Eric

The Librarian woke up, lost his grip, and flopped into the few inches of tepid water that was all that stood between The Joy of Tantric Sex with Illustrations for the Advanced Student, by A Lady, and spontaneous combustion.

And it would have gone badly for him if the Librarian had been a human being. Fortunately, he was currently an orang-utan. With so much raw magic sloshing around in the Library it would be surprising if accidents did not happen sometimes, and one particularly impressive one had turned him into an ape. Not many people get the chance to leave the human race while still alive, and he’d strenuously resisted all efforts since to turn him back. Since he was the only librarian in the universe who could pick up books with his feet the University hadn’t pressed the point.

It also meant that his idea of desirable female companionship now looked something like a sack of butter thrown through a roll of old inner tubes, and so he was lucky to get away with only mild burns, a headache, and some rather ambivalent feelings about cucumbers, which wore off by teatime.

In the Library above, the grimoires creaked and rustled their pages in astonishment as the invisible runner passed straight through the bookshelves and disappeared, or rather, disappeared even more …

Ankh-Morpork gradually awoke from its slumber. Something invisible and yelling at the top of its voice was passing through every part of the city, dragging in its wake a trail of destruction. Wherever it went, things changed.

A fortune-teller in the Street of Cunning Artificers heard the footsteps run across her bedroom floor and found her crystal ball had turned into a little glass sphere with a cottage in it, plus snowflakes.

In a quiet corner of the Mended Drum tavern, where the adventuresses Herrena the Henna-Haired Harridan, Red Scharron and Diome, Witch of the Night, were meeting for some girl talk^{2} and a game of canasta, all the drinks turned into small yellow elephants.

“It’s them wizards up at the University,” said the barman, hastily replacing the glasses. “It oughtn’t to be allowed.”

Midnight dropped off the clock.

The Council of Wizardry rubbed their eyes and stared blearily at one another. They felt it oughtn’t to be allowed too, especially since they weren’t the ones that were allowing it.

Finally the new Archchancellor, Ezrolith Churn, suppressed a yawn, sat up straight in his chair, and tried to look suitably magisterial. He knew he wasn’t really Archchancellor material. He hadn’t really wanted the job. He was ninety-eight, and had achieved this worthwhile age by carefully not being any trouble or threat to anyone. He had hoped to spend his twilight years completing his seven-volume treatise on Some Little Known Aspects of Kuian Rain-making Rituals, which were an ideal subject for academic study in his opinion since the rituals only ever worked in Ku, and that particular continent had slipped into the ocean several thousand years ago.[2] The trouble was that in recent years the lifespan of Archchancellors seemed to be a bit on the short side, and the natural ambition of all wizards for the job had given way to a curious, self-effacing politeness. He’d come down one morning to find everyone calling him ‘sir’. It had taken him days to find out why.

His head ached. He felt it was several weeks past his bedtime. But he had to say something.

“Gentlemen—” he began.

“Oook.”

“Sorry, and mo—”

“Oook.”

“I mean apes, of course—”

“Oook.”

The Archchancellor opened and shut his mouth in silence for a while, trying to re-route his train of thought. The Librarian was, ex officio, a member of the college council. No-one had been able to find any rule about orang-utans being barred, although they had surreptitiously looked very hard for one.

“It’s a haunting,” he ventured. “Some sort of a ghost, maybe. A bell, book and candle job.”

The Bursar sighed. “We tried that, Archchancellor.”

The Archchancellor leaned towards him.

“Eh?” he said.

“I said, we tried that, Archchancellor,” said the Bursar loudly, directing his voice at the old man’s ear. “After dinner, you remember? We used Humptemper’s Names of the Ants and rang Old Tom.”[3]

“Did we, indeed. Worked, did it?”

“No, Archchancellor.”

“Eh?”

“Anyway, we’ve never had any trouble with ghosts before,” said the Senior Tutor. “Wizards just don’t haunt places.”

The Archchancellor groped for a crumb of comfort.

“Perhaps it’s just something natural,” he said. “Possibly the rumblings of an underground spring. Earth movements, perhaps. Something in the drains. They can make very funny noises, you know, when the wind is in the right direction.”

He sat back and beamed.

The rest of the council exchanged glances.

“The drains don’t sound like hurrying feet, Archchancellor,” said the Bursar wearily.

“Unless someone left a tap running,” said the Senior Tutor.