Hogfather

WILL FIND IT HARD GOING IN THE FACE OF THAT. ALBERT SAYS HE NEVER WANTS TO DRINK ANOTHER SHERRY FOR DAYS. THE HOGFATHER WILL HAVE SOMETHING TO COME BACK TO, AT LEAST.

‘What have I got to do now?’

YOU MUST BRING THE HOGFATHER BACK.

‘Oh, must I? For peace and goodwill and the tinkling of fairy bells? Who cares. He's just some fat old clown who makes people feel smug at Hogswatch! I've been through all this for some old man who prowls around kids' bedrooms?’

NO. SO THAT THE SUN WILL RISE.

‘What has astronomy got to do with the Hogfather?’

OLD GODS DO NEW JOBS.

The Senior Wrangler wasn't attending the Feast. He got one of the maids to bring a tray up to his rooms, where he was Entertaining and doing all those things a man does when he finds himself unexpectedly tete-a-tete with the opposite sex, like trying to shine his boots on his trousers and clean his fingernails with his other fingernails.

‘A little more wine, Gwendoline? It's hardly alcoholic,’ he said, leaning over her.

‘I don't mind if I do, Mr Wrangler.’

‘Oh, call me Horace, please. And perhaps a little something for your chicken?’

‘I'm afraid she seems to have wandered off somewhere,’ said the Cheerful Fairy. ‘I'm afraid I'm, I'm I'm rather dull company…’ She blew her nose noisily.

‘Oh, I certainly wouldn't say that,’ said the Senior Wrangler. He wished he'd had time to tidy up his rooms a bit, or at least get some of the more embarrassing bits of laundry off the stuffed rhinoceros.

‘Everyone's been so kind,’ said the Cheerful Fairy, dabbing at her streaming eyes. ‘Who was the skinny one that kept making the funny faces for me?’

‘That was the Bursar. Why don't you—’

‘He seemed very cheerful, anyway.’

‘It's the dried frog pills, he eats them by the handful,’ said the Senior Wrangler dismissively. ‘I say, why don't—’

‘Oh dear. I hope they're not addictive.’

‘I'm sure he wouldn't keep on eating them if they were addictive,’ said the Senior Wrangler. ‘Now, why don't you have another glass of wine, and then… and then…’ a happy thought struck him ‘… and then… and then perhaps I could show you Archchancellor Bowell's Remembrance? It's got a-a-a-a very interesting ceiling. My word, yes.’

‘That would be very nice,’ said the Cheerful Fairy. ‘Would it cheer me up, do you think?’

‘Oh, it would, it would,’ said the Senior Wrangler. ‘Definitely! Good! So I'll, er, I'll just go and… just go and… I'll…’ He pointed vaguely in the direction of his dressing room, while hopping from one foot to the other. ‘I'll just go and, er… go… just…’

He fled into the dressing room and slammed the door behind him. His wild eyes scanned the shelves and hangers.

‘Clean robe,’ he mumbled. ‘Comb face, wash socks, fresh hair, where's that Insteadofshave lotion—’

From the other side of the door came the adorable sound of the Cheerful Fairy blowing her nose. From this side came the sound of the Senior Wrangler's muffled scream as, made careless by haste and a very poor sense of smell, he mistakenly splashed his face with the turpentine he used for treating his feet.

Somewhere overhead a very small plump child with a bow and arrow and ridiculously unaerodynamic wings buzzed ineffectually against a shut window on which the frost was tracing the outline of a rather handsome Auriental lady. The other window already had an icy picture of a vase of sunflowers.

In the Great Hall one of the tables had already collapsed. It was one of the customs of the Feast that although there were many courses each wizard went at his own speed, a tradition instituted to prevent the slow ones holding everyone else up. And they could also have seconds if they wished, so that if a wizard was particularly attracted to soup he could go round and round for an hour before starting on the preliminary stages of the fish courses.

‘How're you feeling now, old chap?’ said the Dean, who was sitting next to the Bursar. ‘Back on the dried frog pills?’

‘I, er, I, er, no, I'm not too bad,’ said the Bursar. ‘It was, of course, rather a, rather a shock when—’

‘That's a shame, because here's your Hogswatch present,’ said the Dean, passing over a small box. It rattled. ‘You can open it now if you like.’

‘Oh, well, how nice—’

‘It's from me,’ said the Dean.

‘What a lovely—’

‘I bought it with my own money, you know,’ said the Dean, waving a turkey leg airily.

‘The wrapping paper is a very nice—’

‘More than a dollar, I might add.’

‘My goodness—’

The Bursar pulled off the last of the wrapping paper.

‘It's a box for keeping dried frog pills in. See? It's got “Dried Frog Pills” on it, see?’

The Bursar shook it. ‘Oh, how nice,’ he said weakly. ‘It's got some pills in it already. How thoughtful. They will come in handy.’

‘Yes,’ said the Dean. ‘I took them off your dressing table. After all, I was down a dollar as it was.’

The Bursar nodded gratefully and put the little box neatly beside his plate. They'd actually allowed him knives this evening. They'd actually allowed him to eat other things than those things that could only be scraped up with a wooden spoon.

He eyed the nearest roast pig with nervous anticipation, and tucked his napkin firmly under his chin.

‘Er, excuse me, Mr Stibbons,’ he quavered. ‘Would you be so good as to pass me the apple sauce tankard —’

There was a sound like coarse fabric ripping, somewhere in the air in front of the Bursar, and a crash as something landed on top of the roast pig. Roast potatoes and gravy filled the air. The apple that had been in the pig's mouth was violently expelled and hit the Bursar on the forehead.

He blinked, looked down, and found he was about to plunge his fork into a human head.

‘Ahaha,’ he murmured, as his eyes started to glaze.

The wizards heaved aside the overturned dishes and smashed crockery.

‘He just fell out of the air!’

‘Is he an Assassin? Not one of their student pranks, is it?’

‘Why's he holding a sword without a sharp bit?’

‘Is he dead?’

‘I think so!’

‘I didn't even have any of that salmon mousse! Will you look at it? His foot's in it! It's all over the place! Do you want yours?’

Ponder Stibbons fought his way through the throng. He knew his more senior fellows when they were feeling helpful. They were like a glass of water to a drowning man.

‘Give him air!’ he protested.

‘How do we know if he needs any?’ said the Dean.

Ponder put his ear to the fallen youth's chest.

‘He's not breathing!’

‘Breathing spell, breathing spell,’ muttered the Chair of Indefinite Studies. ‘Er… Spolt's Forthright Respirator, perhaps? I think I've got it written down somewhere—’

Ridcully reached through the wizards and pulled out the black-clad man by a leg. He held him upside down in his big hand and thumped him heavily on the back.