The Last Continent

feet.
    They were wearing high heels.
    Rincewind rolled into a ball and put his hands over his head, trying to block his ears until the noise had died away.

    At the very edge of the sea, the surf bubbled and sucked at the sand. As the wavelet drew back it flowed around the splintered bulk of a tree.
    The drifting wood’s cargo of crabs and sand fleas waited for their moment and slid off cautiously, scuttling ashore ahead of the next wave.
    The rain banged into the beach, running in miniature canyons of crumbling sand on its way to the sea. The crabs surged across these like a homesteaders’ stampede, rushing to mark out territory on the endless, virgin beach.
    They followed the salty tideline of weed and shells, scrambling over one another in their search for a space where a crab can proudly stand sideways and start a new life and eat the heady sand of freedom.
    A few of them investigated a gray, sodden pointy hat that was tangled in seaweed, and then ran on to a more promising heap of soaked cloth which offered even more interesting holes and crevices.
    One of them tried to climb into Ponder Stibbons’ nose, and was snorted out again.
    Ponder opened an eye. When he moved his head, the water filling his ears made a ringing noise.
    The history of the last few minutes was complicated. He could remember rushing along a tube of green water, if such a thing were possible, and there had been several periods where the air and the sea and Ponder himself had been very closely entwined. Now he felt as though someone had, with great precision, hit every part of his body with a hammer.
    “Get off, will you!”
    Ponder reached up and pulled another crab out of his ear, and realized that he had lost his glasses. They were probably rolling at the bottom of the sea by now, frightening lobsters. So here he was, on an alien shore, and he’d be able to see everything really clearly provided everything was meant to be a blur.
    “Am I dead this time?” It was the Dean’s voice, from a little further away along the beach.
    “No, you’re still alive, sir,” said Ponder.
    “Damn. Are you sure?”
    There were other groans as bits of tidal debris turned out to be wizards mixed with seaweed.
    “Are we all here?” said Ridcully, trying to get to his feet.
    “I’m sure I’m not,” moaned the Dean.
    “I don’t see…Mrs. Whitlow,” said Ridcully. “Or the Bursar…”
    Ponder sat up.
    “There’s…oh, dear…well, there’s the Bursar…”
    Out at sea a huge wave was building up. It towered higher and higher. And the Bursar was on top of it.
    “Bursar!” Ridcully screamed.
    The distant figure stood up on the seed and waved.
    “He’s standing up,” said Ridcully. “Is he supposed to stand up on those things? He’s not supposed to stand up, is he? I’m sure he shouldn’t be standing up. YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO STAND UP, BURSAAAR! How…That’s not supposed to happen, is it?”
    The wave curled, but the Bursar seemed to be skimming down the side of it, skidding along the huge green wet wall like a man on one ski.
    Ridcully turned to the other wizards. “He can’t do that, can he? He’s walking up and down on it. Can he do that? The wave’s curling over and he’s just sliding gently along the…Oh, no…”
    The foaming crest curled over the speeding wizard.
    “That’s it, then,” said Ridcully.
    “Er…no…” said Ponder.
    The Bursar reappeared further along the beach, expelled from the collapsing tube of water like an arrow from a bow. The wave crashed over behind him, striking the shore as if it had just offended it.
    The seed changed direction, cruised gently over the backwash and crunched to a halt on the sand.
    The Bursar stepped off. “Hooray,” he said. “My feet are wet. What a nice forest. Time for tea.”
    He picked up the seed and rammed it point first in the sand. Then he wandered away up the beach.
    “How did he do that?” said Ridcully. “I mean, the man’s crazier than a ferret! Damn good Bursar, of course.”
    “Possibly the lack of mental balance means there’s nothing to impede physical stability?” said Ponder wearily.
    “You think so?”
    “Not really, sir. I just said it for something to say.” Ponder tried to massage some life back into his legs, and started to count under his breath.
    “Is there anything to eat here?” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies.
    “Four,” said Ponder.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “What? Oh, it was just some counting I was doing, sir.