“Sod that,” he muttered. “What’s the good of being a wizard, after all? Avyento, thessalous! I would fly! To me, spirits of air and darkness!”
He spread a gnarled hand and pointed to a piece of crumbling parapet. Octarine fire sprouted from under his nicotine-stained nails and burst against the rotting stone far above.
It fell. By a finely calculated exchange of velocities Galder rose, nightshirt flapping around his bony legs. Higher and higher he soared, hurtling through the pale light like a, like a—all right, like an elderly but powerful wizard being propelled upward by an expertly judged thumb on the scales of the universe.
He landed in a litter of old nests, caught his balance, and stared down at the vertiginous view of a Disc dawn.
At this time of the long year the Circle Sea was almost on the sunset side of Cori Celesti, and as the daylight sloshed down into the lands around Ankh-Morpork the shadow of the mountain scythed across the landscape like the gnomon of God’s sundial. But nightward, racing the slow light toward the edge of the world, a line of white mist surged on.
There was a crackling of dry twigs behind him. He turned to see Ymper Trymon, second in command of the Order, who had been the only other wizard able to keep up.
Galder ignored him for the moment, taking care only to keep a firm grip on the stonework and strengthen his personal spells of protection. Promotion was slow in a profession that traditionally bestowed long life, and it was accepted that younger wizards would frequently seek advancement via dead men’s curly shoes, having previously emptied them of their occupants. Besides, there was something disquieting about young Trymon. He didn’t smoke, only drank boiled water, and Galder had the nasty suspicion that he was clever. He didn’t smile often enough, and he liked figures and the sort of organization charts that show lots of squares with arrows pointing to other squares. In short, he was the sort of man who could use the word “personnel” and mean it.
The whole of the visible Disc was now covered with a shimmering white skin that fitted it perfectly.
Galder looked down at his own hands and saw them covered with a pale network of shining threads that followed every movement.
He recognized this kind of spell. He’d used them himself. But his had been smaller—much smaller.
“It’s a Change spell,” said Trymon. “The whole world is being changed.”
Some people, thought Galder grimly, would have had the decency to put an exclamation mark on the end of a statement like that.
There was the faintest of pure sounds, high and sharp, like the breaking of a mouse’s heart.
“What was that?” he said.
Trymon cocked his head.
“C-sharp, I think,” he said.
Galder said nothing. The white shimmer had vanished, and the first sounds of the waking city began to filter up to the two wizards. Everything seemed exactly the same as it had before. All that, just to make things stay the same?
He patted his nightshirt pockets distractedly and finally found what he was looking for lodged behind his ear. He put the soggy dogend in his mouth, called up mystical fire from between his fingers, and dragged hard on the wretched rollup until little blue lights flashed in front of his eyes. He coughed once or twice.
He was thinking very hard indeed.
He was trying to remember if any gods owed him any favors.
In fact the Gods were as puzzled by all this as the wizards were, but they were powerless to do anything and in any case were engaged in an eons-old battle with the Ice Giants, who had refused to return the lawnmower.
But some clue as to what actually had happened might be found in the fact that Rincewind, whose past life had just got up to a quite interesting bit when he was fifteen, suddenly found himself not dying after all but hanging upside down in a pine tree.
He got down easily by dropping uncontrollably from branch to branch until he landed on his head in a pile of pine needles, where he lay gasping for breath and wishing he’d been a better person.
Somewhere, he knew, there had to be a perfectly logical connection. One minute one happens to be dying, having dropped off the rim of the world, and the next one is upside down in a tree.
As always happened at times like this, the Spell rose up in his mind.
Rincewind had been generally reckoned by his tutors to be a natural wizard in the same way that fish are natural mountaineers. He probably would have been thrown out of Unseen University anyway—he couldn’t remember spells and smoking made him feel ill—but what had really caused trouble was all that stupid business about sneaking into the room where the Octavo was chained and opening it.
And what made the trouble even worse was that no one could figure out why all the locks had temporarily become unlocked.
The spell wasn’t a demanding lodger. It just sat there like an old toad at the bottom of a pond. But whenever Rincewind was feeling really tired or very afraid it tried to get itself said. No one knew what would happen if one of the Eight Great Spells was said by itself, but the general agreement was that the best place from which to watch the effects would be the next universe.
It was a weird thought to have, lying on a heap of pine needles after just falling off the edge of the world, but Rincewind had a feeling that the spell wanted to keep him alive.
“Suits me,” he thought.
He sat up and looked at the trees. Rincewind was a city wizard and, although he was aware that there were various differences among types of tree by which their nearest and dearest could tell them apart, the only thing he knew for certain was that the end without the leaves on fitted into the ground. There were far too many of them, arranged with absolutely no sense of order. The place hadn’t been swept for ages.
He remembered something about being able to tell where you were by looking at which side of a tree the moss grew on. These trees had moss everywhere, and wooden warts, and scrabbly old branches; if trees were people, these trees would be sitting in rocking chairs.
