Hogfather tds-20

by Terry David John Pratchett

‘What's the matter?’ said Bilious. ‘It's just a wardrobe, isn't it? It's for putting all your old clothes in so that there's no room for your new clothes.’

  The doors of the wardrobe swung open.

  Chickenwire managed to thrust out his arms and grab the sides and, for a moment, he stood quite still.

  Then he was pulled into the wardrobe in one sudden movement and the doors slammed shut.

  The little brass key turned in the lock with a click.

  ‘We ought to get him out,’ said the oh god, running up the steps.

  ‘Why?’ Violet demanded. ‘They are not very nice people! I know that one. When he brought me food he made… suggestive comments.’

  ‘Yes, but…’ Bilious hadn't ever seen a face like that, outside of a mirror. Chickenwire had looked very, very sick.

  He turned the key and opened the doors.

  ‘Oh dear…’

  ‘I don't want to see! I don't want to see!’ said Violet, looking over his shoulder.

  Bilious reached down and picked up a pair of boots that stood neatly in the middle of the wardrobe's floor.

  Then he put them back carefully and walked around the wardrobe. It was plywood. The words ‘Dratley and Sons, Phedre Road, Ankh-Morpork’ were stamped in one corner in faded ink.

  ‘Is it magic?’ said Violet nervously.

  ‘I don't know if something magic has the maker's name on it,’ said Bilious.

  ‘There are magic wardrobes,’ said Violet nervously. ‘If you go into them, you come out in a magic land.’

  Bilious looked at the boots again.

  ‘Um… yes,’ he said.

  I THINK I MUST TELL YOU SOMETHING, said Death.

  ‘Yes, I think you should,’ said Ridcully. ‘I've got little devils running round the place eating socks and pencils, earlier tonight we sobered up someone who thinks he's a God of Hangovers and half my wizards are trying to cheer up the Cheerful Fairy. We thought something must've happened to the Hogfather. We were right, right?’

  ‘Hex was right, Archchancellor,’ Ponder corrected him.

  HEX? WHAT IS HEX?

  ‘Er… Hex thinks — that is, calculates — that there's been a big change in the nature of belief today,’ said Ponder. He felt, he did not know why, that Death was probably not in favour of unliving things that thought.

  MR HEX WAS REMARKABLY ASTUTE. THE HOGFATHER HAS BEEN… Death paused. THERE IS NO SENSIBLE HUMAN WORD. DEAD, IN A WAY, BUT NOT EXACTLY… A GOD CANNOT BE KILLED. NEVER COMPLETELY KILLED. HE HAS BEEN, SHALL WE SAY, SEVERELY REDUCED.

  ‘Ye gods!’ said Ridcully. ‘Who'd want to kill off the old boy?’

  HE HAS ENEMIES.

  ‘What did he do? Miss a chimney?’

  EVERY LIVING THING HAS ENEMIES.

  ‘What, everything?’

  YES. EVERYTHING. POWERFUL ENEMIES. BUT THEY HAVE GONE TOO FAR THIS TIME. NOW THEY ARE USING PEOPLE.

  ‘Who are?’

  THOSE WHO THINK THE UNIVERSE SHOULD BE A LOT OF ROCKS MOVING IN CURVES. HAVE YOU EVER HEARD OF THE AUDITORS?

  ‘I suppose the Bursar may have done—’

  NOT AUDITORS OF MONEY. AUDITORS OF REALITY. THEY THINK OF LIFE AS A STAIN ON THE UNIVERSE. A PESTILENCE. MESSY. GETTING IN THE WAY.

  ‘In the way of what?’

  THE EFFICIENT RUNNING OF THE UNIVERSE.

  ‘I thought it was run for us… Well, for the Professor of Applied Anthropics, actually, but we're allowed to tag along,’ said Ridcully. He scratched his chin. ‘And I could certainly run a marvellous university here if only we didn't have to have these damn students underfoot all the time.’

  QUITE SO.

  ‘They want to get rid of us?’

  THEY WANT YOU TO BE… LESS… DAMN, I'VE FORGOTTEN THE WORD. UNTRUTHFUL? THE HOGFATHER IS A SYMBOL OF THIS… Death snapped his fingers, causing echoes to bounce off the walls, and added, WISTFUL LYING?

  ‘Untruthful?’ said Ridcully. ‘Me? I'm as honest as the day is long! Yes, what is it this time?’

  Ponder had tugged at his robe and now he whispered something in his ear. Ridcully cleared his throat.

