Hogfather

     Finally, when the figure finished, it stood back and  pulled a list out of its  pocket. It held it up to  the hood and appeared to be consulting it. It waved  its other hand vaguely at the fireplace, the sooty footprints, the empty sherry  glass and  the stocking. Then  it bent forward, as  if reading some tiny print.

     AH, YES, it said. ER... HO. HO. HO.

     With  that,  it  ducked down and  entered the  chimney. There  was some scrabbling before its boots gained a purchase, and then it was gone.

     The  Death  of Rats realized  he'd begun  to  knaw his little  scythe's handle in sheer shock.

SQUEAK?

     He landed in the ashes and swarmed up the sooty cave of the chimney. He emerged  so fast that he shot out with his legs still  scrabbling and landed in the snow on the roof.

     There was a sledge hovering in the air by the gutter.

     The red-hooded figure had just climbed in and appeared to be talking to someone invisible behind a pile of sacks.

     HERE'S ANOTHER PORK PIE.

     'Any mustard?' said the sacks. 'They're a treat with mustard.'

IT DOES NOT APPEAR SO.

     'Oh, well. Pass it over anyway.'

IT LOOKS VERY BAD.

     'Nah, 's just where something's nibbled it---'

     I MEAN THE SITUATION.  MOST  OF  THE  LETTERS  ...  THEY  DON'T  REALLY BELIEVE. THEY PRETEND TO

     BELIEVE, JUST IN  CASE[7]. I FEAR IT MAY BE TOO LATE. IT HAS  SPREAD SO FAST AND BACK IN TIME, TOO.

     'Never  say  die,  master.  That's our  motto,  eh?'  said  the  sacks, apparently with their mouth full.

     I CAN'T SAY IT'S EVER REALLY BEEN MINE.

     'I  meant we're not going to  be intimidated by the certain prospect of complete and utter failure, master.'

     AREN'T WE? OH,  GOOD. WELL, I SUPPOSE  WE'D BETTER BE GOING. The figure picked  up  the reins.  UP,  GOUGER! UP, ROOTER!  UP,  TUSKER!  UP, SNOUTER! GIDDYUP!

     The four large boars harnessed to the sledge did not move.

     WHY DOESN'T THAT WORK? said the figure in a puzzled, heavy voice.

     'Beats me, master,' said the sacks.

IT WORKS ON HORSES.

     'You could try "Pig-hooey! "'

     PIG-HOOEY. They waited. NO ... DOESN'T SEEM TO REACH THEM.

     There was some whispering.

REALLY? YOU THINK THAT WOULD WORK?

     'It'd bloody well work on me if I was a pig, master.'

VERY WELL, THEN.

     The figure gathered up the reins again.

APPLE! SAUCE!

     The pigs' legs blurred. Silver  light flicked across them, and exploded outwards. They dwindled to a dot, and vanished.

SQUEAK?

     The Death  of Rats  skipped across the snow, slid  down a drainpipe and landed on the roof of a shed.

     There  was a  raven perched there.  It  was staring  disconsolately  at something.

SQUEAK!

     'Look at that, willya?' said the raven rhetorically. It waved a claw at a  bird table in the garden below.  'They hangs up  half a bloody coconut, a lump of bacon rind,  a handful  of peanuts in a bit  of wire and they  think they're the gods' gift to the  nat'ral  world. Huh.  Do I see eyeballs? Do I see entrails? I think  not. Most intelligent bird in the temperate latitudes an' I gets the cold shoulder just because  I can't hang  upside  down and go twit, twit.  Look at robins,  now. Stroppy little  evil  buggers, fight like demons,  but all  they got to do is go bob-bob-bobbing along and they  can't move  for  breadcrumbs. Whereas me myself can recite poems  and repeat  many hum'rous phrases...'

SQUEAK!

     'Yes? What?'

     The Death  of Rats pointed at  the roof and then the sky  and jumped up and down excitedly. The raven swivelled one eye upwards.

     'Oh, yes. Him,' he said. 'Turns up  at this time of year. Tends  to  be associated distantly with robins, which-'

     SQUEAK! SQUEE IK  IR IK! The Death of Rats  pantomimed a figure landing in a grate and walking  around a room. SQUEAK  EEK IK IK, SQUEAK  'HEEK HEEK HEEK'! IK IK SQUEAK!

     'Been overdoing the Hogswatch cheer,  have you? Been rustling around in the brandy butter?'

SQUEAK?

     The raven's eyes revolved.

     'Look, Death's Death. It's a full-time job right?

     it's  not as  though you can run, like, a window  cleaning round on the side or nip round after work cutting people's lawns.'

SQUEAK!

     'Oh, please yourself.'

     The raven crouched a little to allow  the tiny figure to hop  on to its back, and then lumbered into the air.

     'Of course, they  can  go mental, your occult  types,' it  said, as  it swooped over the moonlit garden. 'Look at Old Man Trouble, for one...'

SQUEAK.

     'Oh, I'm not suggestin...'

     Susan didn't like Biers but she went there anyway, when the pressure of being normal got too much. Biers,  despite  the smell and the drink  and the company,  had one  important  virtue.  In Biers  no one took any notice.  Of anything. Hogswatch was traditionally supposed to be a time for families but the people who  drank in Biers probably didn't have families;  some  of them looked as though  they might  have had litters, or  clutches.  Some  of them looked  as  though  they'd  probably  eaten  their  relatives, or  at  least someone's relatives.

     Biers  was where the undead drank. And  when Igor  the barman was asked for a Bloody Mary, he didn't mix a metaphor.