The drop fen.
It went gloop.
And that was all.
Ridcully, who'd been standing like a statue, sagged in relief.
‘I don't know,’ he said, turning away, ‘I wish you fellows would show some backbone—’
The fireball lifted him off his feet. Then it rose to the ceiling where it spread out widely and vanished with a pop, leaving a perfect chrysanthemum of scorched plaster.
Pure white light filled the room. And there was a sound.
TINKLE. TINKLE
FIZZ.
The wizards risked looking around.
The beaker gleamed. It was filled with a liquid glow, which bubbled gently and sent out sparkles like a spinning diamond.
‘My word…’ breathed the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
Ridcully picked himself up off the floor. Wizards tended to roll well, or in any case are well padded enough to bounce.
Slowly, the flickering brilliance casting their long shadows on the walls, the wizards gravitated towards the beaker.
‘Well, what is it?’ said the Dean.
‘I remember my father tellin' me some very valuable advice about drinks,’ said Ridcully. ‘He said, “Son, never drink any drink with a paper umbrella in it, never drink any drink with a humorous name, and never drink any drink that changes colour when the last ingredient goes in. And never, ever, do this—”’
He dipped his finger into the beaker.
It came out with one glistening drop on the end.
‘Careful, Archchancellor,’ warned the Dean. ‘What you have there might represent pure sobriety.’
Ridcully paused with the finger halfway to his lips.
‘Good point,’ he said. ‘I don't want to start being sober at my time of life.’ He looked around. ‘How do we usually test stuff?’
‘Generally we ask for student volunteers,’ said the Dean.
‘What happens if we don't get any?’
‘We give it to them anyway.’
‘Isn't that a bit unethical?’
‘Not if we don't tell them, Archchancellor.’
‘Ah, good point.’
‘I'll try it,’ the oh god mumbled.
‘Something these clo— gentlemen have cooked up?’ said Susan. ‘It might kill you!’
‘You've never had a hangover, I expect,’ said the oh god. ‘Otherwise you wouldn't talk such rot.’
He staggered up to the beaker, managed to grip it on the second go, and drank the lot.
‘There'll be fireworks now,’ said the raven, from Susan's shoulder. ‘Flames coming out of the mouth, screams, clutching at the throat, lying down under the cold tap, that sort of thing—’
Death found, to his amazement, that dealing with the queue was very enjoyable. Hardly anyone had ever been pleased to see him before.
NEXT! AND WHAT'S YOUR NAME, LITTLE… He hesitated, but rallied, and continued… PERSON?
‘Nobby Nobbs, Hogfather,’ said Nobby. Was it him, or was this knee he was sitting on a lot bonier than it should be? His buttocks argued with his brain, and were sat on.
AND HAVE YOU BEEN A GOOD BO… A GOOD DWA… A GOOD GNO… A GOOD INDIVIDUAL?
And suddenly Nobby found he had no control at all of his tongue. Of its own accord, gripped by a terrible compulsion, it said:
‘'s.’
He struggled for — self-possession as the great voice went on: SO I EXPECT YOU'LL WANT A PRESENT FOR A GOOD MON… A GOOD HUM… A GOOD MALE?
Aha, got you bang to rights, you'll be coming along with me, my old chummy, I bet you don't remember the cellar at the back of the shoelace maker's in Old Cobblers, eh, all those Hogswatch mornings with a little hole in my world, eh?
The words rose in Nobby's throat but were overridden by something ardent before they reached his voice box, and to his amazement were translated into:
‘'s.’
SOMETHING NICE?
‘'s.’
There was hardly anything left of Nobby's conscious will now. The world consisted of nothing but his naked soul and the Hogfather, who filled the universe.
AND YOU WILL OF COURSE BE GOOD FOR ANOTHER YEAR?
The tiny remnant of basic Nobbyness wanted to say, ‘Er, how exactly do you define “good”, mister? Like, suppose there was just some stuff that no one'd miss, say? Or, f 'r instance, say a friend of mine was on patrol, sort of thing, and found a shopkeeper had left his door unlocked at night. I mean, anyone could walk in, right, but suppose this friend took one or two things, sort of like, you know, a gratuity, and then called the shopkeeper out and got him to lock up, that counts as “good”, does it?’
