The Colour of Magic

finger, dreading what they might see…
    Hubward of the boat was a rope suspended a few feet above the surface of the white water. The boat was attached to it, moored yet mobile, by a complicated arrangement of pulleys and little wooden wheels. They ran along the rope as the unseen rower propelled the craft along the very lip of the Rimfall. That explained one mystery—but what supported the rope?
    Rincewind peered along its length and saw a stout wooden post sticking up out of the water a few yards ahead. As he watched the boat neared it and then passed it, the little wheels clacking neatly around it in a groove obviously cut for the purpose.
    Rincewind also noticed that smaller ropes hung down from the main rope at intervals of a yard or so.
    He turned back to Twoflower.
    “I can see what it is ,” he said, “but what is it?”
    Twoflower shrugged. Behind Rincewind the sea troll said, “Up ahead is my house. We will talk more when we are there. Now I must row.”
    Rincewind found that looking ahead meant that he would have to turn and find out what a sea troll actually looked like, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to do that yet. He looked at the Rimbow instead.
    It hung in the mists a few lengths beyond the edge of the world, appearing only at morning and evening when the light of the Disc’s little orbiting sun shone past the massive bulk of Great A’Tuin the World Turtle and struck the Disc’s magical field at exactly the right angle.
    A double rainbow corruscated into being. Close into the lip of the Rimfall were the seven lesser colors, sparkling and dancing in the spray of the dying seas.
    But they were pale in comparison to the wider band that floated beyond them, not deigning to share the same spectrum.
    It was the King Color, of which all the lesser colors are merely partial and wishy-washy reflections. It was octarine, the color of magic. It was alive and glowing and vibrant and it was the undisputed pigment of the imagination, because wherever it appeared it was a sign that mere matter was a servant of the powers of the magical mind. It was enchantment itself.
    But Rincewind always thought it looked a sort of greenish purple.

    After a while a small speck on the rim of the world resolved itself into a eyot or crag, so perilously perched that the waters of the fall swirled around it at the start of their long drop. A driftwood shanty had been built on it, and Rincewind saw that the top rope of the Circumfence climbed over the rocky island on a number of iron stakes and actually passed through the shack by a small round window. He learned later that this was so that the troll could be alerted to the arrival of any salvage on his stretch of the Circumfence by means of a series of small bronze bells, balanced delicately on the rope.
    A crude floating stockade had been built out of rough timber on the hubward side of the island. It contained one or two hulks and quite a large amount of floating wood in the form of planks, baulks and even whole natural tree trunks, some still sporting green leaves. This close to the Edge the Disc’s magical field was so intense that a hazy corona flickered across everything as raw illusion spontaneously discharged itself.
    With a last few squeaky jerks the boat slid up against a small driftwood jetty. As it grounded itself and formed a circuit Rincewind felt all the familiar sensations of a huge occult aura—oily, bluish tasting, and smelling of tin. All around them pure, unfocused magic was sleeting soundlessly into the world.
    The wizard and Twoflower scrambled onto the planking and for the first time Rincewind saw the troll.
    It wasn’t half so dreadful as he had imagined.
    Umm, said his imagination after a while.
    It wasn’t that the troll was horrifying . Instead of the rotting, betentacled monstrosity he had been expecting Rincewind found himself looking at a rather squat but not particularly ugly old man who would quite easily have passed for normal on any city street, always provided that other people on the street were used to seeing old men who were apparently composed of water and very little else. It was as if the ocean had decided to create life without going through all that tedious business of evolution, and had simply formed a part of itself into a biped and sent it walking squishily up the beach. The troll was a pleasant translucent blue color. As Rincewind stared a small shoal of silver fish flashed across its chest.
    “It’s rude to stare,”