'She's alive. That means she is mortal,' said Susan. 'That means I can find her, too.' She turned and started to walk out of the library. 'If she says the sky is just blue overhead, what's between it and the horizon?' said the oh god, running to keep up. 'You don't have to come,' said Susan. 'It's not your problem.'
'Yes, but given that my problem is that my whole purpose in life is to feel rotten, anything's an improvement.'
'It could be dangerous. I don't think she's there of her own free will. Would you be any good in a fight?'
'Yes. I could be sick on people.' It was a shack, somewhere out on the outskirts of the Plains town of Scrote. Scrote had a lot of outskirts, spread so widely - a busted cart here, a dead dog there that often people went through it without even knowing it was there, and really it only appeared on the maps because cartographers get embarrassed about big empty spaces. Hogswatch came after the excitement of the cabbage harvest when it was pretty quiet in Scrote and there was nothing much to look forward to until the fun of the sprout festival. This shack had an iron stove, with a pipe that went up through the thick cabbage-leaf thatch. Voices echoed faintly within the pipe. THIS IS REALLY, REALLY STUPID. 'I think the tradition got started when everyone had them big chimneys, master.' This voice sounded as though it was coming from someone standing on the roof and shouting down the pipe. INDEED? IT'S ONLY A MERCY IT'S UNLIT. There was some muffled scratching and banging, and then a thump from within the pot belly of the stove. DAMN. 'What's up, master?' THE DOOR HAS NO HANDLE ON THE INSIDE. I CALL THAT INCONSIDERATE. There were some more bumps, and then a scrape as the stove lid was lifted up and pushed sideways. An arm came out and felt around the front of the stove until it found the handle.
It played with it for a while, but it was obvious that the hand did not belong to a person used to opening things. In short, Death came out of the stove. Exactly how would be difficult to describe without folding the page. Time and space were, from Death's point of view, merely things that he'd heard described. When it came to Death, they ticked the box marked Not Applicable. It might help to think of the universe as a rubber sheet, or perhaps not. 'Let us in, master,' a pitiful voice echoed down from the roof. 'It's brass monkeys out here.' Death went over to the door. Snow was blowing underneath it. He peered nervously at the woodwork. There was a thump outside and Albert's voice sounded a lot closer. 'What's up, master?' Death stuck his head through the wood of the door. THERE'S THESE METAL THINGS 'Bolts, master. You slide them,' said Albert, sticking his hands under his armpits to keep them warm. AH. Death's head disappeared. Albert stamped his feet and watched his breath cloud in the air while he listened to the pathetic scrabbling on the other side of the door. Death's head appeared again. ER ... 'It's the latch, master,' said Albert wearily. RIGHT. RIGHT. 'You put your thumb on it and push it down.' RIGHT. The head disappeared. Albert jumped up and down a bit, and waited. The head appeared. ER ... I WAS WITH YOU UP TO THE THUMB... Albert sighed. 'And then you press down and pull, master.' AH. RIGHT. GOT YOU. The head disappeared. Oh dear, thought Albert. He just can't get the hang of them, can he ... ? The door jerked open. Death stood behind it, beaming proudly, as Albert staggered in, snow blowing in with him. 'Blimey, it's getting really parky,' said Albert. 'Any sherry?' he added hopefully. IT APPEARS NOT. Death looked at the sock hooked on to the side of the stove. It had a hole in it. A letter, in erratic handwriting, was attached to it. Death picked it up. THE BOY WANTS A PAIR OF TROUSERS THAT HE DOESN'T HAVE TO SHARE, A HUGE MEAT PIE, A SUGAR MOUSE, 'A LOT OF TOYS' AND A PUPPY CALLED SCRUFF. 'Ah, sweet,' said Albert. 'I shall wipe away a tear, 'cos what he's gettin', see, is this little wooden toy and an apple.' He held them out. BUT THE LETTER CLEARLY 'Yes, well, it's socio-economic factors again, right?' said Albert 'The world'd be in a right mess if everyone got what they asked for, eh?' I GAVE THEM WHAT THEY WANTED IN THE STORE . . . 'Yeah, and that's gonna cause a lot of trouble, master. All them “toy pigs that really work”. I didn't say nothing 'cos it was getting the job done but you can't go on like that. What good's a god who gives you everything you want?'
