'He says, SAY SOMETHING, BURSAAAR!' yelled Ridcully helpfully, into the Bursar's ear. 'Corkscrew? It's a tickler, that's what Nanny says,' said the Bursar. Things started to spin inside Hex. At the back of the room a huge converted waterwheel covered with sheep skulls began to turn, ponderously. And the quill pen in its network of springs and guiding arms started to write: +++ Why Do You Think You Are A Tickler? +++ For a moment the Bursar hesitated. Then he said, 'I've got a spoon of my own, you know.' +++ Tell Me About Your Spoon +++ 'Er ... it's a little spoon. . .' +++ Does Your Spoon Worry You? +++ The Bursar frowned. Then he seemed to rally. 'Whoops, here comes Mr Jelly,' he said, but he didn't sound as though his heart was in it. +++ How Long Have You Been Mr Jelly? +++

The Bursar glared.'Are you makingfun of me?' he said. 'Amazin'!' said Ridcully. 'It's got him stumped! 's better than dried frog pills! How did you work it out?'

'Er said Ponder. 'It sort of just happened 'Amazin',' said Ridcully. He knocked the ashes out of his pipe on Hex's 'Anthill Inside' sticker, causing Ponder to wince. 'This thing's a kind of big artificial brain, then?'

'You could think of it like that,' said Ponder, carefully. 'Of course, Hex doesn't actually think. Not as such. It just appears to be thinking.'

'Ah. Like the Dean,' said Ridcully. 'Any chance of fitting a brain like this into the Dean's head?'

'It does weigh ten tons, Archchancellor.'

'Ah. Really? Oh. Quite a large crowbar would be in order, then.' He paused, and then reached into his pocket. 'I knew I'd come here for something,' he added. 'This here chappie is the Verruca Gnome-'

'Hello,' said the Verruca Gnome shyly. -who seems to have popped into existence to be with us here tonight. And, you know, I thought: this is a bit odd. Of course, there's always something a bit unreal about Hogswatchnight,' said Ridcully. 'Last night of the year and so on. The Hogfather whizzin' around and so forth. Time of the darkest shadows and so on. All the old year's occult rubbish pilin' up. Anythin' could happen. I just thought you fellows might check up on this. Probably nothing to worry about.'

'A Verruca Gnome?' said Ponder. The gnome clutched his sack protectively. 'Makes about as much sense as a lot of things, I suppose,' said Ridcully. 'After all, there's a Tooth Fairy, ain' there? You might as well wonder why we have a God of Wine and not a God of Hangovers---' He stopped. 'Anyone else hear that noise just then?' he said. 'Sorry, Archchancellor?'

'Sort of glingleglingleglingle? Like little tinkly bells?'

'Didn't hear anything like that, sir.'

'Oh.' Ridcully shrugged. 'Anyway ... what was I saying ... yes ... no one's ever heard of a Verruca Gnome until tonight.'

'That's right,' said the gnome. 'Even I've never heard of me until tonight, and I'm me.'

'We'll see what we can find out, Archchancellor,' said Ponder diplomatically. 'Good man.' Ridcully put the gnome back in his pocket and looked up at Hex. 'Amazin',' he said again. 'He just looks as though he's thinking, right?'

'Er ... yes.'

'But he's not actually thinking?'

'Er ... no.'

'So ... he just gives the impression of thinking but really it's just a show?'

'Er ... yes.'

'Just like everyone else, then, really,' said Ridcully. something,' he added. 'This here chappie is the Verruca Gnome-'

'Hello,' said the Verruca Gnome shyly. ' -who seems to have popped into existence to be with us here tonight. And, you know, I thought: this is a bit odd. Of course, there's always something a bit unreal about Hogswatchnight,' said Ridcully. 'Last night of the year and so on. The Hogfather whizzin' around and so forth. Time of the darkest shadows and so on. All the old year's occult rubbish pilin' up. Anythin' could happen. I just thought you fellows might check up on this. Probably nothing to worry about.'

'A Verruca Gnome?' said Ponder. The gnome clutched his sack protectively. 'Makes about as much sense as a lot of things, I suppose,' said Ridcully. 'After all, there's a Tooth Fairy, ain' there? You might as well wonder why we have a God of Wine and not a God of Hangovers---' He stopped. 'Anyone else hear that noise just then?' he said. 'Sorry, Archchancellor?'

'Sort of glingleglingleglingle? Like little tinkly bells?'

'Didn't hear anything like that, sir.'

