Hogfather by Terry Pratchett Page A

fingers.
    “Light,” she commanded. A couple of candles sprang into life.
    The hourglasses were…wrong.
    The ones in the main room, however metaphorical they might be, were solid-looking things of wood and brass and glass. But these looked as though they were made of highlights and shadows with no real substance at all.
    She peered at a large one.
    The name in it was: OFFLER.
    “The crocodile god?” she thought.
    Well, gods had a life, presumably. But they never actually died, as far as she knew. They just dwindledaway to a voice on the wind and a footnote in some textbook on religion.
    There were other gods lined up. She recognized a few of them.
    But there were smaller lifetimers on the shelf. When she saw the labels she nearly burst out laughing.
    “The Tooth Fairy? The Sandman? John Barleycorn? The Soul Cake Duck? The God of— what ?”
    She stepped back, and something crunched under her feet.
    There were shards of glass on the floor. She reached down and picked up the biggest. Only a few letters remained of the name etched into the glass—
    HOGFA…
    “Oh, no …it’s true . Granddad, what have you done ?”
    When she left, the candles winked out. Darkness sprang back.
    And in the darkness, among the spilled sand, a faint sizzle and a tiny spark of light…
     
    Mustrum Ridcully adjusted the towel around his waist.
    “How’re we doing, Mr. Modo?”
    The University gardener saluted.
    “The tanks are full, Mr. Archchancellor, sir!” he said brightly. “And I’ve been stoking the hot water boilers all day!”
    The other senior wizards clustered in the doorway.
    “Really, Mustrum, I really think this is most unwise,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. “It was surely sealed up for a purpose.”
    “Remember what it said on the door,” said the Dean.
    “Oh, they just wrote that on it to keep people out,” said Ridcully, opening a fresh bar of soap.
    “Well, yes,” said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. “That’s right. That’s what people do.”
    “It’s a bathroom ,” said Ridcully. “You are all acting as if it’s some kind of a torture chamber.”
    “A bathroom,” said the Dean, “designed by Bloody Stupid Johnson. Archchancellor Weatherwax only used it once and then had it sealed up! Mustrum, I beg you to reconsider! It’s a Johnson !”
    There was something of a pause, because even Ridcully had to adjust his mind around this.
    The late (or at least severely delayed) Bergholt Stuttley Johnson was generally recognized as the worst inventor in the world, yet in a very specialized sense. Merely bad inventors made things that failed to operate. He wasn’t among these small fry. Any fool could make something that did absolutely nothing when you pressed the button. He scorned such fumble-fingered amateurs. Everything he built worked. It just didn’t do what it said on the box. If you wanted a small ground-to-air missile, you asked Johnson to design an ornamental fountain. It amounted to pretty much the same thing. But this never discouraged him, or the morbid curiosity of his clients. Music, landscape gardening, architecture—there was no start to his talents.
    Nevertheless, it was a little bit surprising to find that Bloody Stupid had turned to bathroom design. But, as Ridcully said, it was known that he had designed and built several large musical organs and, when you got right down to it, it was all just plumbing, wasn’t it?
    The other wizards, who’d been there longer than the Archchancellor, took the view that if Bloody Stupid Johnson had built a fully functional bathroom he’d actually meant it to be something else.
    “Y’know, I’ve always felt that Mr. Johnson was amuch maligned man,” said Ridcully, eventually.
    “Well, yes, of course he was,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, clearly exasperated. “That’s like saying that jam attracts wasps, you see.”
    “Not everything he made worked badly,” said Ridcully stoutly, flourishing his scrubbing brush. “Look at