, you know,” said Lu-Tze. “Rules like…Rule Two, say, or Rule Twenty-Seven. Any kind of rules of that sort of description. ” The leading hunter frowned. “What in damnation are you talking about, mister?” “Er…not so much a ‘mister’ as a small, rather knowing, elderly, entirely unarmed, weird monk,” said Lu-Tze. “I’m just wondering if there is anything about this situation that makes you, you know…slightly nervous?” “You mean, us being well-armed and outnumbering you, and you backing away like that?” said one of the hunters. “Ah. Yes,” said Lu-Tze. “Perhaps we’re up against a cultural thing here. I know, how about…this!” He stood on one leg, wobbling a little, and raised both hands. “Ai! Hai-eee! Ho? Ye-hi? No? Anyone?” There was a certain amount of bewilderment among the hunters. “Is it a book?” said one who was slightly intellectual. |
“How many words?” “What I’m trying to find out here,” said Lu-Tze, “is whether you have any idea what happens when a lot of big armed men try to attack a small, elderly, unarmed monk…?” “To the best of my knowledge,” said the intellectual of the group, “he turns out to be a very unlucky monk. ” Lu-Tze shrugged. “Oh, well,” he said, “then we’ll just have to try it the hard way. ” A blur in the air hit the intellectual on the back of the neck. The leader stirred to step forward, and learned too late that his bootlaces were tied together. Men reached for knives that were no longer in sheathes, for swords that were inexplicably leaning against a tree on the far side of the clearing. Legs were swept from underneath them, invisible elbows connected with soft parts of their bodies. Blows rained out of empty air. Those who fell down learned to stay that way. A raised head hurt. The group was reduced to men lying humbly on the ground, groaning gently. It was then that they heard a low, rhythmic sound. The yeti was clapping. It had to be a slow handclap, because of the creature’s long arms. But when the hands met, they’d come a long way and were glad to see one another. They echoed around the mountains. Lu-Tze reached down and raised the leader’s chin. “If you have enjoyed this afternoon, please tell your friends,” he said. “Tell them to remember Rule One. ” He let the chin go, and walked across to the yeti, and bowed. “Shall I release you, sir, or would you like to do it yourself?” he said. The yeti stood up, looked down at the cruel iron trap around one leg, and concentrated for a moment. At the end of the moment, the yeti was a little way from the trap, which was still set and almost hidden in leaves. “Well done,” said Lu-Tze. “Methodical. And very smooth. Headed down to the lowlands?” The yeti had to bend double to bring its long face close to Lu-Tze. “Yass,” it said. “What do you want to do with these people?” The yeti looked around at the cowering hunters. “It bein’ daark soon,” it said. “No guides noaw. ” “They’ve got torches,” said Lu-Tze. “Ha. Ha,” said the yeti, and it said it, rather than laughed. “Dat’s good. Torches show up aat night. ” “Hah! Yes. Can you give us a lift? It’s really important. ” “You and daat whizzin’ kid I seein’ there?” A patch of gray air at the edge of the clearing became Lobsang, out of breath. He dropped the broken branch he’d been holding. “The lad is called Lobsang. I’m training him up,” said Lu-Tze. “Looks like you gotta hurry before you runnin’ out of things he don’t knoow,” said the yeti. “Ha. Ha. ” “Sweeper, what were you—” Lobsang began, hurrying forward. Lu-Tze put his finger to his lips. “Not in front of our fallen friends,” he said. “I’m looking for Rule One to become a lot better respected in these parts as a result of this day’s work. ” “But I had to do all the—” “We must be going,” said Lu-Tze, waving him into silence. “I reckon we can snooze quite happily while our friend here carries us. ” Lobsang glanced up at the yeti and then back to Lu-Tze. And then back to the yeti. It was tall. In some ways it was like the trolls he’d met in the city, but rolled out thin. It was more than twice as high as he was, and most of the extra height was skinny legs and arms. The body was a ball of fur, and the feet were indeed huge. “If he could’ve got out of the trap at any—” he began. “ You are the apprentice, right?” said Lu-Tze. “ Me , I’m the master? I’m sure I wrote that down somewhere…” “But you said you weren’t going to say any of those know-it-all—” “Remember Rule One! Oh, and pick up one of those swords. We’ll need it in a minute. Okay, y’honor…” The yeti picked them up gently and firmly, cradled them in the crook of each arm, and strode away through the snow and trees. “Snug, eh?” said Lu-Tze after a while. “Their wool is spun out of rock in some way, but it’s pretty comfy. ” There was no answer from the other arm. “I spent some time with the yetis,” said Lu-Tze. “Amazing people. They taught me a thing or two. Valuable stuff. For is it not written, ‘We live and learn’?” Silence, a kind of sullen, deliberate silence, reigned. “I’d think myself lucky if I was a boy your age