‘So what have you turned up for?’ Susan demanded. ‘And if it’s for business reasons,
I wil add, then that outfit is in extremely poor taste–‘
THE HOGFATHER IS … UNAVAILABLE.
‘Unavailable? At Hogswatch?’
YES.
‘Why?’
HE IS . . . LET ME SEE . . . THERE ISN’T AN ENTIRELY APPROPRIATE HUMAN
WORD, SO … LET’S SETTLE FOR … DEAD. YES. HE IS DEAD.
Susan had never hung up a stocking. She’d never looked for eggs laid by the Soul
Cake Duck. She’d never put a tooth under her pil ow in the serious expectation that a
dental y inclined fairy would turn up.
It wasn’t that her parents didn’t believe in such things. They didn’t need to believe in
them. They knew they existed. They just wished they didn’t.
Oh, there had been presents, at the right time, with a careful label saying who they
were from. And a superb egg on Soul Cake Morning, fil ed with sweets. Juvenile teeth
earned no less than a dol ar each from her father, without argument.12 But it was al
straightforward.
She knew now that they’d been trying to protect her. She hadn’t known then that her
father had been Death’s apprentice for a while, and that her mother was Death’s
adopted daughter. She’d had very dim recol ections of being taken a few times to see
someone who’d been quite, wel , jol y, in a strange, thin way. And the visits had
suddenly stopped. And she’d met him later and, yes, he had his good side, and for a
while she’d wondered why her parents had been so unfeeling and
She knew now why they’d tried to keep her away. There was far more to genetics
than little squirmy spirals.
She could walk through wal s when she real y had to. She could use a tone of voice
that was more like actions than words, that somehow reached inside people and
operated al the right switches. And her hair …
That had only happened recently, though. It used to be unmanageable, but at around
the age of seventeen she had found it more or less managed itself.
12 In fact, when she was eight she’d found a collection of animal skulls in an attic, relict of some former duke of an enquiring turn of mind. Her father had been a bit preoccupied with affairs of state and she’d made twenty-seven dollars before being found out. The hippopotamus molar had, with hindsight, been a mistake.
Skulls never frightened her, even then.
That had lost her several young men. Someone’s hair rearranging itself into a new
style, the tresses curling around themselves like a nest of kittens, could definitely put
the crimp on any relationship.
She’d been making good progress, though. She could go for days now without
feeling anything other than entirely human.
But it was always the case, wasn’t it? You could go out into the world, succeed on
your own terms, and sooner or later some embarrassing old relative was bound to turn
up.Grunting and swearing, the gnome clambered out of another drainpipe, jammed its
hat firmly on its head, threw its sack onto a snowdrift and jumped down after it.
‘ ‘s a good one,’ he said. ‘Ha, take ‘im weeks to get rid of that one!’
He took a crumpled piece of paper out of a pocket and examined it closely. Then he
looked at an elderly figure working away quietly at the next house.
It was standing by a window, drawing with great concentration on the glass.
The gnome wandered up, interested, and watched critical y.
‘Why just fern patterns?’ he said, after a while. ‘Pretty, yeah, but you wouldn’t catch
me puttin’ a penny in your hat for fern patterns.’
The figure turned, brush in hand.
‘I happen to like fern patterns,’ said jack Frost coldly.
‘It’s just that people expect, you know, sad big-eyed kids, kittens lookin’ out of boots,
little doggies, that sort of thing.’
‘I do ferns.’
‘Or big pots of sunflowers, happy seaside scenes… ‘
‘And ferns.’
‘I mean, s’posing some big high priest wanted you to paint the temple ceiling with
gods ‘n’ angels and suchlike, what’d you do then?’
‘He could have as many gods and angels as he liked, provided they-‘
‘-looked like ferns?’
‘I resent the implication that I am solely fernfixated,’ said Jack Frost. ‘I can also do a
very nice paisley pattern.’
‘What’s that look like, then?’
‘Wel . . . it does, admittedly, have a certain ferny quality to the uninitiated eye.’ Frost
leaned forward. ‘Who’re you?’
The gnome took a step backwards.
‘You’re not a tooth fairy, are you? I see more and more of them about these days.
Nice girls.’
‘Nah. Nah. Not teeth,’ said the gnome, clutching his sack.
‘What, then?’
The gnome told him.
