Hogfather

‘Is it, master?’ There was worry in Albert’s voice. Death’s osmotic nature tended to pick up new ideas altogether too quickly. Of course, Albert understood why they had to do all this, but the master … well, sometimes the master lacked the necessary mental equipment to work out what should be true and what shouldn’t …

AND I THINK I’VE GOT THE LAUGH WORKING REALLY WELL NOW. HO. HO. HO.

‘Yeah, sir, very jolly,’ said Albert. He looked down at the list. ‘Still, work goes on, eh? The next one’s pretty close, master, so I should keep them down low if I was you.’

JOLLY GOOD. HO. HO. HO.

‘Sarah the little match girl,^{52} doorway of Thimble’s Pipe and Tobacco Shop, Money Trap Lane, it says here.’

AND WHAT DOES SHE WANT FOR HOGSWATCH? HO. HO. HO.

‘Dunno. Never sent a letter. By the way, just a tip, you don’t have to say “Ho, ho, ho,” all the time, master. Let’s see … It says here …’ Albert’s lips moved as he read.

I EXPECT A DOLL IS ALWAYS ACCEPTABLE. OR A SOFT TOY OF SOME DESCRIPTION. THE SACK SEEMS TO KNOW. WHAT’VE WE GOT FOR HER, ALBERT? HO. HO. HO.

Something small was dropped into his hand.

‘This,’ said Albert.

OH.

There was a moment of horrible silence as they both stared at the lifetimer.

‘You’re for life, not just for Hogswatch,’^{53} prompted Albert. ‘Life goes on, master. In a manner of speaking.’

BUT THIS IS HOGSWATCHNIGHT.

‘Very traditional time for this sort of thing, I understand,’ said Albert.

I THOUGHT IT WAS THE SEASON TO BE JOLLY, Said Death.

‘Ah, well, yes, you see, one of the things that makes folks even more jolly is knowing there’re people who ain’t,’ said Albert, in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘That’s how it goes, master. Master?’

NO. Death stood up. THIS IS HOW IT SHOULDN’T GO.

The University’s Great Hall had been set for the Hogswatchnight Feast. The tables were already groaning under the weight of the cutlery, and it would be hours before any real food was put on them. It was hard to see where there would be space for any among the drifts of ornamental fruit bowls and forests of wine glasses.

The oh god picked up a menu and turned to the fourth page.

‘Course four: molluscs and crustaceans. A medley of lobster, crab, king crab, prawn, shrimp, oyster, clam, giant mussel, green-lipped mussel, thin-lipped mussel and Fighting Tiger Limpet. With a herb and butter dipping sauce. Wine: “Three Wizards” Chardonnay, Year of the Talking Frog. Beer: Winkles’ Old Peculiar.’ He put it down. ‘That’s one course?’ he said.

‘They’re big men in the food department,’ said Susan.

He turned the menu over. On the cover was the University’s coat of arms and, over it, three large letters in ancient script: η β π

‘Is this some sort of magic word?’

‘No.’ Susan sighed. ‘They put it on all their menus. You might call it the unofficial motto of the University.’

‘What’s it mean?’

‘Eta Beta Pi.’

Bilious gave her an expectant look.

‘Yes …?’

‘Er … like, Eat a Better Pie?’ said Susan.

‘That’s what you just said, yes,’ said the oh god.

‘Um. No. You see, the letters are Ephebian characters which just sound a bit like “eat a better pie”.’

‘Ah.’ Bilious nodded wisely. ‘I can see that might cause confusion.’

Susan felt a bit helpless in the face of the look of helpful puzzlement. ‘No,’ she said, ‘in fact they are supposed to cause a little bit of confusion, and then you laugh. It’s called a pune or play on words. Eta Beta Pi.’ She eyed him carefully. ‘You laugh,’ she said. ‘With your mouth. Only, in fact, you don’t laugh, because you’re not supposed to laugh at things like this.’

‘Perhaps I could find that glass of milk,’ said the oh god helplessly, peering at the huge array of jugs and bottles. He’d clearly given up on sense of humour.

‘I gather the Archchancellor won’t have milk in the University,’ said Susan. ‘He says he knows where it comes from and it’s unhygienic. And that’s a man who eats three eggs for breakfast every day, mark you. How do you know about milk, by the way?’

‘I’ve got … memories,’ said the oh god. ‘Not exactly of anything, er, specific. Just, you know, memories. Like, I know trees usually grow green-end up … that sort of thing. I suppose gods just know things.’

‘Any special god-like powers?’

‘I might be able to turn water into an enervescent drink.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Is that any help? And it’s just possible I can give people a blinding headache.’

‘I need to find out why my grandfather is … acting strange.’

‘Can’t you ask him?’

‘He won’t tell me!’

‘Does he throw up a lot?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. He doesn’t often eat. The occasional curry, once or twice a month.’

‘He must be pretty thin.’

‘You’ve no idea.’

‘Well, then … Does he often stare at himself in the mirror and say “Arrgh”? Or stick out his tongue and wonder why it’s gone yellow? You see, it’s possible I might have some measure of influence over people who are hung over. If he’s been drinking a lot, I might be able to find him.’

‘I can’t see him doing any of those things. I think I’d better tell you … My grandfather is Death.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’