actually being carried by an actual yeti. A lot of people back in the valley have never even seen one. Mind you, they don’t come that close to settlements anymore. Not since that rumor about their feet got around. ” Lu-Tze got the feeling that he was taking part in a dialogue of one. “Something you want to say, is there?” he said. “Well, as a matter of fact, yes there is , actually,” said Lobsang. “You let me do all the work back there! You weren’t going to do anything !” “I was making sure I had their full attention,” said Lu-Tze smoothly. “Why?” “So that you didn’t have their full attention. I had every confidence in you, of course. A good master gives the pupil an opportunity to demonstrate his skills. ” “And what would you have done if I hadn’t been here, pray?” “Yes, probably,” said Lu-Tze. “What?” “But I expect I would have found some way to use their stupidity against them,” said Lu-Tze. “There generally is. Is there a problem here?” “Well, I just…I thought…well, I just thought you’d be teaching me more, that’s all. ” “I’m teaching you things all the time,” said Lu-Tze. “You might not be learning them, of course. ” “Oh, I see ,” said Lobsang. “Very smug. Are you going to try to teach me about this yeti, then, and why you made me bring a sword?” “You’ll need the sword to learn about yetis,” said Lu-Tze. “How?” “In a few minutes we’ll find a nice place to stop and you can cut his head off. Is that all right by you, sir?” “Yass. Sure,” said the yeti. In the Second Scroll of Wen the Eternally Surprised, a story is written concerning one day when the apprentice Clodpool, in a rebellious mood, approached Wen and spake thusly: “Master, what is the difference between a humanistic, monastic system of belief in which wisdom in sought by means of an apparently nonsensical system of questions and answers, and a lot of mystic gibberish made up on the spur of the moment?” Wen considered this for some time, and at last said: “A fish!” And Clodpool went away, satisfied. Tick The Code of the Igors was very strict. Never Contradict. It was no part of an Igor’s job to say things like “No, thur, that’th an artery. ” The marthter was always right. Never Complain. An Igor would never say “But that’th a thouthand miles away!” Never Make Personal Remarks. No Igor would dream of saying anything like “I thould have thomething done about that laugh, if I wath you. ” And Never, Ever Ask Questions. Admittedly, Igor knew, that meant never ask BIG questions. “Would thur like a cup of tea around now?” was fine, but “What do you need a hundred virginth for?” or “Where do you expect me to find a brain at thith time of night?” was not. An Igor stood for loyal, dependable, discreet service with a smile, or at least a sort of lopsided grin, or possibly just a curved scar in the right place. * And, therefore, Igor was getting worried. Things were wrong, and when an Igor thinks that, they are really wrong. Great difficulty lay in getting this across to Jeremy without breaking the Code, though. Igor was increasingly ill at ease with someone so clearly stark, staring sane. Nevertheless, he tried. “Her ladythip will be along again thith morning,” he said, as they watched yet another crystal grow in its solution. And I know you know that, he thought, because you’ve smoothed your hair down with soap and put on a clean shirt. “Yes,” said Jeremy. “I wish we had better progress to report. However, I’m sure we’re nearly there now. ” “Yeth, that’th very thtrange, ithn’t it,” said Igor, seizing the opening. “Strange, you say?” “Call me Mithter Thilly, thur, but it alwayth theemth to me that we’re alwayth on the point of thuctheth when her ladythip payth uth a vithit, but when the’th gone we experienthe new difficultieth. ” “What are you suggesting, Igor?” “Me, thur? I’m not a thuggethtive perthon, thur. But latht time part of the divider array had cracked. |
” “You know I think that was because of dimensional instability!” “ Yeth , thur. ” “Why are you giving me that funny look, Igor?” Igor shrugged. That is, one shoulder was momentarily as high as the other one. “Goeth with the fathe, thur. ” “She’d hardly pay us so handsomely and then sabotage the project, would she? Why would she do that?” Igor hesitated. He had his back right up against the Code now. “I am thtill wondering if thhe ith all thhe theemth, thur. ” “Sorry? I didn’t catch that. ” “I wonder if we can trutht her, thur,” said Igor patiently. “Oh, go and calibrate the complexity resonator, will you?” Grumbling, Igor obeyed. The second time that he’d followed their benefactor she’d gone to a hotel. Next day she’d headed for a large house in Kings Way, where she’d been met by an oily man who’d made a great play of presenting her with a key. Igor had followed the oleaginous man back to his office in a nearby street where—because there are few things that are kept from a man with a face full of stitches—he’d learned that she’d just bought the lease for a very large bar of gold. After that, Igor had resorted to an