Carpet People

by Pratchett, Terry

  ‘Wights mustn’t tell people the future!’ said Pismire. ‘Everyone knows that! They never tell! It’s too dangerous for people to know what will happen! This is all—’

  ‘I remember I interrupted you here,’ said the wight. ‘Yes. I know the rules. And that’s what they are, and all they are. They are only rules. I am not, Pismire, quite like other wights. Have you ever heard the word . . . thunorg? I know you have.’

  ‘Oh, yes, the wights who can remember things that – oh. My word,’ said Pismire, shocked, ‘I thought that was just a story. I thought thunorgs were monsters.’

  ‘It is just a story. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. The rules don’t apply to me. They’re only rules. Rules don’t have to apply . . . not always. I don’t much care for cities. But this crushing and destruction of the Carpet . . . this forging of bronze and trampling of dust . . .’

  She shook her head. ‘No. This shall not be. You will go to Ware tomorrow, before the mouls leave Jeopard. There will be a battle. You must win. I will not tell you how. But you must win. In the meantime, you may spend this night here. Do not be afraid. Nothing comes to my house that I do not expect.’

  ‘No,’ said Bane, ‘I need to know. Why are you helping us? Wights remember everything that’s ever happened, and what will happen. And they don’t tell. What’s different about you?’

  Culaina put her head on one side.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ said Bane.

  ‘Yes. I was remembering what I told you. Yes. Now I remember. There is so much, you see . . . so much . . .’ She stood up and walked a little way away from them. Then she turned. ‘Pismire should know this,’ she said. ‘Sometimes . . . very rarely, as rare as my albino snarg here . . . sometimes a wight is born who is different, as different from wights as they are from you. You see, we remember . . . everything.’

  ‘So do all wights,’ said Bane.

  ‘No,’ said Culaina. ‘They remember only all those things that happen. We remember things that might happen. I remember what will happen if you don’t win. I know all possibilities. For every thing that happens, a million things don’t happen. I live all of them. I remember you winning, and I remember you losing. I remember the mouls triumphant, I remember you triumphant. Both are real, for me. For me, both of these have happened. My brother and sister wights remember the thread of history. But I remember all the threads that never get woven. For me, all possibilities are real. I live in them all.’

  ‘But why?’ said Bane.

  ‘Someone must. Otherwise, they never could have happened.’

  She stepped into the shadows.

  They heard her voice. It seemed to come from somewhere distant. ‘Nothing has to happen. History isn’t something you live. It is something you make. One decision. One person. At the right time. Nothing is too small to make a difference. Anything can be changed.’

  The voice faded. After a while Bane got to his feet, feeling very clumsy, and peered into the shadows.

  ‘She’s gone.’

  ‘I wonder if she can ever be entirely in one place,’ said Pismire. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘I’m going to sleep,’ said Glurk. ‘I don’t know about you, but it’s been a busy day.’

  Several times Bane awoke, and thought he heard crashes and cries in the wind, but when he listened hard they seemed to disappear.

  Pismire dreamed. He saw hairs bending and bowing as if shaken by a high wind, and the gleam of ten thousand eyes, green, red and white, and the figure of Culaina, her hair caught and tugged by the air, treading through the noisy darkness, living everything that could be and might be and was.

  Glurk dreamed of slim bodies pushing swiftly through the undergrowth. As they passed the Carpet seemed to come alive. It was like a splash in a cup; the ripples ran out and out, getting bigger as they ran. Deep in underground caves sleeping creatures awoke, and howled. He saw the Thimbrule that lay far beyond Varnisholme, a great silver dome. He saw the glow as the wights mined their varnish at Varnisholme, the flames spouting from their forge.

  In his dream he moved through the night hairs like a spirit, until he came to the Endless Flatness. The Carpet ended suddenly, and from its shores the Flatness ran on for ever. He looked for hairs and there were none, just flatness without end, and balls of dust that were bowled over and over in the forlorn wind. And Culaina stood by the last hair, her robe flapping in the gusts.

  Glurk sat up suddenly.

  It was morning. Yellow light dappled the clearing, making the hairs shine like bronze. Brocando was still asleep. The others were talking quietly.