YOU HAVE ME THERE. ‘It’s the hope that's important. Big part of belief, hope. Give people jam today and they'll just sit and eat it. jam tomorrow, now - that'll keep them going for ever.' AND YOU MEAN THAT BECAUSE OF THIS THE POOR GET POOR THINGS AND THE RICH GET RICH THINGS? '
's right,' said Albert. 'That's the meaning of Hogswatch.' Death nearly wailed. BUT I'M THE HOGFATHER! He looked embarrassed. AT THE MOMENT, I MEAN. 'Makes no difference,' said Albert, shrugging. 'I remember when I was a nipper, one Hogswatch I had my heart set on this huge model horse they had in the shop . . .' His face creased for a moment in a grim smile of recollection. 'I remember I spent hours one day, cold as charity the weather was, I spent hours with my nose pressed up against the window . . . until they heard me callin', and unfroze me. I saw them take it out of the window, someone was in there buying it, and, y'know, just for a second I thought it really was going to be for me ... Oh. I dreamed of that toy horse. It were red and white with a real saddle and everything. And rockers. I'd've killed for that horse.' He shrugged again. 'Not a chance, of course, 'cos we didn't have a pot to piss in and we even `ad to spit on the bread to make it soft enough to eat---' PLEASE ENLIGHTEN ME. WHAT IS SO IMPORTANT ABOUT HAVING A POT TO PISS IN? 'It's ... it's more like a figure of speech, master. It means you're as poor as a church mouse.' ARE THEY POOR? 'Well ... yeah.' BUT SURELY NOT MORE POOR THAN ANY OTHER MOUSE? AND, AFTER ALL, THERE TEND TO BE LOTS OF CANDLES AND THINGS THEY COULD EAT. 'Figure of speech again, master. It doesn't have to make sense.' OH. I SEE. DO CARRY ON. 'O' course, I still hung up my stocking on Hogswatch Eve, and in the morning, you know, you know what? Our dad had put in this little horse he'd carved his very own self . . .' AH, said Death. AND THAT WAS WORTH MORE THAN ALL THE EXPENSIVE TOY HORSES IN THE WORLD,EH? Albert gave him a beady look. 'No!' he said. 'It weren't. All I could think of was it wasnt the big horse in the window.' Death looked shocked. BUT HOW MUCH BETTER TO HAVE A TOY CARVED WITH--- 'No. Only grown-ups think like that,' said Albert. 'You're a selfish little bugger when you're seven. Anyway, Dad got ratted after lunch and trod on it.' LUNCH? 'All right, mebbe we had a bit of pork chipping tor the bread . . .' EVEN SO, THE SPIRIT OF HOGSWATCH--- Albert sighed. 'If you like, master. If you like.' Death looked perturbed. BUT SUPPOSING THE HOGFATHER HAD BROUGHT YOU THE WONDERFUL HORSE--- 'Oh, Dad would've flogged it for a couple of bottles,' said Albert. BUT WE HAVE BEEN INTO HOUSES WHERE THE CHILDREN HAD MANY TOYS AND BROUGHT THEM EVEN MORE TOYS, AND IN HOUSES LIKE THIS THE CHILDREN GET PRACTICALLY NOTHING.
'Huh, we'd have given anything to get practically nothing when I were a lad,' said Albert. BE HAPPY WITH WHAT YOU'VE GOT, IS THAT THE IDEA? 'That's about the size of it, master. A good god line, that. Don't give 'em too much and tell 'em to be happy with it. jam tomorrow, see.' THIS IS WRONG. Death hesitated. I MEAN ... IT'S RIGHT to BE HAPPY WITH WHAT YOU'VE GOT. BUT YOU'VE GOT TO HAVE SOMETHING TO BE HAPPY ABOUT HAVING. THERE'S NO POINT IN BEING HAPPY ABOUT HAVING NOTHING. Albert felt a bit out of his depth in this new tide of social philosophy. 'Dunno,' he said. 'I suppose people'd say they've got the moon and the stars and suchlike.' I'M SURE THEY WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO PRODUCE THE PAPERWORK. 'All I know is, if Dad'd caught us with a big bag of pricey toys wed just have got a ding round the earhole for nicking 'em.' IT IS ... UNFAIR. 'That's life, master.' BUT I'M NOT. 'I meant this is how it's supposed to go, master,' said Albert. NO. YOU MEAN THIS IS HOW IT GOES. Albert leaned against the stove and rolled himself one of his horrible thin cigarettes. It was best to let the master work his own way through these things. He got over them eventually. It was like that business with the violin. For three days there was nothing but twangs and broken strings, and then he'd never touched the thing again. That was the trouble, really. Everything the master did was a bit like that. When things got into his head you just had to wait until they leaked out again. He'd thought that Hogswatch was all ... plum pudding and brandy and ho ho ho and he didn't have the kind of mind that could ignore all the other stuff. And so it hurt him. IT IS HOGSWATCH, said Death, AND PEOPLE DIE ON THE STREETS. PEOPLE FEAST BEHIND LIGHTED WINDOWS AND OTHER PEOPLE HAVE NO HOMES. IS THIS FAIR? 'Well, of course, that's the big issue---' Albert began. THE PEASANT HAD A HANDFUL OF BEANS AND THE KING HAD SO MUCH HE WOULD NOT EVEN NOTICE THAT WHICH HE GAVE AWAY. IS THIS FAIR? 'Yeah, but if you gave it all to the peasant then in a year or two he'd be just as snooty as the king- --' began Albert, jaundiced observer of human nature. NAUGHTY AND NICE? said Death. BUT IT'S EASY TO BE NICE IF YOU'RE RICH. IS THIS FAIR? Albert wanted to argue. He wanted to say, Really? In that case, how come so many of the rich buggers is bastards? And being poor don't mean being naughty, neither. We was poor when I were a kid, but we was honest. Well, more stupid than honest, to tell the truth. But basically honest. He didn't argue, though. The master wasn't in any mood for it. He always did what needed to be done. 'You did say we just had to do this so's people'd believe-' he began, and then stopped and started again. 'When it comes to fair, master, you yourself-' I AM EVEN-HANDED TO RICH AND POOR ALIKE, snapped Death. BUT THIS SHOULD NOT BE A SAD TIME. THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE THE SEASON TO BE JOLLY. He wrapped his red robe around him. AND OTHER THINGS ENDING IN OLLY, he added. 'There's no blade,' said the oh god. 'It's Just a sword hilt.'
