Hogfather by Terry Pratchett Page A

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 gnaw 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 sleigh 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. * 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 sleigh 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 outward. They dwindled to a dot, and vanished.
    SQUEAK?
    The Death of Rats skipped across the snow, slid down a drain pipe 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 feeder 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 bread crumbs. 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 swiveled one eye upward.
    “Oh, yes. Him,” he said. “Turns up at this time of year. Tends to be associated distantly with robins, which—”
    SQUEAK! SQUEE IK IK 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 rooting 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