Good and bad were, to Nobby's way of thinking, entirely relative terms. Most of his relatives, for example, were criminals. But, again, this invitation to philosophical debate was ambushed somewhere in his head by sheer dread of the big beard in the sky.
‘'s,’ he squeaked.
NOW, I WONDER WHAT YOU WOULD LIKE?
Nobby gave up, and sat mute. Whatever was going to happen next was going to happen, and there was not a thing he could do about it… Right now, the light at the end of his mental tunnel showed only more tunnel.
AH, YES …
The Hogfather reached into his sack and pulled out an awkwardly shaped present wrapped in festive Hogswatch paper which, owing to some slight confusion on the current Hogfather's part, had merry ravens on it. Corporal Nobbs took it in nervous hands.
WHAT DO YOU SAY?
‘nk you.’
OFF YOU GO.
Corporal Nobbs slid down gratefully and barged his way through the crowds, stopping only when he was fielded by Constable Visit.
‘What happened? What happened? I couldn't see!’
‘I dunno,’ mumbled Nobby. ‘He gave me this.’
‘What is it.’
‘I dunno…’
He clawed at the raven-bedecked paper.
‘This is disgusting, this whole business,’ said Constable Visit. ‘It's the worship of idols—’
‘It's a genuine Burleigh and Stronginthearm doubleaction triple-cantilever crossbow with a polished walnut stock and engraved silver facings!’
‘—a crass commercialization of a date which is purely of astronomical significance,’ said Visit, who seldom paid attention when he was in mid-denounce. ‘If it is to be celebrated at all, then—’
‘I saw this in Bows and Ammo! It got Editor's Choice in the “What to Buy When Rich Uncle Sidney Dies” category! They had to break both the reviewer's arms to get him to let go of it!’
‘—ought to be commemorated in a small service of—’
‘It must cost more'n a year's salary! They only make 'em to order! You have to wait ages!’
‘—religious significance.’ It dawned on Constable Visit that something behind him was amiss.
‘Aren't we going to arrest this impostor, corporal?’ he said.
Corporal Nobbs looked blearily at him through the mists of possessive pride.
‘You're foreign, Washpot,’ he said. ‘I can't expect you to know the real meaning of Hogswatch.’
The oh god blinked.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That's better. Oh, yes. That's a lot better. Thank you.’
The wizards, who shared the raven's belief in the essential narrative conventions of life, watched him cautiously.
‘Any minute now,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes confidently, ‘it'll probably start with some kind of amusing yell—’
‘You know,’ said the oh god, ‘I think I could just possibly eat a soft-boiled egg.’
‘—or maybe the cars spinning round—’
‘And perhaps drink a glass of milk,’ said the oh god.
Ridcully looked nonplussed.
‘You really feel better?’ he said.
‘Oh, yes,’ said the oh god. ‘I really think I could risk a smile without the top of my head falling off.’
‘No, no, no,’ said the Dean. ‘This can't be right. Everyone knows that a good hangover cure has got to involve a
lot of humorous shouting, ekcetra.’
‘I could possibly tell you a joke,’ said the oh god carefully.
‘You don't have this pressing urge to run outside and stick your head in a water butt?’ said Ridcully.
‘Er… not really,’ said the oh god. ‘But I'd like some toast, if that helps.’
The Dean took off his hat and pulled a thaumameter out of the point. ‘Something happened,’ he said. ‘There was a massive thaumic surge.’
‘Didn't it even taste a bit… well, spicy?’ said Ridcully.
‘It didn't taste of anything, really,’ said the oh god.
‘Oh, look, it's obvious,’ said Susan. ‘When the God of Wine drinks, Bilious here gets the aftereffects, so when the God of Hangovers drinks a hangover cure then the effects must jump back across the same link.’
‘That could be right,’ said the Dean. ‘He is, after all, basically a conduit.’
‘I've always thought of myself as more of a tube,’ said the oh god.