Susan stepped out of the light and her wrist moved. A sparkling blue line flashed in the air, for a moment outlining an edge too thin to be seen. The oh god backed away. 'What's that?'
'Oh, it cuts tiny bits of the air in half. It can cut the soul away from the body, so stand back, please.'
'Oh, I will, I will.' Susan fished the black scabbard out of the umbrella stand. Umbrella stand! It never rained here, but Death had an umbrella stand. Practically no one else Susan knew had an umbrella stand. In any list of useful furniture, the one found at the bottom would be the umbrella stand. Death lived in a black world, where nothing was alive and everything was dark and his great library only had dust and cobwebs because he'd created them for effect and there was never any sun in the sky and the air never moved and he had an umbrella stand. And a pair of silverbacked hairbrushes by his bed. He wanted to be something more than just a bony apparition. He tried to create these flashes of personality but somehow they betrayed themselves, they tried too hard, like an adolescent boy going out wearing an aftershave called 'Rampant'. Grandfather always got things wrong. He saw life from outside and never quite understood. 'That looks dangerous,' said the oh god. Susan sheathed the sword. 'I hope so,' she said. 'Er ... where are we going? Exactly?'
'Somewhere under an overhead sky,' said Susan. 'And ... I've seen it before. Recently. I know the place.' They walked out to the stable yard. Binky was waiting. 'I said you don't have to come,' said Susan, grasping the saddle. 'I mean, you're a ... an innocent bystander.'
'But I'm a god of hangovers who's been cured of hangovers,' said the oh god. 'I haven't really got any function at all.' He looked so forlorn when he said this that she relented. 'All right. Come on, then.' She pulled him up behind her. 'Just hang on,' she said. And then she said, `Hang on somewhere differently, I mean.'
'I'm sorry, was that a problem?' said the oh god, shifting his grip. 'It might take too long to explain and you probably don't know all the words. Around the waist, please.' Susan took out Violet's hourglass and held it up. There was a lot of sand left to run, but she couldn't be certain that was a good sign. All she could be certain of was that the horse of Death could go anywhere. The sound of Hex's quill as it scrabbled across the paper was like a frantic spider trapped in a matchbox. Despite his dislike of what was going on, there was a part of Ponder Stibbons that was very, very impressed. In the past, when Hex had been recalcitrant about its calculations, when it had got into a mechanical sulk and had started writing things like'+++ Out of Cheese Error +++'and'+++ Redo From Start +++' Ponder had tried to sort things out calmly and logically. It had never, ever occurred to him to contemplate hitting Hex with a mallet. But this was, in fact, what Ridcully was threatening to do.
What was impressive, and also more than a little worrying, was that Hex seemed to understand the concept. 'Right,' said Ridcully, putting the mallet aside. 'Let's have no more of this “Insufficient dates” business, shallwe? There's boxes of the damn things back in the Great Hall. You can have the lot as far as Im concerned---'
'It's data, not dates,' said Ponder helpfully. 'What? You mean like ... more than dates? Extra sticky?'
