Unseen Academicals

by Terry Pratchett

  What happens to people who try to poison a wizard, at least in the short run, is that they have an advantage in a game of football. The absence of Professor Macarona was a deadly blow. He had been the pillar around which the university strategy had been built. Emboldened, United went for the kill.

  Even so, the editor of the Times thought, as he lay down at the very edge of the pitch alongside his iconographer, the wizards were just about managing to hold their own. He scribbled as fast as he could, trying hard to ignore the gentle shower of pie wrappings, banana skins, empty greasy pea bags and the occasional beer bottle being tossed on to the pitch. And who is that with the ball now? He glanced at the little crib-sheet of numbers he had managed to jot down. Ah, right. United had broken into the UU side of the field and there was Andy Shank, an unpleasant man by all accounts and . . . surely that wasn’t a normal footballing procedure. Other players had lined up around him. So he was running in the middle of a group of bodyguards. Even the other team members themselves did not seem to know what was going on, but Mr Shack nevertheless managed a creditable strike at the goal, which was expertly snatched out of the air by . . . Mister Nutt. He glanced at his crib-sheet, ah yes, the orc, and added in his notebook: ‘who is clearly adept at grasping big round objects’. But then he felt ashamed and crossed it out. Despite where we are lying, he said to himself, we are not the gutter press.

  The orc.

  Nutt danced back and forth outside his goal, trying to find someone who looked in a position to be able to do something with a ball.

  ‘Can’t hang around all day, Orc,’ said Andy, staying in front of him. ‘Got to let it go soon, Orc. Not much help for you now, is there, Orc? They say you’ve got claws. Show us your claws, Orc. That will bust your ball.’

  ‘I believe that you are a man with unresolved issues, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  Nutt dropkicked the ball over Andy’s head and somewhere in the mob that fought for it there was a crunch, which was followed by a yell, which was followed by the whistle and the whistle was followed by the chant. It began somewhere in the region of Mrs Atkinson, but spread oh so quickly: ‘Orc! Orc! Orc! Orc! Orc! Orc! Orc!’

  Ridcully got to his feet, standing unsteadily. ‘The buggers have got me, Henry,’ he yelled, in a voice that could hardly be heard over the chant. ‘Kneecap! Bloody kneecap!’

  ‘Who did it?’ the referee demanded.

  ‘How should I know? It’s a bloody mess, just like the old game! And can’t you get them to stop that bloody chant? That’s not the sort of thing we want to hear.’

  Archchancellor Henry raised his megaphone. ‘Mister Hoggett?’

  The captain of United pushed his way through the rabble, looking very sheepish.

  ‘Can’t you control your fans?’

  Hoggett shrugged. ‘Sorry about that, sir, but what can you do?’

  Henry looked around the Hippo. What could anyone do? It was the mob. The Shove. No one was in charge. It hadn’t an arse to kick, a wrist to be slapped or even an address. It was just there and it was shouting because everybody else was.

  ‘Well, then can you at least control your team?’ he said. To his surprise Mr Hoggett looked down.

  ‘Not entirely, sir. Sorry about that, sir, it’s how things are.’

  ‘One more incident of this kind and I will cancel the match. I suggest you leave the field of play, Mustrum. Who is the substitute captain?’ ‘Me!’ said Ridcully, ‘but under the circumstances I appoint Mister Nobbs as my deputy.’

  ‘Not Nobby Nobbs?’ exclaimed the former Dean.

  ‘No relation,’ said Bledlow Nobbs very quickly.

  ‘Well, that was a good choice at least,’ said Trev, sighing. ‘Nobbsy is a clogger at heart.’

  ‘But it’s not supposed to be about clogging,’ said Glenda. ‘And you know what?’ she added, raising her voice against the steel roar of the crowd. ‘Whatever the old Dean thinks he can’t stop the game, now. This place would just blow up!’

  ‘You think so?’ said Trev.

  ‘Listen,’ said Glenda. ‘Yes, I think you’re right. You ought to get out of here.’

  ‘Me? Not a chance.’

  ‘But you could make yourself useful and get Juliet out. Get her as far as Vimesy and his lot. I bet they’re waiting right outside the gates. Do it right now while you can still get down the steps. Won’t get a chance once they start to play again.’

