Eric (Discworld, #9)

by Terry Pratchett

Now Death was inspecting his bees, gently lifting the combs in his skeletal fingers. A few bees buzzed around him. Like all beekeepers, Death wore a veil. It wasn’t that he had anything to sting, but sometimes a bee would get inside his skull and buzz around and give him a headache.

Death fancied that he heard, very briefly, the sound of running feet and a voice saying, no, a voice thinking oshitoshitoshit, I’m gonna die I’m gonna die I’m gonna DIE! Death is almost the oldest creature in the universe, with habits and modes of thought that mortal man cannot begin to understand, but because he was also a good beekeeper he carefully replaced the comb in its rack and put the lid on the hive before reacting.

There is nowhere Death will not go, no matter how distant and dangerous. In fact the more dangerous it is, the more likely he is to be there already. Now he stared through the mists of time and space. OH, he said. IT’s HIM.

IT IS RINCEWIND. “What?” THE REASON YOU SUMMONED ME. THE ANSWER IS: IT IS RINCEWIND. “But we haven’t asked you the question yet!” NEVERTHELESS. THE ANSWER IS: IT IS RINCEWIND.

“Are we talking about the wizard Rincewind? The one with the—” the Bursar gave a shudder— “horrible Luggage on legs? But he got blown up when there was all that business with the sourcerer, didn’t he?”* INTO THE DUNGEON DIMENSIONS. AND NOW HE IS TRYING TO GET BACK HOME.

The Librarian was the only one unhappy about it. Rincewind had been his assistant and his friend, and was a good man when it came to peeling a banana. He had also been uniquely good at running away from things. He was not, the Librarian considered, the type to be easily caught.

He opened his mouth and screamed and screamed and screamed. This made him feel slightly better.

“I had this list here somewhere,” said the figure. “Let’s see, now. Oh, yes. I command you—thee, I mean—to, ah, grant me three wishes. Yes. I want mastery of the kingdoms of the world, I want to meet the most beautiful woman who has ever lived, and I want to live for ever.” He gave Rincewind an encouraging look. “All that?” said Rincewind. “Yes.” “Oh, no problem,” said Rincewind sarcastically. “And then I get the rest of the day off, right?”

“Well, er—” said Rincewind, “I suppose I could go down to the shops and get you a packet of mints, or something.”

Using it for your own purposes would be like trying to beat mice to death with a rattlesnake.

“They never give him any of the things a sensitive growing wossname really needs, if you was to ask me.” “What, you mean love and guidance?” said Rincewind. “I was thinking of a bloody good wossname, thrashing,” said the parrot.

Demons have existed on the Discworld for at least as long as the gods, who in many ways they closely resemble. The difference is basically the same as that between terrorists and freedom fighters.

Hell needed horribly-bright, self-centred people like Eric. They were much better at being nasty than demons could ever manage.

It was a large, metal-bound chest. It had fallen on its curved lid. After a while it started to rock violently, and then it extended hundreds of little pink legs and with considerable effort flipped itself over.

“It’s just my Luggage,” said Rincewind desperately. “It’s a sort of … well, it goes everywhere with me, there’s nothing demonic about it … er.” He hesitated. “Not much, anyway,” he finished lamely.

I run, therefore I am; more correctly, I run, therefore with any luck I’ll still be.

“Well. It’s a first-class view from up here, to begin with.” “Oh, good,” said Rincewind. “You know, I never would have looked at it like that. You’re absolutely right. It’s the kind of view you’ll remember for the rest of your life, I expect. I mean, it’s not as if it will be any great feat of recollection.”

Rincewind growled. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was people who were fearless in the face of death. It seemed to strike at something absolutely fundamental in him.

“Are you going to leave it behind?” said Eric. “It’s not as simple as that,” said Rincewind. “It generally catches up. Let’s just go away quickly.”

By nightfall, the kingdom’s leading stonemasons were at work on a new statue. It was basically oblong, with lots of legs.

About the only thing he could hope for, Rincewind decided, was finding da Quirm’s Fountain of Youth and managing to stay alive for a few thousand years so he’d be ready to kill his own grandfather, which was the only aspect of time travel that had ever remotely appealed to him. He had always felt that his ancestors had it coming to them.

This is because most of the first type of commander are brave men, whereas cowards make far better strategists.

The consensus seemed to be that if really large numbers of men were sent to storm the mountain, then enough might survive the rocks to take the citadel. This is essentially the basis of all military thinking.

“This yours?” he said. “Sort of,” said Rincewind guardedly. “I can’t afford to pay for anything it’s done, mind you.”

Rincewind thought quickly. “It has this amazing ability to know when people are thinking about harming me,” he said. He glared at the Luggage as one might glare at a sly, evil-tempered and generally reprehensible family pet who, after years of biting visitors, has rolled over on its scabby back and played at Lovable Puppy to impress the bailiffs.

