Carpe Jugulum (Discworld, #23; Witches, #6)

by Terry Pratchett

His shadow twisted on the wall where it had been pinned. It writhed for a moment, trying to clutch at the arrow with insubstantial hands, and then faded.

We of the Nac mac Feegle are a simple folk,” he added, “but we write verra comp-lic-ated documents.”

Prayer’s all very well. I can see where it can help you get your mind right. But an ax is an ax no matter what you believes.”

Ax first, pray later.

“They never burned witches,” said Granny. “Probably they burned some old ladies who spoke up or couldn’t run away. I wouldn’t look for witches bein’ burned,” she added, shifting position. “I might look for witches doin’ the burning, though. We ain’t all nice.” Oats remembered the Count talking about contributing to the Arca Instrumentorum . . . Those books were ancient! But so were vampires, weren’t they? And they were practically canonical! The freezing knife of doubt wedged itself deeper in his brain. Who knew who really wrote anything? What could you trust? Where was the holy writ? Where was the truth?

Oats tightened his grip on the ax. It was, he had to admit, slightly more comforting than prayer at the moment.

If he’d had to recount the saga of the Tsortean War, for example, it would have been in terms of the birds observed, every cormorant noted, every pelican listed, every battlefield raven taxonomically placed, no tern unturned.

“Mythology’s just the folktales of people who won ’cos they had bigger swords.

He put that down as not his business. He’d survived quite happily in the castle for many years by knowing where his business was, and he was suddenly very clear that it wasn’t here, thank goodness.

“Oh, that’s the Adjustable Device for Winning Ontological Arguments,”

The air in the rocking coach was acquiring a distinct personality.

It’s like that chess stuff, see? Let the Queen do the fightin’, ’cos if you lose the King you’ve lost everything.”

“Oh, we’re always all right. You remember that. We happen to other people.”

A girl glided alongside them. She looked rather like Lacrimosa; that is, she looked like someone who admired the way Lacrimosa looked and so had tried to look like her.

There was even a bit of sullen thunder now, not the outgoing sort that cracks the sky but the other sort, which hangs around the horizons and gossips nastily with other storms.

“Bein’ human means judgin’ all the time,” said the voice behind him. “This and that, good and bad, making choices every day . . . that’s human.”

“Mercy’s a fine thing, but judgin’ comes first. Otherwise you don’t know what you’re bein’ merciful about.

“I meant that we are enjoined to see things from the other person’s point of view,” said Oats, patiently. “You mean that from the point of view of a torturer, torture is all right?”

“There’s no grays, only white that’s got grubby. I’m surprised you don’t know that. And sin, young man, is when you treat people as things. Including yourself. That’s what sin is.” “It’s a lot more complicated than that—” “No. It ain’t. When people say things are a lot more complicated than that, they means they’re getting worried that they won’t like the truth. People as things, that’s where it starts.”

they starts with thinking about people as things . .

Hard to have faith, ain’t it, when you read too many books.”

“Many people find faith a great solace,” he said. He wished he was one of them. “Good.” “Really? Somehow I thought you’d argue.” “It’s not my place to tell ’em what to believe, if they act decent.”

“If you raise the subject of religion at this point,” she wheezed, “I’ll give you such a hidin’

Was the god silent, or was there no one to speak?

And, Igor, if you haven’t been thtraight with us, sorry, straight with us, I’ll have your guts for garters.”

Nanny Ogg had always considered herself unshockable, but there’s no such thing. Shocks can come from unexpected directions.

“I’m your man if there’th any organ you need,”

“You’ve got—bits of people stored on ice?” said Nanny, horrified. “Bits of strange people? Chopped up? I’m not taking another step!” Now Igor looked horrified. “Not thtrangerth,” he said. “Family.”

“The old marther uthed to thay, ‘Igor, the day vampireth win all the time, that’th the day we’ll be knocked back beyond return.’

He thed he didn’t mind the dying, that wath quite rethtful, but he did object to looking like a colander.”

Sounds an intelligent bird, your old boy. Not like this new one. He’s just clever.”

Down below, the Nac mac Feegle were doing their best, but strength is not the same as weight and mass

“I reckon Om helps those who helps themselves,”

“You were talking about how happy everyone is because the vampires visit, or something.”

standing around in aimless groups like people who’d heard the fire alarm but hadn’t seen the smoke.

Vlad is just stupid and Lacrimosa would weave your hair into a face flannel if she had the chance but this one will go for the throat if you so much as blink at the wrong time . . . so don’t blink at the wrong time, thank you, because even figments of the imagination want to live

People were good at imagining hells, and some they occupied while they were alive.

perhaps she’d wake up as a vampire, and not know the difference between good and evil. But that wasn’t the point. The point was here and now, because here and now she did.

“Your god, Mister Oats, tries everyone. That’s what gods generally do, and that’s why I don’t truck with ’em. And they lays down rules all the time.” “There have to be rules, Mistress Weatherwax.” “And what’s the first one that your Om requires, then?” “That believers should worship no other god but Om,” said Oats promptly. “Oh yes? That’s gods for you. Very self-centered, as a rule.”

’spose someone doesn’t want to believe in Om and tries to live properly?” “According to the prophet Brutha, to live properly is to believe in Om.”

it is through other people that we truly become people.” “Good. He got that one right.” “And he said that we should take light into dark places.”

once one boot has said goodbye in a peat bog, the other one is bound to follow out of fraternal solidarity.

He was beginning to form yet another new opinion of the old woman, who caused a new opinion to arise about once every half hour, and it was this: she needed someone to beat. If she didn’t have someone to beat, she’d probably beat herself.

People you can believe in, sometimes, but not gods.

You say that you people don’t burn folk and sacrifice people anymore, but that’s what true faith would mean, y’see? Sacrificin’ your own life, one day at a time, to the flame, declarin’ the truth of it, workin’ for it, breathin’ the soul of it. That’s religion. Anything else is just . . . is just bein’ nice. And a way of keepin’ in touch with the neighbors.”

Don’t chase faith, ’cos you’ll never catch it.” She added, almost as an aside, “But, perhaps, you can live faithfully.”

She’d never felt inclined to believe in religion, but she knew what it looked like.

“Bad aim in poor light,” said Agnes, knowing that it wasn’t. There was a hunger welling up. It was not like the black urge she’d felt in the dark, but sharp and urgent all the same. She had to give into it.

They’re going to kill the vampires, she said, and the children will watch. Good, thought Agnes, that’s exactly right. Perdita was horrified. It’ll give them nightmares! No, thought Agnes. It’ll take the nightmares away. Sometimes, everyone has to know the monster is dead, and remember, so that they can tell their grandchildren.

She fingered the wounds on her neck. She was pretty certain vampires didn’t miss, but Vlad must have done, because she clearly wasn’t a vampire. She didn’t even like the idea of rare steak. She’d tried to see if she could fly, when she thought people weren’t looking, but she was as attractive to gravity as ever. The blood-sucking . . . no, never that, even if it was the ultimate diet program, but she’d have liked the flying. It’s changed you, said Perdita. “How?” “Sorry, miss?” You’re sharper . . . edgier . . . nastier. “Maybe it’s about time I was, then.”