'No, no, data is Hex's word for ... well, facts,' said Ponder. 'Ridiculous way to behave,' said Ridcully brusquely. 'If he's stumped for an answer, why can't he write “You've got me there” or “Damned if I know,” or “That's a bit of a puzzler and no mistake”? All this “Insufficient data” business is just pure contrariness, to my mind. It's just swank-' He turned back to Hex. 'Right, you. Hazard a guess.' The quill started to write '+++ Insuff ' and then stopped. After quivering for a moment it went down a line and started again. +++ This Is Just Calculating Aloud, You Understand +++ 'Fair enough,' said Ridcully. .+++ The Amount Of Belief In The World Must Be Subject To An Upper Limit +++ 'What an odd question,' said the Dean. 'Sounds sensible,' said Ridcully. 'I suppose people just ... believe in stuff. Obviously there's a limit to what you can believe in. I've always said so. So what?' .+++ Creatures Have Appeared That Were Once Believed In +++ 'Yes. Yes, you could put it like that.' +++ They Disappeared Because They Were Not Believed In +++ 'Seems reasonable,' said Ridcully. +++ People Were Believing In Something Else Query? +++ Ridcully looked at the other wizards. They shrugged. 'Could be,' he said guardedly. 'People can only believe in so many things.' ... It Follows That If A Major Focus Of Belief Is Removed, There Will Be Spare Belief ... Ridcully stared at the words. 'You mean ... sloshing around?' The big wheel with the ram skulls on it began to turn ponderously. The scurrying ants in the .glass tubes took on a new urgency. 'What's happening?' said Ridcully, in a loud whisper. 'I think Hex is looking up the word “sloshing”,' said Ponder. 'It may be in long-term storage.' A large hourglass came down on the spring. 'What's that for?' said Ridcully. 'Er ... it shows Hex is working things out.'
'Oh. And that buzzing noise? Seems to be coming from the other side of the wall.' Ponder coughed. 'That is the long-term storage, Archchancellor.'
'And how does that work?'
'Er ... well, if you think of memory as a series of little shelves or, or, or holes, Archchancellor, in which you can put things, well, we found a way of making a sort of memory which, er, interfaces neatly with the ants, in fact, but more importantly can expand its size depending on how much we give it to remember and, er, is possibly a bit slow but----'
'It's a very loud buzzing,' said the Dean. 'Is it going wrong. 'No, that shows it's working,' said Ponder. 'It's, er, beehives.' He coughed.
'Different types of pollen, different thicknesses of honey, placement of the eggs ... It's actually amazing how much information you can store on one honeycomb.' He looked at their faces. 'And it's very secure because anyone trying to tamper with it will get stung to death and Adrian believes that when we shut it down in the summer holidays we should get a nice lot of honey, too.' He coughed again. 'For our ... sand ... wiches,' he said. He felt himself getting smaller and hotter under their gazes. Hex came to his rescue. The hourglass bounced away and the quill pen was jerked in and out of its inkwell. +++ Yes. Sloshing Around. Accreting +++ 'That means forming around new centres, Archchancellor,' said Ponder helpfully. 'I know that,' said Ridcully. 'Blast. Remember when we had all that life force all over the place? A man couldn't call his trousers his own! So ... there's spare belief sloshing around, thank you, and these little devils are taking advantage of it? 'Coming back? Household gods?' +++ This Is Possible +++ 'All right, then, so what are people not believing in all of a sudden?' +++ Out Of Cheese Error +++ MELON MELON MELON +++ Redo From Start +++ 'Thank you. A simple “I don't know” would have been sufficient,' said Ridcully, sitting back. 'One of the major gods?' said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. 'Hah, we'd soon know about it if one of those vanished.'
'It's Hogswatch,' said the Dean. 'I suppose the Hogfather is around, is he?'
'You believe in him?' said Ridcully. 'Well, he's for kids, isn't he?' said the Dean. 'But I'm sure they all believe in him. I certainly did. It wouldn't be Hogswatch when I was a kid without a pillowcase hanging by the fire--.-'
'A pillowcase?' said the Senior Wrangler, sharply. 'Well, you can't get much in a stocking,' said the Dean. 'Yes, but a whole pillowcase?' the Senior Wrangler insisted. 'Yes. What of it?'
'Is it just me, or is that a rather greedy and selfish way to behave? In my family we just hung up very small socks,' said the Senior Wrangler. 'A sugar pig, a toy soldier, a couple of oranges and that was it. Hah, turns out people with whole pillowcases were cornering the market, eh?'
'Shut up and stop squabbling, both of you,' said Ridcully. 'There must be a simple way to check up. How can you tell if the Hogfather exists?'
'Someone's drunk the sherry, there's sooty footprints on the carpet, sleigh tracks on the roof and your pillowcase is full of presents,' said the Dean. 'Hah, pillowcase,' said the Senior Wrangler darkly. 'Hah. I expect your family were the stuck-up sort that didn't even open their presents until after Hogswatch dinner, eh? One of them with a big snooty Hogswatch tree in the hall?'
'What if---' Ridcully began, but he was too late. 'Well?' said the Dean. 'Of course we waited until after lunch---'
'You know, it really used to wind me right up, people with big snooty Hogswatch trees. And I just bet you had one of those swanky fancy nutcrackers like a big thumbscrew,' said the Senior Wrangler. 'Some people had to make do with the coal hammer out of the outhouse, of course. And had dinner in the middle of the day instead of lah-di-dah posh dinner in the evening.'