The Last Continent - Terry Pratchett [73]
“Oh dear, what can you think of me? I’m so sorry!” he said. “I’m afraid it’s a sort of natural reaction if I get a bit, you know…testy.”
Everyone looked at the crater. The rock bubbled gently by Ponder’s feet. He didn’t dare move his sandal, just in case he fainted.
“That was just…testy, was it?” said Ridcully.
“Well, it may have been more…vexed, I suppose,” said the god. “I can’t really help it, it’s a god-given reflex. I’m afraid as a…well, species, we’re not good with, you know, defiance. I’m so sorry. So sorry.” He blew his nose, and sat down on a half-finished panda. “Oh, dear. There I go again…” A tiny bolt of lightning flashed off his thumb and exploded. “I hope it’s not going to be the city of Quint all over again. Of course, you know what happened there…”
“I’ve never heard of the city of Quint,” said Ponder.
“Yes, I suppose you wouldn’t have,” said the god. “That’s the whole point, really. It wasn’t much of a city. It was mostly made of mud. Well, I say mud. Afterwards, of course, it was mainly ceramics.” He turned a wretched face to them. “You know those days you get when you just snap at everyone?”
Out of the corner of his eye Ponder had noticed that the wizards, in a rare show of unanimity, were shuffling sideways, very slowly, towards the door.
A much bigger thunderbolt blew a hole in the floor near the cave entrance.
“Oh dear, where can I put my face?” said the god. “It’s all subconscious, I’m afraid.”
“Could you get treatment for premature incineration?”
“Dean! This is not the time!”
“Sorry, Archchancellor.”
“If only they hadn’t turned up their noses at my inflammable cows,” said the god, sparks fizzing off his beard. “All right, I would agree that on hot days, in certain rare circumstances, they would spontaneously combust and burn down the village, but is that any excuse for ingratitude?”
Mrs. Whitlow had been giving the god a long, cool stare. “What exactly is it you wish to know?” she said.
“Huh?” said Ridcully.
“Well, Ai mean no offense, but Ai for one would like to get out of here without mai hair on fire,” said the housekeeper.
The god looked up. “This male and female concept seems really rather promising,” he said, sniffing. “But no one seems to want to go into detail…”
“Oh, that,” said Mrs. Whitlow. She glanced at the wizards, and then gently pulled the god to his feet. “If you will excuse me for one moment, gentlemen…”
The wizards watched them in even more shock than had attended the lightning display, and then the Chair of Indefinite Studies pulled his hat over his eyes.
“I daren’t look,” he said, and added, “What are they doing?”
“Er…just talking…” said Ponder.
“Talking?”
“And she’s…sort of…waving her hands about.”
“Mwaa!” said the Senior Wrangler.
“Quick, someone, give him some air,” said Ridcully. “Now she’s laughing, isn’t she?”
Both the housekeeper and the god looked around at the wizards. Mrs. Whitlow nodded her head as if to reassure him that what she’d just told him was true, and they both laughed.
“That looked more like a snigger,” said the Dean severely.
“I’m not sure I actually approve of this,” said Ridcully, haughtily. “Gods and mortal women, you know. You hear stories.”
“Gods turning themselves into bulls,” said the Dean.
“Swans, too,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies.
“Showers of gold,” said the Dean.
“Yes,” said the Chair. He paused for a second. “You know, I’ve often wondered about that one—”
“What’s she describing now?”
“I think I’d rather not know, quite frankly.”
“Oh, look, someone please do something for the Senior Wrangler, will you?” said Ridcully. “Loosen his clothing or something!”
They heard the god shout, “It what?” Mrs. Whitlow glanced around at the wizards and appeared to lower her voice.
“Did anyone ever meet Mr. Whitlow?” said the Archchancellor.
“Well…no,” said the Dean. “Not that I remember. I suppose we’ve all assumed that he’s dead.”
“Anyone know what he died of?” Ridcully went on. “Ah, quieten down…they’re coming back…”
The god nodded cheerfully at them as he approached.
“Well, that’s all sorted