‘Real y?’ said Jack Frost. ‘I thought they just turned up.’
‘Wel , come to that, I thought frost on the windows just happened al by itself,’ said
the gnome. “ere, you don’t half look spiky. I bet You go through a lot of bedsheets.’
‘I don’t sleep,’ said Frost icily, turning away. ‘And now, if you’l excuse me, I have a
large number of windows to do. Ferns aren’t easy. You need a steady hand.’
‘What do you mean dead?’ Susan demanded. ‘How can the Hogfather be dead? He’s
… isn’t he what you are? An-‘
ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATION. YES. HE HAS BECOME SO. THE
SPIRIT OF HOGSWATCH.
‘But … how? How can anyone kil the Hogfather? Poisoned sherry? Spikes in the
chimney?’
THERE ARE … MORE SUBTLE WAYS.
‘Coff. Coff. Coff. Oh dear, this soot,’ said Albert loudly. ‘Chokes me up something
cruel.’
‘And you’ve taken over?’ said Susan, ignoring him. ‘That’s sick! ‘
Death contrived to look hurt.
‘I’l just go and have a look somewhere,’ said Albert, brushing past her and opening
the door.
She pushed it shut quickly.
‘And what are you doing here, Albert?’ she said, clutching at the straw. ‘I thought
you’d die if you ever came back to the world!’
AH, BUT WE ARE NOT IN THE WORLD, said Death. WE ARE IN THE SPECIAL
CONGRUENT REALITY CREATED FOR THE HOGFATHER. NORMAL RULES
HAVE TO BE SUSPENDED. HOW ELSE COULD ANYONE GET AROUND THE
ENTIRE WORLD IN ONE NIGHT?
‘ ‘s right,’ said Albert, leering. ‘One of the Hogfather’s Little Helpers, me. Official. Cot
the pointy green hat and everything.’ He spotted the glass of sherry and couple of
turnips that the children had left on the table, and bore down on them.
Susan looked shocked. A couple of days earlier she’d taken the children to the
Hogfather’s Grotto in one of the big shops in The Maul. Of course, it wasn’t the real
one, but it had turned out to be a fairly good actor in a red suit. There had been people
dressed up as pixies, and a picket
outside the shop by the Campaign for Equal Heights.13
None of the pixies had looked anything like Albert. If they had, people would have
only gone into the grotto armed.
‘Been good, ‘ave yer?’ said Albert, and spat into the fireplace.
Susan stared at him.
Death leaned down. She stared up into the blue glow of his eyes.
YOU ARE KEEPING WELL? he said.
‘Yes.’
SELF-RELIANT? MAKING YOUR OWN WAY IN THE WORLD?
‘Yes!’
GOOD. WELL, COME, ALBERT. WE WILL LOAD THE STOCKINGS AND GET ON
WITH THINGS.
A couple of letters appeared in Death’s hand.
SOMEONE CHRISTENED THE CHILD TWYLA?
‘I m afraid so, but why-‘
AND THE OTHER ONE GAWAIN?
‘Yes. But look, how-‘
WHY GAWAIN?
‘I . . . suppose it’s a good strong name for a fighter . . .’
13 The CEH was always ready to fight for the rights of the differently tall, and was not put off by the fact that most pixies and gnomes weren’t the least interested in dressing
up in little pointy hats with bells on when there were other far more interesting things to do. All that tinkly-wee stuff was for the old folks back home in the forest – when a tiny
man hit Ankh-Morpork he preferred to get drunk, kick some serious ankle, and search for tiny women. In fact the CEH now had to spend so much time explaining to people that they hadn’t got enough rights that they barely had any time left to fight for them.
A SELF-FULFILLING PROPHECY, I SUSPECT. I SEE THE GIRL WRITES IN
GREEN CRAYON ON PINK PAPER WITH A MOUSE IN THE CORNER. THE
MOUSE IS WEARING A DRESS.
‘I ought to point out that she decided to do that so the Hogfather would think she was
sweet,’ said Susan. ‘Including the deliberate bad spel ing. But look, why are you-‘
SHE SAYS SHE IS FIVE YEARS OLD.
‘In years, yes. In cynicism, she’s about thirtyfive. Why are you doing the-‘
BUT SHE BELIEVES IN THE HOGFATHER?
‘She’d believe in anything if there was a dol y in it for her. But you’re not going to