Hogfather (9 page)

“’s a good one,” he said. “Ha, take ’im weeks to get rid of that one!”

He took a crumpled piece of paper out of a pocket and examined it closely. Then he looked at an elderly figure working away quietly at the next house.

It was standing by a window, drawing with great concentration on the glass.

The gnome wandered up, interested, and watched critically.

“Why just fern patterns?” he said, after a while. “Pretty, yeah, but you wouldn’t catch me puttin’ a penny in your hat for fern patterns.”

The figure turned, brush in hand.

“I happen to like fern patterns,” said Jack Frost coldly.

“It’s just that people expect, you know, sad big-eyed kids, kittens lookin’ out of boots, little doggies, that sort of thing.”

“I do ferns.”

“Or big pots of sunflowers, happy seaside scenes…”

“And ferns.”

“I mean, s’posing some big high priest wanted you to paint the temple ceiling with gods ’n’ angels and such like, what’d you do then?”

“He could have as many gods and angels as he liked, provided they—”

“—looked like ferns?”

“I resent the implication that I am solely fern fixated,” said Jack Frost. “I can also do a very nice paisley pattern.”

“What’s that look like, then?”

“Well…it does, admittedly, have a certain ferny quality to the uninitiated eye.” Frost leaned forward. “Who’re you?”

The gnome took a step backward.

“You’re not a tooth fairy, are you? I see more and more of them about these days. Nice girls.”

“Nah. Nah. Not teeth,” said the gnome, clutching his sack.

“What, then?”

The gnome told him.

“Really?” said Jack Frost. “I thought they just turned up.”

“Well, come to that, I thought frost on the windows just happened all by itself,” said the gnome. “’ere, you don’t half look spiky. I bet you go through a lot of bed sheets.”

“I don’t sleep,” said Frost icily, turning away. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a large number of windows to do. Ferns aren’t easy. You need a steady hand.”

“What do you mean dead?” Susan demanded.

“How can the Hogfather be dead? He’s…isn’t he what you are? An—”

ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATION. YES. HE HAS BECOME SO. THE SPIRIT OF HOGSWATCH.

“But…how? How can anyone kill the Hogfather? Poisoned sherry? Spikes in the chimney?”

THERE ARE…MORE SUBTLE WAYS.

“Coff. Coff. Coff. Oh dear, this soot,” said Albert loudly. “Chokes me up something cruel.”

“And you’ve taken over?” said Susan, ignoring him. “That’s sick!”

Death contrived to look hurt.

“I’ll just go and have a look somewhere,” said Albert, brushing past her and opening the door.

She pushed it shut quickly.

“And what are you doing here, Albert?” she said, clutching at the straw. “I thought you’d die if you ever came back to the world!”

AH, BUT WE ARE NOT IN THE WORLD, said Death. WE ARE IN THE SPECIAL CONGRUENT REALITY CREATED FOR THE HOGFATHER. NORMAL RULES HAVE TO BE SUSPENDED. HOW ELSE COULD ANYONE GET AROUND THE ENTIRE WORLD IN ONE NIGHT?

“’s right,” said Albert, leering. “One of the Hogfather’s Little Helpers, me. Official. Got the pointy green hat and everything.” He spotted the glass of sherry and couple of turnips that the children had left on the table, and bore down on them.

Susan looked shocked. A couple of days earlier she’d taken the children to the Hogfather’s Grotto in one of the big shops in The Maul. Of course, it wasn’t the real one, but it had turned out to be a fairly good actor in a red suit. There had been people dressed up as pixies, and a picket outside the shop by the Campaign for Equal Heights.
*

None of the pixies had looked anything like Albert. If they had, people would have only gone into the Grotto armed.

“Been good, ’ave yer?” said Albert, and spat into the fireplace.

Susan stared at him.

Death leaned down. She stared up into the blue glow of his eyes.

YOU ARE KEEPING WELL? he said.

“Yes.”

SELF-RELIANT? MAKING YOUR OWN WAY IN THE WORLD?

“Yes!”

GOOD. WELL, COME, ALBERT. WE WILL LOAD THE STOCKINGS AND GET ON WITH THINGS.

A couple of letters appeared in Death’s hand.

SOMEONE CHRISTENED THE CHILD TWYLA?

“I’m afraid so, but why—”

AND THE OTHER ONE GAWAIN?

“Yes. But look, how—”

WHY GAWAIN?

“I…suppose it’s a good strong name for a fighter…”

A SELF-FULFILLING PROPHECY, I SUSPECT. I SEE THE GIRL WRITES IN GREEN CRAYON ON PINK PAPER WITH A MOUSE IN THE CORNER. THE MOUSE IS WEARING A DRESS.

