Terry Pratchett. Hogfather
страница №8
...ose people just ... believe instuff. 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 centres, 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 favourite.'
'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, do 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 colour and a book about earwax.'
Ridcully sat in horrified amazement. He'd always enjoyed Hogswatch,
every bit of it. He'd enjoyed seeing ardent relatives, he'd enjoyed the
food, he'd been good at games like Chase My Neighbour 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 humour of a wire coathanger,' 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, its 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.
'Welt 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 lets 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, its, 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 sing-song? 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 orang-utan he hankered for the warmth of the rainforest. The
problem was that he'd never even seen a rainforest, having been turned into
an orang-utan 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 fight 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 child- like simplicity,
perhaps.'
'It might be different for orang-utans, 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, orang-utans. 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 practised 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
treeline.
The singers were halfway down Park Lane now, and halfway through 'The
Red Rosy Hen'
in marvellous harmony.[19] 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' 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 on to 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 ardent 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 grey dog on a string, was Foul Ole
Ron, generally regarded in AnkhMorpork 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 grey were spiralling 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 grey
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 wellfounded 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 yodelled, solo, 'then -
fghfgh yffg mftnfmf...'
The Duck Man had, with great presence of mind, damped 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- '
IT IS BETTER TO GIVE THAN TO RECEIVE, ALBERT.
'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 snowdrift. '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 thinkingbrain 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.[20] 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!'
YES, 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?'
NO.
'You did, didn't you?' Albert stated.
NO.
'You put all those things in the sack.'
NO.
'You got them from somewhere and put them in the sack.'
NO.
'You did put them in the sack, didn't you?'
NO.
'You put them in the sack.'
YES.
'I knew you put them in the sack. Where did you get them?'
THEY WERE JUST LYING AROUND.
'Whole roast pig does not, in my experience, just lie around.'
NO ONE SEEMED TO BE USING THEM, ALBERT.
'Couple of chimneys ago we were over that big posh restaurant...'
REALLY? 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.'
REALLY.
'How exactly were they just inverted comma lying around inverted
comma?'
JUST... LYING AROUND. YOU KNOW. RECUMBENT.
'In a kitchen?'
THERE WAS A CERTAIN CULINARINESS ABOUT THE PLACE, I RECALL.
Albert pointed a trembling finger.
'You nicked someone's Hogswatch dinner, master!'
IT'S GOING TO BE EATEN, said Death defensively. ANYWAY, 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!'
THE BEGGARS WILL ENJOY IT, ALBERT.
'Well, yes, but-'
IT WASN'T STEALING. IT WAS JUST... REDISTRIBUTION. IT WILL BE A GOOD
DEED IN A NAUGHTY WORLD.
'No, it won't!'
THEN 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.'
THEY HAVE BEEN PROVIDED FOR, OF COURSE. I AM NOT COMPLETELY HEARTLESS.
IN A METAPHORICAL SENSE. AND NOW - ONWARDS AND UPWARDS.
'We're heading down, master.'
ONWARDS AND DOWNWARDS, 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 colour, 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 colour 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 grey and green...
The colours here were springtime colours, and not the springtime of the
world. They were the colours 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. Cot 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 Pate 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 rфti Faзon 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
braisйe, 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 I'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 threequarters 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. Cafe 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.'
Taper'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?'
'Cot 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 backwards 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 heavy-set 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
doublecross 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...
'OK, but... but he can't look everywhere.'
Medium Dave shook his head. He'd been through AnkhMorpork'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,[21] 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.
LET 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 HOGFATHER, OF COURSE. ER. HO. HO. HO. WHO WOULD YOU EXPECT TO
COME DOWN A CHIMNEY ON A NIGHT LIKE THIS, MAY I ASK?
'No, you're not!'
I AM. LOOK, I'VE GOT THE BEARD AND THE PILLOW AND EVERYTHING!
'You look extremely thin in the face!'
I'M... I... I'M NOT WELL. IT'S ALL... YES,
IT'S ALL THIS SHERRY. AND 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!'
NO IT'S NOT,...
