Hogfather (36 page)

“Oh, well, how nice—”

“It’s from me,” said the Dean.

“What a lovely—”

“I bought it with my own money, you know,” said the Dean, waving a turkey leg airily.

“The wrapping paper is a very nice—”

“More than a dollar, I might add.”

“My goodness—”

The Bursar pulled off the last of the wrapping paper.

“It’s a box for keeping dried frog pills in. See? It’s got ‘Dried Frog Pills’ on it, see?”

The Bursar shook it. “Oh, how nice,” he said weakly. “It’s got some pills in it already. How thoughtful. They
will
come in handy.”

“Yes,” said the Dean. “I took them off your dressing table. After all, I was down a dollar as it was.”

The Bursar nodded gratefully and put the little box neatly beside his plate. They’d actually allowed him knives this evening. They’d actually allowed him to eat other things than those things that could only be scraped up with a wooden spoon.

He eyed the nearest roast pig with nervous anticipation, and tucked his napkin firmly under his chin.

“Er, excuse me, Mr. Stibbons,” he quavered. “Would you be so good as to pass me the apple sauce tankard—”

There was a sound like coarse fabric ripping, somewhere in the air in front of the Bursar, and a crash as something landed on top of the roast pig. Roast potatoes and gravy filled the air. The apple that had been in the pig’s mouth was violently expelled and hit the Bursar on the forehead.

He blinked, looked down, and found he was about to plunge his fork into a human head.

“Ahaha,” he murmured, as his eyes started to glaze.

The wizards heaved aside the overturned dishes and smashed crockery.

“He just fell out of the air!”

“Is he an Assassin? Not one of their student pranks, is it?”

“Why’s he holding a sword without a sharp bit?”

“Is he dead?”

“I think so!”

“I didn’t even
have
any of that salmon mousse! Will you look at it? His foot’s in it! It’s all over the place! Do you want yours?”

Ponder Stibbons fought his way through the throng. He knew his more senior fellows when they were feeling helpful. They were like a glass of water to a drowning man.

“Give him air!” he protested.

“How do we know if he needs any?” said the Dean.

Ponder put his ear to the fallen youth’s chest.

“He’s not breathing!”

“Breathing spell, breathing spell,” muttered the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Er…Spolt’s Forthright Respirator, perhaps? I think I’ve got it written down somewhere—”

Ridcully reached through the wizards and pulled out the black-clad man by a leg. He held him upside down in his big hand and thumped him heavily on the back.

He met their astonished gaze. “Used to do this on the farm,” he said. “Works a treat on baby goats.”

“Oh, now,
really
,” said the Dean, “I don’t—”

The corpse made a noise somewhere between a choke and a cough.

“Make some space, you fellows!” the Archchancellor bellowed, clearing an area of table with one sweep of his spare arm.

“Hey, I hadn’t had any of that Prawn Escoffé!” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

“I didn’t even know we
had
any,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “Someone, and I name no names, Dean, shoved it behind the soft-shelled crabs so they could keep it for themselves. I call that cheap.”

Teatime opened his eyes. It said a lot for his constitution that it survived a very close-up view of Ridcully’s nose, which filled the immediate universe like a big pink planet.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” said Ponder, leaning over with his notebook open, “but this is vitally important for the advancement of natural philosophy. Did you see any bright lights? Was there a shining tunnel? Did any deceased relatives attempt to speak to you? What word most describes the—”

Ridcully pulled him away.

“What’s all this, Mr. Stibbons?”

“I really should talk to him, sir. He’s had a near-death experience!”

“We all have. It’s called ‘living,’” said the Archchancellor shortly. “Pour the poor lad a glass of spirits and put that damn pencil away.”

“Uh…This must be Unseen University?” said Teatime. “And you are all wizards?”

“Now, just you lie still,” said Ridcully. But Teatime had already risen on his elbows.

“There was a sword,” he muttered.

“Oh, it’s fallen on the floor,” said the Dean, reaching down. “But it looks as though it’s—Did I do that?”

The wizards looked at the large curved slice of table falling away. Something had cut through everything—wood, cloth, plates, cutlery, food. The Dean swore that a candle flame that had been in the path of the unseen blade was only half a flame for a moment, until the wick realized that this was no way to behave.

The Dean raised his hand. The other wizards scattered.

