Thief of Time - Terry Pratchett [43]
He could make out staircases through distant walls. Above and below and to every side, the glass rooms went on forever.
And yet it was all familiar. It felt like home.
Sound filled the glass rooms. It streamed away in clear sharp notes, like the tones made by a wet finger around a wineglass rim. There was movement, too—a haze in the air beyond the transparent walls, shifting and wavering and…watching him…
“How can it come from over there? And how do you mean, odd?” said the voice of Lu-Tze.
Lobsang blinked. This was the odd place, the one right here, the rigid and unbending world…
And then the feeling passed and faded.
“Just…odd. For a moment,” he mumbled. There was dampness on his cheek. He raised his hand, and touched wetness.
“It’s that rancid yak butter they put in the tea, I’ve always said so,” said Lu-Tze. “Mrs. Cosmopilite never—now that is unusual,” he said, looking up.
“What? What?” said Lobsang, looking blankly at his wet fingertips and then up at the cloudless sky.
“A Procrastinator going overspeed.” He shifted position. “Can’t you feel it?”
“I can’t hear anything!” said Lobsang
“Not hear, feel. Coming up through your sandals? Oops, there goes another one…and another one. You can’t feel it? That one’s…that’s old Sixty-Six, they’ve never got it properly balanced. We’ll hear them in a minute…oh, dear. Look at the flowers. Do look at the flowers!”
Lobsang turned.
The Ice Plants were opening. The Field Sowthistle was closing.
“Time leak,” said Lu-Tze. “Hark at that! You can hear them now, eh? They’re dumping time randomly! Come on!”
According to the Second Scroll of Wen the Eternally Surprised, Wen the Eternally Surprised sawed the first Procrastinator from the trunk of a wamwam tree, carved certain symbols on it, fitted it with a bronze spindle, and summoned the apprentice, Clodpool.
“Ah. Very nice, master,” said Clodpool. “A prayer wheel, yes?”
“No, this is nothing like as complex,” said Wen. “It merely stores and moves time.”
“That simple, eh?”
“And now I shall test it,” said Wen. He gave it a half turn with his hand.
“Ah. Very nice, master,” said Clodpool. “A prayer wheel, yes?”
“No, this is nothing like as complex,” said Wen. “It merely stores and moves time.”
“That simple, eh?”
“And now I shall test it,” said Wen. He moved it a little less this time.
“That simple, eh?”
“And now I shall test it,” said Wen. This time he twisted it gently to and fro.
“That si-si-si…That simple-ple, eh eheh simple, eh?” said Clodpool.
“And I have tested it,” said Wen.
“It worked, master?”
“Yes, I think so.” Wen stood up. “Give me the rope that you used to carry the firewood. And…yes, a pit from one of those cherries that you picked yesterday.”
He wound the frayed rope around the cylinder and tossed the pit onto a patch of mud. Clodpool jumped out of the way.
“See those mountains?” said Wen, tugging the rope. The cylinder spun and balanced there, humming gently.
“Oh yes, master,” said Clodpool obediently. There was practically nothing up here but mountains; there were so many that sometimes they were impossible to see, because they got in the way.
“How much time does stone need?” said Wen. “Or the deep sea? We shall move it,” he placed his left hand just above the spinning blur, “to where it is needed.”
He looked down at the cherry pit. His lips moved silently, as though he was working through some complex puzzle. Then he pointed his right hand at the pit.
“Stand back,” he said and gently let a finger touch the cylinder.
There was no sound except the crack of the air as it moved aside, and a hiss of steam from the mud.
Wen looked up at the new tree, and smiled.
“I did say you should stand back,” he said.
“I, er, I shall get down now, then, shall I?” said a voice among the blossom-laden branches.
“But carefully,” said Wen, and sighed as Clodpool crashed down in a shower of petals.
“There will always be cherry blossom here,” he said.
Lu-Tze hitched up his robe and scurried back down the path. Lobsang ran after him. A high-pitched whine seemed to be coming out of