'Ah. Well done,' said the voice, but now from somewhere nearer floor level. 'Well. Jolly good job. I think we can definitely call it a success. Yes, indeed. Er. I wonder if you could help me walk for a moment. I inexplicably feel a little unsteady on my feet . . . ' Modo pushed open the door and helped Ridcully out and onto a bench. He looked rather pale. 'Yes, indeed,' said the Archchancellor, his eyes a little glazed. 'Astoundingly successful. Er. Just a minor point, Modo-'
'Yes, sir?'
'There's a tap in there we perhaps should leave alone for now,' said Ridcully. 'I'd esteem it a service if you could go and make a little sign to hang on it.'
'Yes, sir?'
'Saying “Do not touch at all”, or something like that.'
'Right, sir.'
'Hang it on the one marked “Old Faithful”.'
'Yes, sir.'
'No need to mention it to the other fellows.'
'Yes. sir.'
'Ye gods, I've never felt so clean.' From a vantage point among some ornamental tilework near the ceiling a small gnome in a bowler hat watched Ridcully carefully. When Modo had gone the Archchancellor slowly began to dry himself on a big fluffy towel. As he got his composure back, so another song wormed its way under his breath. 'On the second day of Hogswatch I ... sent my true love back A nasty little letter, hah, yes indeed, and a partridge in a pear tree---' The gnome slid down onto the tiles and crept up behind the briskly shaking shape. Ridcully, after a few more trial runs, settled on a song which evolves somewhere on every planet where there are winters. It's often dragooned into the service of some local religion and a few words are changed, but it's really about things that have to do with gods only in the same way that roots have to do with leaves. '-the rising of the sun, and the running of the deer---' Ridcully spun. A corner of wet towel caught the gnome on the ear and flicked it onto its back. 'I saw you creeping up!' roared the Archchancellor. 'What's the game, then? Small-time thief, are you?' The gnome slid backwards on the soapy surface. '
' ere, what's your game, mister, you ain't supposed to be able to see me!'
'I'm a wizard! We can see things that are really there, you know,' said Ridcully. 'And in the case of the Bursar, things that aren't there, too. What's in this bag?'
'You don't wanna open the bag, mister! You really don't wanna open the bag!'
'Why? What have you got in it?' The gnome sagged. 'It ain't what's in it, mister. It's what'll come out. I has to let 'em out one at a time, no knowin' what'd happen if they all gets out at once!' Ridcully looked interested, and started to undo the string. 'You'll really wish you hadn't, mister!' the gnome pleaded. 'Will I? What're you doing here, young man?' The gnome gave up. 'Well ... you know the Tooth Fairy?'
'Yes. Of course,' said Ridcully. 'Well ... I ain't her. But ... it's sort of like the same business . . .'
'What? You take things away?'
'Er not take away, as such. More sort of ... bring ... 'Ah ... like new teeth?'