  As he left, Glenda walked unheeded down the touchline, to the little area where Dr Lawn was standing guard over his patients.

  ‘You know that little bag you brought with you, sir?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think you’re going to need a bigger bag. How’s Professor Macarona?’

  The professor was lying on his back, staring at the sky and wearing an expression of bland happiness. ‘Sorted him out easily enough,’ said the doctor. ‘He won’t be playing again any time soon. I’ve given him a little something to make him happy. Correction, I have given him a big something to make him happy.’

  ‘And the Librarian?’

  ‘Well, I got a couple of lads to help me turn him upside down and he’s been throwing up a lot. He’s still pretty groggy, but I don’t think it’s too bad. He’s as sick as a parrot.’25

  ‘This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, you know,’ said Glenda out of a feeling that she should defend the bloody mess.

  ‘It generally isn’t,’ said the doctor.

  They turned as the noise of the nearby crowd changed. Juliet was coming down the steps glittering. The silence followed her like a lovesick dog. So did Pepe and the reassuring bulk of Madame Sharn, who might be a useful barricade in case the Hippo became a cauldron. Trev, tagging along behind them, seemed like an afterthought in comparison.

  ‘All right, dear, what’s this all about?’ said Pepe.

  ‘I ain’t going,’ said Juliet, ‘not while Trev’s in here. I ain’t leaving without Trev. Pepe says he’s going to win the match.’

  ‘What have you been saying?’ said Glenda.

  ‘He’ll win,’ said Pepe, winking. ‘He’s got a star in his hand. You want to see him do it, missy?’

  ‘What are you playin’ at?’ said Trev, angrily.

  ‘Oh, I’m a bit of a conjurer, me. Or maybe a fairy godmother.’ Pepe gestured around the arena. ‘See that lot? Their ancestors screamed to see men killing one another and beasts tearing decent folks apart. Men with spears fighting men with nets and all that kind of ugly shite.’

  ‘And they have cart-tail sales here every other Sunday,’ added Glenda. ‘It’s always been the same,’ said Pepe. ‘It’s one big creature. Never dies. Crying and screaming and loving and hating all down the generations and you can’t tame it and you can’t stop it. Just for you, young lady, and for the soul of Mister Trev, I’m going to throw it a bone. Won’t take a mo’.’

  His slim and slightly spidery form disappeared back up the steps just as the whistle blew. Glenda made out Bledlow Nobbs taking the kick, but Ridcully had made the mistake of thinking that a man who was as big as he was was as clever as he was. And there it was, it was the old game all over again. United were stampeding down the pitch, the old cloggers making way for Andy’s army as they bore down against Nutt. The kick took him in the chest and lifted him into the back of the goal. The whistle blew and was followed by, ‘DON’T TOUCH THAT, BOYO! YOU DON’T KNOW WHERE IT’S BEEN!’ which was followed by, ‘I really am very sorry about that, I don’t know why it happens,’ which was followed by . . . absolute silence.

  Which was broken by one voice, ‘Likely. Likely. Likely.’ It started up in the stand, somewhere near where Pepe had gone.

  The beast had forgotten the name ‘Orc’, but certainly remembered the name ‘Likely’, a name that had fed it so often, a name it had given birth to and eaten, a name that was football, the very heart of the beast. And here, on this broken field, it was a name to conjure with. ‘LIKELY! LIKELY! LIKELY!’ Hardly a grown man hadn’t seen him. He was the legend. E
ven after all these years, it was a name that cut through other loyalties. You told your grandchildren about him. You told them how he lay there bleeding and maybe how you dipped your handkerchief in his blood and kept it for a souvenir.

  ‘Likely,’ intoned the baritone of Madame Sharn.

  ‘Likely,’ whispered Glenda and then ‘LIKELY!’ She could see the little figure running along the top of the stands, the chant tailing after it.

  Tears streamed down Trev’s face. Mercilessly, Glenda looked him in the eye. ‘Likely! Likely!’

  ‘But my ol’ mum!’ Trev wept.

  Then Juliet leaned over and kissed him and for a moment, the tears were silver. ‘Likely?’

  Trev stood clutching and unclutching his hands as the chant went on, then he gave a sort of shrug. Then he took his battered tin can out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Glenda, before turning to face the pitch again. ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ he said, taking off his jacket, ‘but this is football. And I don’t even have a jersey.’

