Last Continent

by Pratchett, Terry

  Well, at last. One of them had found it!

  The god had spent some time watching the wizards’ attempts at boat-building, although he had been unable to fathom out what it was they were trying to do. As far as he could tell, they were showing some interest in the fact that wood floated. Well, it did float, didn’t it?

  He threw the beetle into the air. It hummed into life at the top of the arc and flew away, a smear of iridescence among the treetops.

  The god drifted out of his tree and followed the Bursar.

  The god hadn’t made up his mind about these creatures yet, but the island was, unfortunately and against all his careful planning, throwing up all sorts of odd things. These were obviously social creatures, with some of the individuals designed for specific tasks. The hairy red one was designed for climbing trees, and the dreamy ant-stamping one for walking into them. Possibly the reasons for this would become apparent.

  ‘Ah, Bursar!’ said the Dean heartily. ‘How would you like a brief trip around the lagoon?’

  The Bursar looked at the soaking log and sought for words. Sometimes, when he really needed to, it was possible to get Mr Brain and Mr Mouth all lined up together.

  ‘I had a boat once,’ he said.

  ‘Well done! And here’s another one, just for—’

  ‘It was green.’

  ‘Really? Well, we can—’

  ‘I’ve found another green boat,’ said the Bursar. ‘It’s floating in the water.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure you have,’ said Ridcully kindly. ‘A big boat with lots of sails, I expect. Now then, Dean—’

  ‘Just one sail,’ said the Bursar. ‘And a bare naked lady on the front.’

  Hovering immanently, the god cursed. He’d never intended the figurehead. Sometimes, he really wanted to just break down and cry.

  ‘Bare naked lady?’ said the Dean.

  ‘Settle down, Dean,’ said the Senior Wrangler. ‘He’s probably just had too many dried frog pills.’

  ‘It’s going up and down in the water,’ said the Bursar. ‘Up and down, up and down.’

  The Dean looked at their own creation. Contrary to all expectations, it did not go up and down in the water. It stayed exactly where it was and the water went up and down over it.

  ‘This is an island,’ he said. ‘I suppose someone could have sailed here, couldn’t they? What kind of bare naked lady? A dusky one?’

  ‘Really, Dean!’

  ‘Spirit of enquiry, Senior Wrangler. Important bio-geographical information.’

  The Bursar waited until his brain came around again. ‘Green,’ he volunteered.

  ‘That is not a natural colour for a human being, clothed or not,’ said the Senior Wrangler.

  ‘She might be seasick,’ said the Dean. There was only the vaguest of wistful longings in his head, but he did not want to let go of it.

  ‘Going up and down,’ said the Bursar.

  ‘I suppose we could have a look,’ said the Dean.

  ‘What about Mrs Whitlow? She hasn’t been out of her hut yet.’

  ‘She can come too if she likes,’ said the Dean.

  ‘I don’t think we can expect Mrs Whitlow to go looking at a bare naked lady, even if this one is green,’ said the Senior Wrangler.

  ‘Why not? She must have seen at least one. Not green, of course.’

  The Senior Wrangler drew himself up. ‘There’s no call for that sort of imputation,’ he said.

  ‘What? Well, obviously she—’

  The Dean stopped. The big leaves on Mrs Whitlow’s hut were pushed aside, and she emerged.

  It was probably the flower in her hair. That was certainly the crowning glory. But she’d also done things to her dress.

  There was, for a start, less of it.

  Since the word is derived from an island that did not exist on the Discworld, the wizards had never heard of a bikini. In any case, what Mrs Whitlow had sewn together out of her dress was a lot more substantial than a bikini. It was more a newzealand – two quite large respectable halves separated by a narrow channel. She’d also tied some of the spare cloth around her waist, sarong style.

  In short, it was a very proper item of clothing. But it looked as if it wasn’t. It was as if Mrs Whitlow was wearing a figleaf six feet square. It was still just a figleaf.

  ‘Ai thought this might be a leetle more suitable for the heat,’ she said. ‘Of course, Ai wouldn’t dream of wearing it in the University, but since we appear to be here for a little while Ai remembered a picture Ai saw of Queen Zazumba of Sumtri. Is there anywhere Ai could have a bath, do you think?’

  ‘Mwaaa,’ said the Senior Wrangler.

  The Dean coughed. ‘There’s a little pool in the jungle.’

  ‘With waterlilies in it,’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. ‘Pink ones.’

