Hogfather (11 page)

Y
OU THINK SO
?

“Sure.”

A
ND
I
MADE SURE SOME OF THEM SAW ME
. I
KNOW IF THEY ARE PEEPING
, Death added proudly.

“Well done, sir.”

Y
ES
.

“Though here’s a tip, though.
Just
‘ho, ho, ho’ will do. Don’t say, ‘Cower, brief mortals’ unless you want them to grow up to be moneylenders or some such.”

H
O
. H
O
. H
O
.

“Yes, you’re really getting the hang of it.” Albert looked down hurriedly at his notebook so that Death wouldn’t see his face. “Now, I got to tell you, master, what’ll
really
do some good is a public appearance. Really.”

O
H
. I
DON’T NORMALLY DO THEM
.

“The Hogfather’s more of a public figure, master. And one good public appearance’ll do more good than any amount of letting kids see you by accident. Good for the old belief muscles.”

R
EALLY
? H
O
. H
O
. H
O
.

“Right, right, that’s really
good
, master. Where was I…yes…the shops’ll be open late. Lots of kiddies get taken to see the Hogfather, you see. Not the
real
one, of course. Just some ole geezer with a pillow up his jumper, saving yer presence, master.”

N
OT REAL
? H
O
. H
O
. H
O
.

“Oh, no. And you don’t need—”

T
HE CHILDREN KNOW THIS
? H
O
. H
O
. H
O
.

Albert scratched his nose. “S’pose so, master.”

T
HIS SHOULD NOT BE
. N
O WONDER THERE HAS BEEN…THIS DIFFICULTY
. B
ELIEF WAS COMPROMISED
? H
O
. H
O
. H
O
.

“Could be, master. Er, the ‘ho, ho—’”

W
HERE DOES THIS TRAVESTY TAKE PLACE
? H
O
. H
O
. H
O
.

Albert gave up. “Well, Crumley’s in The Maul, for one. Very popular, the Hogfather Grotto. They always have a good Hogfather, apparently.”

L
ET’S GET THERE AND SLEIGH THEM
. H
O
. H
O
. H
O
.

“Right you are, master.”

T
HAT WAS A PUNE OR PLAY ON WORDS
, A
LBERT
. I
DON’T KNOW IF YOU NOTICED
.

“I’m laughing like hell deep down, sir.”

H
O
. H
O
. H
O
.

Archchancellor Ridcully grinned.

He often grinned. He was one of those men who grinned even when they were annoyed, but right now he grinned because he was proud. A little sore still, perhaps, but still proud.

“Amazing bathroom, ain’t it?” he said. “They had it walled up, you know. Damn silly thing to do. I mean, perhaps there were a few teething troubles,” he shifted gingerly, “but that’s only to be expected. It’s got everything, d’you see? Footbaths in the shape of clam shells, look. A whole wardrobe for dressing gowns. And that tub over there’s got a big blower thingy so’s you get bubbly water without even havin’ to eat starchy food. And this thingy here with the mermaids holdin’ it up’s a special pot for your toenail clippings. It’s got everything, this place.”

“A special pot for nail clippings?” said the Verruca Gnome.

“Oh, can’t be too careful,” said Ridcully, lifting the lid of an ornate jar marked BATH SALTS and pulling out a bottle of wine. “Get hold of something like someone’s nail clipping and you’ve got ’em under your control. That’s real old magic. Dawn-of-time stuff.”

He held the wine bottle up to the light.

“Should be cooled nicely by now,” he said, extracting the cork. “Verrucas, eh?”

“Wish I knew why,” said the gnome.

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Nope. Suddenly I wake up and I’m the Verruca Gnome.”

“Puzzling, that,” said Ridcully. “My dad used to say the Verruca Gnome turned up if you walked around in bare feet but I never knew you
existed
. I thought he just made it up. I mean, tooth fairies, yes, and them little buggers that live in flowers, used to collect ’em myself as a lad, but can’t recall anything about verrucas.” He drank thoughtfully. “Got a distant cousin called Verruca, as a matter of fact. It’s quite a nice sound, when you come to think of it.”

He looked at the gnome over the top of his glass.