  ‘We thought of that,’ said Glenda. ‘When they were being made.’ She pulled one out of the depths of her bag.

  ‘Number four. That was my dad’s number.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Glenda. ‘We know. Listen to ’em cheering, Trev.’

  Trev looked like someone trying to find an escape clause. ‘I’ve never even trained with the new football. You know me, it’s always been the tin can.’

  ‘It’s a football. It’s just a football,’ said Nutt. ‘You’ll get the hang of it in a second.’

  The former Dean strode up. ‘Well, this is all very gratifying with a touch of welcome pathos, ladies and gentlemen, but it is time we continued this football match and I would be very grateful if all non-players could stand back behind the touchlines,’ he said, shouting to make himself heard above the noise of the crowd.

  Trev left Nutt at the goal. ‘Don’t you worry, Mister Trev,’ said the orc, grinning. ‘With me saving and you striking we can’t lose. They won’t get me the same way a second time.’ He lowered his voice and grabbed Trev’s shoulder. ‘When it starts to get hot down this end, run like stink towards the other and I’ll make sure you get the ball.’ Trev nodded and walked across the turf to the cheers of the crowd.

  The editor of the Times later reported as follows:

  At this point, United seemed to feel that they had a working strategy and poured every resource into the university side in a mêlée that was clearly beyond the referee to control.

  The plucky orc custodian had also learned a lesson and two or three times recovered the day with magnificent saves, on one occasion kicking the ball, in our opinion, directly at the head of one of the milling opponents, stunning him and then catching it upon the rebound, dropping it on to the boot and sending it far into the opposing half where Trevor Likely, son of the famous football hero, ran pell-mell towards the goal where Mr Charlie Barton had happily been provided with a chair, a table, a late lunch and two stalwart defenders, whose clear purpose it was to see that none shall pass.

  All breathing in the park surely ceased as the young paladin fired off a tremendous shot, which was, alas, out by a few inches and only served to rattle the woodwork and rebounded towards the defenders. Nevertheless, Likely tackled like a man possessed and spirits lifted once again as the two defenders got in each other’s way just sufficiently for the boy to once again power the sphere back towards its intended resting place.

  Your correspondent believes that even the supporters of United joined in the groan as once again this second shot failed to find a slot and this time rebounded almost to the feet of H. Capstick, who lost no time in sending it screaming towards the Academicals’ end before it could do more harm.

  Once again, the indefatigable Mr Nutt warded off a number of attacks while the rather pathetic remnant of the university boys’ defence proved that prowess with the magic wand is of little avail if you do not know what your feet are for.

  At this point, Master of the Dark Arts Dr J. Hix was summarily dismissed from the field after the crowd’s persistent chant of ‘Who’s the bastard in the black?’ alerted the referee to his attempts at endeavouring to strike down F. Brisket, one of the notorious Brisket boys, with the soul-eating dagger of the Deadly Vampyre Spider Queen. Which, as it transpired, turned out to be neither magical nor, as it turned out, made of metal, but one of a number of similar items available in Boffo’s Joke Emporium, Tenth Egg Street. Ranting apparently fearful oaths about university statute, Dr Hix had to be dragged from the field by members of his own team, leaving our spirited magicians in an even more depleted spell of difficulty, probably wishing they had a magic carpet to get them out of there!

  At least Dr Hix’s tirade and attempts to drag the ground with him bought them some time. Glenda ran on to the pitch to a dishevelled and downcast Trev.

  ‘What happened, Trev?’ she said. ‘You had it right there in front of you. You had it in your hands, well, on your boot, anyway.’

  ‘It doesn’t do what I want,’ said Trev.

  ‘You’re supposed to make it do what you want. It’s just a football.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m tryin’ to learn with all of this goin’ on.’

  ‘Well, at least you nearly did it. We haven’t lost yet and it’s still only the first half.’

  When play was resumed, according to the editor of the Times:

  A certain amount of backbone had been retrieved by the men in pointy hats and captain Nobbs led a concerted attack in an attempt to further interfere with Charlie Barton’s lunch, but to the dismay of all, the son of Dave Likely still appeared to have only a nodding acquaintance with the art of goal scoring and it appeared very much that his only chance of putting one away would be to have the ball wrapped up and sent via the Post Office.