  ‘Mwaaa,’ said the Senior Wrangler.

  ‘And there’s a waterfall,’ said the Dean.

  ‘Mwaaa.’

  ‘And a soap bush, as a matter of fact.’

  They watched her walk away.

  ‘Up and down, up and down,’ said the Bursar.

  ‘A fine figure of a woman,’ said Ridcully. ‘She walks differently without her shoes on, doesn’t she? Are you all right, Senior Wrangler?’

  ‘Mwaa?’

  ‘I think the heat’s getting to you. You’ve gone very red.’

  ‘I’m a mwaa . . . I’m . . . gosh, it is hot, isn’t it . . . ? I think perhaps I should have a dip too . . .’

  ‘In the lagoon,’ said Ridcully, meaningfully.

  ‘Oh, the salt’s very bad for the skin, Archchancellor.’

  ‘Quite so. Nevertheless. Or you can go looking for the pool when Mrs Whitlow comes back.’

  ‘I find it rather insulting, Archchancellor, that you should appear to think that—’

  ‘Well done,’ said Ridcully. ‘Now, shall we go and look at this boat?’

  Half an hour later all the wizards were assembled on the opposite shore.

  It was green. And it bobbed up and down. It was clearly a ship, but built perhaps by someone who’d had a very detailed book of ship-building which nevertheless didn’t have any pictures in it. There was a blurriness of the detail. The figurehead, for example, was certainly vaguely female, although to the Dean’s disappointment it had the same detail as a half-sucked jellybaby.

  It put the Senior Wrangler in mind of Mrs Whitlow, although currently rocks, trees, clouds and coconuts also reminded him of Mrs Whitlow.

  And then there was the sail. It was, without a shadow of a doubt, a leaf. And once you realized that it was a leaf, then a certain marrow or pumpkin quality about the rest of the vessel began to creep over you.

  Ponder coughed. ‘There are some plants which rely for propagation on floating seeds,’ he said, in a small voice. ‘The common coconut, for example, has . . .’

  ‘Does it have a figurehead?’ said Ridcully.

  ‘Er, one variety of mangrove fruit has a sort of keel which . . .’

  ‘And a sail with what looks very much like rigging?’ said Ridcully.

  ‘Er . . . no . . .’

  ‘And what are those flowers on the top?’ Ridcully demanded. Where a crow’s nest would be was a cluster of trumpet-shaped flowers, like green daffodils.

  ‘Who cares?’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. ‘It’s a ship, even if it is a giant pumpkin, and it looks as though there’s room for all of us.’ He brightened up. ‘Even if it is a bit of a squash,’ he added.

  ‘It has appeared very fortuitously,’ said Ridcully. ‘I wonder why?’

  ‘I said, “Even if it is a bit of a squash,”’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. ‘Because, a squash, you see, is another name for—’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Ridcully, looking thoughtfully at the bobbing vessel.

  ‘I was only attempting to—’

  ‘Thank you for sharing, Chair.’

  ‘Actually it does look pretty roomy,’ said the Dean, ignoring the Chair’s pained
expression. ‘I vote we load up with provisions and go.’

  ‘Where to?’ said Ridcully.

  ‘Somewhere where fearsome reptiles don’t suddenly turn into birds!’ the Dean snapped.

  ‘You’d prefer it the other way around?’ said Ridcully. He started to wade out into the water until, armpit deep, he was able to bang on the side of the hull with his staff.

  ‘I think you are being a little obtuse, Mustrum,’ said the Dean.

  ‘Really? How many types of carnivorous plants are there, Mister Stibbons?’

  ‘Dozens, sir.’

  ‘And they eat prey up to—?’

  ‘No upper limit in the case of the Sapu tree of Sumtri, sir. The Sledgehammer Plant of Bhangbhangduc takes the occasional human victim who doesn’t see the mallet hidden in the greenery. There’s quite a few that can take anything up to rat size. The Pyramid Strangler Vine really only preys on other more stupid plants, but—’

  ‘I just think that there’s something very odd about a boat-shaped plant turning up just when we want a boat,’ said Ridcully. ‘I mean, chocolate coconuts, yes, and even filter-tipped cigarettes, but a boat with a figurehead?’

  ‘It’s not a proper boat without a figurehead,’ said the Senior Wrangler.

  ‘Yes, but how does it know that?’ said Ridcully, wading ashore again. ‘Well, I’m not falling for it. I want to know what’s going on here.’

