The Carpet People

by Terry Pratchett

  ‘Er,’ said Brocando. ‘Yes. We hope so.’

  ‘Right, then. And your people know how to fight. We’re four people in a strange land with enemies all over the place ... I think we need them. Anyway, we must see Culaina.’

  ‘But she’s told you, and it worked,’ said Brocando. ‘We can say thank you some other time—’

  ‘No,’ said Pismire. ‘If Glurk’s right, and she’s told him something she remembers from the future, and we don’t go . . . then, I don’t know, anything could happen. The whole fabric of the Carpet could roll up, or something. It would be the worst thing that could ever happen anywhere.’

  ‘Worse than—?’ Brocando began.

  ‘Worse than anything you could possibly imagine,’ said Glurk.

  They all thought about this.

  ‘She must trust you a lot, then,’ said Bane.

  For the rest of that day the pones moved on. On Acretongue’s back the four dozed, or looked out silently at the lengthening shadows. But for most of the time they were each busy with their own thoughts.

  Dust grew luxuriantly underfoot, and in it unseen little creatures buzzed and clicked. And growing on the apple-green fluff that draped itself in thick festoons high above were flowers, fluff flowers, bigger than a man, with petals that glittered in a thousand shades of green from deep olive to cool yellow, that gave out a scent that filled the glades and tasted like the colour of green.

  ‘Now this is very interesting,’ began Pismire, sitting up. It was the first time any of them had spoken in an hour.

  He stopped, and stared across the clearing. Every pone turned its head in that direction.

  ‘It’s something you don’t often see,’ he added. The others looked where he pointed.

  Among the greenery at the far side of the glade a wild pig was watching them solemnly. As they all turned it backed away hastily, and they could hear it crashing off through the hairs.

  ‘That’s common enough,’ grunted Bane.

  ‘It’s just that it was brown,’ said Pismire. ‘It should have been green. Almost all wild creatures in the Carpet take on the colour of the hairs where they were born. Protective camouflage.’

  ‘Perhaps it just wandered here,’ said Bane.

  ‘No,’ said Glurk, grinning. ‘Something brought it here. We’re nearly there. You’ll be amazed. You really will.’

  The pones turned, and pushed their way along another track. As they shouldered their way through the thick fronds, scores of small creatures scurried away hurriedly. They were all the colours of the Carpet.

  And then the pones stepped through . . .

  Hairs clustered in closely on the borders of a wide clearing, reflecting the dim glow from the thing in its centre.

  It was one uncut crystal of sugar. High as the Great Palace of Jeopard, whiter than a bone, the crystal glittered coldly in the green dimness. It caught all the light that filtered through the densely packed dust, and within its marvellous cubic bulk a shifting white glow danced. In parts it shone like polished varnish, reflecting the faces of the creatures that clustered round it.

  There were dust rabbits and weft borers of all colours, pigs by the herd, long-necked soraths, patient fat tromps, gromepipers, scurrying goats with spiral horns and creatures even Pismire could not recognize: a scaly thing with spikes on its back, and a long creature that seemed to be all legs. The clearing was filled with the sound of a thousand tongues . . . licking.

  Acretongue and his herd pounded forward, almost throwing Glurk and the rest out of the saddle. Smaller creatures leapt aside hastily to give them room.

  ‘It’s . . . beautiful,’ whispered Brocando at last. Bane stood staring up, gaping. Even Pismire was impressed.

  They climbed down from the pone’s back and walked gingerly up to the smooth surface. The animals licking the sugar hardly paid them any attention.

  Glurk cracked a piece off with his knife, and stood crunching it thoughtfully. ‘Have a taste,’ he said, tossing a piece to Bane. Bane bit it cautiously.

  ‘Sugar,’ said Bane. ‘I’ve only ever tasted it once before. There was a crystal down near the Hearthlands. The Emperor used to get it in very small amounts.’

  ‘Like honey, but different,’ said Brocando. ‘How does it get here?’

  ‘Like Grit, and Salt, and Ash do. From above,’ said Pismire. ‘We don’t know any more than that.’

  Instinctively they looked up at the spreading hairs.

