“I wonder, I wonder, I wonder, then, if you would be so kind, er, then, er, to—”
“Happy to, sir.” Lu-Tze swung round. “Right now, sir?”
“Oh, please, yes!”
“Right you are. Step forward, Lobsang Ludd!”
“Yes, Sweeper!”
Lu-Tze held out the worn robe and the elderly broom. “Broom! Robe! Do not lose them, we are not made of money!” he announced.
“I thank you for them,” said Lobsang. “I am honoured.”
Lobsang bowed. Lu-Tze bowed. With their heads close together and at the same height, Lu-Tze hissed, “Very surprising.”
“Thank you.”
“Nicely mythic, the whole thing, definitely one for the scrolls, but bordering on smug. Do not try it again.”
“Right.”
They both stood up. “And, er, what happens now?” said the chief acolyte. He was a broken man, and he knew it. Nothing was going to be the same after this.
“Nothing, really,” said Lu-Tze. “Sweepers get on with sweeping. You take that side, lad, and I'll take this.”
“But he is Time!” said the chief acolyte. “The son of Wen! There is so much we have to ask!”
“There is so much I will not tell,” said Lobsang, smiling. The abbot leaned forward and dribbled into the chief acolyte's ear.
He gave up. “Of course, it is not up to us to question you,” he said, backing away.
“No,” said Lobsang. “It is not. I suggest you all get on with your very important work, because this plaza is going to need all my attention.”
There were frantic hand signals amongst the senior monks and, gradually, reluctantly, the monastery staff moved away.
“They'll be watching us from every place they can hide,” mumbled Lu-Tze, when the sweepers were alone.
“Oh, yes,” said Lobsang.
“So, how are you, then?”
“Very well. And my mother is happy, and she will retire with my father.”
“What? A cottage in the country, that sort of thing?”
“Not quite. Similar, though.”
There was no sound for a while but the brushing of two brooms. Then Lobsang said, “I'm aware, Lu-Tze, that it is usual for an apprentice to give a small gift or token to his master when he finishes his apprenticeship.”
“Possibly,” said Lu-Tze, straightening up. “But I don't need anything. I've got my mat, my bowl and my Way.”
“Every man has something he desires,” said Lobsang.
“Hah! Got you there, then, wonder boy. I'm eight hundred years old. I've run through all my desires long ago.”
“Oh dear. That is a shame. I hoped I could find something.” Now Lobsang straightened up and swung his broom onto his shoulder.
“In any case, I must leave,” he said. “There is so much still to do.”
“I'm sure there is,” said Lu-Tze. “I'm sure there is. There's the whole stretch under the trees, for one thing. And while we're on the subject, wonder boy, did you let that witch have her broomstick back?”
Lobsang nodded. “Let us just say… I put things back. It's a lot newer than it was, too.”
“Hah!” said Lu-Tze, sweeping up a few more petals. “Just like that. Just like that. So easily does a thief of time repay his debts!”
Lobsang must have caught the rebuke in the tone. He stared down at his feet. “Well, perhaps not all of them, I admit,” he said.
“Oh?” said Lu-Tze, still apparently fascinated by the end of his own broom.
“But when you have to save a world you cannot think of one person, you see, because one person is a part of that world,” Lobsang went on.
“Really?” said the sweeper. “You think so? You've been talking to some very strange people, my lad.”
“But now I have time,” said Lobsang earnestly. “And I hope she'll understand.”
“It's amazing what a lady will understand, if you find the right way of putting it,” said Lu-Tze. “Best of luck, lad. You didn't do so bad, on the whole. And is it not written, ‘There's no time like the present’?”
Lobsang smiled at him, and vanished.
Lu-Tze went back to his sweeping. After a while, he smiled at a memory. An apprentice gives a gift to the master, eh? As if Lu-Tze could want anything that Time could give him…
And he stopped, and looked up, and laughed out loud. Overhead, swelling as he watched, the cherries were ripening.
Tick
In some place that had not existed before, and only existed now for this very purpose, stood a large, gleaming vat.
“Ten thousand gallons of delicate fondant sugar cream infused with essence of violet and stirred into dark chocolate,” said Chaos. “There are also strata of hazelnut praline in rich butter cream, and areas of soft caramel for that special touch of delight.”
SO… YOU'RE SAYING THAT THIS VAT COULD EXIST SOMEWHERE IN A TRULY INFINITE EVERYWHERE AND THEREFORE IT CAN EXIST HERE? said Death.
“Indeed,” said Chaos.
BUT IT NO LONGER EXISTS IN THE PLACE WHERE IT SHOULD EXIST.
“No. It should, now, exist here. The maths is easy,” said Chaos.