ancient Ankh-Morpork tradition and paid someone to follow her ladyship. There was enough gold in the workshops, heavens knew, and the master took no interest in it. Lady LeJean went to the opera. Lady LeJean went to art galleries. Lady LeJean was living life to the fullest. Except that Lady LeJean, as far as Igor could determine, never visited restaurants and had no food delivered to the house. Lady LeJean was up to something. Igor could spot this easily. Lady LeJean also did not appear in Twurps’ Peerage or the Almanack de Gothic or any of the other reference books Igor had checked as a matter of course, which meant that she had something to hide. Of course, he had worked for masters who occasionally had a great deal to hide, sometimes in deep holes at midnight. But this situation was morally different for two reasons. Her ladyship wasn’t his master, Jeremy was, and that was where his loyalty lay. And Igor had decided it was morally different. Now he reached the glass clock. It looked almost complete. Jeremy had designed a mechanism to go behind the face and Igor had got it made up, all in glass. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the other mechanism, which flickered away down behind the pendulum and took up a disconcertingly small amount of room now that it was assembled; quite a few of its parts were no longer sharing the same set of dimensions as the rest of it. But the clock had a face, and a face needed hands, and so the glass pendulum swung and the glass hands moved and told normal, everyday time. The “tick” had a slightly bell-like quality, as though someone was flicking a wineglass with a fingernail. Igor looked at his hand-me-down hands. They were beginning to worry him. Now that the glass clock looked like a clock, they began to shake every time Igor came near it. Tick No one noticed Susan in the library of the Guild of Historians, leafing her way through a pile of books. Occasionally she’d make a note. She didn’t know if her other gift was from Death, but she’d always told the children that they had a lazy eye and a business eye. There were two ways of looking at the world. The lazy eye just saw the surface. The business eye saw through into the reality beneath. She turned a page. Seen through her business eyes, history was very strange indeed. The scars stood out. The history of the country of Ephebe was puzzling, for example. Either its famous philosophers lived for a very long time, or inherited their names, or extra bits had been stitched into history there. The history of Omnia was a mess. Two centuries had been folded into one, by the look of it, and it was only because of the mind-set of the Omnians, whose religion mixed the past and future with the present in any case, that it could possibly have passed unnoticed. And what about Koom Valley? Everyone knew that there had been a famous battle there, between dwarfs and trolls and mercenaries on both sides, but how many battles had there actually been ? Historians talked about the valley being in just the right place in disputed territory to become more or less the preferred local pitch for all confrontations, but you could just as easily believe—at least you could if you had a grandfather called Death—that a patch that just happened to fit had been welded into history several times, so that different generations went round through the whole stupid disaster again and again, shouting “Remember Koom Valley!” as they did so. * There were anomalies everywhere. And no one had noticed. You had to hand it to human beings. They had one of the strangest powers in the universe. Even her grandfather had remarked upon it. No other species anywhere in the world had invented boredom. Perhaps it was boredom, not intelligence, that had propelled them up the evolutionary ladder. Trolls and dwarfs had it, too, that strange ability to look at the universe and think “oh, the same as yesterday, how dull. I wonder what happens if I bang this rock on that head?” And along with this had come the contrary power, to make things normal. The world changed mightily, and within a few days humans considered it was normal. They had the most amazing ability to shut out and forget what didn’t fit. They told themselves little stories to explain away the inexplicable, to make things normal. Historians were especially good at it. If it suddenly looked as though hardly anything had happened in the fourteenth century, they’d weigh in with twenty different theories. Not one of them would be that maybe most of the time had been cut out and pasted into the nineteenth century, where the Crash had not left enough coherent time for everything that needed to happen, because it only takes a week to invent the horse collar. The History Monks had done their job well, but their biggest ally was the human ability to think narratively. And humans had risen to the occasion. They’d say things like “Thursday already? What happened to the week?” and “Time seems to go a lot faster these days” and “It seems like