Hogfather

As an orang-utan he hankered for the warmth of the rainforest. The problem was that he’d never even seen a rainforest, having been turned into an orang-utan when he was already a fully grown human. Something in his bones knew about it, though, and didn’t like the cold of winter at all. But he was also a librarian in those same bones and he flatly refused to allow fires to be lit in the library. As a result, pillows and blankets went missing everywhere else in the University and ended up in a sort of cocoon in the reference section, in which the ape lurked during the worst of the winter.

He turned over and wrapped himself in the Bursar’s curtains.

There was a creaking outside his nest, and some whispering.

‘No, don’t light the lamp.’

‘I wondered why I hadn’t seen him all evening.’

‘Oh, he goes to bed early on Hogswatch Eve, sir. Here we are …’

There was some rustling.

‘We’re in luck. It hasn’t been filled,’ said Ponder. ‘Looks like he’s used one of the Bursar’s.’

‘He puts it up every year?’

‘Apparently.’

‘But it’s not as though he’s a child. A certain child-like simplicity, perhaps.’

‘It might be different for orang-utans, Archchancellor.’

‘Do they do it in the jungle, d’you think?’

‘I don’t imagine so, sir. No chimneys, for one thing.’

‘And quite short legs, of course. Extremely under-funded in the sock area, orang-utans. They’d be quids in if they could hang up gloves, of course. Hogfather’d be on double shifts if they could hang up their gloves. On account of the length of their arms.’

‘Very good, Archchancellor.’

‘I say, what’s this on the … my word, a glass of sherry. Well, waste not, want not.’ There was a damp glugging noise in the darkness.

‘I think that was supposed to be for the Hogfather, sir.’

‘And the banana?’

‘I imagine that’s been left out for the pigs, sir.’

‘Pigs?’

‘Oh, you know, sir. Tusker and Snouter and Gouger and Rooter. I mean,’ Ponder stopped, conscious that a grown man shouldn’t be able to remember this sort of thing, ‘that’s what children believe.’

‘Bananas for pigs? That’s not traditional, is it? I’d have thought acorns, perhaps. Or apples or swedes.’

‘Yes, sir, but the Librarian likes bananas, sir.’

‘Very nourishin’ fruit, Mr Stibbons.’

‘Yes, sir. Although, funnily enough it’s not actually a fruit, sir.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, sir. Botanically, it’s a type of fish, sir. According to my theory it’s cladistically associated with the Krullian pipefish, sir, which of course is also yellow and goes around in bunches or shoals.’^{74}

‘And lives in trees?’

‘Well, not usually, sir. The banana is obviously exploiting a new niche.’

‘Good heavens, really? It’s a funny thing, but I’ve never much liked bananas and I’ve always been a bit suspicious of fish, too. That’d explain it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do they attack swimmers?’

‘Not that I’ve heard, sir. Of course, they may be clever enough to only attack swimmers who’re far from land.’

‘What, you mean sort of … high up? In the trees, as it were?’

‘Possibly, sir.’

‘Cunning, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, we might as well make ourselves comfortable, Mr Stibbons.’

‘Yes, sir.’

A match flared in the darkness as Ridcully lit his pipe.

The Ankh-Morpork wassailers had practised for weeks.

The custom was referred to by Anaglypta Huggs, organizer of the best and most select group of the city’s singers, as an occasion for fellowship and good cheer.

One should always be wary of people who talk unashamedly of ‘fellowship and good cheer’ as if it were something that can be applied to life like a poultice. Turn your back for a moment and they may well organize a Maypole dance and, frankly, there’s no option then but to try and make it to the treeline.

The singers were halfway down Park Lane now, and halfway through ‘The Red Rosy Hen’ in marvellous harmony.[20] Their collecting tins were already full of donations for the poor of the city, or at least those sections of the poor who in Mrs Huggs’ opinion were suitably picturesque and not too smelly and could be relied upon to say thank you. People had come to their doors to listen. Orange light spilled on to the snow. Candle lanterns glowed among the tumbling flakes. If you could have taken the lid off the scene, there would have been chocolates inside. Or at least an interesting biscuit assortment.

Mrs Huggs had heard that wassailing was an ancient ritual, and you didn’t need anyone to tell you what that meant, but she felt she’d carefully removed all those elements that would affront the refined ear.

And it was only gradually that the singers became aware of the discord.

Around the corner, slipping and sliding on the ice, came another band of singers.

Some people march to a different drummer. The drummer in question here must have been trained elsewhere, possibly by a different species on another planet.