  One look was enough.

  ‘Not exactly dreams,’ said Pismire. ‘What we dreamed weren’t exactly dreams. She lives all her lives at once, we picked up echoes—’

  ‘I saw Culaina walking through the Carpet,’ began Glurk. ‘And I think I saw Snibril, too.’

  ‘And I saw the Hearthlands and the fire in the sky,’ added Pismire.

  ‘There were all sorts of creatures,’ said Glurk.

  Brocando turned over and opened his eyes. He listened to the others for a moment, then nodded. ‘I was back in the High Gate Land. There was a domed cave, and under the dome a throne of bronze with a Vortgorn on it. He had a yellow beard and a crown. Two mouls were standing in front of him. I’ll swear one of them was Gormaleesh. They were laughing. Then one snatched the crown, but the Vortgorn just sat with his chin on his hand and said nothing.’

  ‘That’d be Stagbat, their king,’ said Glurk. ‘I heard the Vortgorn guards talking. The mouls turned up one day after Fray had struck nearby and they said Fray was a Dumii weapon. They said they’d be allies. Now they run the place, of course.’

  ‘You can’t control Fray,’ said Pismire. ‘I keep on telling you, it’s a natural phenomenon.’

  ‘They always find our weak points,’ said Glurk. He looked across at Bane, who had been silent. ‘And what did you dream?’ he asked.

  ‘I dreamed ... I dreamed . . .’ Bane began, and then seemed to wake up. ‘I dreamed of nothing. I slept well.’

  There was no sign of Culaina. The pones had stayed.

  ‘They think life is going to be interesting,’ said Glurk. ‘They used to like working for the Vortgorns. People used to come and read them stories and things. Must be hard, having a brain and no hands to do things with it.’

  ‘We’d better go to Ware,’ said Bane. ‘I don’t think we’ve got any choice.’

  ‘We’ve got lots of choice,’ said Pismire. ‘It’s just that we’ve got to choose to go to Ware.’

  Glurk saddled up Acretongue. ‘Interesting times ahead,’ he said gloomily.

  Bane took a last look around the sugar clearing.

  ‘She’s here . . . somewhere,’ he said.

  ‘Everywhere,’ said Pismire. ‘Everywhere there’s a choice to be made.’

  There was a faraway look in Bane’s eyes. ‘What must it be like,’ he said, ‘to know everything that could happen?’

  ‘Terrible,’ said Pismire ‘Now, come along. Bane? I said come on . . .’

  Chapter 14

  Snibril had led the search, after the storm. They’d sifted through the rubble of the place. They’d gone down into Underlay, roped together, and shouted out the names of those who were lost. They’d found nothing.

  But as Pismire would have pointed out, finding nothing was better than finding . . . something.

  Then they’d discovered the tracks in the distant clearing. Lots of creatures had come up. It seemed to Snibril that there had been someone else following them, someone who had lain low for a while in the bushes . . . but everything was covered with dust shaken down by the storm, and it was hard to be sure. The tracks, such as they were, led south.

  The Munrungs had helped Brocando’s people rebuild walls and things, even though the rock itself was now visibly leaning over. And, as someone said, if Fray came again at least they now knew how to get into Underlay. Nothing would get them there.

  Snibril thought about this
as he rode Roland through the hairs, looking for any more tracks.

  We can always go into Underlay, he thought. We can stop being people. We can just grub around in the dark.

  The Deftmenes think that no enemy is too big to fight, but we never even see Fray.

  The Dumii don’t think like that. They think that if an enemy is too big, you should find a smaller enemy.

  Maybe Pismire is right. We can’t stop Fray. But at least we can stop being frightened of Fray.

  ‘I’m going to Ware,’ he told the tribe that evening. They looked at him in horror. Technically, Glurk was still chief . . . if he was alive. If he wasn’t, then Snibril was chief. Glurk’s children were all too young. No one wanted to lose another chief.

  ‘You can’t leave us,’ said Dodor Plint, who was the tribe’s shoemaker. ‘You’re the leader.’

  ‘Ware’s important,’ said Snibril. ‘We’d just be simple hunters if it wasn’t for the Empire.’

  The Munrungs looked at one another.