Rincewind gave the nearest one a kick. With unerring aim it dropped an acorn on him. He said “Ow.” The tree, in a voice like a very old door swinging open, said, “Serves you right.”
There was a long silence.
Then Rincewind said, “Did you say that?”
“Yes.”
“And that too?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” He thought for a bit. Then he tried, “I suppose you wouldn’t happen to know the way out of the forest, possibly, by any chance?”
“No. I don’t get about much,” said the tree.
“Fairly boring life, I imagine,” said Rincewind.
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been anything else,” said the tree.
Rincewind looked at it closely. It seemed pretty much like every other tree he’d seen.
“Are you magical?” he said.
“No one’s ever said,” said the tree, “I suppose so.”
Rincewind thought: I can’t be talking to a tree. If I was talking to a tree I’d be mad, and I’m not mad, so trees can’t talk.
“Goodbye,” he said firmly.
“Hey, don’t go,” the tree began, and then realized the hopelessness of it all. It watched him stagger off through the bushes, and settled down to feeling the sun on its leaves, the slurp and gurgle of the water in its roots, and the very ebb and flow of its sap in response to the natural tug of the sun and moon. Boring, it thought. What a strange thing to say. Trees can be bored, of course, beetles do it all the time, but I don’t think that was what he was trying to mean. And: can you actually be anything else?
In fact Rincewind never spoke to this particular tree again, but from that brief conversation it spun the basis of the first tree religion which, in time, swept the forests of the world. Its tenet of faith was this: a tree that was a good tree, and led a clean, decent and upstanding life, could be assured of a future life after death. If it was very good indeed it would eventually be reincarnated as five thousand rolls of lavatory paper.
Strangely enough, he was not particularly worried. Twoflower was a tourist, the first of the species to evolve on the Disc, and fundamental to his very existence was the rock-hard belief that nothing bad could really happen to him because he was not involved; he also believed that anyone could understand anything he said provided he spoke loudly and slowly, that people were basically trustworthy, and that anything could be sorted out among men of goodwill if they just acted sensibly.
On the face of it this gave him a survival value marginally less than, say, a soap herring, but to Rincewind’s amazement it all seemed to work and the little man’s total obliviousness to all forms of danger somehow made danger so discouraged that it gave up and went away.
Merely being faced with drowning stood no chance. Twoflower was quite certain that in a well-organized society people would not be allowed to go around getting drowned.
He was a little bothered, though, about where his Luggage had got to. But he comforted himself with the knowledge that it was made of sapient pearwood, and ought to be intelligent enough to look after itself…
In yet another part of the forest a young shaman was undergoing a very essential part of his training. He had eaten of the sacred toadstool, he had smoked the holy rhizome, he had carefully powdered up and inserted into various orifices the mystic mushroom and now, sitting cross-legged under a pine tree, he was concentrating firstly on making contact with the strange and wonderful secrets at the heart of Being but mainly on stopping the top of his head from unscrewing and floating away.
Blue four-sided triangles pinwheeled across his vision. Occasionally he smiled knowingly at nothing very much and said things like “Wow” and “Urgh.”
There was a movement in the air and what he later described as “like, a sort of explosion only backward, you know?,” and suddenly where there had only been nothing there was a large, battered, wooden chest.
It landed heavily on the leafmold, extended dozens of little legs, and turned around ponderously to look at the shaman. That is to say, it had no face, but even through the mycological haze he was horribly aware that it was looking at him. And not a nice look, either. It was amazing how baleful a keyhole and a couple of knotholes could be.
To his intense relief it gave a sort of wooden shrug, and set off through the trees at a canter.
With superhuman effort the shaman recalled the correct sequence of movements for standing up and even managed a couple of steps before he looked down and gave up, having run out of legs.
Rincewind, meanwhile, had found a path. It wound about a good deal, and he would have been happier if it had been cobbled, but following it gave him something to do.
Several trees tried to strike up a conversation, but Rincewind was nearly certain that this was not normal behavior for trees and ignored them.
The day lengthened. There was no sound but the murmur of nasty little stinging insects, the occasional crack of a falling branch, and the whispering of the trees discussing religion and the trouble with squirrels. Rincewind began to feel very lonely. He imagined himself living in the woods forever, sleeping on leaves and eating…and eating…whatever there was to eat in woods. Trees, he supposed, and nuts and berries. He would have to…
“Rincewind!”
There, coming up the path, was Twoflower—dripping wet, but beaming with delight. The Luggage trotted along behind him (anything made of the wood would follow its owner anywhere and it was often used to make luggage for the grave goods of very rich dead kings who wanted to be sure of starting a new life in the next world with clean underwear).
Rincewind sighed. Up to now, he’d thought the day couldn’t possibly get worse.
It began to rain a particularly wet and cold rain. Rincewind and Twoflower sat under a tree and watched it.
“Rincewind?”
“Um?”
“Why are we here?”