“I ought to point out that she decided to do that so the Hogfather would think she was sweet,” said Susan. “Including the deliberate bad spelling. But look, why are you—”

SHE SAYS SHE IS FIVE YEARS OLD.

“In years, yes. In cynicism, she’s about thirty-five. Why are you doing the—”

BUT SHE BELIEVES IN THE HOGFATHER?

“She’d believe in anything if there was a dolly in it for her. But you’re not going to leave without telling me—”

Death hung the stockings back on the mantelpiece.

NOW WE MUST BE GOING. HAPPY HOGSWATCH. ER…OH, YES: HO. HO. HO.

“Nice sherry,” said Albert, wiping his mouth.

Rage overtook Susan’s curiosity. It had to travel quite fast.

“You’ve actually been drinking the actual drinks little children leave out for the actual Hogfather?” she said.

“Yeah, why not? He ain’t drinking ’em. Not where he’s gone.”

“And how many have you had, may I ask?”

“Dunno, ain’t counted,” said Albert happily.

ONE MILLION, EIGHT HUNDRED THOUSAND, SEVEN HUNDRED AND SIX, said Death. AND SIXTY-EIGHT THOUSAND, THREE HUNDRED AND NINETEEN PORK PIES. AND ONE TURNIP.

“It looked pork-pie shaped,” said Albert. “Everything does, after a while.”

“Then why haven’t you exploded?”

“Dunno. Always had a good digestion.”

TO THE HOGFATHER, ALL PORK PIES ARE AS ONE PORK PIE. EXCEPT THE ONE LIKE A TURNIP. COME, ALBERT. WE HAVE TRESPASSED ON SUSAN’S TIME.

“Why are you doing this?” Susan screamed.

I AM SORRY. I CANNOT TELL YOU. FORGET YOU SAW ME. IT’S NOT YOUR BUSINESS.

“Not my business? How can—”

AND NOW…WE MUST BE GOING…

“Nighty-night,” said Albert.

The clock struck, twice, for the half-hour. It was still half past six.

And they were gone.

The sleigh hurtled across the sky.

“She’ll try to find out what this is all about, you know,” said Albert.

OH DEAR.

“Especially after you told her not to.”

YOU THINK SO?

“Yeah,” said Albert.

DEAR ME. I STILL HAVE A LOT TO LEARN ABOUT HUMANS, DON’T I?

“Oh…I dunno…” said Albert.

OBVIOUSLY IT WOULD BE QUITE WRONG TO INVOLVE A HUMAN IN ALL THIS. THAT IS WHY, YOU WILL RECALL, I CLEARLY FORBADE HER TO TAKE AN INTEREST.

“Yeah…you did…”

BESIDES, IT’S AGAINST THE RULES.

“You said them little gray buggers had already broken the rules.”

YES, BUT I CAN’T JUST WAVE A MAGIC WAND AND MAKE IT ALL BETTER. THERE MUST BE PROCEDURES. Death stared ahead for a moment and then shrugged. AND WE HAVE SO MUCH TO DO. WE HAVE PROMISES TO KEEP.

“Well, the night is young,” said Albert, sitting back in the sacks.

THE NIGHT IS OLD. THE NIGHT IS ALWAYS OLD.

The pigs galloped on. Then, “No, it ain’t.”

I’M SORRY?

“The night isn’t any older than the day, master. It stands to reason. There must have been a day before anyone knew what the night was.”

YES, BUT IT’S MORE DRAMATIC.

“Oh. Right, then.”

Susan stood by the fireplace.

It wasn’t as though she disliked Death. Death considered as an individual rather than life’s final curtain was someone she couldn’t help liking, in a strange kind of way.

Even so…

The idea of the Grim Reaper filling the Hogswatch stockings of the world didn’t fit well in her head, no matter which way she twisted it. It was like trying to imagine Old Man Trouble as the Tooth Fairy. Oh, yes. Old Man Trouble…now there was a nasty one for you…

But honestly, what kind of sick person went round creeping into little children’s bedrooms all night?

Well, the Hogfather, of course, but…

There was a little tinkling sound from somewhere near the base of the Hogswatch tree.

The raven backed away from the shards of one of the glittering balls.

“Sorry,” it mumbled. “Bit of a species reaction there. You know…round, glittering…sometimes you just gotta peck—”

“That chocolate money belongs to the children!”

SQUEAK? said the Death of Rats, backing away from the shiny coins.

“Why’s he doing this?”

