Discworld - The Colour of Magic Part 26

So this is it, he thought. When you die you go to a cold, damp, misty freezing place. Hades, where the mournful spirits of the Dead troop forever across the sorrowful marshes, corpse-lights flickering fitfully in the encircling-hang on a minute...

Surely Hades wasn't this uncomfortable? And he was very uncomfortable indeed. His back ached where a branch was pressing into it, his legs and arms hurt where the twigs had lacerated them and, judging by the way his head was feeling, something hard had recently hit it. If this was Hades it sure was h.e.l.l-hang on a minute...

Tree. He concentrated on the word that floated up from his mind, although the buzzing in his ears and the flashing lights in front of his eyes made this an unexpected achievement. Tree. Wooden thing. That was it. Branches and twigs and things. And Rincewind, lying in it. Tree. Dripping wet. Cold white cloud all around. Underneath, too. Now that was odd.

He was alive and lying covered in bruises in a small thorn tree that was growing in a crevice in a rock that projected out of the foaming white wall that was the Rimfall. The realization hit him in much the same way as an icy hammer. He shuddered. The tree gave a warning creak.

Something blue and blurred shot past him, dipped briefly into the thundering waters, and whirred back and settled on a branch near Rincewind's head. It was a small bird with a tuft of blue and green feathers. It swallowed the little silver fish that it had s.n.a.t.c.hed from the Fall and eyed him curiously.

Rincewind became aware that there were lots of similar birds around.

They hovered, darted and swooped easily across the face of the water, and every so often one would raise an extra plume of spray as it stole another doomed morsel from the waterfall. Several of them were perching in the tree. They were as iridescent as jewels. Rincewind was entranced.

He was in fact the first man ever to see the rimfishers, the tiny creatures who had long ago evolved a lifestyle quite unique even for the Disc. Long before the Krullians had built the Circ.u.mfence the rimfishers had devised their own efficient method of policing the edge of the world for a living.

They didn't seem bothered about Rincewind. He had a brief but chilling vision of himself living the rest of his life out in this tree, subsisting on raw birds and such fish as he could s.n.a.t.c.h as they plummeted past.

The tree moved distinctly. Rincewind gave a whimper as he found himself sliding backward, but managed to grab a branch. Only, sooner or later, he would fall asleep...

There was a subtle change of scene, a slight purplish tint to the sky. A tall, black-cloaked figure was standing on the air next to the tree. It had a scythe in one hand. Its face was hidden in the shadows of the hood.

I HAVE COME FOR THEE HAVE COME FOR THEE, said the invisible mouth, in tones as heavy as a whale's heartbeat.

The trunk of the tree gave another protesting creak, and a pebble bounced off Rincewind's helmet as one root tore loose from the rock.

Death Himself always came in person to harvest the souls of wizards.

"What am I going to die of?" said Rincewind.

The tall figure hesitated.

PARDON? it said.

"Well, I haven't broken anything, and I haven't drowned, so what am I about to die of? You can't just be killed by Death; there has to be a reason," said Rincewind. To his utter amazement he didn't feel terrified anymore. For about the first time in his life he wasn't frightened. Pity the experience didn't look like lasting for long.

Death appeared to reach a conclusion.

YOU COULD DIE OF TERROR, the hood intoned. The voice still had its graveyard ring, but there was a slight tremor of uncertainty.

"Won't work," said Rincewind smugly.

THERE DOESN'T HAVE TO BE A REASON, said Death. I CAN JUST KILL YOU CAN JUST KILL YOU.

"Hey, you can't do that! It'd be murder!"

The cowled figure sighed and pulled back its hood. Instead of the grinning death's head that Rincewind had been expecting he found himself looking up into the pale and slightly transparent face of a rather worried demon, of sorts.

"I'm making rather a mess of this, aren't I?" it said wearily.

"You're not Death! Who are you?" cried Rincewind.

"Scrofula."

"Scrofula?"

"Death couldn't come," said the demon wretchedly. "There's a big plague on in Pseudopolis. He had to go and stalk the streets. So he sent me."

"No one dies of scrofula! I've got rights. I'm a wizard!"

"All right, all right. This was going to be my big chance," said Scrofula, "but look at it this way-if I hit you with this scythe you'll be just as dead as you would be if Death had done it. Who'd know?"

"I'd know!" snapped Rincewind.

"You wouldn't. You'd be dead," said Scrofula logically.

"p.i.s.s off," said Rincewind.

"That's all very well," said the demon, hefting the scythe, "but why not try to see things from my point of view? This means a lot to me, and you've got to admit that your life isn't all that wonderful. Reincarnation can only be an improvement-uh."

His hand flew to his mouth but Rincewind was already pointing a trembling finger at him.

"Reincarnation!" he said excitedly. "So it is is true what the mystics say!" true what the mystics say!"