  ‘I am reminded that this is in fact the shortest day of the year,’ he said. ‘However, this does not undermine the point that I just made, although I thank my colleague for his invaluable support and constant readiness to correct minor if not downright trivial errors. I am a remarkably truthful man, sir. Things said at University council meetings don't count.’

  I MEAN HUMANITY IN GENERAL. ER… THE ACT OF TELLING THE UNIVERSE IT IS OTHER THAN IT IS?

  ‘You've got me there,’ said Ridcully. ‘Anyway, why're you doing the job?’

  SOMEONE MUST. IT IS VITALLY IMPORTANT. THEY MUST BE SEEN, AND BELIEVED. BEFORE DAWN, THERE MUST BE ENOUGH BELIEF IN THE HOGFATHER.

  ‘Why?’ said Ridcully.

  SO THAT THE SUN WILL COME UP.

  The two wizards gawped at him.

  I SELDOM JOKE, said Death.

  At which point there was a scream of horror.

  ‘That sounded like the Bursar,’ said Ridcully. ‘And he's been doing so well up to now.’

  The reason for the Bursar's scream lay on the floor of his bedroom.

  It was a man. He was dead. No one alive had that kind of expression.

  Some of the other wizards had got there first. Ridcully pushed his way through the crowd.

  ‘Ye gods,’ he said. ‘What a face! He looks as though he died of fright! What happened?’

  ‘Well,’ said the Dean, ‘as far as I can tell, the Bursar opened his wardrobe and found the man inside.’

  ‘Really? I wouldn't have said the poor old Bursar was all that frightening.’

  ‘No, Archchancellor. The corpse fell out on him.’

  The Bursar was standing in the corner, wearing his old familiar expression of good-humoured concussion.

  ‘You all right, old fellow?’ said Ridcully. ‘What's eleven per cent of 1,276?’

  ‘One hundred and forty point three six,’ said the Bursar promptly.

  ‘Ah, right as rain,’ said Ridcully cheerfully.

  ‘I don't see why,’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. ‘Just because he can do things with numbers doesn't mean everything else is fine.’

  ‘Doesn't need to be,’ said Ridcully. ‘Numbers is what he has to do. The poor chap might be slightly yoyo, but I've been reading about it. He's one of these idiot servants.’

  ‘Savants,’ said the Dean patiently. ‘The word is savants, Ridcully.’

  ‘Whatever. Those chaps who can tell you what day of the week the first of Grune was a hundred years ago—’

  ‘—Tuesday—’ said the Bursar.

  ‘—but can't tie their bootlaces,’ said Ridcully. ‘What was a corpse doing in his wardrobe? And no one is to say “Not a lot,” or anythin' tasteless like that. Haven't had a corpse in a wardrobe since that business with Archchancellor Buckleby.’

  ‘We all warned Buckleby that the lock was too stiff,’ said the Dean.

  ‘Just out of interest, why was the Bursar fiddling with his wardrobe at this time of night?’ said Ridcully.

  The wizards looked sheepish.

  ‘We were… playing Sardines, Archchancellor,’ said the Dean.

  ‘What's that?’

  ‘It's like Hide and Seek, but when you find someone you have to squeeze in with them,’ said the Dean.

  ‘I just want to be clear about this,’ said Ridcully. ‘My senior wizards have spent the evening playing Hide and Seek?’

  ‘Oh, not the whole evening,’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. ‘We played Grandmother's Footsteps and I Spy for quite a while until the Senior Wrangler made a scene just because we wouldn't let him spell chandelier with an S.’

  ‘Party games? You fellows?’

  The Dean sidled closer.

  ‘It's Miss Smith,’ he mumbled. ‘When we don't join in she bursts into tears.’

  ‘Who's Miss Smith?’

  ‘The Cheerful Fairy,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes glumly. �
�If you don't say yes to everything her lip wobbles like a plate of jelly. It's unbearable.’

  ‘We just joined in to stop her weeping,’ said the Dean. ‘It's amazing how one woman can be so soggy.’

  ‘If we're not cheerful she bursts into tears,’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. ‘The Senior Wrangler's doing some juggling for her at the moment.’

  ‘But he can't juggle!’

  ‘I think that's cheering her up a bit.’

  ‘What you're tellin' me, then, is that my wizards are prancing around playin' children's games just to cheer up some dejected fairy?’

  ‘Er… yes.’

  ‘I thought you had to clap your hands and say you believed in 'em,’ said Ridcully. ‘Correct me if I'm wrong.’

  ‘That's just for the little shiny ones,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. ‘Not for the ones in saggy cardigans with half a dozen hankies stuffed up their sleeves.’

  Ridcully looked at the corpse again.