  ‘Well, here’s our lunch, anyway.’ Brocando’s voice broke the silence. ‘Take your pick – fried tromp or baked gromer. No wonder they’re all colours. This must attract them from everywhere. Mind you,’ he added, ‘it hardly seems sporting to kill them while they’re not looking.’

  ‘So put away your knife,’ said a new voice.

  Pismire choked on his sugar.

  A figure stood a little way away. It was tall, with the thin face of a wight, and looked ghostly in the light of the crystal. It had a mass of white hair – it was hard to see where the hair ended and the shapeless long robe began. And she was young, but as she moved sometimes she was old, and sometimes she was middle-aged. Time moved across her face like shadows.

  One of her hands held the collar of a white snarg, which was swishing its tail menacingly.

  ‘Um,’ said Glurk, ‘this is Culaina.’

  The wight walked past them and patted Acretongue’s flank. The pone’s long neck turned and his little eyes looked at Culaina; then he clumsily lowered himself to his knees and laid his head on the ground.

  Culaina turned, and smiled. The whole clearing seemed to smile with her. The change was sudden, and dramatic.

  ‘So here you are,’ she said, ‘and now you must tell me of your adventures. I know you will, because I remember you did. Follow me. There will be food.’

  At the far side of the clearing was Culaina’s home, or one of her homes. It was no more than a roof of woven dust on poles. There were no walls or doors, no ditch or stockade to protect it at night, and no place for a fire. Above it was a large hive of hymetors. Animals cropped and dozed peacefully around Culaina’s camp.

  When Glurk and the others approached the hymetors hummed furiously and rose from their hive in an angry swarm. The four ducked and tried to protect their faces with their arms, until Culaina whistled once.

  The creatures swooped harmlessly overhead and returned, peacefully, to their home in the hairs. Glurk caught a glimpse of long sharp stings.

  ‘She sent them back,’ whispered Brocando urgently. ‘She just whistled and they obeyed her!’

  On the floor under the shelter was a pile of fruit and some bowls of green liquid.

  ‘I had this before,’ said Glurk. ‘It’s sap from the green hairs. Sets you up a treat.’

  They sat down. Pismire shifted uneasily, and Culaina smiled at him.

  ‘Say what you think,’ she said. ‘I remember that you did. But you must say it.’

  ‘Wights mustn’t tell people the future!’ said Pismire. ‘Everyone knows that! They never tell! It’s too dangerous for people to know what will happen! This is all—’

  ‘I remember I interrupted you here,’ said the wight. ‘Yes. I know the rules. And that’s what they are, and all they are. They are only rules. I am not, Pismire, quite like other wights. Have you ever heard the word . . . thunorg? I know you have.’

  ‘Oh, yes, the wights who can remember things that – oh. My word,’ said Pismire, shocked, ‘I thought that was just a story. I thought thunorgs were monsters.’

  ‘It is just a story. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. The rules don’t apply to me. They’re only rules. Rules don’t have to apply . . . not always. I don’t much care for cities. But this crushing and destruction of the Carpet . . . this forging of bronze and trampling of dust ...’

  She shook her head. ‘No. This shall not be. You will go to Ware tomorrow, before the mouls leave Jeopard. There will be a battle. You must win. I will not tell you how. But you must win. In the meantime,
you may spend this night here. Do not be afraid. Nothing comes to my house that I do not expect.’

  ‘No,’ said Bane, ‘I need to know. Why are you helping us? Wights remember everything that’s ever happened, and what will happen. And they don’t tell. What’s different about you?’

  Culaina put her head on one side.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ said Bane.

  ‘Yes. I was remembering what I told you. Yes. Now I remember. There is so much, you see ... so much . . .’ She stood up and walked a little way away from them. Then she turned. ‘Pismire should know this,’ she said. ‘Sometimes . . . very rarely, as rare as my albino snarg here . . . sometimes a wight is born who is different, as different from wights as they are from you. You see, we remember . . . everything.’

  ‘So do all wights,’ said Bane.