only yesterday…” But some things remained. The monks had carefully wiped out the time when the Glass Clock had struck. It had been surgically removed from history. Almost… Susan picked up Grim Fairy Tales again. Her parents hadn’t bought her books like this when she was a child. They’d tried to bring her up normally ; they knew that it is not entirely a good idea for humans to be too close to Death. They taught her that facts were more important than fancy. And then she’d grown up and found out that the real fantasies weren’t the Pale Rider or the Tooth Fairy or bogeymen— they were all solid facts. The big fantasy was that the world was the place where the toast didn’t care if it came butter-side down or not, where logic was sensible, and that things could be made not to have happened. Something like the Glass Clock had been too big to hide. It had leaked out via the dark hidden labyrinths of the human mind, and had become a folk tale. People had tried to coat it with sugar and magic swords, but its true nature still lurked like a rake in an overgrown lawn, ready to rise up at the in-cautious foot. Now someone was treading on it again, and the point, the key point, was the chin it was rising to meet belonged to… …someone like me. She sat and stared at nothing for a while. Around her, historians climbed library ladders, fumbled books onto their lecterns, and generally rebuilt the image of the past to suit the eyesight of today. One of them was, in fact, looking for his glasses. Time had a son, she thought, someone who walks in the world. There was a man who devoted himself to the study of time so wholeheartedly that, for him, Time became real. He learned the ways of time and Time noticed him, Death has said. There was something there like love. And Time had a son. How? Susan had the kind of mind that would sour a narrative with a question like that. Time and a mortal man. |
How could they ever…well, how could they? Then she thought: My grandfather is Death. He adopted my mother. My father was his apprentice for a while. That’s all that happened. They were both human, and I turned up in the normal way. There is no way I should be able to walk through walls and live outside time and be a little bit immortal, but I am, and so this is not an area where logic and, let’s face it, basic biology have any part to play. In any case, Time is constantly creating the future. The future contains things that didn’t exist in the past. A small baby should be easy for something…someone that rebuilds the universe once every instant. Susan sighed. And you had to remember that Time probably wasn’t time, in the same way that Death wasn’t exactly the same as death and War wasn’t exactly the same as war. She’d met War, a big fat man with an inappropriate sense of humor and a habit of repeating himself, and he certainly didn’t personally attend every minor fracas. She disliked Pestilence, who gave her funny looks, and Famine was just wasted and weird. None of them ran their…call it their discipline. They personified it. Given that she’d met the Tooth Fairy, the Soul Cake Duck, and Old Man Trouble, it amazed Susan that she had grown up to be mostly human, nearly normal. As she stared at her notes, her hair unwound itself from its tight bun and took up its ground-state position, which was that of someone who had just touched something highly electrical. It spread out around her head like a cloud, with one black streak of nearly normal hair. Grandfather might be an ultimate destroyer of worlds and the final truth of the universe, but that wasn’t to say he didn’t take an interest in the little people. Perhaps Time did, too. She smiled. Time waited for no man, they said. Perhaps she’d waited for one, once. Susan was aware that someone was looking at her, turned, and saw the Death of Rats peering through the lens of the glasses that a mildly distracted man was searching for on the other side of the room. Up on a long-disregarded bust of a former historian the raven preened himself. “Well?” she said. S QUEAK! “Oh, he is, is he?” The doors of the library were nuzzled open and a white horse walked in. There is a terrible habit among horsey people to call a white horse “gray,” but even one of that bowlegged fraternity would have had to admit that this one, at least, was white—not as white as snow, which is a dead white, but at least as white as milk, which is alive. His bridle and reins were black, and so was the saddle, but all of them were, in a sense, just for show. If the horse of Death was inclined to let you ride him, then you’d stay on, saddle or no. And there was no upper limit to the amount of people he could carry. After all, plagues sometimes happened suddenly. The historians paid him no attention. Horses did not walk into libraries. Susan mounted. There were plenty of times when she wished she’d been born completely human and wholly normal. She’d give up all the immortality tomorrow— —apart from Binky. A moment later, four hoofprints glowed like plasma in