You didn’t become Archchancellor without a feeling for subtle wrongness in a situation. Well, that wasn’t quite true. It was more accurate to say that you didn’t
remain
Archchancellor for very long.

“Good job, is it?” he said thoughtfully.

“Dandruff’d be better,” said the gnome. “At least I’d be out in the fresh air.”

“I think we’d better check up on this,” said Ridcully. “Of course, it might be nothing.”

“Oh, thank you,” said the Verruca Gnome, gloomily.

It was a magnificent Grotto this year, Vernon Crumley told himself. The staff had worked really hard. The Hogfather’s sleigh was a work of art in itself, and the pigs looked really real and a
wonderful
shade of pink.

The Grotto took up nearly all of the first floor. One of the pixies had been Disciplined for smoking behind the Magic Tinkling Waterfall, and the clockwork Dolls of All Nations showing how We Could All Get Along were a bit jerky and giving trouble but all in all, he told himself, it was a display to Delight the Hearts of Kiddies everywhere.

The Kiddies were queuing up with their parents and watching the display owlishly.

And the money was coming in. Oh, how the money was coming in.

So that the staff would not be Tempted, Mr. Crumley had set up an arrangement of overhead wires across the ceilings of the store. In the middle of each floor was a cashier in a little cage. Staff took money from customers, put it in a little clockwork cable car, sent it whizzing overhead to the cashier, who’d make change and start it rattling back again. Thus there was no possibility of Temptation, and the little trolleys were shooting back and forth like fireworks.

Mr. Crumley loved Hogswatch. It was for the Kiddies, after all.

He tucked his fingers in the pockets of his waistcoat and beamed.

“Everything going well, Miss Harding?”

“Yes, Mr. Crumley,” said the cashier, meekly.

“
Jolly
good.” He looked at the pile of coins.

A bright little zigzag crackled off them and earthed itself on the metal grille.

Mr. Crumley blinked. In front of him sparks flashed off the steel rims of Miss Harding’s spectacles.

The Grotto display changed. For just a fraction of a second Mr. Crumley had the sensation of speed, as though what appeared had screeched to a halt. Which was
ridiculous
.

The four pink papier-mâché pigs exploded. A cardboard snout bounced off Mr. Crumley’s head.

There, sweating and grunting in the place where the little piggies had been, were…well, he assumed they were pigs, because hippopotamuses didn’t have pointy ears and rings through their noses. But the creatures were huge and gray and bristly and a cloud of acrid mist hung over each one.

And they didn’t look sweet. There was nothing charming about them. One turned to look at him with small, red eyes, and didn’t go “oink,” which was the sound that Mr. Crumley, born and raised in the city, had always associated with pigs.

It went “
Ghnaaarrrwnnkh
?”

The sleigh had changed, too. He’d been very pleased with that sleigh. It had delicate silver curly bits on it. He’d personally supervised the gluing on of every twinkling star. But the splendor of it was lying in glittering shards around a sleigh that looked as though it had been built of crudely sawn tree trunks laid on two massive wooden runners. It looked ancient and there were faces carved on the wood, nasty crude grinning faces that looked quite out of place.

Parents were yelling and trying to pull their children away, but they weren’t having much luck. The children were gravitating toward it like flies to jam.

Mr. Crumley ran toward the terrible thing, waving his hands.

“Stop that! Stop that!” he screamed. “You’ll frighten the Kiddies!”

He heard a small boy behind him say, “They’ve got tusks!
Cool
!”

His sister said, “Hey, look, that one’s doing a wee!” A tremendous cloud of yellow steam arose. “Look, it’s going all the way to the stairs! All those who can’t swim hold onto the banisters!”

“They eat you if you’re bad, you know,” said a small girl with obvious approval. “All up. Even the bones. They
crunch
them.”

Another, older, child opined: “Don’t be childish. They’re not real. They’ve just got a wizard in to do the magic. Or it’s all done by clockwork. Everyone knows they’re not really r—”

One of the boars turned to look at him. The boy moved behind his mother.

Mr. Crumley, tears of anger streaming down his face, fought through the milling crowd until he reached the Hogfather’s Grotto. He grabbed a frightened pixie.

“It’s the Campaign for Equal Heights that’ve done this, isn’t it!” he shouted. “They’re out to ruin me! And they’re ruining it for all the Kiddies! Look at the lovely dolls!”

