'Ole Tento said there was somethin' under the hill there that could make people do things. Put strange fancies in their 'eads,' said Deccan, reluctantly following the stalking figure. 'I never had any strange fancies.'
BUT YOU WERE CHANTING, said Death. He snapped his fingers.
A horse ceased trying to graze the sparse dune grass and trotted up to Death. Deccan was surprised to see that it left hoofprints in the sand. He'd have expected sparks, or at least fused rock.
'Er,' he said, 'can you tell me, er ... what happens now?'
Death told him.
'Thought so,' said Deccan glumly.
Up on the low hill the fire that had been burning all night collapsed in a shower of ash. A few embers still glowed, though. Soon they would go out.
....
...
..
.
They went out.
.
..
...
....
Nothing happened for a whole day. Then, in a little hollow on the edge of the brooding hill, a few grains of sand shifted and left a tiny hole.
Something emerged. Something invisible. Something joyful and selfish and marvellous. Something as intangible as an idea, which is exactly what it was. A wild idea.
It was old in a way not measurable by any calendar known to Man and what it had, right now, was memories and needs. It remembered life, in other times and other universes. It needed people.
It rose against the stars, changing shape, coiling like smoke.
There were lights on the horizon.
It liked lights.
It regarded them for a few seconds and then, like an invisible arrow, extended itself towards the city and sped away.
It liked action, too...
And several weeks went past.
There's a saying that all roads lead to Ankh-Morpork, greatest of Discworld cities.
At least, there's a saying that there's a saying that all roads lead to Ankh-Morpork.
And it's wrong. All roads lead away from Ankh-Morpork, but sometimes people just walk along them the wrong way.
Poets long ago gave up trying to describe the city. Now the more cunning ones try to excuse it. They say, well, maybe it is smelly, maybe it is overcrowded, maybe it is a bit like Hell would be if they shut the fires off and stabled a herd of incontinent cows there for a year, but you must admit that it is full of sheer, vibrant, dynamic life. And this is true, even though it is poets that are saying it. But people who aren't poets say, so what?
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