Hogfather

ONE MILLION, EIGHT HUNDRED THOUSAND, SEVEN HUNDRED AND SIX, said Death. AND SIXTY EIGHT THOUSAND, THREE HUNDRED AND NINETEEN PORK PIES. AND ONE TURNIP.

‘It looked pork-pie shaped,’ said Albert. ‘Everything does, after a while.’

‘Then why haven't you exploded?’

‘Dunno. Always had a good digestion.’

TO THE HOGFATHER, ALL PORK PIES ARE AS ONE PORK PIE. EXCEPT THE ONE LIKE A TURNIP. COME, ALBERT. WE HAVE TRESPASSED ON SUSAN'S TIME.

‘Why are you doing this?’ Susan screamed.

I AM SORRY. I CANNOT TELL YOU. FORGET YOU SAW ME. IT'S NOT YOUR BUSINESS.

‘Not my business? How can—’

AND NOW… WE MUST BE GOING…

‘Nighty-night,’ said Albert.

The clock struck, twice, for the half-hour. It was still half past six.

And they were gone.

The sledge hurtled across the sky.

‘She'll try to find out what this is all about, you know,’ said Albert.

OH DEAR.

‘Especially after you told her not to.’

YOU THINK SO?

‘Yeah,’ said Albert.

DEAR ME. I STILL HAVE A LOT TO LEARN ABOUT HUMANS, DON'T I?

‘Oh… I dunno…’ said Albert.

OBVIOUSLY IT WOULD BE QUITE WRONG TO INVOLVE A HUMAN IN ALL THIS. THAT IS WHY, YOU WILL RECALL, I CLEARLY FORBADE HER TO TAKE AN INTEREST.

‘Yeah… you did…’

BESIDES, IT'S AGAINST THE RULES.

‘You said them little grey buggers had already broken the rules.’

YES, BUT I CAN'T JUST WAVE A MAGIC WAND AND MAKE IT ALL BETTER. THERE MUST BE PROCEDURES. Death stared ahead for a moment and then shrugged. AND WE HAVE SO MUCH TO DO. WE HAVE PROMISES TO KEEP.

‘Well, the night is young,’ said Albert, sitting back in the sacks.

THE NIGHT IS OLD. THE NIGHT IS ALWAYS OLD.

The pigs galloped on. Then, ‘No, it ain't.’

I'M SORRY?

‘The night isn't any older than the day, master. It stands to reason. There must have been a day before anyone knew what the night was.’

YES, BUT IT'S MORE DRAMATIC.

‘Oh. Right, then.’

Susan stood by the fireplace.

It wasn't as though she disliked Death. Death considered as an individual rather than life's final curtain was someone she couldn't help liking, in a strange kind of way.

Even so …

The idea of the Grim Reaper filling the Hogswatch stockings of the world didn't fit well in her head, no matter which way she twisted it. It was like trying to imagine Old Man Trouble as the Tooth Fairy. Oh, yes. Old Man Trouble… now there was a nasty one for you…

But honestly, what kind of sick person went round creeping into little children's bedrooms all night?

Well, the Hogfather, of course, but…

There was a little tinkling sound from somewhere near the base of the Hogswatch tree.

The raven backed away from the shards of one of the glittering balls.

‘Sorry,’ it mumbled. ‘Bit of a species reaction there. You know… round, glittering sometimes you just gotta peck—’

‘That chocolate money belongs to the children!’

SQUEAK? said the Death of Rats, backing away from the shiny coins.

‘Why's he doing this?’

SQUEAK.

‘You don't know either?’

SQUEAK.

‘Is there some kind of trouble? Did he do something to the real Hogfather?’

SQUEAK.

‘Why won't he tell me?’

SQUEAK.

‘Thank you. You've been very helpful.’

Something ripped, behind her. She turned and saw the raven carefully removing a strip of red wrapping paper from a package.

‘Stop that this minute!’

It looked up guiltily.

‘It's only a little bit,’ it said. ‘No one's going to miss it.’

‘What do you want it for, anyway?’

‘We're attracted to bright colours, right? Automatic reaction.’

‘That's jackdaws!’

‘Damn. Is it?’

The Death of Rats nodded. SQUEAK.

‘Oh, so suddenly you're Mr Ornithologist, are you?’ snapped the raven.

Susan sat down and held out her hand.

The Death of Rats leapt onto it. She could feel its claws, like tiny pins.

It was just like those scenes where the sweet and pretty heroine sings a little duet with Mr Bluebird.

Similar, anyway.

In general outline, at least. But with more of a PG rating.

‘Has he gone funny in the head?’

SQUEAK. The rat shrugged.

‘But it could happen, couldn't it? He's very old, and I suppose he sees a lot of terrible things.’

SQUEAK.

‘All the trouble in the world,’ the raven translated.

‘I understood,’ said Susan. That was a talent, too. She didn't understand what the rat said. She just understood what it meant.

‘There's something wrong and he won't tell me?’ said Susan.

That made her even more angry.

‘But Albert is in on it too,’ she added.

She thought: thousands, millions of years in the same job. Not a nice one. It isn't always cheerful old men passing away at a great age. Sooner or later, it was bound to get anyone down.

Someone had to do something. It was like that time when Twyla's grandmother had started telling everyone that she was the Empress of Krull and had stopped wearing clothes.

And Susan was bright enough to know that the phrase ‘Someone ought to do something’ was not, by itself, a helpful one. People who used it never added the rider ‘and that someone is me’. But someone ought to do something, and right now the whole pool of someones consisted of her, and no one else.

Twyla's grandmother had ended up in a nursing home overlooking the sea at Quirm. That sort of option