“Looks like a thin blue line in the air,” he said, wonderingly.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Teatime, taking it from him. “I really must be off.”

He ran from the hall.

“He won’t get far,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “The main doors are locked in accordance with Archchancellor Spode’s Rules.”

“Won’t get far while holding a sword that appears to be able to cut through anything,” said Ridcully, to the sound of falling wood.

“I wonder what all that was about?” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, and then turned his attention to the remains of the Feast. “Anyway, at least this joint’s been nicely carved…”

“Bu-bu-bu—”

They all turned. The Bursar was holding his hand in front of him. The cut surface of a fork gleamed at the wizards.

“Nice to know his new present will come in handy,” said the Dean. “It’s the thought that counts.”

Under the table the Blue Hen of Happiness relieved itself on the Bursar’s foot.

T
HERE ARE…ENEMIES
, said Death, as Binky galloped through icy mountains.

“They’re all dead—”

O
THER
ENEMIES
. Y
OU MAY AS WELL KNOW THIS
. D
OWN IN THE DEEPEST KINGDOMS OF THE SEA, WHERE THERE IS NO LIGHT, THERE LIVES A TYPE OF CREATURE WITH NO BRAIN AND NO EYES AND NO MOUTH
. I
T DOES NOTHING BUT LIVE AND PUT FORTH PETALS OF PERFECT CRIMSON WHERE NONE ARE THERE TO SEE
. I
T IS NOTHING EXCEPT A TINY YES IN THE NIGHT
. A
ND YET…AND YET…IT HAS ENEMIES THAT BEAR ON IT A VICIOUS, UNBENDING MALICE, WHO WISH NOT ONLY FOR ITS TINY LIFE TO BE OVER BUT ALSO THAT IT HAD NEVER EXISTED
. A
RE YOU WITH ME SO FAR
?

“Well, yes, but—”

G
OOD
. N
OW,
IMAGINE WHAT THEY THINK OF HUMANITY
.

Susan was shocked. She had never heard her grandfather speak in anything other than calm tones. Now there was a cutting edge in his words.

“What are they?” she said.

W
E MUST HURRY
. T
HERE IS NOT MUCH TIME
.

“I thought you always had time. I mean…whatever it is you want to stop, you can go back in time and—”

A
ND MEDDLE
?

“You’ve done it before…”

T
HIS TIME IT IS OTHERS WHO ARE DOING IT
. A
ND
THEY
HAVE NO RIGHT
.

“What others?”

T
HEY HAVE NO NAME
. C
ALL THEM THE AUDITORS
. T
HEY RUN THE UNIVERSE
. T
HEY SEE TO IT THAT GRAVITY WORKS AND THE ATOMS SPIN, OR WHATEVER IT IS ATOMS DO
. A
ND THEY HATE LIFE
.

“Why?”

I
T IS…IRREGULAR
. I
T WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN
. T
HEY LIKE STONES, MOVING IN CURVES
. A
ND THEY HATE HUMANS MOST OF ALL
. Death sighed. I
N MANY WAYS, THEY LACK A SENSE OF HUMOR
.

“Why the Hog—”

I
T IS THE THINGS YOU BELIEVE WHICH MAKE YOU HUMAN
. G
OOD THINGS AND BAD THINGS, IT’S ALL THE SAME
.

The mists parted. Sharp peaks were around them, lit by the glow off the snow.

“These look like the mountains where the Castle of Bones was,” she said.

T
HEY ARE
, said Death. I
N A SENSE
. H
E HAS GONE BACK TO A PLACE HE KNOWS
. A
N EARLY PLACE
…

Binky cantered low over the snow.

“And what are we looking for?” said Susan.

Y
OU WILL KNOW WHEN YOU SEE IT
.

“Snow? Trees? I mean, could I have a clue? What are we here for?”

I
TOLD YOU
. T
O ENSURE THAT THE SUN COMES UP
.

“Of
course
the sun will come up!”

N
O
.

“There’s no magic that’ll stop the sun coming up!”

I
WISH I WAS AS CLEVER AS YOU
.

Susan stared down out of sheer annoyance, and saw something below.

Small dark shapes moved across the whiteness, running as if they were in pursuit of something.