“Anyway, you shouldn’t believe everything you read in the Classics,” Rincewind added. “They never check their facts. They’re just out to sell legends.”

They watched in silence for a while longer, and then Eric said, “Funny, that. The way you tripped over the Luggage and dropped the lamp and everything.” “Yes,” said Rincewind shortly. “Makes you think history is always going to find a way to work itself out.”

“You get home okay,” he said. “You’re well-known for it, in fact. There’s whole legends about you going home.” “Phew.” Lavaeolus leaned against a hull, took off his helmet and wiped his forehead. “That’s a load off my mind, I’ll tell you. I was afraid the gods might have a grudge against me.”

Rincewind trudged back up the beach. “The trouble is,” he said, “is that things never get better, they just stay the same, only more so. But he’s going to have enough to worry about.”

“Lavaeolus means ‘Rinser of winds’.” Rincewind looked at him. “He’s my ancestor?” he said. “Who knows?” said Eric. “Oh. Gosh.” Rincewind thought about this. “Well, I wish I’d told him to avoid getting married. Or visiting Ankh-Morpork.”

“Apart from you, I mean,” he said. “Have you seen anybody?” YES. “Who?” EVERYONE. Astfgl sighed. “I mean anyone recently.” IT’S BEEN VERY QUIET, said Death.

WERE YOU EXPECTING SOMEONE ELSE? “I thought there might be someone called Rincewind, but—” Astfgl began. Death’s eyesockets flared red. THE WIZARD? he said. “No, he’s a dem—” Astfgl stopped. For what would have been several seconds, had time still existed, he floated in a state of horrible suspicion. “A human?” he growled. IT IS STRETCHING THE TERM A LITTLE, BUT YOU ARE BROADLY CORRECT. “Well, I’ll be damned!” Astfgl said. I BELIEVE YOU ALREADY ARE.

PERHAPS IT’S TIME TO CALL IT A DAY, he thought.

All he had to do was be patient, and he was good at that. Pretty soon there’d be living creatures, developing like mad, running and laughing in the new sunlight. Growing tired. Growing old. Death sat back. He could wait. Whenever they needed him, he’d be there.

“You’re the Creator?” The little man looked very embarrassed. “Not the. Not the. Just a. I don’t contract for the big stuff, the stars, the gas giants, the pulsars and so on. I just specialise in what you might call the bespoke trade.”

Somewhere around the 29th millennium he was overtaken, quite without noticing, by something small and oblong and probably even angrier than he was.

“What’re quantum mechanics?” “I don’t know. People who repair quantums, I suppose.”

He’d looked death in the face many times, or more precisely Death had looked him in the back of his rapidly-retreating head many times, and suddenly the prospect of living forever didn’t appeal.

“Multiple exclamation marks,” he went on, shaking his head, “are a sure sign of a diseased mind.”

Hell, it has been suggested, is other people. This has always come as a bit of a surprise to many working demons, who had always thought that hell was sticking sharp things into people and pushing them into lakes of blood and so on. This is because demons, like most people, have failed to distinguish between the body and the soul.

Now he realised what made boredom so attractive. It was the knowledge that worse things, dangerously exciting things, were going on just around the corner and that you were well out of them. For boredom to be enjoyable there had to be something to compare it with.

“According to Ephebian mythology, there’s a girl who comes down here every winter.” “To keep warm?” “I think the story says she actually creates the winter, sort of.” “I’ve known women like that,” said Rincewind, nodding wisely.

“I never look back,” said Rincewind firmly. “One of the first rules of running away is, never look back.” There was a roar behind them. “Especially when you hear loud noises,” Rincewind went on. “When it comes to cowardice, that’s what sorts out the men from the sheep. You run straight away.” He grabbed the skirts of his robe.

The Luggage arrived at the dread portal. There was no way to describe how angry you can get running nearly twice the length of the space-time continuum, and the Luggage had been pretty annoyed to start with.

“Lavaeolus?” said Rincewind. His ancestor was right behind them. “‘You’ll get home all right,’” said Lavaeolus bitterly. “Your very words. Huh. Ten years of one damn thing after another. You might have told a chap.” “Er,” said Eric. “We didn’t want to upset the course of history.” “You didn’t want to upset the course of history,” said Lavaeolus slowly.

Now their long war was over and they could get on with the proper concern of civilised nations, which is to prepare for the next one.

“I can see blue sky!” said Eric. “Where do you think we’ll come out?” he added. “And when?” “Anywhere,” said Rincewind. “Anytime.”

people only go to hell if that’s where they believe, in their deepest heart, that they deserve to go. Which they won’t do if they don’t know about it. This explains why it is important to shoot missionaries on sight.

Rincewind had been told that death was just like going into another room. The difference is, when you shout, “Where’s my clean socks?”, no-one answers.