Hogfather

by Terry Pratchett

Page 6

 

  You seem to have done all right, Mr Brown. The cart rattled towards 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. Thats my motto. Dress neat and walk away slowly. Never run. Never run. The WatchIl always chase a running man. Theyre like terriers for giving chase. No, you walk out slow, you walk round the corner, you wait till theres a lot of excitement, then you turn around and walk back. They cant cope with that, see. Half the time theyll 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 youve got the nerve.

  Oh, no, Mr Peachy. Doesnt 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. Whats 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 dont 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 AnkhMorpork seemed very far away, the sounds arriving as if through quite a thick wall. They were entering that scorned little corner of AnkhMorpork that had long been the site of the Universitys 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 town propty round here. Low levels of magic, my arse! Hah, its all right for them wizards, they got all kindsa spells to protect em. Bit of magic here, bit of magic there. . . Stands to reason its 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 theyll end up doing? said Ernie. Great-grandpa said sometimes theyd wake up in the morning and the cellard be higher than the attic. And that werent 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 sos you didnt 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 dont 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 dont 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 youd got an education - “ Oh, there might be some tempry 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 theres a pile of rubble by the old dead tree, although you wouldnt see it unless you looked closely. But Ive never seen how you do it . . .

  ere, I cant 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 ifn I take you through-

  Whats the worst that can happen? said Teatime. Youll lose your job. Whereas if you dont, youll die. So if you look at it like that, were actually doing you a favour. Oh, do say yes.

  Er . . . Ernies brain felt twisted up. The lad was definitely what Ernie thought of as a toff, and he seemed nice and friendly, but it didnt all add up. The tone and the content didnt match. Besides, said Teatime, if youve been coerced, its not your fault, is it? No one can blame you. No one could blame anyone whod been coerced at knife point.

  Oh, well, I spose, if were 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 snuff box. 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 dont 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. Thats 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. Wasnt 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 grey robes that hung in the air. There appeared to be nothing inside them. You could believe they were there merely to make 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 hes 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 wouldnt 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 indist
inguishable 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. Its 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.

  COULD I GIVE YOU A HAND? Ernie looked up gratefully. Cor, yeah, he said. He got to his feet, swaying a little. Here, your fingersre cold, mister! SORRY. Whatd he go and do that for? I did what he said. He couldve 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. YES INDEED. Death looked around briefly and sniffed the air. Howm I going to explain all this, then, eh? said Ernie, taking a pull. SORRY? THAT WAS VERY RUDE OF ME. I WASNT PAYING ATTENTION. I said whatm I going to tell people? Letting some blokes ride off with my cart neat as you like . . . Thats gonna be the sack for sure, Im gonna be in big trouble . . . All. WELL. THERE AT LEAST I HAVE SOME GOOD NEWS, ERNEST. AND, 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 its a seven-foot skeleton with a scythe telling you them. So Im dead, then, he concluded. CORRECT. Er . . . The priest said that . . . you know. after youre dead . . . its like going through a door and on one side of it theres . . . He. . . well, a terrible place . . . ? Death looked at his worried, fading face. THROUGH A DOOR. . . Thats what he said . . I EXPECT IT DEPENDS ON THE DIRECTION YOURE WALKING IN. When the street was empty again, except for the fleshy abode of the late Ernie, the grey 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 cant 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, theyd 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 didnt know it was a trap. Mice arent good at passing on information. Young mice arent 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. SQUEAK, said the Death of Rats. And that was it, more or less. Afterwards, the Death of Rats looked around with interest. In the nature of things his very important job tended to take him to brickyards 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 coloured streamers festooned the walls, a feature seldom found in most holes or even quite civilized cats. The Death 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 Rack and Nearly Real Blud You Can Use Again, you can get it From the toyshoppe 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 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 sherryflavoured 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 fight 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 grey whiskers twitched at messages like Wifhin 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 sledge 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 hearthrug, 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.