Hogfather - Terry Pratchett [24]
“Try number nineteen,” said Susan, relenting a little. “The governess there doesn’t believe in bogeymen.”
“Right?” said the monster hopefully.
“She believes in algebra, though.”
“Ah. Nice.” The bogeyman grinned hugely. It was amazing the sort of mischief that could be caused in a house where no one in authority thought you existed.
“I’ll be off, then,” it said. “Er. Happy Hogswatch.”
“Possibly,” said Susan, as it slunk away.
“That wasn’t as much fun as the one last month,” said Gawain, getting between the sheets again. “You know, when you kicked him in the trousers—”
“Just you two get to sleep now,” said Susan.
“Verity said the sooner we got to sleep the sooner the Hogfather would come,” said Twyla conversationally.
“Yes,” said Susan. “Unfortunately, that might be the case.”
The remark passed right over their heads. She wasn’t sure why it had gone through hers, but she knew enough to trust her senses.
She hated that kind of sense. It ruined your life. But it was the sense she had been born with.
The children were tucked in, and she closed the door quietly and went back to the schoolroom.
Something had changed.
She glared at the stockings, but they were unfulfilled. A paper chain rustled.
She stared at the tree. Tinsel had been twined around it, badly pasted-together decorations had been hung on it. And on top was the fairy made of—
She crossed her arms, looked up at the ceiling, and sighed theatrically.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” she said.
SQUEAK?
“Yes, it is. You’re sticking out your arms like a scarecrow and you’ve stuck a little star on your scythe, haven’t you…?”
The Death of Rats hung his head guiltily.
SQUEAK.
“You’re not fooling anyone.”
SQUEAK.
“Get down from there this minute!”
SQUEAK.
“And what did you do with the fairy?”
“It’s shoved under a cushion on the chair,” said a voice from the shelves on the other side of the room. There was a clicking noise and the raven’s voice added, “These damn eyeballs are hard, aren’t they?”
Susan raced across the room and snatched the bowl away so fast that the raven somersaulted and landed on its back.
“They’re walnuts!” she shouted, as they bounced around her. “Not eyeballs! This is a schoolroom! And the difference between a school and a-a-a raven deli catessen is that they hardly ever have eyeballs lying around in bowls in case a raven drops in for a quick snack! Understand? No eyeballs! The world is full of small round things that aren’t eyeballs! okay?”
The raven’s own eyes revolved.
“’n’ I suppose a bit of warm liver’s out of the question—”
“Shut up! I want both of you out of here right now! I don’t know how you got in here—”
“There’s a law against coming down the chimney on Hogswatchnight?”
“—but I don’t want you back in my life, understand?”
“The rat said you ought to be warned even if you were crazy,” said the raven sulkily. “I didn’t want to come, there’s a donkey dropped dead just outside the city gates, I’ll be lucky now if I get a hoof—”
“Warned?” said Susan.
There it was again. The change in the weather of the mind, a sensation of tangible time…
The Death of Rats nodded.
There was a scrabbling sound far overhead. A few flakes of soot dropped down the chimney.
SQUEAK, said the rat, but very quietly.
Susan was aware of a new sensation, as a fish might be aware of a new tide, a spring of fresh water flowing into the sea. Time was pouring into the world.
She glanced up at the clock. It was just on half past six.
The raven scratched its beak.
“The rat says…The rat says: you’d better watch out…”
There were others at work on this shining Hogswatch Eve. The Sandman was out and about, dragging his sack from bed to bed. Jack Frost wandered from window pane to window pane, making icy patterns.
And one tiny hunched shape slid and slithered along the gutter, squelching its feet in slush and swearing under its breath.
It wore a stained black suit and, on its head, the type of hat known in various parts of the multiverse as “bowler,” “derby” or “the one that makes you look a bit of a twit.” The hat had