'Er ... like new verrucas,' said the gnome. Death threw the sack into the back of the sledge and climbed in after it. 'You're doing well, master,' said Albert. THIS CUSHION IS STILL UNCOMFORTABLE, said Death, hitching his belt. I AM NOT USED TO A BIG FAT STOMACH. 'Just a stomach's the best I could do, master. You're starting off with a handicap, sort of thing.' Albert unscrewed the top off a bottle of cold tea. All the sherry had made him thirsty. 'Doing well, master,' he repeated, taking a pull. 'All the soot in the fireplace, the footprints, them swigged sherries, the sleigh tracks all over the roofs ... it's got to work.' YOU THINK SO? 'Sure.' AND I MADE SURE SOME OF THEM SAW ME. I KNOW IF THEY ARE PEEPING, Death added proudly. 'Well done, sir.' YES. 'Though here's a tip, though. Just “Ho. Ho. Ho,- will do. Don't say, ”Cower, brief mortals“ unless you want them to grow up to be moneylenders or some such.' HO. HO. HO. 'Yes, you're really getting the hang of it.' Albert looked down hurriedly at his notebook so that Death wouldn't see his face. 'Now, I got to tell you, master, what'll really do some good is a public appearance. Really.' OH. I DON'T NORMALLY DO THEM. 'The Hogfather's more've a public figure, master. And one good public appearance'll do more good than any amount of letting kids see you by accident. Good for the old belief muscles.' REALLY? HO. HO. HO. 'Right, right, that's really good, master. Where was I ... yes ... the shops'll be open late. Lots of kiddies get taken to see the Hogfather, you see. Not the real one, of course. just some ole geezer with a pillow up his jumper, saving yer presence, master.' NOT REAL? HO. HO. HO. 'Oh, no. And you don't need-' THE CHILDREN KNOW THIS? HO. HO. HO. Albert scratched his nose. 'S'pose so, master.' THIS SHOULD NOT BE. NO WONDER THERE HAS BEEN . . . THIS DIFFICULTY. BELIEF WAS COMPROMISED? HO. HO. HO. 'Could be, master. Er, the ”ho, ho-"' WHERE DOES THIS TRAVESTY TAKE PLACE? HO. HO. HO. Albert gave up. 'Well, Crumley's in The Maul, for one. Very popular, the Hogfather Grotto. They always have a good Hogfather, apparently.' LET'S GET THERE AND SLEIGH THEM. HO. HO. HO. 'Right you are, master.' THAT WAS A PUNE OR PLAY ON WORDS, ALBERT. I DON'T KNOW IF YOU NOTICED. 'I'm laughing like hell deep down, sir.' HO. HO. HO. Archchancellor Ridcully grinned.
He often grinned. He was one of those men who grinned even when they were annoyed, but right now he grinned because he was proud. A little sore still, perhaps, but still proud. 'Amazing bathroom, ain't it?' he said. 'They had it walled up, you know. Damn silly thing to do. I mean, perhaps there were a few teething troubles,' he shifted gingerly, 'but that's only to be expected. It's got everything, d'you see? Foot baths in the shape of clam shells, look. A whole wardrobe for dressing gowns. And that tub over there's got a big blower thingy so's you get bubbly water without even havin' to eat starchy food. And this thingy here with the mermaids holdin' it up's a special pot for your toenail clippings. It's got everything, this place.'
'A special pot for nail clippings?' said the Verruca Gnome. 'Oh, can't be too careful,' said Ridcully, lifting the lid of an ornate jar marked BATH SALTS and pulling out a bottle of wine. 'Get hold of something like someone's nail clipping and you've got ' em under your control. That's real old magic. Dawn of time stuff.' He held the wine bottle up to the light. 'Should be cooled nicely by now,' he said, extracting the cork. 'Verrucas, eh?'
'Wish I knew why,' said the gnome. 'You mean you don't know?'
'Nope. Suddenly I wake up and I'm the Verruca Gnome.'
'Puzzling, that,' said Ridcully. 'My dad used to say the Verruca Gnome turned up if you walked around in bare feet but I never knew you existed. I thought he just made it up. I mean, tooth fairies, yes, and them little buggers that live in flowers, used to collect 'em myself as a lad, but can't recall anything about verrucas.' He drank thoughtfully. 'Cot a distant cousin called Verruca, as a matter of fact. It's quite a nice sound, when you come to think of it.' He looked at the gnome over the top of his glass. You didn't become Archchancellor without a feeling for subtle wrongness in a situation. Well, that wasn't quite true. It was more accurate to say that you didn't remain Archchancellor for very long. 'Good job, is it?' he said thoughtfully. 'Dandruff'd be better,' said the gnome. 'At least I'd be out in the fresh air.'
'I think we'd better check up on this,' said Ridcully. 'Of course, it might be nothing.'