  ‘No,’ said Culaina. ‘They remember only all those things that happen. We remember things that might happen. I remember what will happen if you don’t win. I know all possibilities. For every thing that happens, a million things don’t happen. I live all of them. I remember you winning, and I remember you losing. I remember the mouls triumphant, I remember you triumphant. Both are real, for me. For me, both of these have happened. My brother and sister wights remember the thread of history. But I remember all the threads that never get woven. For me, all possibilities are real. I live in them all.’

  ‘But why?’ said Bane.

  ‘Someone must. Otherwise, they never could have happened.’

  She stepped into the shadows.

  They heard her voice. It seemed to come from somewhere distant. ‘Nothing has to happen. History isn’t something you live. It is something you make. One decision. One person. At the right time. Nothing is too small to make a difference. Anything can be changed.’

  The voice faded. After a while Bane got to his feet, feeling very clumsy, and peered into the shadows.

  ‘She’s gone.’

  ‘I wonder if she can ever be entirely in one place,’ said Pismire. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘I’m going to sleep,’ said Glurk. ‘I don’t know about you, but it’s been a busy day.’

  Several times Bane awoke, and thought he heard crashes and cries in the wind, but when he listened hard they seemed to disappear.

  Pismire dreamed. He saw hairs bending and bowing as if shaken by a high wind, and the gleam of ten thousand eyes, green, red and white, and the figure of Culaina, her hair caught and tugged by the air, treading through the noisy darkness, living everything that could be and might be and was.

  Glurk dreamed of slim bodies pushing swiftly through the undergrowth. As they passed the Carpet seemed to come alive. It was like a splash in a cup; the ripples ran out and out, getting bigger as they ran. Deep in underground caves sleeping creatures awoke, and howled. He saw the Thimbrule that lay far beyond Varnisholme, a great silver dome. He saw the glow as the wights mined their varnish at Varnisholme, the flames spouting from their forge.

  In his dream he moved through the night hairs like a spirit, until he came to the Endless Flatness. The Carpet ended suddenly, and from its shores the Flatness ran on for ever. He looked for hairs and there were none, just flatness without end, and balls of dust that were bowled over and over in the forlorn wind. And Culaina stood by the last hair, her robe flapping in the gusts.

  Glurk sat up suddenly.

  It was morning. Yellow light dappled the clearing, making the hairs shine like bronze. Brocando was still asleep. The others were talking quietly.

  One look was enough.

  ‘Not exactly dreams,’ said Pismire. ‘What we dreamed weren’t exactly dreams. She lives all her lives at once, we picked up echoes—’

  ‘I saw Culaina walking through the Carpet,’ began Glurk. ‘And I think I saw Snibril, too.’

  ‘And I saw the Hearthlands and the fire in the sky,’ added Pismire.

  ‘There were all sorts of creatures,’ said Glurk.

  Brocando turned over and opened his eyes. He listened to the others for a moment, then nodded. ‘I was back in the High Gate Land. There was a domed cave, and under the dome a throne of bronze with a Vortgorn on it. He had a yellow beard and a crown. Two mouls were standing in front of him. I’ll swear one of them was Gormaleesh. They were laughing. Then one snatched the crown, but the Vortgorn just sat with his chin on his hand and said nothing.’

  ‘That’d be Stagbat, their king,’ said Glurk. ‘I heard the Vortgorn guards talking. The mouls turned up one day after Fray had struck nearby and they said Fray was a Dumii weapon. They said they’d be allies. Now they run the place, of course.’

  ‘You can’t control Fray,’ said Pismire. ‘I keep on telling you, it’s a natural phenomenon.’

  ‘They always find our weak points,’ said Glurk. He looked across at Bane, who had been silent. ‘And what did you dream?’ he asked.

  ‘I dreamed ... I dreamed . . .’ Bane began, and then seemed to wake up. ‘I dreamed of nothing. I slept well.’

  There was no sign of Culaina. The pones had stayed.

  ‘They think life is going to be interesting,’ said Glurk. ‘They used to like working for the Vortgorns. People used to come and read them stories and things. Must be hard, having a brain and no hands to do things with it.’

  ‘We’d better go to Ware,’ said Bane. ‘I don’t think we’ve got any choice.’

  ‘We’ve got lots of choice,’ said Pismire. ‘It’s just that we’ve got to choose to go to Ware.’

  Glurk saddled up Acretongue. ‘Interesting times ahead,’ he said gloomily.