“There’s…some sort of chase…” she conceded. “I can see some sort of animals but I can’t see what they’re after—”

Then she saw movement in the snow, a blurred, dark shape dodging and skidding and never clear. Binky dropped until his hooves grazed the tops of the pine trees, which bent in his wake. A rumble followed him across the forest, dragging broken branches and a smoke of snow behind it.

Now they were lower she could see the hunters clearly. They were large dogs. Their quarry was indistinct, dodging among snowdrifts, keeping to the cover of snow-laden bushes—

A drift exploded. Something big and long and blue-black rose through the flying snow like a sounding whale.

“It’s a pig!”

A
BOAR
. T
HEY DRIVE IT TOWARD THE CLIFF
. T
HEY’RE DESPERATE NOW
.

She could hear the panting of the creature. The dogs made no sound at all.

Blood streamed onto the snow from the wounds they had already managed to inflict.

“This…boar,” said Susan. “…It’s…”

Y
ES
.

“They want to
kill
the Hogf—”

N
OT KILL
. H
E KNOWS HOW TO DIE
. O
H, YES
…I
N THIS SHAPE, HE KNOWS HOW TO DIE
. H
E’S HAD A LOT OF EXPERIENCE
. N
O, THEY WANT TO TAKE AWAY HIS REAL LIFE, TAKE AWAY HIS SOUL, TAKE AWAY EVERYTHING
. T
HEY MUST NOT BE ALLOWED TO BRING HIM DOWN
.

“Well, stop them!”

Y
OU
MUST
. T
HIS IS A HUMAN THING
.

The dogs moved oddly. They weren’t running but flowing, crossing the snow faster than the mere movement of their legs would suggest.

“They don’t look like real dogs…”

N
O
.

“What
can
I do?”

Death nodded his head toward the boar. Binky was keeping level with it now, barely a few feet away.

Realization dawned.

“I can’t
ride
that!” said Susan.

W
HY NOT
? Y
OU HAVE HAD AN
EDUCATION
.

“Enough to know that pigs don’t let people ride them!”

M
ERE ACCUMULATION OF OBSERVATIONAL EVIDENCE IS NOT PROOF
.

Susan glanced ahead. The snow field had a cut-off look.

Y
OU MUST
, said her grandfather’s voice in her head. W
HEN HE REACHES THE EDGE THERE HE WILL STAND AT BAY
. H
E MUST NOT
. U
NDERSTAND
? T
HESE ARE NOT REAL DOGS
. I
F THEY CATCH HIM HE WON’T JUST DIE, HE WILL…NEVER BE
…

Susan leapt. For a moment she floated through the air, dress streaming behind her, arms outstretched…

Landing on the animal’s back was like hitting a very, very firm chair. It stumbled for a moment and then righted itself.

Susan’s arms clung to its neck and her face was buried in its sharp bristles. She could feel the heat under her. It was like riding a furnace. And it stank of sweat, and blood, and pig. A lot of pig.

There was a lack of landscape in front of her.

The boar plowed into the snow on the edge of the drop, almost flinging her off, and turned to face the hounds.

There were a lot of them. Susan was familiar with dogs. They’d had them at home like other houses had rugs. And these weren’t that big floppy sort.

She rammed her heels in and grabbed a pig’s ear in each hand. It was like holding a pair of hairy shovels.

“Turn left!” she screamed, and hauled.

She put everything into the command. It promised tears before bedtime if disobeyed.

To her amazement the boar grunted, pranced on the lip of the precipice and scrambled away, the hounds floundering as they turned to follow.

This was a plateau. From here it seemed to be all edge, with no way down except the very simple and terminal one.

The dogs were flying at the boar’s heels again.

Susan looked around in the gray, lightless air. There had to be somewhere, some way…

There was.

It was a shoulder of rock, a giant knife edge connecting this plain to the hills beyond. It was sharp and narrow, a thin line of snow with chilly depths on either side.

It was better than nothing. It was nothing with snow on it.

The boar reached the edge and hesitated. Susan put her head down and dug her heels in again.

Snout down, legs moving like pistons, the beast plunged out onto the ridge. Snow sprayed up as its trotters sought for purchase. It made up for lack of grace by sheer manic effort, legs moving like a tap dancer climbing a moving staircase that was heading down.

“That’s right, that’s right, that’s—”

A trotter slipped. For a moment the boar seemed to stand on two, the others scrabbling at icy rock. Susan flung herself the other way, clinging to the neck, and felt the dragging abyss under her feet.