and twigs and things. And Rincewind, lying in it. Tree. Dripping wet. Cold white cloud all around. Underneath, too. Now that was odd.
He was alive and lying covered in bruises in a small thorn tree that was growing in a crevice in a rock that projected out of the foaming white wall that was the Rimfall. The realization hit him in much the same way as an icy hammer. He shuddered. The tree gave a warning creak.
Something blue and blurred shot past him, dipped briefly into the thundering waters, and whirred back and settled on a branch near Rincewind’s head. It was a small bird with a tuft of blue and green feathers. It swallowed the little silver fish that it had snatched from the Fall and eyed him curiously.
Rincewind became aware that there were lots of similar birds around.
They hovered, darted and swooped easily across the face of the water, and every so often one would raise an extra plume of spray as it stole another doomed morsel from the waterfall. Several of them were perching in the tree. They were as iridescent as jewels. Rincewind was entranced.
He was in fact the first man ever to see the rimfishers, the tiny creatures who had long ago evolved a lifestyle quite unique even for the Disc. Long before the Krullians had built the Circumfence the rimfishers had devised their own efficient method of policing the edge of the world for a living.
They didn’t seem bothered about Rincewind. He had a brief but chilling vision of himself living the rest of his life out in this tree, subsisting on raw birds and such fish as he could snatch as they plummeted past.
The tree moved distinctly. Rincewind gave a whimper as he found himself sliding backwards, but managed to grab a branch. Only, sooner or later, he would fall asleep …
There was a subtle change of scene, a slight purplish tint to the sky. A tall, black-cloaked figure was standing on the air next to the tree. It had a scythe in one hand. Its face was hidden in the shadows of the hood.
I HAVE COME FOR THEE, said the invisible mouth, in tones as heavy as a whale’s heartbeat.
The trunk of the tree gave another protesting creak, and a pebble bounced off Rincewind’s helmet as one root tore loose from the rock.
Death Himself always came in person to harvest the souls of wizards.
‘What am I going to die of?’ said Rincewind.
The tall figure hesitated.
PARDON? it said.
‘Well, I haven’t broken anything, and I haven’t drowned, so what am I about to die of? You can’t just be killed by Death; there has to be a reason,’ said Rincewind. To his utter amazement he didn’t feel terrified any more. For about the first time in his life he wasn’t frightened. Pity the experience didn’t look like lasting for long.
Death appeared to reach a conclusion.
YOU COULD DIE OF TERROR, the hood intoned. The voice still had its graveyard ring, but there was a slight tremor of uncertainty.
‘Won’t work,’ said Rincewind smugly.
THERE DOESN’T HAVE TO BE A REASON, said Death, I CAN JUST KILL YOU.
‘Hey, you can’t do that! It’d be murder!’
The cowled figure sighed and pulled back its hood. Instead of the grinning death’s head that Rincewind had been expecting he found himself looking up into the pale and slightly transparent face of a rather worried demon, of sorts.
‘I’m making rather a mess of this, aren’t I?’ it said wearily.
‘You’re not Death! Who are you?’ cried Rincewind.
‘Scrofula.’
‘
‘Death couldn’t come,’ said the demon wretchedly. ‘There’s a big plague on in Pseudopolis. He had to go and stalk the streets. So he sent me.’
‘No-one dies of scrofula! I’ve got rights. I’m a wizard!’
‘All right, all right. This was going to be my big chance,’ said Scrofula, ‘but look at it this way—if I hit you with this scythe you’ll be just as dead as you would be if Death had done it. Who’d know?’
‘I’d know!’ snapped Rincewind.
‘You wouldn’t. You’d be dead,’ said Scrofula logically.
‘Piss off,’ said Rincewind.
‘That’s all very well,’ said the demon, hefting the scythe, ‘but why not try to see things from my point of view? This means a lot to me, and you’ve got to admit that your life isn’t all that wonderful. Reincarnation can only be an improvement— uh.’
His hand flew to his mouth but Rincewind was already pointing a trembling finger at him.
‘Reincarnation!’ he said excitedly. ‘So it
‘I’m admitting nothing,’ said Scrofula testily. ‘It was a slip of the tongue. Now—are you going to die willingly or not?’
‘No,’ said Rincewind.
‘Please yourself,’ replied the demon. He raised the scythe. It whistled down in quite a professional way, but Rincewind wasn’t there. He was in fact several metres below, and the distance was increasing all the time, because the branch had chosen that moment to snap and send him on his interrupted journey towards the interstellar gulf.
‘Come back!’ screamed the demon.
Rincewind didn’t answer. He was lying belly down in the rushing air, staring down into the clouds that even now were thinning.
They vanished.
Below, the whole Universe twinkled at Rincewind. There was Great A’Tuin, huge and ponderous and pocked with craters. There was the little Disc moon. There was a distant gleam that could only be the
The whole of Creation was waiting for Rincewind to drop in.
He did so.
There didn’t seem to be any alternative.
Notes
1
The shape and cosmology of the disc system are perhaps worthy of note at this point. There are, of course, two major directions on the disc: Hubward and Rimward. But since the disc itself revolves at the rate of once every eight hundred days (in order to distribute the weight fairly upon its supportive pachyderms, according to Reforgule of Krull) there are also two lesser directions, which are Turnwise and Widdershins.{46} Since the disc’s tiny orbiting sunlet maintains a fixed orbit while the majestic disc turns slowly beneath it, it will be readily deduced that a disc year consists of not four but eight seasons. The summers are those times when the sun rises or sets at the nearest point on the Rim, the winters those occasions when it rises or sets at a point around ninety degrees along the circumference. Thus, in the lands around the Circle Sea, the year begins on Hogs’ Watch Night, progresses through a Spring Prime to its first midsummer (Small Gods’ Eve) which is followed by Autumn Prime and, straddling the half-year point of Crueltide, Winter Secundus (also known as the Spindlewinter, since at this time the sun rises in the direction of spin). Then comes Secundus Spring with Summer Two on its heels, the three quarter mark of the year being the night of Alls Fallow—the one night of the year, according to legend, when witches and warlocks stay in bed. Then drifting leaves and frosty nights drag on towards
