Hogfather

‘Well, in a way …’ Susan hesitated. Everyone knew grass was green and water was blue. Quite often it wasn’t true, but everyone knew it in the same way they knew the sky was blue, too.

She made the mistake of looking up as she thought that.

There was the sky. It was, indeed, blue. And down there was the land. It was green.

And in between was nothing. Not white space. Not black night. Just … nothing, all round the edges of the world. Where the brain said there should be, well, sky and land, meeting neatly at the horizon, there was simply a void that sucked at the eyeball like a loose tooth.

And there was the sun.

It was under the sky, floating above the land.

And it was yellow.

Buttercup yellow.

Binky landed on the grass beside the river. Or at least on the green. It felt more like sponge, or moss. He nuzzled it.

Susan slid off, trying to keep her gaze low. That meant she was looking at the vivid blue of the water.

There were orange fish in it. They didn’t look quite right, as if they’d been created by someone who really did think a fish was two curved lines and a dot and a triangular tail. They reminded her of the skeletal fish in Death’s quiet pool. Fish that were … appropriate to their surroundings. And she could see them, even though the water was just a block of colour which part of her insisted ought to be opaque …

She knelt down and dipped her hand in. It felt like water, but what poured through her fingers was liquid blue.

And now she knew where she was. The last piece clicked into place and the knowledge bloomed inside her. She knew if she saw a house just how its windows would be placed, and just how the smoke would come out of the chimney.

There would almost certainly be apples on the trees. And they would be red, because everyone knew that apples were red. And the sun was yellow. And the sky was blue. And the grass was green.

But there was another world, called the real world by the people who believed in it, where the sky could be anything from off-white to sunset red to thunderstorm yellow. And the trees would be anything from bare branches, mere scribbles against the sky, to red flames before the frost. And the sun was white or yellow or orange. And water was brown and grey and green …

The colours here were springtime colours, and not the springtime of the world. They were the colours of the springtime of the eye.

‘This is a child’s painting,’ she said.

The oh god slumped onto the green.

‘Every time I look at the gap my eyes water,’ he mumbled. ‘I feel awful.’

‘I said this is a child’s painting,’ said Susan.

‘Oh, me … I think the wizards’ potion is wearing off …’

‘I’ve seen dozens of pictures of it,’ said Susan, ignoring him. ‘You put the sky overhead because the sky’s above you and when you are a couple of feet high there’s not a lot of sideways to the sky in any case. And everyone tells you grass is green and water is blue. This is the landscape you paint. Twyla paints like that. I painted like that. Grandfather saved some of—’

She stopped.

‘All children do it, anyway,’ she muttered. ‘Come on, let’s find the house.’

‘What house?’ the oh god moaned. ‘And can you speak quieter, please?’

‘There’ll be a house,’ said Susan, standing up. ‘There’s always a house. With four windows. And the smoke coming out of the chimney all curly like a spring. Look, this is a place like gr — Death’s country. It’s not really geography.’

The oh god walked over to the nearest tree and banged his head on it as if he hoped it was going to hurt.

‘Feels like geo’fy,’ he muttered.

‘But have you ever seen a tree like that? A big green blob on a brown stick? It looks like a lollipop!’ said Susan, pulling him along.

‘Dunno. Firs’ time I ever saw a tree. Arrgh. Somethin’ dropped on m’head.’ He blinked owlishly at the ground. ‘’s red.’

‘It’s an apple,’ she said. She sighed. ‘Everyone knows apples are red.’

There were no bushes. But there were flowers, each with a couple of green leaves. They grew individually, dotted around the rolling green.

And then they were out of the trees and there, by a bend in the river, was the house.

It didn’t look very big. There were four windows and a door. Corkscrew smoke curled out of the chimney.

‘You know, it’s a funny thing,’ said Susan, staring at it. ‘Twyla draws houses like that. And she practically lives in a mansion. I drew houses like that. And I was born in a palace. Why?’

‘P’raps it’s all this house,’ muttered the oh god miserably.

‘What? You really think so? Kids’ paintings are all of this place? It’s in our heads?’

‘Don’t ask me, I was just making conversation,’ said the oh god.

Susan hesitated. The words What Now? loomed. Should she just go and knock?

And she realized that was normal thinking …