The Last Continent

Neilette patted Rincewind on the shoulder. 'Are you going to do some magic?' she said.

'I don't know if it counts as magic here,' said Rincewind. 'If it doesn't work, stand well back.'

'Is it going to be dangerous, then?'

'No, I might have to start running without looking where I'm going. But... this rock's warm. Have you noticed?'

She touched it. 'I see what you mean...'

'I was just thinking... Supposing someone was in a country who shouldn't be there? What would it do?'

'Oh, the Watch would catch him, I expect.'

'No, no, not the people. What would the land do? I think I need another drink, it made more sense then...'

'Okay, here we are, we couldn't find much, but there's some whitewash and some red paint and a tin of stuff which might be black paint or it could be tar oil.' The wizards hurried up. 'Not much in the way of brushes, though.'

Rincewind picked up a brush that looked as though it had once been used to whitewash a very rough wall and then to clean the teeth of some large creature, possibly a crocodile.

He'd never been any good at art, and this is a distinction quite hard to achieve in many education systems. Basic artistic skills and a familiarity with occult calligraphy are part of a wizard's early training, yet in Rincewind's fingers chalk broke and pencils shattered. It was probably due to a deep distrust of getting things down on paper when they were doing all right where they were.

Neilette handed him a tin of Funnelweb. Rincewind drank deeply and then dipped the brush in what might have been black paint and essayed a few upturned Vs on the rock, and some circles under the lines, with three dots in a V and a friendly little curve in each one.

He took another deep draught of the beer and saw what he was doing wrong. It was no good trying to be strictly true to life here; what he had to go for was an impression.

He sloshed wildly at the stone, humming madly under his breath.

'Anyone guess what it is yet?' he said, over his shoulder.

'Looks a bit modern to me,' said the Dean.

But Rincewind was into the swing of it now. Any fool could just copy what he saw, except possibly Rincewind, but surely the whole point was to try to paint a picture that moved, that definitely expressed the, the, the—

Definitely expressed it, anyway. You went the way the paint and the colour wanted you to go.

'You know,' said Neilette, 'the way the light falls on it and everything... it could be a group of wizards...'

Rincewind half closed his eyes. Perhaps it was the way that the shadows moved, but he had to admit he'd done a really good job. He slapped some more paint on.

'Looks like they're almost coming out of the stone,' said someone behind him, but the voice sounded muffled.

He felt as though he was falling into a hole. He'd had the sensation before, although usually it was when he was falling into a hole. The walls were fuzzy, as though they were streaking past him at a tremendous rate. The ground shook.

'Are we moving?' he said.

'Feels like it, doesn't it?' said Archchancellor Rincewind. 'But we're standing still!'

'Moving while standing still,' muttered Rincewind, and giggled. 'That's a good one!' He squinted happily at the beer can. 'Y'know,' he said, 'I can't stomach more than a pint or two of the ale we have at home but this stuff is like drinking lemonade! Has anyone got that meat pie—'

As loudly as a thunderstorm under the bed but as softly as two souffles colliding, past and present ran into one another.

They contained a lot of people.

'What's this?'

'Dean?'

'Yes?'

'You're not the Dean!'

'How dare you say that! Who are you!'

'Ook!'

'Stone the cows, there's a monkey in here!'

'No! No! I didn't say that! He said that!'

'Archchancellor?'

'Yes?'

'Yes?'

'What? How many of you are there?'

The darkness became a deep purple, shading to violet.

'Will you all stop shouting and listen to me!'

To Rincewind's amazement, they did.

'Look, the walls are getting closer! This place is trying not to exist!'

And, having done his duty to the community, he turned and ran over the shaking rock floor.

After a couple of seconds the Luggage passed him, which was always a bad sign.

He heard the voices behind him. Wizards had a hard job accepting the term 'clear and present danger'. They liked the kind you could argue about. But there is something about a rapidly descending ceiling that intrudes into the awareness of even the most quarrelsome.

'I'll save you, Mrs Whitlow!'

'Up the tunnel!'

'How fast are those walls closing in, would you say?'

'Shut up and run!'

Now Rincewind was passed by a large red, furry kangaroo. The Librarian's erratic morphism, having briefly turned him into a red stalactite as an obviously successful shape for surviving in caves, had finally taken on board the fact that it would make for a terminally lengthy survival in a cave that was rapidly getting smaller, and had flipped into a local morphic field built for speed.