Thief of Time - Terry Pratchett [28]
No door was closed to Miss Susan. It ran in the family. Some genetics are passed on via the soul.
When she’d brought herself up to date on the school’s affairs, mostly to indicate to the rat that she wasn’t just someone who could be summoned at a moment’s notice, she stood up.
“All right,” she said. “You’re just going to pester me, aren’t you,” she said wearily. “Forever and ever and ever.”
The Death of Rats looked at her with its skull on one side.
SQUEAK, it said winsomely.
“Well, yes, I like him,” she said. “In a way. But, I mean, you know, it’s not right. Why does he need me? He’s Death! He’s not exactly powerless! I’m just human!”
The rat squeaked again, jumped down onto the floor, and ran through the closed door. It reappeared for a moment, and beckoned to her…
“Oh, all right,” said Susan to herself. “Make that mostly human.”
Tick
And who is this Lu-Tze?
Sooner or later every novice had to ask this rather complex question. Sometimes it would be years before they found out that the little man who swept their floors, and uncomplainingly carted away the contents of the dormitory cesspit, and occasionally came out with outlandish foreign sayings was the legendary hero they’d been told they would meet one day. And then, when they’d confronted him, the brightest of them confronted themselves.
Mostly sweepers came from the villages in the valley. They were part of the staff of the monastery but they had no status. They did all the tedious, unregarded jobs. They were…figures in the background, pruning the cherry trees, washing the floors, cleaning out the carp pools, and always sweeping. They had no names. That is, a thoughtful novice would understand that the sweepers must have names, some form by which they were known to other sweepers, but within the temple grounds at least they had no names, only instructions. No one knew where they went at night. They were just sweepers. But so was Lu-Tze.
One day a group of senior novices, for mischief, kicked over the little shrine that Lu-Tze kept beside his sleeping mat.
Next morning, no sweepers turned up for work. They stayed in their huts, with the doors barred. After making inquiries, the abbot, who at that time was fifty years old again, summoned the three novices to his room. There were three brooms leaning against the wall. He spoke as follows:
“You know that the dreadful Battle of Five Cities did not happen because the messenger got there in time?”
They did. You learned this early in your studies. And they bowed nervously, because this was the abbot, after all.
“And you know then that when the messenger’s horse threw a shoe he espied a man trudging beside the road carrying a small portable forge and pushing an anvil on a barrow?”
They knew.
“And you know that man was Lu-Tze?”
They did.
“You surely know that Janda Trapp, Grand Master of Okidoki, Toro-fu, and Chang-fu, has only ever yielded to one man?”
They knew.
“And you know that man is Lu-Tze?”
They did.
“You know the little shrine you kicked over last night?”
They knew.
“You know it had an owner?”
There was silence. Then the brightest of the novices looked up at the abbot in horror, swallowed, picked up one of the three brooms, and walked out of the room.
The other two were slower of brain and had to follow the story all the way through to the end.
Then one of them said, “But it was only a sweeper’s shrine!”
“You will take up the brooms and sweep,” said the abbot, “and you will sweep every day, and you will sweep until the day you find Lu-Tze and dare to say ‘Sweeper, it was I who knocked over and scattered your shrine and now I will in humility accompany you to the dojo of the Tenth Djim, in order to learn the Right Way.’ Only then, if you are still able, may you resume your studies here. Understood?”*
Older monks sometimes complained, but someone would always say: “Remember that Lu-Tze’s Way is not our Way. Remember he learned everything by sweeping unheeded while students were being educated. Remember, he has been everywhere and done many things. Perhaps