  ‘We are simple hunters,’ said Plint.

  ‘Yes, but at least we know we are,’ said Snibril. ‘Anyway, we’ve got more complicated.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Crooly Wulf, who was nearly as old as Pismire. ‘People don’t hit one another over the head with clubs as much as they did when I was a boy. There’s more arguing.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean we’re better people!’ said Plint.

  Crooly Wulf rubbed his head. ‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘People are taller now. They don’t groan so much, either.’

  ‘Huh! But the Deftmenes don’t have anything to do with the Dumii,’ said Plint. ‘And they manage.’

  ‘They fight them,’ said Snibril, simply. ‘It’s amazing how things rub off, even when you fight people. Ideas like . . . like not just killing people all the time, that sort of thing.’

  A Deftmene put up his hand.

  ‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘The king always used to throw people off the rock in the old days.’

  ‘He still does,’ said another Deftmene.

  ‘Yes, but he doesn’t laugh about it so much. And he says he’s doing it for their own good.’

  ‘See?’ said Snibril desperately. ‘The Dumii have an effect. Even if you’re their enemy. I’m going south. Perhaps I can find the others. Perhaps the Empire can help us.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re our leader—’ Plint began again.

  ‘Then I’m going to lead!’ snapped Snibril. ‘Who else is coming?’

  Some of the younger Munrungs raised their hands.

  A Deftmene stood up. ‘Will there be fighting against impossible odds?’ he said.

  ‘Probably,’ said Snibril

  ‘Right! Count us in!’ A lot of Deftmenes nodded. Another one said: ‘And will we get a chance to fight to the death?’

  ‘You might get a chance to fight to the enemy’s death,’ said Snibril

  ‘Is that as good?’

  ‘Better.’

  ‘Right, then. We’re with you!’

  In the end three hundred and fifty Deftmenes and fifty Munrungs volunteered to go. On the Rock their families would be as safe as anywhere in the Carpet, they agreed, but someone had to stay. Anything could happen.

  Four hundred, thought Snibril. Who knows how many we’re going to face?

  On the other hand, since we don’t know how many we’re going to face, four hundred might be just enough.

  Always choose a bigger enemy. It makes him easier to hit.

  We must go to Ware. It’s where we all began, in a way. It’s where people first realized that there may be a better way of doing things than hitting one another on the head.

  Chapter 15

  It was two days later.

  In a grove of red hairs on the borders of the blue land seven wights were fighting mouls. It was unheard of for wights to be attacked.

  They never carried weapons, apart from the ones they were making for sale.

  This moul pack was large, and led by a chieftain more cunning and wily than most. What he wanted was more weapons. Wights looked easy prey.

  He was beginning to regret this decision. The wights didn’t carry weapons, but they did carry tools. And a hammer is a weapon, if you hit a head instead of a nail. They were standing around their big varnish-boiler and fighting back – hammering back, and using varnish ladles as clubs, and bits of burning hair as crude spears.

  But they were outnumbered. And they were all going to die. They knew it.

  There was someone watching who knew it too.

  Culaina the thunorg watched from deep in the hairs. It would be impossible to describe how a thunorg sees things. It would be like trying to explain the stars to a fish. How can it be said that she watched the fight a million times, all at the same instant, and every time the wights lost? It’s the wrong description. But it will have to do.

  But among all the outcomes there was just one, as alone as a pearl on a seashore of black sand, that was different.

  She turned without moving, and concentrated on it—

  The hairs erupted people. The mouls turned to fight, but suddenly they were between two enemies.

  The Deftmenes and the Munrungs had found an unbeatable fighting method. The tall Munrungs stood behind the small Deftmenes and fought over the top of them; no enemy had much of a chance on two levels at once.

  It was a short fight, and a terribly effective one.

  After a few minutes, the remaining mouls ran for it. Some of the new attackers broke away to follow them.

  And then it was over – in this pearl-on-a-seashore time, when someone whose whole life was a choice had been close enough to choose.

  Athan the kilnmaster, leader of this band, looked up with horror as a white horse trotted through the lines of his rescuers. There was a small figure riding it.

  ‘How can this be! We were supposed to die!’ he said. ‘All of us!’