‘No, no, she's right,’ said Ridcully. ‘When he drinks, this lad here gets the nasty result. So, logically, when our friend here takes a hangover cure the side effects should head back the same way—’
‘Someone mentioned a crystal ball just now,’ said the oh god in a voice suddenly clanging with vengeance. ‘I want to see this—’
It was a big drink. A very big and a very long drink. It was one of those special cocktails where each very sticky, very strong ingredient is poured in very slowly, so that they layer on top of one another. Drinks like this tend to get called Traffic Lights or Rainbow's Revenge or, in places where truth is more highly valued, Hello and Goodbye, Mr Brain Cell.
In addition, this drink had some lettuce floating in it. And a slice of lemon and a piece of pineapple hooked coquettishly on the side of the glass, which had sugar frosted round the rim. There were two paper umbrellas, one pink and one blue, and they each had a cherry on the end.
And someone had taken the trouble to freeze ice cubes in the shape of little elephants. After that, there's no hope. You might as well be drinking in a place called the Cococobana.
The God of Wine picked it up lovingly. It was his kind of drink.
There was a rumba going on in the background. There were also a couple of young ladies snuggling up to him. It was going to be a good night. It was always a good night.
‘Happy Hogswatch, everyone!’ he said, and raised the glass.
And then: ‘Can anyone hear something?’
Someone blew a paper squeaker at him.
‘No, seriously… like a sort of descending note.’
Since no one paid this any attention he shrugged, and nudged one of his fellow drinkers.
‘How about we have a couple more and go to this club I know?’ he said.
And then…
The wizards leaned back, and one or two of them grimaced.
Only the oh god stayed glued to the glass, face contorted in a vicious smile.
‘We have eructation!’ he shouted, and punched the air. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes! The worm is on the other boot now, eh? Hah! How do you like them apples, huh?’
‘Well, mainly apples—’ said the Dean.
‘Looked like a lot of other things to me,’ said Ridcully. ‘It seems we have reversed the cause-effect flow…’
‘Will it be permanent?’ said the oh god hopefully.
‘I shouldn't think so. After all, you are the God of Hangovers. It'll probably just reverse itself again when the potion wears off.’
‘Then I may not have much time. Bring me… let's see… twenty pints of lager, some pepper vodka and a bottle of coffee liqueur! With an umbrella in it! Let's see how he enjoys that, Mr You've Got Room For Another One In There!’
Susan grabbed his hand and pulled him over to a bench.
‘I didn't have you sobered up just so you could go on a binge!’ she said.
He blinked at her. ‘You didn't?’
‘I want you to help me!’
‘Help you what?’
‘You said you'd never been human before, didn't you?’
‘Er…’ The oh god looked down at himself. ‘That's right,’ he said. ‘Never.’
‘You've never incarnated?’ said Ridcully.
‘Surely that's a rather personal question, isn't it?’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies.
‘That's… right,’ said the oh god. ‘Odd, that. I remember always having headaches… but never having a head. That can't be right, can it?’
‘You existed in potentia?’ said Ridcully.
‘Did I?’
‘Did he?’ said Susan.
Ridcully paused. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘I think I did it, didn't I? I said something to young Stibbons about drinking and hangovers, didn't I …?’
‘And you created him just like that?’ said the Dean. ‘I find that very hard to believe, Mustrum. Hah! Out of thin air? I suppose we can all do that, can we? Anyone care to think up some new pixie?’
‘Like the Hair Loss Fairy?’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. The other wizards laughed.
‘I am not losing my hair!’ snapped the Dean. ‘It is just very finely spaced.’
‘Half on your head and half on your hairbrush,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
‘No sense in bein' bashful about goin' bald,’ said Ridcully evenly. ‘Anyway, you know what they say about bald men, Dean.’
‘Yes, they say, “Look at him, he's got no hair,”’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. The Dean had been annoying him lately.
‘For the last time,’ shouted the Dean, ‘I am not—’
He stopped.
There was a glingleglingleglingle noise.
‘I wish I knew where that was coming from,’ said Ridcully.
‘Er…’ the Dean began. ‘Is there… something on my head?’
