‘He’s going to start fighting again, mum,’ said Ludmilla, who was curled up by the kitchen stove.‘He always calls people “friend” just before he hits them.’
Mrs Cake sighed.
‘And it sounds as if he’s going to fight a lot of people,’ said Ludmilla.
‘Oh, all right. Go and fetch me a vase. A cheap one, mind.’
It is widely suspected, but not generally known, that everything has an associated spirit form which, upon its demise, exists briefly in the draughty gap between the worlds of the living and the dead. This is important.
‘No, not that one. That belonged to your granny.’
This ghostly survival does not last for long without a consciousness to hold it together, but depending on what you have in mind it can last for just long enough.
‘That one’ll do. I never liked the pattern.’
Mrs Cake took an orange vase with pink peonies on it from her daughter’s paws.
‘Are you still there, One-Man-Bucket?’ she said.
– I’ll make you regret the day you ever died, you whining –
‘Catch.’
She dropped the vase on to the stove. It smashed.
A moment later, there was a sound from the Other Side. If a discorporate spirit had hit another discorporate spirit with the ghost of a vase, it would have sounded just like that.
– right, said the voice of One-Man-Bucket, and there’s more where that came from, OK?
The Cakes, mother and hairy daughter, nodded at each other.
When One-Man-Bucket spoke again, his voice dripped with smug satisfaction.
– just a bit of an altercation about seniority here, he said. just sorting out a bit of personal space. got a lot of problems here, Mrs Cake. it’s like a waiting room –
There was a shrill clamour of other disembodied voices.
– could you get a message, please, to Mr –
– tell her there’s a bag of coins on the ledge up the chimney –
– Agnes is not to have the silverware after what she said about our Molly –
– I didn’t have time to feed the cat, could someone go – shutupshutup! That was One-Man-Bucket again. you’ve got no idea have you? this is ghost talk, is it? feed the cat? whatever happened to ‘I am very happy here, and waiting for you to join me’?
– listen, if anyone else joins us, we’ll be standing on one another’s heads –
– that’s not the point. that’s not the point, that’s all I’m saying. when you’re a spirit, there’s things you gotta say. Mrs Cake?
‘Yes?’
– you got to tell someone about this.
Mrs Cake nodded.
‘Now you all go away,’ she said. ‘I’m getting one of my headaches.’
The crystal ball faded.
‘Well!’ said Ludmilla.
‘I ain’t going to tell no priests,’ said Mrs Cake firmly.
It wasn’t that Mrs Cake wasn’t a religious woman.
She was, as has already been hinted, a very religious woman indeed. There wasn’t a temple, church, mosque or small group of standing stones anywhere in the city that she hadn’t attended at one time or another, as a result of which she was more feared than an Age of Enlightenment; the mere sight of Mrs Cake’s small fat body on the threshold was enough to stop most priests dead in the middle of their invocation.
Dead. That was the point. All the religions had very strong views about talking to the dead. And so did Mrs Cake. They held that it was sinful. Mrs Cake held that it was only common courtesy.
This usually led to a fierce ecclesiastical debate which resulted in Mrs Cake giving the chief priest what she called ‘a piece of her mind’. There were so many pieces of Mrs Cake’s mind left around the city now that it was quite surprising that there was enough left to power Mrs Cake but, strangely enough, the more pieces of her mind she gave away the more there seemed to be left.
There was also the question of Ludmilla. Ludmilla was a problem. The late Mr Cake, gods rest his soul, had never so much as even whistled at the full moon his whole life, and Mrs Cake had dark suspicions that Ludmilla was a throwback to the family’s distant past in the mountains, or maybe had contracted genetics as a child. She was pretty certain her mother had once alluded circumspectly to the fact that Great-uncle Erasmus sometimes had to eat his meals under the table. Either way, Ludmilla was a decent upright young woman for three weeks in every four and a
perfectly well-behaved hairy wolf thing for the rest of the time.
Priests often failed to see it that way. Since by the time Mrs Cake fell out with whatever priests * were currently moderating between her and the gods, she had usually already taken over the flower arrangements, altar dusting, temple cleaning, sacrificial stone scrubbing, honorary vestigial virgining, hassock repairing and every other vital religious support role by sheer force of personality, her departure resulted in total chaos.
Mrs Cake buttoned up her coat.
‘It won’t work,’ said Ludmilla.
‘I’ll try the wizards. They ought to be tole,’ said Mrs Cake. She was quivering with self-importance, like a small enraged football.
‘Yes, but you said they never Listen,’ said Ludmilla.
‘Got to try. Byway, what are you doing out of your room?’
‘Oh, mother. You know I hate that room. There’s no need -‘
‘You can’t be too careful. Supposin’ you was to take it into your head to go and chase people’s chickens? What would the neighbours say?’
‘I’ve never felt the least urge to chase a chicken, mother,’ said Ludmilla wearily.
‘Or run after carts, barkin’.’
‘That’s dogs, mother.’
‘You just get back in your room and lock yourself in and get on with some sewing like a good girl.’
_______________________________________________________________
* Mrs Cake was aware that some religions had priestesses. What Mrs Cake thought about the ordination of women was unprintable. The religions with priestesses in Ankh-Morpork tended to attract a large crowd of plain-clothes priests from other denominations who were looking for a few hours’ respite somewhere where they wouldn’t encounter Mrs Cake.
‘You know I can’t hold the needles properly, mother.’
‘Try for your mother.’
‘ Yes, mother,’ said Ludmilla.
‘And don’t go near the window. We don’t want people upset.’
‘Yes, mother. And you make sure you put your premonition on, mum. You know your eyesight isn’t what it was.’
Mrs Cake watched her daughter go upstairs. Then she locked the front door behind her and strode towards Unseen University where, she’d heard, there was too much nonsense of all sorts.
Anyone watching Mrs Cake’s progress along the street would have noticed one or two odd details.
Despite her erratic gait, no-one bumped into her. They weren’t avoiding her, she just wasn’t where they were.
At one point she hesitated, and stepped into an alleyway. A moment later a barrel rolled off a cart that was unloading outside a tavern and smashed on the cobbles where she would have been. She stepped out of the alley and over the wreckage, grumbling to herself.
Mrs Cake spent a lot of the time grumbling. Her mouth was constantly moving, as if she was trying to dislodge a troublesome pip from somewhere in the back of her teeth.
She reached the high black gates of the University and hesitated again, as if listening to some inner voice.
Then she stepped aside and waited.
Bill Door lay in the darkness of the hayloft and waited.
Below, he could hear the occasional horsey sounds of Binky – a soft movement, the champ of a jaw.
Bill Door. So now he had a name. Of course, he’d always had a name, but he’d been named for what he embodied, not for who he was. Bill Door. It had a good solid ring to it.
Mr Bill Door. William Door, Esq. Billy D – no. Not Billy.
Bill Door eased himself further into the hay. He reached into his robe and pulled out the golden timer. There was, quite perceptibly, less sand in the top bulb. He put it back.
And then there was this “sleep”. He knew what it was. People did it for quite a lot of the time. They lay down and sleep happened. Presumably it served some purpose. He was watching out for it with interest. He would have to subject it to analysis.
Night drifted across the world, coolly pursued by a new day.
There was a stirring in the henhouse across the yard.
‘Cock-a-doo … er.’
Bill Door stared at the roof of the barn.
‘Cock-a-doodle … er.’
Grey light was filtering in between the cracks.
Yet only moments ago there had been the red light of sunset!
Six hours had vanished.
Bill hauled out the timer. Yes. The level was definitely down. While he had been waiting to experience sleep, something had stolen part of his … of his life. He’d completely missed it, too –