the air above the museum and faded away. Tick The crunch-crunch of the yeti’s feet over the snow, and the eternal wind of the mountains were the only sounds. Then Lobsang said: “By ‘cut off his head,’ you actually mean…?” “Sever the head from the body,” said Lu-Tze. “And,” said Lobsang, still in the tones of one carefully exploring every aspect of the haunted cave, “he doesn’t mind?” “Waal, it’s a nuisance,” said the yeti. “A bit of a paarty trick. But it okaay, if it helps. The Sweeper haas alwaays been a goood friend to us. We owe him faavors. ” “I’ve tried teaching ’em the Way,” said Lu-Tze proudly. “Yaas. Ver’ usefuul. ‘A washed pot never boils,’” said the yeti. Curiosity vied with annoyance in Lobsang’s head, and won. “What have I missed here?” he said. “You don’t die?” “I doon’t die? Wit my head cut off? For laughing! Ho. Ho,” said the yeti. “Of course I die. But this is not such a sizeaable traansaaction. ” “It took us years to work out what the yetis were up to,” said Lu-Tze. “Their loops played hob with the Mandala until the abbot worked out how to allow for them. They’ve been extinct three times. ” “Three times, eh?” said Lobsang. “That’s a lot of times to go extinct. I mean, most species only manage it once, don’t they?” The yeti was now entering taller forest, of ancient pines. “This’d be a good place,” said Lu-Tze. “Put us down, sir. ” “And we’ll chop your head off,” said Lobsang weakly. “What am I saying? I’m not going to chop anyone’s head off!” “You heard him say it doesn’t bother him,” said Lu-Tze, as they were gently lowered to the ground. “That’s not the point!” said Lobsang hotly. “It’s his head,” Lu-Tze pointed out. “But I mind!” “Oh, well, in that case,” said Lu-Tze, “is it not written, ‘If you want a thing done properly you’ve got to do it yourself’?” “Yass, it is,” said the yeti. Lu-Tze took the sword out of Lobsang’s hand. He held it carefully, like someone unused to weapons. The yeti obligingly knelt. “You’re up to date?” said Lu-Tze. “Yaas. ” “I cannot believe you’re really doing this!” said Lobsang. “Interesting,” said Lu-Tze. “Mrs. Cosmopilite says, ‘Seeing is believing’ and, strangely enough, the Great Wen said, ‘I have seen, and I believe!’” He brought the sword down and cut off the yeti’s head. Tick There was a sound rather like a cabbage being sliced in half, and then a head rolled into the basket to cheers and cries of “oh, I say, well done!” from the crowd. The city of Quirm was a nice, peaceful, law-abiding place and the city council kept it that way with a penal policy that combined the maximum of deterrence with the minimum of re-offending. G RIPPER “T HE B UTCHER” S MARTZ? The late Gripper rubbed his neck. “I demand a retrial!” he said. T HIS MAY NOT BE A GOOD TIME, said Death. “It couldn’t possibly have been murder because the…” the soul of Gripper Smartz fumbled in its spectral pockets for a ghostly piece of paper, unfolded it and continued, in a voice of those to whom the written word is an uphill struggle, “…because the balance of my mind was d…dess-turbed. ” R EALLY, said Death. He found it best to let the recently departed get things off their chests. “Yes, ’cos I really, really wanted to kill him, right? And you can’t tell me that’s a normal frame of mind, right? He was a dwarf, anyway, so I don’t think that should count as manslaughter. ” I UNDERSTAND THAT WAS THE SEVENTH DWARF YOU KILLED , said Death. “I’m very prone to being dess-turbed,” said Gripper. “Really, it’s me who is the victim here. All I needed was a bit of understanding, someone to see my point of view for five minutes…” W HAT WAS YOUR POINT OF VIEW? “All dwarfs need a damn good kicking, in my opinion. ’ Ere, you’re Death, right?” Y ES INDEED. “I’m a big fan! I’ve always wanted to meet you, y’know? I’ve got a tattoo of you on my arm, look here. Done it meself. ” The benighted Gripper turned at the sound of hooves. A young woman in black, entirely unregarded by the crowd, who were gathered around the food stalls and souvenir stands and the guillotine, was leading a large white stallion toward them. “And you’ve even got valet parking!” said Gripper. “Now that’s what I call style !” And with that, he faded. W HAT A CURIOUS PERSON , said Death. A H, S USAN. T HANK YOU FOR COMING. O UR SEARCH NARROWS. “Our search?” Y OUR SEARCH, IN FACT. “It’s just mine now, is it?” I TOLD YOU I HAVE SOMETHING ELSE TO ATTEND TO. “More important than the end of the world?” I T IS THE END OF THE WORLD. T HE RULES SAY THAT THE HORSEMEN SHALL RIDE OUT. “That old legend? But you don’t have to do that!” I T IS ONE OF MY FUNCTIONS. I HAVE TO OBEY THE RULES. “Why? They’re breaking the rules!” B ENDING THEM. T HEY HAVE FOUND A LOOPHOLE. I DO NOT HAVE THAT KIND OF IMAGINATION. It was like Jason and the Battle for the Stationery Cupboard, Susan told herself. You soon learned that “No one is to open the door of the Stationery Cupboard” was a prohibition that a seven-year-old simply would not understand. |
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