AH? WELL, MATHS, said Death dismissively. GENERALLY I NEVER GET MUCH FURTHER THAN SUBTRACTION.
“In any case, chocolate is hardly a rare commodity,” said Chaos. “There are planets covered in the stuff.”
REALLY?
“Indeed.”
IT MIGHT BE BEST, said Death, IF NEWS LIKE THAT DID NOT GET ABOUT. He walked back to where Unity was waiting in the darkness.
YOU DO NOT NEED TO DO THIS, he said.
“What else is there?” said Unity. “I have betrayed my own kind. And I am hideously insane. I can never be at home anywhere. And staying here would be an agony.”
She stared into the chocolate abyss. A dusting of sugar sparkled on its surface.
Then she slipped out of her dress. To her amazement she felt embarrassed about doing so, but still drew herself up haughtily.
“Spoon,” she commanded, and held out her right hand imperiously. Chaos gave a silver ladle a final, theatrical polish and passed it to her.
“Goodbye,” said Unity. “Do pass on my best wishes to your granddaughter.”
She walked a few steps back, turned, broke into a run, and took off into a perfect swallow dive.
The chocolate closed over her with barely a sound. Then the two watchers waited until the fat, lazy ripples had died away.
“Now there was a lady with style,” said Chaos. “What a waste.”
YES. I THOUGHT SO.
“Well, it's been fun… up to that point, anyway. And now I must be off,” said Chaos.
YOU'RE CONTINUING WITH THE MILK ROUND?
“People rely on me.”
Death looked impressed. IT'S GOING TO BE… INTERESTING TO HAVE YOU BACK, he said.
“Yeah. It is,” said Chaos. “You're not coming?”
I'M JUST GOING TO WAIT HERE FOR A WHILE.
“Why?”
JUST IN CASE.
“Ah.”
YES.
It was some minutes later that Death reached into his robe and pulled out a lifetimer that was small and light enough to have been designed for a doll. He turned round.
“But… I died,” said the shade of Unity.
YES, said Death. THIS IS THE NEXT PART…
Tick
Emma Robertson sat in the classroom with wrinkled brow, chewing on her pencil. Then, rather slowly, but with the air of one imparting great secrets, she set to work.
She wrote:
“We went to Lanker where there are witches they are kind they grow erbs. We met this which she was very jole and sang us a snog abot a hedghog it had dificut words. Jason try to kick her cat it chase him up a tre. I know a lot about wiches now they do not have warts they do not eat you they are just like your grane except your grane does not know difult words.”
At her high desk Susan relaxed. There was nothing like a classroom of bent heads. A good teacher use
d whatever materials there were to hand, and taking the class to visit Mrs Ogg was an education in herself. Two educations.
A classroom going well had its own smell: a hint of pencil shavings, poster paints, long-dead stick insect, glue, and, of course, the faint aroma of Billy.
There had been an uneasy meeting with her grandfather. She'd raged that he hadn't told her things. And he'd said, of course he hadn't. If you told humans what the future held, it wouldn't. That made sense. Of course it made sense. It was good logic. The trouble was that Susan was only mostly logical. And so, now, things were back in that uneasy, rather cool state where they spent most of their time, in the tiny little family that ran on dysfunctionality.
Maybe, she thought, that was a normal family state in any case. When push came to shove—thank you, Mrs Ogg, she'd always remember that phrase now—they'd rely on each other automatically, without a thought. Apart from that, they kept out of one another's way.
She hadn't seen the Death of Rats lately. It was too much to hope that he was dead. In any case, it hadn't slowed him down so far.
That thought made her think about the contents of her desk. Susan was very strict about eating in class and took the view that, if there were rules, then they applied to everyone, even her. Otherwise they were merely tyranny. But rules were there to make you think before you broke them.
There was still half a box of Higgs & Meakins' cheapest assortment tucked in there amongst the books and papers.
Opening the lid carefully and slipping her hand in was easy, and so was the maintenance of a suitably teachery face while she did so. Questing fingers found a chocolate in the nest of empty paper cups, and told her that it was a damn nougat. But she was resolute. Life was tough. Sometimes you got nougat.
Then she briskly picked up the keys and walked to the Stationery Cupboard with what she hoped was the purposeful step of someone about to check on the supply of pencils. After all, you never knew, with pencils. They needed watching.
The door clicked behind her, leaving only the dim light through the transom. She put the chocolate in her mouth and shut her eyes.
A faint, cardboardy sound made her open them. The lids were gently lifting on the boxes of stars.
They spilled out and whirled up into the shadows of the cupboard, brilliant against the darkness, a galaxy in miniature, gently spinning.
Susan watched them for a while, and then said, “All right, you have my full attention, whoever you are.”
