Hogfather

‘Oh, IIIIIII knew a … er … an agricultural worker of some description, possibly a thatcher, And I knew him well, and he — he was a farmer, now I come to think of it — and he had a daughter and her name I can’t recall at the moment, And … Where was I? Ah yes. Chorus:

‘Something something, a humorously shaped vegetable, a turnip, I believe, something something and the sweet nightingaleeeeaarggooooooh-ARRGHH oh oh oh—’

The song shut off suddenly. All Modo could hear was a ferocious gushing noise.

‘Archchancellor?’

After a moment a voice answered from near the ceiling. It sounded somewhat high and hesitant.

‘Er … I wonder if you would be so very good as to shut the water off from out there, my dear chap? Er … quite gently, if you wouldn’t mind …’

Modo carefully spun a wheel. The gushing sound gradually subsided.

‘Ah. Well done,’ said the voice, but now from somewhere nearer floor level. ‘Well. Jolly good job. I think we can definitely call it a success. Yes, indeed. Er. I wonder if you could help me walk for a moment. I inexplicably feel a little unsteady on my feet …’

Modo pushed open the door and helped Ridcully out and onto a bench. He looked rather pale.

‘Yes, indeed,’ said the Archchancellor, his eyes a little glazed. ‘Astoundingly successful. Er. Just a minor point, Modo—’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘There’s a tap in there we perhaps should leave alone for now,’ said Ridcully. ‘I’d esteem it a service if you could go and make a little sign to hang on it.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Saying “Do not touch at all”, or something like that.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘Hang it on the one marked “Old Faithful”.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘No need to mention it to the other fellows.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Ye gods, I’ve never felt so clean.’^{31}

From a vantage point among some ornamental tilework near the ceiling a small gnome in a bowler hat watched Ridcully carefully.

When Modo had gone the Archchancellor slowly began to dry himself on a big fluffy towel. As he got his composure back, so another song wormed its way under his breath.

‘On the second day of Hogswatch I … sent my true love back

‘A nasty little letter, hah, yes indeed, and a partridge in a pear tree—’^{32}

The gnome slid down onto the tiles and crept up behind the briskly shaking shape.

Ridcully, after a few more trial runs, settled on a song which evolves somewhere on every planet where there are winters. It’s often dragooned into the service of some local religion and a few words are changed, but it’s really about things that have to do with gods only in the same way that roots have to do with leaves.

‘—the rising of the sun, and the running of the deer—’^{33}

Ridcully spun. A corner of wet towel caught the gnome on the ear and flicked it onto its back.

‘I saw you creeping up!’ roared the Archchancellor. ‘What’s the game, then? Small-time thief, are you?’

The gnome slid backwards on the soapy surface.

‘’ere, what’s your game, mister, you ain’t supposed to be able to see me!’

‘I’m a wizard! We can see things that are really there, you know,’ said Ridcully. ‘And in the case of the Bursar, things that aren’t there, too. What’s in this bag?’

‘You don’t wanna open the bag, mister! You really don’t wanna open the bag!’

‘Why? What have you got in it?’

The gnome sagged. ‘It ain’t what’s in it, mister. It’s what’ll come out. I has to let ’em out one at a time, no knowin’ what’d happen if they all gets out at once!’

Ridcully looked interested, and started to undo the string.

‘You’ll really wish you hadn’t, mister!’ the gnome pleaded.

‘Will I? What’re you doing here, young man?’

The gnome gave up.

‘Well … you know the Tooth Fairy?’

‘Yes. Of course,’ said Ridcully.

‘Well … I ain’t her. But… it’s sort of like the same business …’

‘What? You take things away?’

‘Er … not take away, as such. More sort of … bring …’

‘Ah … like new teeth?’

‘Er … like new verrucas,’ said the gnome.

Death threw the sack into the back of the sledge and climbed in after it.

‘You’re doing well, master,’ said Albert.

THIS CUSHION IS STILL UNCOMFORTABLE, said Death, hitching his belt. I AM NOT USED TO A BIG FAT STOMACH.

‘Just a stomach’s the best I could do, master. You’re starting off with a handicap, sort of thing.’

Albert unscrewed the top off a bottle of cold tea. All the sherry had made him thirsty.

‘Doing well, master,’ he repeated, taking a pull. ‘All the soot in the fireplace, the footprints, them swigged sherries, the sleigh tracks all over the roofs … it’s got to work.’

YOU THINK SO?

‘Sure.’