  ‘Anyone know who he is? Looks a bit of a ruffian to me. And where's his boots, may I ask?’

  The Dean took a small glass cube from his pocket and ran it over the corpse.

  ‘Quite a large thaumic reading, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I think he got here by magic.’

  He rummaged in the man's pockets and pulled out a handful of small white things.

  ‘Ugh,’ he said.

  ‘Teeth?’ said Ridcully. ‘Who goes around with a pocket full of teeth?’

  ‘A very bad fighter?’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. ‘I'll go and get Modo to take the poor fellow away, shall I?’

  ‘If we can get a reading off the thaumameter, perhaps Hex—’ Ridcully began.

  ‘Now, Ridcully,’ said the Dean, ‘I really think there must be some problems that can be resolved without having to deal with that damn thinking mill.’

  Death looked up at Hex.

  A MACHINE FOR THINKING?

  ‘Er… yes, sir,’ said Ponder Stibbons. ‘You see, when you said… well, you see, Hex believes everything… but, look, the sun really will come up, won't it? That's its job.’

  LEAVE US.

  Ponder backed away, and then scurried out of the room.

  The ants flowed along their tubes. Cogwheels spun. The big wheel with the sheep skulls on it creaked around slowly. A mouse squeaked, somewhere in the works.

  WELL? said Death.

  After a while, the pen began to write.

  +++ Big Red Lever Time +++ Query +++

  NO. THEY SAY YOU ARE A THINKER. EXTEND LOGICALLY THE RESULT OF THE HUMAN RACE CEASING TO BELIEVE IN THE HOGFATHER. WILL THE SUN COME UP? ANSWER.

  It took several minutes. The wheels spun. The ants ran. The mouse squeaked. An eggtimer came down on a spring. It bounced aimlessly for a while, and then jerked back up again.

  Hex wrote: +++ The Sun Will Not Come Up +++

  CORRECT. HOW MAY THIS BE PREVENTED? ANSWER.

  +++ Regular and Consistent Belief +++

  GOOD. I HAVE A TASK FOR YOU, THINKING ENGINE.

  +++ Yes. I Am Preparing An Area Of WriteOnly Memory +++

  WHAT IS THAT?

  +++ You Would Say: To Know In Your Bones +++

  GOOD. HERE IS YOUR INSTRUCTION. BELIEVE IN THE HOGFATHER.

  +++ Yes +++

  DO YOU BELIEVE? ANSWER.

  +++ Yes +++

  DO… YOU… BELIEVE? ANSWER.

  +++ YES +++

  There was a change in the ill-assembled heap of pipes and tubes that was Hex. The big wheel creaked into a new position. From the other side of the wall came the hum of busy bees.

  GOOD.

  Death turned to leave the room, but stopped when Hex began to write furiously. He went back and looked at the emerging paper.

  +++ Dear Hogfather, For Hogswatch I Want

  OH, NO. YOU CAN'T WRITE LETT— Death paused, and then said, YOU CAN, CAN'T YOU.

  +++ Yes. I Am Entitled +++

  Death waited until the pen had stopped, and picked up the paper.

  BUT YOU ARE A MACHINE. THINGS HAVE NO DESIRES. A DOORKNOB WANTS NOTHING, EVEN THOUGH IT IS A COMPLEX MACHINE.

  +++ All Things Strive +++

  YOU HAVE A POINT, said Death. He thought of tiny red petals in the black depths, and read to the end of the list.

  I DON'T KNOW WHAT MOST OF THESE THINGS ARE. I DON'T THINK THE SACK WILL, EITHER.

  +++ I Regret This +++

  BUT WE WILL DO THE BEST WE CAN, said Death.

  FRANKLY, I SHALL BE GLAD WHEN TONIGHT'S OVER. IT'S MUCH HARDER TO GIVE THAN TO RECEIVE. He rummaged in his sack. LET ME SEE… HOW OLD ARE YOU?

  Susan crept up the stairs, one hand on the hilt of the sword.

  Ponder Stibbons had been worried to find himself, as a wizard, awaiting the arrival of the Hogfather. It's amazing how people define roles for themselves and put handcuffs on their experience and are constantly surprised by the things a roulette universe spins at them. Here am I, they say, a mere wholesale fishmonger, at the controls of a giant airliner because as it turns out all the crew had the Coronation Chicken. Who'd have thought it? Here am I, a housewife who merely went out this morning to bank the proceeds of the Playgroup Association's Car Boot Sale, on the run with one million in stolen cash and a rather handsome man from the Battery Chickens' Liberation Organization. Amazing! Here am I, a perfectly ordinary hockey player, suddenly realizing I'm the Son of God with five hundred devoted followers in a nice little commune in Empowerment, Southern California. Who'd have thought it?