The other wizards stared.
Something was moving under his hat.
Very carefully, he reached up and removed it.
The very small gnome sitting on his head had a chimp of the Dean's hair in each hand. It blinked guiltily in the light.
‘Is there a problem?’ it said.
‘Get it off me!’ the Dean yelled.
The wizards hesitated. They were all vaguely aware of the theory that very small creatures could pass on diseases, and while the gnome was larger than such creatures were generally thought to be, no one wanted to catch Expanding Scalp Sickness.
Susan grabbed it.
‘Are you the Hair Loss Fairy?’ she said.
‘Apparently,’ said the gnome, wriggling in her grip.
The Dean ran his hands desperately through his hair.
‘What have you been doing with my hair?’ he demanded.
‘Well, some of it I think I have to put on hairbrushes,’ said the gnome, ‘but sometimes I think I weave it into little mats to block up the bath with.’
‘What do you mean, you think?’ said Ridcully.
‘Just a minute,’ said Susan. She turned to the oh god. ‘Where exactly were you before I found you in the snow?’
‘Er… sort of… everywhere, I think,’ said the oh god. ‘Anywhere where drink had been consumed in beastly quantities some time previously, you could say.’
‘Ah—ha,’ said Ridcully. ‘You were an immanent vital force, yes?’
‘I suppose I could have been,’ the oh god conceded.
‘And when we joked about the Hair Loss Fairy it suddenly focused on the Dean's head,’ said Ridcully, ‘where its operations have been noticeable to all of us in recent months although of course we have been far too polite to pass comment on the subject.’
‘You're calling things into being,’ said Susan.
‘Things like the Give the Dean a Huge Bag of Money Goblin?’ said the Dean, who could think very quickly at times. He looked around hopefully. ‘Anyone hear any fairy tinkling?’
‘Do you often get given huge bags of money, sir?’ said Susan.
‘Not on what you'd call a daily basis, n
o,’ said the Dean. ‘But if—’
‘Then there probably isn't any occult room for a Huge Bags of Money Goblin,’ said Susan.
‘I personally have always wondered what happens to my socks,’ said the Bursar cheerfully. ‘You know how there's always one missing? When I was a lad I always thought that something was taking them…’
The wizards gave this some thought. Then they all heard it — the little crinkly tinkling noise of magic taking place.
The Archchancellor pointed dramatically skywards.
‘To the laundry!’ he said.
‘It's downstairs, Ridcully,’ said the Dean.
‘Down to the laundry!’
‘And you know Mrs Whitlow doesn't like us going in there,’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies.
‘And who is Archchancellor of this University, may I ask?’ said Ridcully. ‘Is it Mrs Whitlow? I don't think so! Is it me? Why, how amazing, I do believe it is!’
‘Yes, but you know what she can be like,’ said the Chair.
‘Er, yes, that's true—’ Ridcully began.
‘I believe she's gone to her sister's for the holiday,’ said the Bursar.
‘We certainly don't have to take orders from any kind of housekeeper!’ said the Archchancellor. ‘To the laundry!’
The wizards surged out excitedly, leaving Susan, the oh god, the Verruca Gnome and the Hair Loss Fairy.
‘Tell me again who those people were,’ said the oh god.
‘Some of the cleverest men in the world,’ said Susan.
‘And I'm sober, am I?’
‘Clever isn't the same as sensible,’ said Susan, ‘and they do say that if you wish to walk the path to wisdom then for your first step you must become as a small child.’
‘Do you think they've heard about the second step?’
Susan sighed. ‘Probably not, but sometimes they fall over it while they're running around shouting.’
‘Ah.’ The oh god looked around. ‘Do you think they have any soft drinks here?’ he said.
The path to wisdom does, in fact, begin with a single step.
Where people go wrong is in ignoring all the thousands of other steps that come after it. They make the single step of deciding to become one with the universe, and for some reason forget to take the logical next step of living for seventy years on a mountain and a daily bowl of rice and yak-butter tea that would give it any kind of meaning. While evidence says that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, they're probably all on first steps.
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