  ‘Damn!’

  They all heard the voice – thin, reedy and petulant. It came from everywhere around them.

  Small soft white lights appeared in the air, spun around one another with increasing speed, and then imploded.

  The god blinked, and rocked back and forth as he tried to steady himself.

  ‘Oh, my goodness,’ he said. ‘What do I look like?’

  He held up a hand in front of his face and flexed his fingers experimentally.

  ‘Ah.’

  The hand patted his face, his bald head, and lingered for a moment on the long white beard. He seemed puzzled.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said.

  ‘Er . . . a beard?’ said Ponder.

  The god looked down at his long white robe. ‘Oh. Patriarchality? Oh, well . . . let me see, now . . .’

  He seemed to pull himself together, focused his gaze on Ridcully, and his huge white eyebrows met like angry caterpillars.

  ‘Begone from This Place Or I Will Smite Thee!’ he commanded.

  ‘Why?’

  The god looked taken aback. ‘Why? You can’t ask why in this situation!’

  ‘Why not?’

  The god looked slightly panicky. ‘Because . . . Thou Must Go from This Place Lest I Visit Thee with Boils!’

  ‘Really? Most people would bring a bottle of wine,’ said Ridcully.

  The god hesitated. ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Or cake,’ said the Dean. ‘Cake is a good present if you’re visiting someone.’

  ‘It depends on what kind of cake,’ said the Senior Wrangler. ‘Sponge cake, I’ve always thought, is a bit of an insult. Something with a bit of marzipan is to be preferred.’

  ‘Begone from this place lest I visit you with cake?’ said the god.

  ‘It’s better than boils,’ said Ridcully.

  ‘Provided it’s not sponge,’ said the Senior Wrangler.

  The problem faced by the god was that, while he had never encountered wizards before, the wizards had in their student days met, more or less on a weekly basis, things that threatened them horribly as a matter of course. Boils didn’t hold much of a menace when rogue demons had wanted to rip your head off and do terrible things down the hole.

  ‘Listen,’ said the god, ‘I happen to be the god in these parts, do you understand? I am, in fact, omnipotent!’

  ‘I’d prefer that, what is it, you know, the cake with the pink and yellow squares—’ muttered the Senior Wrangler, because wizards tend to follow a thought all the way through.

  ‘You’re a bit small, then,’ said the Dean.

  ‘And the sugary marzipan on the outside, marvellous stuff …’

  The god finally realized what else had been bothering him. Scale was always tricky in these matters. Being three feet high was not adding anything to his authority.

  ‘Damn!’ he said again. ‘Why am I so small?’

  ‘Size isn’t everything,’ said Ridcully. ‘People always smirk when they say that. I can’t think why.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right!’ snapped the god, as if Ridcully had triggered an entirely new train of thought. ‘Look at amoebas, except that of course you can’t because they’re so small. Adaptable, efficient and practically immortal. Wonderful things, amoebas.’ His little eyes misted over. ‘Best day’s work I ever did.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but exactly what kind of god are you?’ said Ponder.

  ‘And is there cake or not?’ said the Senior Wrangler.

  The god glared up at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.

  ‘I meant, what is it that you’re the god of ?’ said Ponder.

  ‘I said, what about this cake you’re supposed to have?’ said the Senior Wrangler.

  ‘Senior Wrangler?’

  ‘Yes, Archchancellor?’

  ‘Cake is not the issue here.’

  ‘But he said—’

  ‘Your comments have been taken on board, Senior Wrangler. And they will be thrown over the side as soon as we leave harbour. Do continue, god, please.’

  For a moment the god looked in a thunderbolt mood, and then sagged. He sat down on a rock.

  ‘All that smiting talk doesn’t really work, does it?’ he said gloomily. ‘You don’t have to be nice about it. I could tell. I could give you boils, you understand, it’s just that I can’t really see the point. They clear up after a while, anyway. And it is rather bullying people, isn’t it? To tell you the truth, I’m something of an atheist.’

  ‘Sorry?’ said Ridcully. ‘You are an atheist god?’

  The god looked at their expressions. ‘Yes, I know,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit of a bottomer, isn’t it?’ He stroked his long white beard. ‘Why exactly have I got this?’

  ‘You didn’t shave this morning?’ said Ridcully.

  ‘I mean, I simply tried to appear in front of you in a form that you recognize as godly,’ said the god. ‘A long beard and a nightshirt seem to be the thing, although the facial hair is a little puzzling.’