At least, that was what she meant to say. The peculiar stickiness of the nougat caused it to come out as: “Allite, you ot my fo' a'nen'on, oover ooah.” Damn!
The stars spiralled around her head, and the cupboard's interior darkened into interstellar black.
“If iss is oo, Def o' Raffs—” she began.
“It's me,” said Lobsang.
Tick
Even with nougat, you can have a perfect moment.
The End
1. Except in very small universes
(<< back)
2. Mostly involving big, big beachballs.
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3. Quite an overrated activity.
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4. An edge witch is one who makes her living on the edges, in that moment when boundary conditions apply—between life and death, light and dark, good and evil and, most dangerously of all, today and tomorrow.
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5. But they still use forks, or, at least, the idea of forks. There may, as the philosopher says, be no spoon, although this begs the question of why there is the idea of soup.
(<< back)
6. And the story continues: The novice who had protested that it was only the shrine of a sweeper ran away from the temple, the student who said nothing remained a sweeper for the rest of his life; and the student who had seen the inevitable shape of the story went, after much agonizing and several months of meticulous sweeping, to Lu-Tze and knelt and asked to be shown the Right Way. Whereupon the Sweeper took him to the dojo of the Tenth Djim, with its terrible multi-bladed fighting machines and its fearsome serrated weapons such as the clong-clong and the uppsi. The story runs that the Sweeper then opened a cupboard at the back of the dojo and produced a broom and spake thusly: “One hand here and the other here, understand? People never get it right. Use good, even strokes and let the broom do most of the work. Never try to sweep up a big pile, you'll end up sweeping every bit of dust twice. Use your dustpan wisely, and remember: a small brush for the corners.”
(<< back)
7. One reason for this was the club food. At his club, a gentleman could find the kind of food he'd got used to at school, like spotted dick, jam roly-poly and that perennial favourite, stodge and custard. Vitamins are eaten by wives.
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8. Which is much harder than seeing things that aren't there. Everyone does that.
(<< back)
9. This is true. A chocolate you did not want to eat does not count as chocolate. This discovery is from the same branch of culinary physics that determined that food eaten while walking contains no calories.
(<< back)
10. Not “Did” anything, just “Did”. Some things were Done, and some things were Not Done. And the things that were Done, Igors Did.
(<< back)
11. Igors were loyal, but they were not stupid. A job was a job. When an employer had no further use for your services, for example because he'd just been staked through the heart by a crowd of angry villagers, it was time to move on before they decided that you ought to be on the next stake. An Igor soon learned a secret way out of any castle and where to stash an overnight bag. In the words of one of the founding Igors: “We belong dead? Excuthe me? Where doeth it thay ‘we’?”
(<< back)
12. And it has to be said that there was nothing intrinsically evil about Igors themselves. They just didn't pass judgement on other people. Admittedly, that was because if you worked for werewolves and vampires and people who looked on surgery as modern art rather than science, passing judgement would mean you'd never have time to get anything done.
(<< back)
13. Every society needs a cry like that, but only in a very few do they come out with the complete, unvarnished version, which is “Remember-the-Atrocity-Committed-Against-Us-Last-Time-That-Will-Excuse-the-Atrocity-That-We're-About-to-Commit-Today! And So On! Hurrah!”
(<< back)
14. The yeti of the Ramtops, where the Discworld's magical field is so intense that it is part of the very landscape, are one of the few creatures to utilize control of personal time for genetic advantage. The result is a kind of physical premonition—you find out what is going to happen next by allowing it to happen. Faced with danger, or any kind of task that involves risk of death, a yeti will save its life up to that point and then proceed with all due caution, yet in the comfortable knowledge that should everything go pancake-shaped, it will wake up at the point where it saved itself with, and this is the important part, knowledge of the events which have just happened but which will not now happen because it's not going to be such a damn fool next time. This is not quite the paradox it appears because, after it has taken place, it hasn't happened. All that actually remains is a memory in the yeti's head, which merely turns out to be a remarkably accurate premonition. The little eddies in time caused by all this are just lost in the noise of all the kinks, dips and knots put in time by every other living creature.
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15. But not tasteful.
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16. Teaching small children for any length of time can do this to a vocabulary.
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17. Up to ten dollars a pound, usually.
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18. If you live in a country where the tradition calls for mayonnaise, just don't ask. Just don't.
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FB2 document info
Document ID: 2384e5d68d75bb4b10131d7821353428
Document version: 1.1
Document creation date: 200
5-01-22
Created using: vim, perl software
Document authors :
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2005-01-22 Initial version
2005-03-11 Conversion to UTF8
Sequence number given according to FantasticFiction (http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/)
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Thief of Time tds-26 Page 33