“Well, some say that the Creator of the Universe made the Disc and everything on it, others say that its all a very complicated story involving the testicles of the Sky God and the milk of the Celestial Cow, and some even hold that we’re all just due to the total random accretion of probability particles. But if you mean why are we here as opposed to falling off the Disc, I haven’t the faintest idea. It’s probably all some ghastly mistake.”
“Oh. Do you think there’s anything to eat in this forest?”
“Yes,” said the wizard bitterly, “us.”
“I’ve got some acorns, if you like,” said the tree helpfully.
They sat in damp silence for some moments.
“Rincewind, the tree said—”
“Trees can’t talk,” snapped Rincewind. “It’s very important to remember that.”
“But you just heard—”
Rincewind sighed. “Look,” he said. “It’s all down to simple biology, isn’t it? If you’re going to talk you need the right equipment, like lungs and lips and, and—”
“Vocal cords,” said the tree.
“Yeah, them,” said Rincewind. He shut up and stared gloomily at the rain.
“I thought wizards knew all about trees and wild food and things,” said Twoflower reproachfully. It was very seldom that anything in his voice suggested that he thought of Rincewind as anything other than a magnificent enchanter, and the wizard was stung into action.
“I do, I do,” he snapped.
“Well, what kind of tree is this?” said the tourist. Rincewind looked up.
“Beech,” he said firmly.
“Actually—” began the tree, and shut up quickly. It had caught Rincewind’s look.
“Those things up there look like acorns,” said Twoflower.
“Yes, well, this is the sessile or heptocarpic variety,” said Rincewind. “The nuts look very much like acorns, in fact. They can fool practically anybody.”
“Gosh,” said Twoflower, and, “What’s that bush over there, then?”
“Mistletoe.”
“But it’s got thorns and red berries!”
“Well?” said Rincewind sternly, and stared hard at him. Twoflower broke first.
“Nothing,” he said meekly. “I must have been misinformed.”
“Right.”
“But there’s some big mushrooms under it. Can you eat them?”
Rincewind looked at them cautiously. They were, indeed, very big, and had red and white spotted caps. They were in fact a variety that the local shaman (who at this point was some miles away, making friends with a rock) would only eat after first attaching one leg to a large stone with a rope. There was nothing for it but to go out in the rain and look at them.
He knelt down in the leafmold and peered under the cap. After a while he said weakly, “No, no good to eat at all.”
“Why?” called Twoflower. “Are the gills the wrong shade of yellow?”
“No, not really…”
“I expect the stems haven’t got the right kind of fluting, then.”
“They look okay, actually.”
“The cap, then, I expect the cap is the wrong color,” said Twoflower.
“Not sure about that.”
“Well then, why can’t you eat them?”
Rincewind coughed. “It’s the little doors and windows,” he said wretchedly, “it’s a dead giveaway.”
Thunder rolled across Unseen University. Rain poured over its roofs and gurgled out of its gargoyles, although one or two of the more cunning ones had scuttled off to shelter among the maze of tiles.
Far below, in the Great Hall, the eight most powerful wizards on the Discworld gathered at the angles of a ceremonial octogram. Actually they probably weren’t the most powerful, if the truth were known, but they certainly had great powers of survival which, in the highly competitive world of magic, was pretty much the sam
e thing. Behind every wizard of the eighth rank were half a dozen seventh rank wizards trying to bump him off, and senior wizards had to develop an inquiring attitude to, for example, scorpions in their bed. An ancient proverb summed it up: When a wizard is tired of looking for broken glass in his dinner, it ran, he is tired of life.
The oldest wizard, Greyhald Spold of the Ancient and Truly Original Sages of the Unbroken Circle, leaned heavily on his carven staff and spake thusly:
“Get on with it, Weatherwax, my feet are giving me gyp.”
Galder, who had merely paused for effect, glared at him.
“Very well, then, I will be brief—”
“Jolly good.”
“We all sought guidance as to the events of this morning. Can anyone among us say he received it?”
The wizards looked sidelong at one another. Nowhere outside a trades union conference fraternal benefit night can so much mutual distrust and suspicion be found as among a gathering of senior enchanters. But the plain fact was that the day had gone very badly. Normally informative demons, summoned abruptly from the Dungeon Dimensions, had looked sheepish and sidled away when questioned. Magic mirrors had cracked. Tarot cards had mysteriously become blank. Crystal balls had gone all cloudy. Even tea leaves, normally scorned by wizards as frivolous and unworthy of contemplation, had clustered together at the bottom of cups and refused to move.
In short, the assembled wizards were at a loss. There was a general murmur of agreement.
“And therefore I propose that we perform the Rite of AshkEnte,” said Galder dramatically.
He had to admit that he had hoped for a better response, something on the lines of, well, “No, not the Rite of AshkEnte! Man was not meant to meddle with such things!”
In fact there was a general mutter of approval.
“Good idea.”
“Seems reasonable.”
Discworld 02 - The Light Fantastic Page 2