  ‘It’s a sign of wisdom,’ said Ridcully.

  ‘Said to be,’ said Ponder, who’d never been able to grow one.

  ‘Wisdom: insight, acumen, learning,’ said the god thoughtfully. ‘Ah. The length of the hair improves the operation of the cognitive functions? Some sort of cooling arrangement, perhaps?’

  ‘Never really thought about it,’ said Ridcully.

  ‘The beard gets longer as more wisdom is acquired?’ said the god.

  ‘I’m not sure it’s actually a case of cause and effect,’ Ponder ventured.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t get about as much as I should,’ said the god sadly. ‘To be frank, I find religion rather offensive.’ He heaved a big sigh and seemed to look even smaller. ‘Honest, I really do try but there are some days when life just gets me down . . . Oh, excuse me, liquid seems to be running out of my breathing tubes . . .’

  ‘Would you like to blow your nose?’ said Ponder.

  The god looked panicky. ‘Where to?’

  ‘I mean, you sort of hold . . . Look, here’s my handkerchief, you just sort of put it over your nose and sort of . . . well, snuffle into it.’

  ‘Snuffle,’ said the god. ‘Interesting. And what a curiously white leaf.’

  ‘No, it’s a cotton handkerchief,’ said Ponder. ‘It’s . . . made.’ He stopped there. He knew that handkerchiefs were made, and cotton was involved, and he had some vague recollection of looms and things, but when you got right down to it you obtained handkerchiefs by going into a shop and saying, ‘I’d like a dozen of the reinforced white ones, please, and how much do you charge for em
broidering initials in the corners?’

  ‘You mean . . . created?’ said the god, suddenly very suspicious. ‘Are you gods too?’

  Beside his foot a small shoot pushed through the sand and began to grow rapidly.

  ‘No, no,’ said Ponder. ‘Er . . . you just take some cotton and . . . hammer it flat, I think . . . and you get handkerchiefs.’

  ‘Oh, then you’re tool-using creatures,’ said the god, relaxing a little. The shoot near his foot was already a plant now, and putting out leaves and a flowerbud.

  He blew his nose loudly.

  The wizards drew closer. They were not, of course, afraid of gods, but gods tended to have uncertain tempers and a wise man kept away from them. However, it’s hard to be frightened of someone who’s having a good blow.

  ‘You’re really the god in these parts?’ said Ridcully.

  The god sighed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I thought it would be so easy, you know. Just one small island. I could start all over again. Do it properly. But it’s all going completely wrong.’ Beside him the little plant opened a nondescript yellow flower.

  ‘Start all over again?’

  ‘Yes. You know . . . godliness.’ The god waved a hand in the direction of the Hub.

  ‘I used to work over there,’ he said. ‘Basic general godding. You know, making people out of clay, old toenails, and so on? And then sitting on mountaintops and casting thunderbolts and all the rest of it. Although,’ he leaned forward and lowered his voice, ‘very few gods can actually do that, you know.’

  ‘Really?’ said Ridcully, fascinated.

  ‘Very hard thing to steer, lightning. Mostly we waited until a thunderbolt happened to hit some poor soul and then spake in a voice of thunder and said it was his fault for being a sinner. I mean, they were bound to have done something, weren’t they?’ The god blew his nose again. ‘Quite depressing, really. Anyway . . . I suppose the rot set in when I tried to see if it was possible to breed a more inflammable cow.’

  He looked at the questioning expressions.

  ‘Burnt offerings, you see. Cows don’t actually burn all that well. They’re naturally rather soggy creatures and frankly everyone was running out of wood.’

  They carried on staring at him. He tried again.

  ‘I really couldn’t see the point of the whole business, to tell you the truth. Shouting, smiting, getting angry all the time . . . don’t think anyone was getting anything out of it, really. But the worst part . . . You know the worst part? The worst part was that if you actually stopped the smiting, people wandered off and worshipped someone else. Hard to believe, isn’t it? They’d say things like, “Things were a lot better when there was more smiting,” and, “If there was more smiting, it’d be a lot safer to walk the streets.” Especially since all that’d really happened was that some poor shepherd who just happened to be in the wrong place during a thunderstorm had caught a stray bolt. And then the priests would say, “Well, we all know about shepherds, don’t we, and now the gods are angry and we could do with a much bigger temple, thank you.”’