  Here am I, thought Susan, a very practically minded governess who can add up faster upside down than most people can the right way up, climbing up a toothshaped tower belonging to the Tooth Fairy and armed with a sword belonging to Death…

  Again! I wish one month, just one damn month, could go by without something like this happening to me.

  She could hear voices above her. Someone said something about a lock.

  She peered over the edge of the stairwell.

  It looked as though people had been camping out up here. There were boxes and sleeping rolls strewn around. A couple of men were sitting on boxes watching a third man who was working on a door in one curved wall. One of the men was the biggest Susan had ever seen, one of those huge fat men who contrive to indicate that a lot of the fat under their shapeless clothes is muscle. The other —

  ‘Hello,’ said a cheerful voice by her ear. ‘What's your name?’

  She made herself turn her head slowly.

  First she saw the grey, glinting eye. Then the yellow-white one with the tiny dot of a pupil came into view.

  Around them was a friendly pink and white face topped by curly hair. It was actually quite pretty, in a boyish sort of way, except that those mismatched eyes staring out of it suggested that it had been stolen from someone else.

  She started to move her hand but the boy was there first, dragging the sword scabbard out of her belt.

  ‘Ah, ah!’ he chided, turning and fending her off as she tried to grab it. ‘Well, well, well. My word. White bone handle, rather tasteless skull and bone decoration… Death himself's second favourite weapon, am I right? Oh, my! This must be Hogswatch! And this must mean that you are Susan Sto-Helit. Nobility. I'd bow,’ he added, dancing back, ‘but I'm afraid you'd do something dreadful—’

  There was a click, and a little gasp of excitement from the wizard working on the door.

  ‘Yes! Yes! Left-handed using a wooden pick! That's simple!’

  He saw that even Susan was looking at him, and coughed nervously.

  ‘Er, I've got the fifth lock open, Mister Teatime! Not a problem! They're just based on Woddeley's Occult Sequence! Any fool could do it if they knew that!’

  ‘I know it,’ said Teatime, without taking his eyes off Susan.

  ‘Ah… ’

  It was not technically audible, but nevertheless Susan could almost hear the wizard's mind back-pedalling. Up ahead was the conclusion that Teatime had no time for people he didn't need.

  ‘…with…
inter… est… ing subtleties,’ he said slowly. ‘Yes. Very tricky. I'll, er, just have a look at number six…’

  ‘How do you know who I am?’ said Susan.

  ‘Oh, easy,’ said Teatime. ‘Twurp's Peerage. Family motto Non temetis messor. We have to read it, you know, in class. Hah, old Mericet calls it the Guide to the Turf. No one laughs except him, of course. Oh yes, I know about you. Quite a lot. Your father was well known. Went a long way very fast. As for your grandfather… honestly, that motto. Is that good taste? Of course, you don't need to fear him, do you? Or do you?’

  Susan tried to fade. It didn't work. She could feel herself staying embarrassingly solid.

  ‘I don't know what you're talking about,’ she said. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

  ‘I beg your pardon. My name is Teatime, Jonathan Teatime. At your service.’

  Susan lined up the syllables in her head.

  ‘You mean… like around four o'clock in the afternoon?’ she said.

  ‘No. I did say Teh-ah-tim-eh,’ said Teatime. ‘I spoke very clearly. Please don't try to break my concentration by annoying me. I only get annoyed at important things. How are you getting on, Mr Sideney? If it's just according to Woddeley's sequence, number six should be copper and blue-green light. Unless, of course, there are any subtleties…’

  ‘Er, doing it right now, Mister Teatime—’

  ‘Do you think your grandfather will try to rescue you? Do you think he will? But now I have his sword, you see. I wonder—’

  There was another click.

  ‘Sixth lock, Mister Teatime!’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Er… don't you want me to start on the seventh?’

  ‘Oh, well, if you like. Pure white light will be the key,’ said Teatime, still not looking away from Susan. ‘But it may not be all important now. Thank you, anyway. You've been most helpful.’

  ‘Er—’

  ‘Yes, you may go.’

  Susan noticed that Sideney didn't even bother to pick up his books and tools, but hurried down the stairs as if he expected to be called back and was trying to run faster than the sound.

  ‘Is that all you're here for?’ she said. ‘A robbery?’ He was dressed like an Assassin, after all, and there was always one way to annoy an Assassin. ‘Like a thief?’

  Teatime danced excitedly. ‘A thief? Me? I'm not a thief, madam. But if I were, I would be the kind that steals fire from the gods.’