Interesting Times - Terry Pratchett [106]
He felt, as an expert in these things, that he was over a depth. From his point of view, it was also a height.
The log began to shift again.
This left Rincewind with, as he saw it, two options. He could let go and plunge to an uncertain fate in the darkness, or he could hang on until the timber gave way, and then plunge to an uncertain fate in the darkness.
And then, to his delight, there was a third option. The toe of his boot touched something, a root, a protruding rock. It didn’t matter. It took some of his weight. It took at least enough to put him in precarious equilibrium—not exactly safe, not exactly falling. Of course, it was only a temporary measure, but Rincewind had always considered that life was no more than a series of temporary measures strung together.
A pale yellow butterfly with interesting patterns on its wings fluttered along the gully and settled on the only bit of color available, which turned out to be Rincewind’s hat.
The wood sagged slightly.
“Push off!” said Rincewind, trying not to use heavy language. “Go away!”
The butterfly flattened its wings and sunned itself.
Rincewind pursed his lips and tried to blow up his own nostrils.
Startled, the creature skittered into the air…
“Hah!” said Rincewind.
…and, in response to its instincts in the face of a threat, moved its wings like this and this.
The bushes shivered. And around the sky, the towering clouds curved into unusual patterns.
Another cloud formed. It was about the size of an angry gray balloon. And it started to rain. Not rain generally, but specifically. Specifically on about a square foot of ground which contained Rincewind; specifically, on his hat.
A very small bolt of lightning stung Rincewind on the nose.
“Ah! So we have”—Pink Pig, appearing around the curve of the gully, hesitated a bit before continuing slightly more thoughtfully—“a head in a hole…with a very small thunderstorm above it.”
And then it dawned on him that, storm or no storm, nothing was preventing him from cutting off significant parts. The only significant part available was a head, but that was fine by him.
At which point, Rincewind’s hat having absorbed enough moisture, the ancient wood gave way under the strain and plunged him to an uncertain fate in the darkness.
It was utterly dark.
There had been a painful confusion of tunnels and sliding dirt. Rincewind assumed—or the small part of him that was not sobbing with fear assumed—that the earth had caved in after him. Cave. That was a significant word. He was in a cave. Reaching out carefully, in case he felt something, he felt for something to feel.
There was a straight edge. It led to three more straight edges, going off at right angles. So…this meant slab.
The darkness was still a choking velvet shroud.
Slab meant that there was some other entrance, some proper entrance. Even now guards were probably hurrying towards him.
Perhaps the Luggage was hurrying towards them. It had been acting very funny lately, that was for certain. He was probably better off without it. Probably.
He patted his pockets, saying the mantra that even non-wizards invoke in order to find matches; that is, he said, “Matches, matches, matches,” madly to himself, under his breath.
He found some, and scratched one desperately with his thumbnail.
“Ow!”
The smoky yellow flame lit nothing except Rincewind’s hand and part of his sleeve.
He ventured a few steps before it burned his fingers, and when it died it left a blue afterglow in the darkness of his vision.
There were no sounds of vengeful feet. There were no sounds at all. In theory there should be the drip of water, but the air felt quite dry.
He tried another match, and this time raised it as high as he could and peered ahead.
A seven-foot warrior smiled at him.
Cohen looked up again.
“It’s going to piss down in a minute,” he said. “Will you look at that sky?”
There were hints of purple and red in the mass,