Hogfather

took his shoulder firmly. He turned round and looked into the face of a Grotto pixie. At least, it was wearing the costume of a Grotto pixie, although somewhat askew, as if it had been put on in a hurry.
    “Who are you ?”
    The pixie took the soggy cigarette end out of its mouth and leered at him.
    “Call me Uncle Heavy,” he said.
    “You’re not a pixie!”
    “Nah, I’m a fairy cobbler, mister.”
    Behind Crumley, a voice said:
    A ND WHAT DO YOU WANT FOR H OGSWATCH, SMALL HUMAN ?
    Mr. Crumley turned in horror.
    In front of—well, he had to think of it as the usurping Hogfather—was a small child of indeterminate sex who seemed to be mostly woollen bobble hat.
    Mr. Crumley knew how it was supposed to go. It was supposed to go like this: the child was always struck dumb and the attendant mother would lean forward and catch the Hogfather’s eye and say very pointedly, in that voice adults use when they’re conspiring against children: “You want a Baby Tinkler Doll, don’t you, Doreen? And the Just Like Mummy Cookery Set you’ve got in the window. And the Cut-Out Kitchen Range Book. And what do you say?”
    And the stunned child would murmur “’nk you” and get given a balloon or an orange.
    This time, though, it didn’t work like that.
    Mother got as far as “You want a—”
    W HY ARE YOUR HANDS ON BITS OF STRING, CHILD ?
    The child looked down the length of its arms to the dangling mittens affixed to its sleeves. It held them up for inspection.
    “Glubs,” it said.
    I SEE . V ERY PRACTICAL .
    “Are you weal?” said the bobble hat.
    W HAT DO YOU THINK ?
    The bobble hat sniggered. “I saw your piggy do a wee!” it said, and implicit in the tone was the suggestion that this was unlikely to be dethroned as the most enthralling thing the bobble hat had ever seen.
    O H . E R…GOOD .
    “It had a gwate big—”
    W HAT DO YOU WANT FOR H OGSWATCH ? said the Hogfather hurriedly.
    Mother took her economic cue again, and said briskly: “She wants a—”
    The Hogfather snapped his fingers impatiently. The mother’s mouth slammed shut.
    The child seemed to sense that here was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and spoke quickly.
    “I wanta narmy. Anna big castle wif pointy bits,” said the child. “Anna swored.”
    W HAT DO YOU SAY ? prompted the Hogfather.
    “A big swored?” said the child, after a pause for deep cogitation.
    T HAT’S RIGHT .
    Uncle Heavy nudged the Hogfather.
    “They’re supposed to thank you,” he said.
    A RE YOU SURE ? P EOPLE DON’T, NORMALLY .
    “I meant they thank the Hogfather ,” Albert hissed. “Which is you, right?”
    Y ES, OF COURSE . A HEM . Y OU’RE SUPPOSED TO SAY THANK YOU .
    “’nk you.”
    A ND BE GOOD . T HIS IS PART OF THE ARRANGEMENT .
    “’es.”
    T HEN WE HAVE A CONTRACT . The Hogfather reached into his sack and produced—
    —a very large model castle with, as correctly interpreted, pointy blue cone roofs on turrets suitable for princesses to be locked in—
    —a box of several hundred assorted knights and warriors—
    —and a sword. It was four feet long and glinted along the blade.
    The mother took a deep breath.
    “You can’t give her that!” she screamed. “It’s not safe!”
    I T’S A SWORD , said the Hogfather. T HEY’RE NOT MEANT TO BE SAFE .
    “She’s a child!” shouted Crumley.
    I T’S EDUCATIONAL .
    “What if she cuts herself?”
    T HAT WILL BE AN IMPORTANT LESSON .
    Uncle Heavy whispered urgently.
    R EALLY ? O H, WELL. IT’S NOT FOR ME TO ARGUE , I SUPPOSE .
    The blade went wooden.
    “And she doesn’t want all that other stuff!” said Doreen’s mother, in the face of previous testimony. “She’s a girl! Anyway, I can’t afford big posh stuff like that!”
    I THOUGHT I GAVE IT AWAY , said the Hogfather, sounding bewildered.
    “You do?” said the mother.
    “You do ?” said Crumley, who’d been listening in horror. “You don’t ! That’s our Merchandise! You can’t give it away! Hogswatch isn’t about giving it all away! I mean…yes, of course, of course things are given away,” he corrected himself, aware that people were watching, “but first they have to be bought, d’you see, I mean…haha.” He laughed nervously, increasingly aware of the strangeness around him and the rangy look of Uncle Heavy. “It’s not as though the toys are made by little elves at the Hub, ahaha…”
    “Damn right,” said Uncle Heavy sagely. “You’d have to be a maniac even to think of giving an elf a chisel,