The Light Fantastic

‘Fairly boring life, I imagine,’ said Rincewind.

‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been anything else,’ said the tree.

Rincewind looked at it closely. It seemed pretty much like every other tree he’d seen.

‘Are you magical?’ he said.

‘No-one’s ever said,’ said the tree, ‘I suppose so.’

Rincewind thought: I can’t be talking to a tree. If I was talking to a tree I’d be mad, and I’m not mad, so trees can’t talk.

‘Goodbye,’ he said firmly.

‘Hey, don’t go,’ the tree began, and then realised the hopelessness of it all. It watched him stagger off through the bushes, and settled down to feeling the sun on its leaves, the slurp and gurgle of the water in its roots, and the very ebb and flow of its sap in response to the natural tug of the sun and moon. Boring, it thought. What a strange thing to say. Trees can be bored, of course, beetles do it all the time, but I don’t think that was what he was trying to mean. And: can you actually be anything else? In fact Rincewind never spoke to this particular tree again, but from that brief conversation it spun the basis of the first tree religion which, in time, swept the forests of the world. Its tenet of faith was this: a tree that was a good tree, and led a clean, decent and upstanding life, could be assured of a future life after death. If it was very good indeed it would eventually be reincarnated as five thousand rolls of lavatory paper.

* * *

A few miles away Twoflower was also getting over his surprise at finding himself back on the Disc. He was sitting on the hull of the Potent Voyager as it gurgled gradually under the dark waters of a large lake, surrounded by trees.

Strangely enough, he was not particularly worried. Twoflower was a tourist, the first of the species to evolve on the Disc, and fundamental to his very existence was the rock-hard belief that nothing bad could really happen to him because he was not involved; he also believed that anyone could understand anything he said provided he spoke loudly and slowly, that people were basically trustworthy, and that anything could be sorted out among men of goodwill if they just acted sensibly.

On the face of it this gave him a survival value marginally less than, say, a soap herring, but to Rincewind’s amazement it all seemed to work and the little man’s total obliviousness to all forms of danger somehow made danger so discouraged that it gave up and went away.

Merely being faced with drowning stood no chance. Twoflower was quite certain that in a well-organised society people would not be allowed to go around getting drowned.

He was a little bothered, though, about where his Luggage had got to. But he comforted himself with the knowledge that it was made of sapient pearwood, and ought to be intelligent enough to look after itself…

* * *

In yet another part of the forest a young shaman was undergoing a very essential part of his training. He had eaten of the sacred toadstool, he had smoked the holy rhizome, he had carefully powdered up and inserted into various orifices the mystic mushroom and now, sitting crosslegged under a pine tree, he was concentrating firstly on making contact with the strange and wonderful secrets at the heart of Being but mainly on stopping the top of his head from unscrewing and floating away.

Blue four-side triangles pinwheeled across his vision. Occasionally he smiled knowingly at nothing very much and said things like ‘Wow’ and ‘Urgh.’

There was a movement in the air and what he later described as ‘like, a sort of explosion only backwards, you know?’, and suddenly where there had only been nothing there was a large, battered, wooden chest.

It landed heavily on the leafmould, extended dozens of little legs, and turned around ponderously to look at the shaman. That is to say, it had no face, but even through the mycological haze he was horribly aware that it was looking at him. And not a nice look, either. It was amazing how baleful a keyhole and a couple of knotholes could be.

To his intense relief it gave a sort of wooden shrug, and set off through the trees at a canter.

With superhuman effort the shaman recalled the correct sequence of movements for standing up and even managed a couple of steps before he looked down and gave up, having run out of legs.

Rincewind, meanwhile, had found a path. It wound about a good deal, and he would have been happier if it had been cobbled, but following it gave him something to do.

Several trees tried to strike up a conversation, but Rincewind was nearly certain that this was not normal behaviour for trees and ignored them.

The day lengthened. There was no sound but the murmur of nasty little stinging insects, the occasional crack of a falling branch, and the whispering of the trees discussing religion and the trouble with squirrels. Rincewind began to feel very lonely. He imagined himself living in the woods forever, sleeping on leaves and eating… and eating… whatever there was to eat in woods. Trees, he supposed, and nuts and berries. He would have to…

‘Rincewind!’

There, coming up the path, was Twoflower—dripping wet, but beaming with delight. The Luggage trotted along behind him (anything made of the wood would follow its owner anywhere and it was often used to make luggage for the grave goods of very rich dead kings who wanted to be sure of starting a new life in the next world with clean underwear).

Rincewind sighed. Up to now, he’d thought the day couldn’t possibly get worse.

* * *

It began to rain a particularly wet and cold rain. Rincewind and Twoflower sat under a tree and watched it.

‘Rincewind?’

‘Um?’

‘Why are we here?’

‘Well, some say that the Creator of the Universe made the Disc and everything on it, others say that its all a very complicated story involving the testicles of the Sky God and the milk of the Celestial Cow, and some even hold that we’re all just due to the total random accretion of probability particles. But if you mean why are we here as opposed to falling off the Disc, I haven’t the faintest idea. It’s probably all some ghastly mistake.’

‘Oh. Do you think there’s anything to eat in this forest?’

‘Yes,’ said the wizard bitterly, ‘us.’

‘I’ve got some acorns, if you like,’ said the tree helpfully.

They sat in damp silence for some moments.

‘Rincewind, the tree said—’

‘Trees can’t talk,’ snapped Rincewind. ‘It’s very important to remember that.’

‘But you just heard—’

Rincewind sighed. ‘Look,’ he said. It’s all down to simple biology, isn’t it? If you’re going to talk you need the right equipment, like lungs and lips and, and—’

‘Vocal chords,’ said the tree.

‘Yeah, them,’ said Rincewind. He shut up and stared gloomily at the rain.

‘I thought wizards knew all about trees and wild food and things,’ said Twoflower reproachfully. It was very seldom that anything in his voice suggested that he thought of Rincewind as anything other than a magnificent enchanter, and the wizard was stung into action.

‘I do, I do,’ he snapped.

‘Well, what kind of tree is this?’ said the tourist. Rincewind looked up.

‘Beech,’ he said firmly.

‘Actually—’ began the tree, and shut up quickly. It had caught Rincewind’s look.

‘Those things up there look like acorns,’ said Twoflower.

‘Yes, well, this is the sessile or heptocarpic variety,’ said Rincewind. ‘The nuts look very much like acorns, in fact. They can fool practically anybody.’

‘Gosh,’ said Twoflower, ‘and what’s that bush over there, then?’

‘Mistletoe.’

‘But it’s got thorns and red berries!’