The pixie hesitated. Children were clustering around the pigs, despite the continued efforts of their mothers. The small girl was giving one of them an orange.

But the animated display of Dolls of All Nations was definitely in trouble. The musical box underneath was still playing “Wouldn’t It Be Nice If Everyone Was Nice” but the rods that animated the figures had got twisted out of shape, so that the Klatchian boy was rhythmically hitting the Omnian girl over the head with his ceremonial spear, while the girl in Agatean national costume was kicking a small Llamedosian druid repeatedly in the ear. A chorus of small children was cheering them on indiscriminately.

“There’s, er, there’s more trouble in the Grotto, Mr. Crum—” the pixie began.

A red and white figure pushed its way through the crush and rammed a false beard into Mr. Crumley’s hands.

“That’s
it
,” said the old man in the Hogfather costume. “I don’t mind the smell of oranges and the damp trousers but I ain’t putting up with
this
.”

He stamped off through the queue. Mr. Crumley heard him add, “And he’s not even doin’ it right!”

Mr. Crumley forced his way onward.

Someone was sitting in the big chair. There was a child on his knee. The figure was…strange. It was definitely in something like a Hogfather costume but Mr. Crumley’s eye kept slipping, it wouldn’t focus, it skittered away and tried to put the figure on the very edge of vision. It was like trying to look at your own ear.

“What’s going on here? What’s going on here?” Crumley demanded.

A hand took his shoulder firmly. He turned round and looked into the face of a Grotto pixie. At least, it was wearing the costume of a Grotto pixie, although somewhat askew, as if it had been put on in a hurry.

“Who are
you
?”

The pixie took the soggy cigarette end out of its mouth and leered at him.

“Call me Uncle Heavy,” he said.

“You’re not a pixie!”

“Nah, I’m a fairy cobbler, mister.”

Behind Crumley, a voice said:

A
ND WHAT DO YOU WANT FOR
H
OGSWATCH, SMALL HUMAN
?

Mr. Crumley turned in horror.

In front of—well, he had to think of it as the usurping Hogfather—was a small child of indeterminate sex who seemed to be mostly woollen bobble hat.

Mr. Crumley knew how it was supposed to go. It was supposed to go like this: the child was always struck dumb and the attendant mother would lean forward and catch the Hogfather’s eye and say very pointedly, in that voice adults use when they’re conspiring against children: “You want a Baby Tinkler Doll, don’t you, Doreen? And the Just Like Mummy Cookery Set you’ve got in the window. And the Cut-Out Kitchen Range Book. And what do you say?”

And the stunned child would murmur “’nk you” and get given a balloon or an orange.

This time, though, it didn’t work like that.

Mother got as far as “You want a—”

W
HY ARE YOUR HANDS ON BITS OF STRING, CHILD
?

The child looked down the length of its arms to the dangling mittens affixed to its sleeves. It held them up for inspection.

“Glubs,” it said.

I
SEE
. V
ERY PRACTICAL
.

“Are you weal?” said the bobble hat.

W
HAT DO
YOU
THINK
?

The bobble hat sniggered. “I saw your piggy do a wee!” it said, and implicit in the tone was the suggestion that this was unlikely to be dethroned as the most enthralling thing the bobble hat had ever seen.

O
H
. E
R…GOOD
.

“It had a gwate big—”

W
HAT DO YOU WANT FOR
H
OGSWATCH
? said the Hogfather hurriedly.

Mother took her economic cue again, and said briskly: “She wants a—”

The Hogfather snapped his fingers impatiently. The mother’s mouth slammed shut.

The child seemed to sense that here was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and spoke quickly.

“I wanta narmy. Anna big castle wif pointy bits,” said the child. “Anna swored.”

W
HAT DO YOU SAY
? prompted the Hogfather.

“A
big
swored?” said the child, after a pause for deep cogitation.

T
HAT’S RIGHT
.

Uncle Heavy nudged the Hogfather.

“They’re supposed to
thank
you,” he said.

A
RE YOU SURE
? P
EOPLE DON’T, NORMALLY
.

“I meant they thank the
Hogfather
,” Albert hissed. “Which is you, right?”