  ‘Did you want to?’ said Snibril, dismounting.

  ‘Want? Want? That doesn’t come into it,’ said Athan, throwing down his hammer. From out in the hairs came the screech of a moul. ‘You changed things,’ said Athan. ‘And now terrible things will happen—’

  ‘They don’t have to,’ said Snibril, calmly. ‘Nothing has to happen. You can let things happen. But that’s not the same. We’re going to Ware. There’s Munrungs and Deftmenes and a few other refugees we picked up along the way. Why not come?’

  Athan looked shocked and angry. ‘Us? Wights? Fighting?’

  ‘You were fighting just now.’

  ‘Yes, but we knew we would lose,’ said Athan.

  ‘How about fighting and hoping you’ll win?’ said Snibril. He turned as a Munrung approached, carrying a wight.

  ‘Our Geridan is dead, and one of the Deftmenes,’ said the Munrung. ‘And one of the wights. But this one’s still alive . . . just.’

  ‘That is Derna,’ said Athan. ‘My . . . daughter. She should be dead. In a way . . . she must be dead . . .’

  ‘We have some medicines,’ said Snibril quietly. ‘Or we could bury her now, if that’s what you want . . .’

  He looked expectantly at the kilnmaster, who had gone white.

  ‘No,’ he said, almost in a whisper.

  ‘Good. Because we wouldn’t have done it anyway,’ said Snibril briskly. ‘And then you’ll come with us.’

  ‘But I don’t . . . know . . . what will happen next,’ said the wight. ‘I can’t remember!’

  ‘You joined us and went to Ware,’ said Snibril.

  ‘I can’t remember what’s going to happen!’

  ‘You joined us,’ Snibril repeated.

  Relief flooded across Athan’s face. Suddenly he looked frantically happy, like a child who has been given a new toy. ‘Did I?’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’ said Snibril. ‘It must be better than being dead.’

  ‘But this . . . this is thunorg thinking,’ said Athan. ‘The future is The Future, not . . . not . . .’ he hesitated, baffled, ‘. . . not . . . perha
ps . . . really? The future can be all different things—?’

  ‘Pick your own,’ said Snibril.

  ‘But destiny—’

  ‘That’s something you make up as you go along,’ said Snibril. ‘I’ve been finding that out.’

  He looked up at a faint sound, faint enough not to be heard except by someone who was a hunter and whose life depended on noticing tiny noises. For a moment he thought he saw a pale figure in the shadows, smiling at him. Then it vanished.

  Geridan was buried among the hairs with the Deftmene noble Parleon, son of Leondo, killed by a snarg, and the wight who had died.

  The remaining wights huddled amongst themselves, and Snibril could hear them arguing. But he knew he’d won. They hadn’t got a future any more. They had to have the one he’d given Athan. They weren’t used to making them for themselves.

  They cast the last of the hot varnish into swords and spearheads, and piled them up so that the ragged army could help themselves and when the army left they went too, leaving the cart alone and cold.

  A million times the wights lost, and were killed. But that was somewhere else, in a world that might have been. And now they were alive. And that’s known as History, which is only written by the living.

  Chapter 16

  They went by narrow tracks that wound in and out of overgrown thickets. In some places enormous hairs had fallen over the path. Dust and fluff grew thickly, choking the spaces between hairs so that they could only move by hacking their way through undergrowth that clawed and pricked them.

  Once, in a patch of thick orange hairs, something hurtled out of the tangled bushes and buried itself in a hair bole by Snibril’s head. It was a spear.

  Up in the hairs a shadow scampered, swinging to safety on a creeper while Deftmene arrows whined around it like hymetors. They never found out what it was, although it might have had something to do with the fact that, a little later, they found a city.

  It was not on any maps of the Carpet. For some time they had been walking through its overgrown streets, not realizing they were streets, until they found the statues. Little blue dust flowers grew on them, and fluff had planted itself around them, but they still stood in the centre of their lost city. They had been four kings; wooden crowns were on their wooden heads and they each pointed with one arm to a different point of the compass. Ferns grew around their feet, and small creatures had made their homes in crooks of arms and folds of carven clothing.