"I'm admitting nothing," said Scrofula testily. "It was a slip of the tongue. Now-are you going to die willingly or not?"

"No," said Rincewind.

"Please yourself," replied the demon. He raised the scythe. It whistled down in quite a professional way, but Rincewind wasn't there. He was in fact several meters below, and the distance was increasing all the time, because the branch had chosen that moment to snap and send him on his interrupted journey toward the interstellar gulf.

"Come back!" screamed the demon.

Rincewind didn't answer. He was lying belly down in the rushing air, staring down into the clouds that even now were thinning.

They vanished.

Below, the whole universe twinkled at Rincewind. There was Great A'Tuin, huge and ponderous and pocked with craters. There was the little Disc moon. There was a distant gleam that could only be the Potent Voyager Potent Voyager. And there were all the stars, looking remarkably like powdered diamonds spilled on black velvet, the stars that lured and ultimately called the boldest toward them...

The whole of Creation was waiting for Rincewind to drop in.

He did so.

There didn't seem to be any alternative.

* The shape and cosmology of the disc system are perhaps worthy of note at this point. The shape and cosmology of the disc system are perhaps worthy of note at this point.

There are, of course, two major directions on the disc: hubward and rimward. But since the disc itself revolves at the rate of once every eight hundred days (in order to distribute the weight fairly upon its supportive pachyderms, according to Reforgule of Krull) there are also two lesser directions, which are Turnwise and Widdershins.

Since the disc's tiny orbiting sunlet maintains a fixed orbit while the majestic disc turns slowly beneath it, it will be readily deduced that a disc year consists of not four but eight seasons. The summers are those times when the sun rises or sets at the nearest point on the Rim, the winters those occasions when it rises or sets at a point around ninety degrees along the circ.u.mference.

Thus, in the lands around the Circle Sea, the year begins on Hogs' Watch Night, progresses through a Spring Prime to its first midsummer (Small G.o.ds' Eve) which is followed by Autumn Prime and, straddling the half-year point of Crueltide, Winter Secundus (also known as the Spindlewinter, since at this time the sun rises in the direction of spin). Then comes Secundus Spring with Summer Two on its heels, the three quarter mark of the year being the night of Alls Fallow-the one night of the year, according to legend, when witches and warlocks stay in bed. Then drifting leaves and frosty nights drag on toward Backspindlewinter and a new Hogs' Watch Night nestling like a frozen jewel at its heart.

Since the Hub is never closely warmed by the weak sun the lands there are locked in permafrost. The Rim, on the other hand, is a region of sunny islands and balmy days.

There are, of course, eight days in a disc week and eight colors in its light spectrum. Eight is a number of some considerable occult significance on the disc and must never, ever, be spoken by a wizard.

Precisely why all the above should be so is not clear, but goes some way to explain why, on the disc, the G.o.ds are not so much worshipped as blamed.

About the Author.

Terry Pratchett lives in England, an island off the coast of France, where he spends his time writing Discworld novels in accordance with the Very String Anthropic Principle, which holds that the entire Purpose of the Universe is to make possible a being that will live in England, an island off the coast of France, and spend his time writing Discworld novels. Which is exactly what he does. Which proves the whole business true. Any questions? lives in England, an island off the coast of France, where he spends his time writing Discworld novels in accordance with the Very String Anthropic Principle, which holds that the entire Purpose of the Universe is to make possible a being that will live in England, an island off the coast of France, and spend his time writing Discworld novels. Which is exactly what he does. Which proves the whole business true. Any questions?

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

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BOOKS BY T TERRY P PRATCHETT.

The Carpet People The Dark Side of the Sun Strata Truckers Diggers Wings Only You Can Save Mankind Johnny and the Dead Johnny and the Bomb The Unadulterated Cat (with Gray Jollife) (with Gray Jollife) Good Omens (with Neil Gaiman) (with Neil Gaiman) THE D DISCWORLD SERIES:.

Going Postal Monstrous Regiment Night Watch The Last Hero The Truth Thief of Time The Fifth Elephant Carpe Jugulum The Last Continent Jingo Hogfather Feet of Clay Maskerade Interesting Times Soul Music Men at Arms Lords and Ladies Small G.o.ds Witches Abroad Reaper Man Moving Pictures Eric (with Josh Kirby) (with Josh Kirby) Guards! Guards! Pyramids Wyrd Sisters Sourcery Mort Equal Rites The Light Fantastic The Color of Magic Mort: A Discworld Big Comic (with Graham Higgins) (with Graham Higgins) The Streets of Ankh-Morpork (with Stephen Briggs) (with Stephen Briggs) The Discworld Companion (with Stephen Briggs) (with Stephen Briggs) The Discworld Mapp (with Stephen Briggs) (with Stephen Briggs) The Pratchett Portfolio (with Paul Kidby) (with Paul Kidby)