  And then, to the shock of all, the occult gang appeared to prove that they were far better at billiards than football when another of Likely’s powerful, but directionless, attempts rebounded again off the goal on to the head of Professor Rincewind, who was, in fact, running in the opposite direction, and was in the back of the goal before anyone, including Charlie, knew where it was.

  This got a cheer, but only because the game now appeared, in our opinion, to be a comedy routine. Alas, there was no comedy about the fact that in several parts of the Hippo, fights were breaking out between gangs of rival supporters, doubtless inspired by some of the shameful performances on the pitch...

  As the two sides trooped or hobbled back to their places, the referee called the captains together. ‘Gentlemen, I’m not quite sure what we are doing here, but I am quite certain that it’s not exactly football and I look forward to the inquiry later on. In the meantime, before anyone else is injured and especially before the crowd start to tear this place apart and eat one another, I will tell you that the next goal scored will be the last one, even though we are still only in the first half.’ He looked meaningfully at Hoggett and said, ‘I sincerely hope that some players will examine their consciences. If I may coin a phrase, gentlemen, it’s sudden death either way. I will give you a few minutes to impress this upon your teams.’

  ‘I am sorry, sir,’ said Hoggett, looking around, ‘some of my lads are not people I would have chosen, if you get my drift. I’ll give them a good talking to.’

  ‘In my opinion that would only work if you were hitting them with a hammer at the same time, Mister Hoggett. They are a disgrace. And do you also understand me, Mister Nobbs?’

  ‘I think we’d like to carry on, too. Never say die.’

  ‘And I would not like to see death here, either, but I suspect that your request for extra time is in the hope that Mister Likely will learn how to play football, but I fear that will not happen in a month of Sundays.’ ‘Well, yes, sir, but can’t you—’ Hoggett began.

  ‘Mister Hoggett, I have spoken and I am the referee and right now I am the nearest thing to the gods.’

  I am the nearest thing to the gods. It came back as an echo. Softer. Brighter. He looked around
, ‘What? Did you chaps say something?’ Nearest thing to the gods. There was a sound like gloing! But the ball was still in his hands, wasn’t it? He stared at it. And was it just him, or was there something in the air? Something . . . in the air . . . the silveryness of fine winter days.

  Trev did an embarrassingly jiggly little run on the spot as he waited. When he looked up, there was Andy Shank watching him.

  ‘Your dear old dad must be ’aving a fit,’ said Andy cheerfully.

  ‘I know you, Andy,’ said Trev wearily, ‘I know what you do. You corner some poor tosser and taunt ’im until ’e loses ’is rag and so ’e starts it, doesn’t ’e? I’m not risin’ to it, Andy.’

  ‘Not risin’ to anythin’ very much, are you?’

  ‘Not listenin’, Andy,’ said Trev.

  ‘Oh, I reckon you are.’

  Trev sighed again. ‘I’ve been watchin’ you. You and your chums are bloody masters at stickin’ the boot in when the ref ain’t lookin’ and what ’e don’t see ’e can’t do nothin’ about.’

  Andy lowered his voice. ‘Well, I can do something about you, Trev. You won’t be walking out of this place, I swear it. You’ll be carried out.’

  There was the sound of the whistle, followed by the unstoppable ‘ANY BOY WHO HAS NOT BROUGHT HIS KIT WILL PLAY IN HIS PANTS!’

  ‘Sudden death,’ the former Dean said and the sides collided, Andy emerging with the ball at his feet and his dishonour guard flanking him at either side.

  Ponder Stibbons, in the path of their advance, calculated quite a lot of things very quickly, such as speed, wind direction and the likelihood of being physically trodden into the turf. He made an effort at any rate, but ended up flat on his back after the collision. As the editor of the Times put it: in this scene of despair, dismay and disarray, one lone defender, Nutt, stood in the way of United’s winning goal...

  There was a roar immediately behind Nutt. He daren’t look round, but someone landed on top of the goal, making it shake, dropped down and indicated by means of one huge and horny thumb that Mr Nutt’s assistance was no longer required. There was a green crust around the Librarian’s mouth, but this was nothing to the fire in his eyes.