Hogfather

sheets.”
    “I don’t sleep,” said Frost icily, turning away. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a large number of windows to do. Ferns aren’t easy. You need a steady hand.”

    “What do you mean dead?” Susan demanded.
    “How can the Hogfather be dead? He’s…isn’t he what you are? An—”
    ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATION. YES. HE HAS BECOME SO. THE SPIRIT OF HOGSWATCH.
    “But…how? How can anyone kill the Hogfather? Poisoned sherry? Spikes in the chimney?”
    THERE ARE…MORE SUBTLE WAYS.
    “Coff. Coff. Coff. Oh dear, this soot,” said Albert loudly. “Chokes me up something cruel.”
    “And you’ve taken over?” said Susan, ignoring him. “That’s sick!”
    Death contrived to look hurt.
    “I’ll just go and have a look somewhere,” said Albert, brushing past her and opening the door.
    She pushed it shut quickly.
    “And what are you doing here, Albert?” she said, clutching at the straw. “I thought you’d die if you ever came back to the world!”
    AH, BUT WE ARE NOT IN THE WORLD, said Death. WE ARE IN THE SPECIAL CONGRUENT REALITY CREATED FOR THE HOGFATHER. NORMAL RULES HAVE TO BE SUSPENDED. HOW ELSE COULD ANYONE GET AROUND THE ENTIRE WORLD IN ONE NIGHT?
    “’s right,” said Albert, leering. “One of the Hogfather’s Little Helpers, me. Official. Got the pointy green hat and everything.” He spotted the glass of sherry and couple of turnips that the children had left on the table, and bore down on them.
    Susan looked shocked. A couple of days earlier she’d taken the children to the Hogfather’s Grotto in one of the big shops in The Maul. Of course, it wasn’t the real one, but it had turned out to be a fairly good actor in a red suit. There had been people dressed up as pixies, and a picket outside the shop by the Campaign for Equal Heights. *
    None of the pixies had looked anything like Albert. If they had, people would have only gone into the Grotto armed.
    “Been good, ’ave yer?” said Albert, and spat into the fireplace.
    Susan stared at him.
    Death leaned down. She stared up into the blue glow of his eyes.
    YOU ARE KEEPING WELL? he said.
    “Yes.”
    SELF-RELIANT? MAKING YOUR OWN WAY IN THE WORLD?
    “Yes!”
    GOOD. WELL, COME, ALBERT. WE WILL LOAD THE STOCKINGS AND GET ON WITH THINGS.
    A couple of letters appeared in Death’s hand.
    SOMEONE CHRISTENED THE CHILD TWYLA?
    “I’m afraid so, but why—”
    AND THE OTHER ONE GAWAIN?
    “Yes. But look, how—”
    WHY GAWAIN?
    “I…suppose it’s a good strong name for a fighter…”
    A SELF-FULFILLING PROPHECY, I SUSPECT. I SEE THE GIRL WRITES IN GREEN CRAYON ON PINK PAPER WITH A MOUSE IN THE CORNER. THE MOUSE IS WEARING A DRESS.
    “I ought to point out that she decided to do that so the Hogfather would think she was sweet,” said Susan. “Including the deliberate bad spelling. But look, why are you—”
    SHE SAYS SHE IS FIVE YEARS OLD.
    “In years, yes. In cynicism, she’s about thirty-five. Why are you doing the—”
    BUT SHE BELIEVES IN THE HOGFATHER?
    “She’d believe in anything if there was a dolly in it for her. But you’re not going to leave without telling me—”
    Death hung the stockings back on the mantelpiece.
    NOW WE MUST BE GOING. HAPPY HOGSWATCH. ER…OH, YES: HO. HO. HO.
    “Nice sherry,” said Albert, wiping his mouth.
    Rage overtook Susan’s curiosity. It had to travel quite fast.
    “You’ve actually been drinking the actual drinks little children leave out for the actual Hogfather?” she said.
    “Yeah, why not? He ain’t drinking ’em. Not where he’s gone.”
    “And how many have you had, may I ask?”
    “Dunno, ain’t counted,” said Albert happily.
    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 sleigh hurtled across the sky.
    “She’ll