'Oh, thank you,' said the Verruca Gnome, gloomily. It was a magnificent Grotto this year, Vernon Crumley told himself. The staff had worked really hard. The Hogfather's sleigh was a work of art in itself, and the pigs looked really real and a wonderful shade of pink. The Grotto took up nearly all of the first floor. One of the pixies had been Disciplined for smoking behind the Magic Tinkling Waterfall and the clockwork Dolls of All Nations showing how We Could All Get Along were a bit jerky and giving trouble but all in all, he told himself, it was a display to Delight the Hearts of Kiddies everywhere. The kiddies were queueing up with their parents and watching the display owlishly. And the money was coming in. Oh, how the money was coming in. So that the staff would not be Tempted, Mr Crumley had set up an arrangement of overhead wires across the ceilings of the store. In the middle of each floor was a cashier in a little cage. Staff took money from customers, put it in a little clockwork cable car, sent it whizzing overhead to the cashier, who'd make change and start it rattling back again. Thus there was no possibility of Temptation, and the little trolleys were shooting back and forth like fireworks. Mr Crumley loved Hogswatch. It was for. the Kiddies, after all. He tucked his fingers in the pockets of his waistcoat and beamed. 'Everything going well, Miss Harding?'
'Yes, Mr Crumley,' said the cashier, meekly.
'Jolly good.' He looked at the pile of coins. A bright little zig-zag crackled off them and earthed itself on the metal grille. Mr Crumley blinked. In front of him sparks flashed off the steel rims of Miss Harding's spectacles. The Grotto display changed. For just a fraction of a second Mr Crumley had the sensation of speed, as though what appeared had screeched to a halt. Which was ridiculous. The four pink papier-mache pigs exploded. A cardboard snout bounced off Mr Crumley's head. There, sweating and grunting in the place where the little piggies had been, were . . . well, he assumed they were pigs, because hippopotamuses didn't have pointy ears and rings through their noses. But the creatures were huge and grey and bristly and a cloud of acrid mist hung over each one. And they didn't look sweet. There was nothing charming about them. One turned to look at him with small, red eyes, and didn't go 'oink', which was the sound that Mr Crumley, born and raised in the city, had always associated with pigs. It went 'Ghnaaarrrwnnkh?' The sleigh had changed, too. He'd been very pleased with that sleigh. It had delicate silver curly bits on it. He'd personally supervised the gluing on of every twinkling star. But the splendour of it was lying in glittering shards around a sledge that looked as though it had been built of crudely sawn tree trunks laid on two massive wooden runners. It looked ancient and there were faces carved on the wood, nasty crude grinning faces that looked quite out of place. Parents were yelling and trying to pull their children away, but they weren't having much luck. The children were gravitating towards it like flies to jam. Mr Crumley ran towards the terrible thing, waving his hands. 'Stop that! Stop that!' he screamed. 'You'll frighten the Kiddies!' He heard a small boy behind him say, 'They 've got tusks! Cool!' His sister said, 'Hey, look, that one's doing a wee!' A tremendous cloud of yellow steam arose. 'Look, it's going all the way to the stairs! All those who can't swim hold onto the banisters!'
'They eat you if you're bad, you know,' said a small girl with obvious approval. 'All up. Even the bones. They crunch them.' Another, older, child opined: 'Don't be childish. They're not real. They've just got a wizard in to do the magic. Or it's all done by clockwork. Everyone knows they're not really r---' One of the boars turned to look at him. The boy moved behind his mother. Mr Crumley, tears of anger streaming clown his face, fought through the milling crowd until he reached the Hogfather's Grotto. He grabbed a frightened pixie. 'It's the Campaign for Equal Heights that've done this, isn't it!' he shouted. 'They're out to ruin me! And they're ruining it for all the Kiddies! Look at the lovely dolls!' The pixie hesitated. Children were clustering around the pigs, despite the continued efforts of their mothers. The small girl was giving one of them an orange. But the animated display of Dolls of All Nations was definitely in trouble. The musical box underneath was still playing 'Wouldn't It Be Nice If Everyone Was Nice' but the rods that animated the figures had got twisted out of shape, so that the Klatchian boy was rhythmically hitting the Omnian girl over the head with his ceremonial spear, while the girl in Agatean national costume was kicking a small Llamedosian druid repeatedly in the ear. A chorus of small children was cheering them on indiscriminately. 'There's, er, there's more trouble in the Grotto, Mr Crum' the pixie began. A red and white figure pushed its way through the crush and rammed a false beard into Mr Crumley's hands.
