Hogfather

This shack had an iron stove, with a pipe that went up through the thick cabbage-leaf thatch.

Voices echoed faintly within the pipe.

THIS IS REALLY, REALLY STUPID.

‘I think the tradition got started when everyone had them big chimneys, master.’ This voice sounded as though it was coming from someone standing on the roof and shouting down the pipe.

INDEED? IT’S ONLY A MERCY IT’S UNLIT.

There was some muffled scratching and banging, and then a thump from within the pot belly of the stove.

DAMN.

‘What’s up, master?’

THE DOOR HAS NO HANDLE ON THE INSIDE. I CALL THAT INCONSIDERATE.

There were some more bumps, and then a scrape as the stove lid was lifted up and pushed sideways. An arm came out and felt around the front of the stove until it found the handle.

It played with it for a while, but it was obvious that the hand did not belong to a person used to opening things.

In short, Death came out of the stove. Exactly how would be difficult to describe without folding the page. Time and space were, from Death’s point of view, merely things that he’d heard described. When it came to Death, they ticked the box marked Not Applicable. It might help to think of the universe as a rubber sheet, or perhaps not.^{68}

‘Let us in, master,’ a pitiful voice echoed down from the roof. ‘It’s brass monkeys out here.’^{69}

Death went over to the door. Snow was blowing underneath it. He peered nervously at the woodwork. There was a thump outside and Albert’s voice sounded a lot closer.

‘What’s up, master?’

Death stuck his head through the wood of the door.

THERE’S THESE METAL THINGS—

‘Bolts, master. You slide them,’ said Albert, sticking his hands under his armpits to keep them warm.

AH.

Death’s head disappeared. Albert stamped his feet and watched his breath cloud in the air while he listened to the pathetic scrabbling on the other side of the door.

Death’s head appeared again.

ER…

‘It’s the latch, master,’ said Albert wearily.

RIGHT. RIGHT.

‘You put your thumb on it and push it down.’

RIGHT.

The head disappeared. Albert jumped up and down a bit, and waited.

The head appeared.

ER … I WAS WITH YOU UP TO THE THUMB …

Albert sighed. ‘And then you press down and pull, master.’

AH. RIGHT. GOT YOU.

The head disappeared.

Oh dear, thought Albert. He just can’t get the hang of them, can he …?

The door jerked open. Death stood behind it, beaming proudly, as Albert staggered in, snow blowing in with him.

‘Blimey, it’s getting really parky,’ said Albert. ‘Any sherry?’ he added hopefully.

IT APPEARS NOT.

Death looked at the sock hooked on to the side of the stove. It had a hole in it.

A letter, in erratic handwriting, was attached to it. Death picked it up.

THE BOY WANTS A PAIR OF TROUSERS THAT HE DOESN’T HAVE TO SHARE, A HUGE MEAT PIE, A SUGAR MOUSE, ‘A LOT OF TOYS’ AND A PUPPY CALLED SCRUFF.

‘Ah, sweet,’ said Albert. ‘I shall wipe away a tear, ’cos what he’s gettin’, see, is this little wooden toy and an apple.’ He held them out.

BUT THE LETTER CLEARLY—

‘Yes, well, it’s socio-economic factors again, right?’ said Albert. ‘The world’d be in a right mess if everyone got what they asked for, eh?’

I GAVE THEM WHAT THEY WANTED IN THE STORE …

‘Yeah, and that’s gonna cause a lot of trouble, master. All them “toy pigs that really work”. I didn’t say nothing ’cos it was getting the job done but you can’t go on like that. What good’s a god who gives you everything you want?’

YOU HAVE ME THERE.

‘It’s the hope that’s important. Big part of belief, hope. Give people jam today and they’ll just sit and eat it. Jam tomorrow, now — that’ll keep them going for ever.’

AND YOU MEAN THAT BECAUSE OF THIS THE POOR GET POOR THINGS AND THE RICH GET RICH THINGS?

‘’s right,’ said Albert. ‘That’s the meaning of Hogswatch.’

Death nearly wailed.

BUT I’M THE HOGFATHER! He looked embarrassed. AT THE MOMENT, I MEAN.

‘Makes no difference,’ said Albert, shrugging. ‘I remember when I was a nipper, one Hogswatch I had my heart set on this huge model horse they had in the shop …’ His face creased for a moment in a grim smile of recollection. ‘I remember I spent hours one day, cold as charity the weather was, I spent hours with my nose pressed up against the window … until they heard me callin’, and unfroze me. I saw them take it out of the window, someone was in there buying it, and, y’know, just for a second I thought it really was going to be for me … Oh. I dreamed of that toy horse. It were red and white with a real saddle and everything. And rockers. I’d’ve killed for that horse,’ He shrugged again. ‘Not a chance, of course, ’cos we didn’t have a pot to piss in and we even ’ad to spit on the bread to make it soft enough to eat—’

PLEASE ENLIGHTEN ME. WHAT IS SO IMPORTANT ABOUT HAVING A POT TO PISS IN?

‘It’s … it’s more like a figure of speech, master. It means you’re as poor as a church mouse.’

ARE THEY POOR?

‘Well … yeah.’

BUT SURELY NOT MORE POOR THAN ANY OTHER MOUSE? AND, AFTER ALL, THERE TEND TO BE LOTS OF CANDLES AND THINGS THEY COULD EAT.