Equal Rites - Terry Pratchett [75]
They may have been ugly. They may have been evil. But when it came to poetry in motion, the Things had all the grace and coordination of a deck-chair.
Esk glared at them, and took a look at the Disc in its glass pyramid. All the excitement didn’t seem to have disturbed it a bit.
She’d been able to get out, if this indeed was out and if the Disc could be said to be in. But how was one supposed to get back?
Somebody laughed. It was the sort of laugh—
Basically, it was p’ch’zarni’chiwkov. This epiglottis-throt-tling word is seldom used on the Disc except by highly paid stunt linguists and, of course, the tiny tribe of the K’turni, who invented it. It has no direct synonym, although the Cumhoolie word “squernt” (“the feeling upon finding that the previous occupant of the privy has used all the paper”) begins to approach it in general depth of feeling. The closest translation is as follows:
the nasty little sound of a sword being unsheathed right behind one at just the point when one thought one had disposed of one’s enemies
—although K’turni speakers say that this does not convey the cold sweating, heart-stopping, gut-freezing sense of the original.
It was that kind of laugh.
Esk turned around slowly. Simon drifted toward her across the sand, with his hands cupped in front of him. His eyes were tight shut.
“Did you really think it would be as easy as that?” he said. Or something said; it didn’t sound like Simon’s voice, but like dozens of voices speaking at once.
“Simon?” she said, uncertainly.
“He is of no further use to us,” said the Thing with Simon’s shape. “He has shown us the way, child. Now give us our property.”
Esk backed away.
“I don’t think it belongs to you,” she said, “whoever you are.”
The face in front of her opened its eyes. There was nothing there but blackness—not a color, just holes into some other space.
“We could say that if you gave it to us we would be merciful. We could say we would let you go from here in your own shape. But there wouldn’t really be much point in us saying that, would there?”
“I wouldn’t believe you,” said Esk.
“Well, then.”
The Simon-thing grinned.
“You’re only putting off the inevitable,” it said.
“Suits me.”
“We could take it anyway.”
“Take it, then. But I don’t think you can. You can’t take anything unless it’s given to you, can you?”
They circled round.
“You’ll give it to us,” said the Simon-thing.
Some of the other Things were approaching now, striding back across the desert with horrible jerky motions.
“You’ll get tired,” it continued. “We can wait. We’re very good at waiting.”
It made a feint to the left, but Esk swung around to face it.
“That doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m only dreaming this, and you can’t get hurt in dreams.”
The Thing paused, and looked at her with its empty eyes.
“Have you got a word in your world, I think it’s called ‘psychosomatic’?”
“Never heard of it,” snapped Esk.
“It means you can get hurt in your dreams. And what is so interesting is that if you die in your dreams you stay here. That would be niiiiice.”
Esk glanced sideways at the distant mountains, sprawled on the chilly horizon like melted mud pies. There were no trees, not even any rocks. Just sand and cold stars and—
She felt the movement rather than heard it and turned with the pyramid held between her hands like a club. It hit the Simon-thing in midleap with a satisfying thump, but as soon as it hit the ground it somersaulted forward and bounced upright with unpleasant ease. But it had heard her gasp and had seen the brief pain in her eyes. It paused.
“Ah, that hurt you, did it not? You don’t like to see another one suffer, yes? Not this one, it seems.”
It turned and beckoned, and two of the tall Things lurched over to it and gripped it firmly by the arms.
Its eyes changed. The darkness faded, and then Simon’s own eyes looked out of his face. He stared up at the Things on either side of him and struggled briefly, but one had several pairs of tentacles wrapped around his wrist and the other was holding his arm in the world’s largest