SQUEAK.

“You don’t know either?”

SQUEAK.

“Is there some kind of trouble? Did he do something to the real Hogfather?”

SQUEAK.

“Why won’t he tell me?”

SQUEAK.

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

Something ripped, behind her. She turned and saw the raven carefully removing a strip of red wrapping paper from a package.

“Stop that this minute!”

It looked up guiltily.

“It’s only a little bit,” it said. “No one’s going to miss it.”

“What do you want it for, anyway?”

“We’re attracted to bright colors, right? Automatic reaction.”

“That’s jackdaws!”

“Damn. Is it?”

The Death of Rats nodded. SQUEAK.

“Oh, so suddenly you’re Mr. Ornithologist, are you?” snapped the raven.

Susan sat down and held out her hand.

The Death of Rats leapt onto it. She could feel its claws, like tiny pins.

It was just like those scenes where the sweet and pretty heroine sings a little duet with Mr. Bluebird.

Similar, anyway.

In general outline, at least. But with more of a PG rating.

“Has he gone funny in the head?”

SQUEAK. The rat shrugged.

“But it could happen, couldn’t it? He’s very old, and I suppose he sees a lot of terrible things.”

SQUEAK.

“All the trouble in the world,” the raven translated.

“I understood,” said Susan. That was a talent, too. She didn’t understand what the rat said. She just understood what it meant.

“There’s something wrong and he won’t tell me?” said Susan.

That made her even more angry.

“But Albert is in on it, too,” she added.

She thought: thousands, millions of years in the same job. Not a nice one. It isn’t always cheerful old men passing away at a great age. Sooner or later, it was bound to get anyone down.

Someone had to do something. It was like that time when Twyla’s grandmother had started telling everyone that she was the Empress of Krull and had stopped wearing clothes.

And Susan was bright enough to know that the phrase “Someone ought to do something” was not, by itself, a helpful one. People who used it never added the rider “and that someone is me.” But someone ought to do something, and right now the whole pool of someones consisted of her, and no one else.

Twyla’s grandmother had ended up in a nursing home overlooking the sea at Quirm. That sort of option probably didn’t apply here. Besides, he’d be unpopular with the other residents.

She concentrated. This was the simplest talent of them all. She was amazed that other people couldn’t do it. She shut her eyes, placed her hands palm down in front of her at shoulder height, spread her fingers and lowered her hands.

When they were halfway down she heard the clock stop ticking. The last tick was long-drawn-out, like a death rattle.

Time stopped.

But duration continued.

She’d always wondered, when she was small, why visits to her grandfather could go on for days and yet, when they got back, the calendar was still plodding along as if they’d never been away.

Now she knew the why, although probably no human being would ever really understand the how. Sometimes, somewhere, somehow, the numbers on the clock did not count.

Between every rational moment were a billion irrational ones. Somewhere behind the hours there was a place where the Hogfather rode, the tooth fairies climbed their ladders, Jack Frost drew his pictures, the Soul Cake Duck laid her chocolate eggs. In the endless spaces between the clumsy seconds Death moved like a witch dancing through raindrops, never getting wet.

Humans could liv—No, humans couldn’t live here, no, because even when you diluted a glass of wine with a bathful of water you might have more liquid but you still had the same amount of wine. A rubber band was still the same rubber band no matter how far it was stretched.

Humans could exist here, though.

It was never too cold, although the air did prickle like winter air on a sunny day. But out of human habit Susan got her cloak out of the closet.

SQUEAK.

“Haven’t you got some mice and rats to see to, then?”

“Nah, ’s pretty quiet just before Hogswatch,” said the raven, who was trying to fold the red paper between his claws. “You get a lot of gerbils and hamsters and that in a few days, mind. When the kids forget to feed them or try to find out what makes them go.”

Of course, she’d be leaving the children. But it wasn’t as if anything could happen to them. There wasn’t any time for it to happen to them in.

She hurried down the stairs and let herself out of the front door.

Snow hung in the air. It was not a poetic description. It hovered like the stars. When flakes touched Susan they melted with little electric flashes.

There was a lot of traffic in the street, but it was fossilized in Time. She walked carefully between it until she reached the entrance to the park.

The snow had done what even wizards and the Watch couldn’t do, which was clean up Ankh-Morpork. It hadn’t had time to get dirty. In the morning it’d probably look as though the city had been covered in coffee meringue, but for now it mounded the bushes and trees in pure white.

There was no noise. The curtains of snow shut out the city lights. A few yards into the park and she might as well be in the country.

She stuck her fingers into her mouth and whistled.