Hogfather

stretched to let him live somewhere nice with flowers.
    People like Death lived in the human imagination, and got their shape there, too. He wasn’t the only one…
    …but he didn’t like the script, did he? He’d started to take an interest in people. Was that a thought, or just a memory of something that hadn’t happened yet?
    The oh god followed her gaze.
    “Can we go after her?” said the oh god. “I say we , I think I’ve just got drafted in because I was in the wrong place.”
    “She’s alive. That means she is mortal,” said Susan. “That means I can find her, too.” She turned and started to walk out of the library.
    “If she says the sky is just blue overhead, what’s between it and the horizon?” said the oh god, running to keep up.
    “You don’t have to come,” said Susan. “It’s not your problem.”
    “Yes, but given that my problem is that my whole purpose in life is to feel rotten, anything’s an improvement.”
    “It could be dangerous. I don’t think she’s there of her own free will. Would you be any good in a fight?”
    “Yes. I could be sick on people.”

    It was a shack, somewhere out on the outskirts of the Plains town of Scrote. Scrote had a lot of outskirts, spread so widely—a busted cart here, a dead dog there—that often people went through it without even knowing it was there, and really it only appeared on the maps because cartographers get embarrassed about big empty spaces.
    Hogswatch came after the excitement of the cabbage harvest when it was pretty quiet in Scrote and there was nothing much to look forward to until the fun of the sprout festival.
    This shack had an iron stove, with a pipe that went up through the thick cabbage-leaf thatch.
    Voices echoed faintly within the pipe.
    T HIS IS REALLY, REALLY STUPID .
    “I think the tradition got started when everyone had them big chimneys, master.” This voice sounded as though it was coming from someone standing on the roof and shouting down the pipe.
    I NDEED ? I T’S ONLY A MERCY IT’S UNLIT .
    There was some muffled scratching and banging, and then a thump from within the potbelly of the stove.
    D AMN .
    “What’s up, master?”
    T HE DOOR HAS NO HANDLE ON THE INSIDE . I CALL THAT INCONSIDERATE .
    There were some more bumps, and then a scrape as the stove lid was lifted up and pushed sideways. An arm came out and felt around the front of the stove until it found the handle.
    It played with it for a while, but it was obvious that the hand did not belong to a person used to opening things.
    In short, Death came out of the stove. Exactly how would be difficult to describe without folding the page. Time and space were, from Death’s point of view, merely things that he’d heard described. When it came to Death, they ticked the box marked Not Applicable. It might help to think of the universe as a rubber sheet, or perhaps not.
    “Let us in, master,” a pitiful voice echoed down from the roof. “It’s brass monkeys out here.”
    Death went over to the door. Snow was blowing underneath it. He peered nervously at the woodwork. There was a thump outside and Albert’s voice sounded a lot closer.
    “What’s up, master?”
    Death stuck his head through the wood of the door.
    T HERE’S THESE METAL THINGS —
    “Bolts, master. You slide them,” said Albert, sticking his hands under his armpits to keep them warm.
    A H .
    Death’s head disappeared. Albert stamped his feet and watched his breath cloud in the air while he listened to the pathetic scrabbling on the other side of the door.
    Death’s head appeared again.
    E R …
    “It’s the latch, master,” said Albert wearily.
    R IGHT . R IGHT .
    “You put your thumb on it and push it down.”
    R IGHT .
    The head disappeared. Albert jumped up and down a bit, and waited.
    The head appeared.
    E R …I WAS WITH YOU UP TO THE THUMB …
    Albert sighed. “And then you press down and pull, master.”
    A H . R IGHT . G OT YOU .
    The head disappeared.
    Oh dear, thought Albert. He just can’t get the hang of them, can he…?
    The door jerked open. Death stood behind it, beaming proudly, as Albert staggered in, snow blowing in with him.
    “Blimey, it’s getting really parky,” said Albert. “Any sherry?” he added hopefully.
    I T APPEARS NOT .
    Death looked at the sock hooked onto the side of the stove. It had a hole in it.
    A letter, in erratic handwriting, was attached to it. Death picked it up.
    T HE BOY WANTS A PAIR OF TROUSERS THAT HE DOESN’T