  Bane took a last look around the sugar clearing.

  ‘She’s here . . . somewhere,’ he said.

  ‘Everywhere,’ said Pismire. ‘Everywhere there’s a choice to be made.’

  There was a faraway look in Bane’s eyes. ‘What must it be like,’ he said, ‘to know everything that could happen?’

  ‘Terrible,’ said Pismire ‘Now, come along. Bane? I said come on . . .’

  Chapter 14

  Snibril had led the search, after the storm. They’d sifted through the rubble of the place. They’d gone down into Underlay, roped together, and shouted out the names of those who were lost. They’d found nothing.

  But as Pismire would have pointed out, finding nothing was better than finding . . . something.

  Then they’d discovered the tracks in the distant clearing. Lots of creatures had come up. It seemed to Snibril that there had been someone else following them, someone who had lain low for a while in the bushes . . . but everything was covered with dust shaken down by the storm, and it was hard to be sure. The tracks, such as they were, led south.

  The Munrungs had helped Brocando’s people rebuild walls and things, even though the rock itself was now visibly leaning over. And, as someone said, if Fray came again at least they now knew how to get into Underlay. Nothing would get them there.

  Snibril thought about this as he rode Roland through the hairs, looking for any more tracks.

  We can always go into Underlay, he thought. We can stop being people. We can just grub around in the dark.

  The Deftmenes think that no enemy is too big to fight, but we never even see Fray.

  The Dumii don’t think like that. They think that if an enemy is too big, you should find a smaller enemy.

  Maybe Pismire is right. We can’t stop Fray. But at least we can stop being frightened of Fray.

  ‘I’m going to Ware,’ he told the tribe that evening. They looked at him in horror. Technically, Glurk was still chief ... if he was alive. If he wasn’t, then Snibril was chief. Glurk’s children were all too young. No one wanted to lose another chief.

  ‘You can’t leave us,’ said Dodor Plint, who was the tribe’s shoemaker. ‘You’re the leader.’

  ‘Ware’s important,’ said Snibril. ‘We’d just be simple hunters if it wasn’t for the Empire.’

  The Munrungs looked at one another.

  ‘We are simple hunters,’ said Plint.

  ‘Yes,
but at least we know we are,’ said Snibril. ‘Anyway, we’ve got more complicated.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Crooly Wulf, who was nearly as old as Pismire. ‘People don’t hit one another over the head with clubs as much as they did when I was a boy. There’s more arguing.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean we’re better people!’ said Plint.

  Crooly Wulf rubbed his head. ‘I dunno,’ he said. ‘People are taller now. They don’t groan so much, either.’

  ‘Huh! But the Deftmenes don’t have anything to do with the Dumii,’ said Plint. ‘And they manage.’

  ‘They fight them,’ said Snibril, simply. ‘It’s amazing how things rub off, even when you fight people. Ideas like . . . like not just killing people all the time, that sort of thing.’

  A Deftmene put up his hand.

  ‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘The king always used to throw people off the rock in the old days.’

  ‘He still does,’ said another Deftmene.

  ‘Yes, but he doesn’t laugh about it so much. And he says he’s doing it for their own good.’

  ‘See?’ said Snibril desperately. ‘The Dumii have an effect. Even if you’re their enemy. I’m going south. Perhaps I can find the others. Perhaps the Empire can help us.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re our leader—’ Plint began again.

  ‘Then I’m going to lead!’ snapped Snibril. ‘Who else is coming?’

  Some of the younger Munrungs raised their hands.

  A Deftmene stood up. ‘Will there be fighting against impossible odds?’ he said.

  ‘Probably,’ said Snibril

  ‘Right! Count us in!’ A lot of Deftmenes nodded. Another one said: ‘And will we get a chance to fight to the death?’

  ‘You might get a chance to fight to the enemy’s death,’ said Snibril

  ‘Is that as good?’

  ‘Better.’

  ‘Right, then. We’re with you!’

  In the end three hundred and fifty Deftmenes and fifty Munrungs volunteered to go. On the Rock their families would be as safe as anywhere in the Carpet, they agreed, but someone had to stay. Anything could happen.