'Oh.' Ridcully shrugged. 'Anyway ... what was I saying ... yes ... no one's ever heard of a Verruca Gnome until tonight.'

'That's right,' said the gnome. 'Even I've never heard of me until tonight, and I'm me.'

'We'll see what we can find out, Archchancellor,' said Ponder diplomatically. 'Good man.' Ridcully put the gnome back in his pocket and looked up at Hex. 'Amazin',' he said again. 'He just looks as though he's thinking, right?'

'Er ... yes.'

'But he's not actually thinking?'

'Er ... no.'

'So ... he just gives the impression of thinking but really it's just a show?'

'Er ... yes.'

'Just like everyone else, then, really,' said Ridcully. The boy gave the Hogfather an appraising stare as he sat down on the official knee. 'Let's be absolutely clear. I know you're just someone dressed up,' he said. 'The Hogfather is a biological and temporal impossibility. I hope we understand one another.' AH. SO I DON'T EXIST? 'Correct. This is just a bit of seasonal frippery and, I may say, rampantly commercial. My mother's already bought my presents. I instructed her as to the right ones, of course. She often gets things wrong.' The Hogfather glanced briefly at the smiling, worried image of maternal ineffectiveness hovering nearby. HOW OLD ARE YOU, BOY? The child rolled his eyes. 'You're not supposed to say that,' he said. 'I have done this before, you know. You have to start by asking me my name.' AARON FIDGET, 'THE PINES', EDGEWAY ROAD, ANKHMORPORK. 'I expect someone told you,' said Aaron. 'I expect these people dressed up as pixies get the information from the mothers.' AND YOU ARE EIGHT, GOING ON ... OH, ABOUT FORTY-FIVE, said the Hogfather. 'There's forms to fill in when they pay, expect,' said Aaron. AND YOU WANT WALNUT'S INOFFENSIVE REPTILES OF THE STO PLAINS, A DISPLAY CABINET, A COLLECTOR'S ALBUM, A KILLING JAR AND A LIZARD PRESS. WHAT IS A LIZARD PRESS? 'You can't glue them in when they're still fat, or didn't you know that? I expect she told you about them when I was momentarily distracted by the display of pencils. Look, shall we end this charade? just give me my orange and we'll say no more about it.' I CAN GIVE FAR MORE THAN ORANGES. 'Yes, yes, I saw all that. Probably done in collusion with accomplices to attract gullible customers. Oh dear, you've even got a false beard. By the way, old chap, did you know that your pig----'

YES. 'All done by mirrors and string and pipes, I expect. It all looked very artificial to me.' The Hogfather snapped his fingers. 'That's probably a signal, I expect,' said the boy, getting down. 'Thank you very much.' HAPPY HOGSWATCH, said the Hogfather as the boy walked away. Uncle Heavy patted him on the shoulder. 'Well done, master,' he said. 'Very patient. I'd have given him a clonk athwart the earhole, myself.' OH, I'M SURE HE'LL SEE THE ERROR OF HIS WAYS. The red hood turned so that only Albert could see into its depths. RIGHT AROUND THE TIME HE OPENS THOSE BOXES HIS MOTHER WAS CARRYING ... HO. HO. HO. 'Don't tie it so tight! Don't tie it so tight!' SQUEAK. There was a bickering behind Susan as she sought along the shelves in the canyons of Death's huge library, which was so big that clouds would form in it if they dared. 'Right, right,' said the voice she was trying to ignore. 'That's about right. I've got to be able to move my wings, right?' SQUEAK. 'Ah,' said Susan, under her breath. 'The Hogfather. . .' He had several shelves, not just one book. The first volume seemed to be written on a roll of animal skin. The Hogfather was old. `OK, OK. How does it look?' SQUEAK. 'Miss?' said the raven, seeking a second opinion. Susan looked up. The raven bounced past, its breast bright red. 'Twit, twit,' it said. 'Bobbly bobbly bob. Hop hop hopping along . . .'

'You're fooling no one but yourself,' said Susan. 'I can see the string.' She unrolled the scroll. 'Maybe I should sit on a snowy log,' mumbled the raven behind her. 'Thats probably the trick, right enough.'

'I can't read this!' said Susan. 'The letters are all ... odd. . .'

'Ethereal runes,' said the raven. 'The Hogfather ain't human, after all.' Susan ran her hands over the thin leather. The ... shapes flowed around her fingers. She couldn't read them but she could feel them. There was the sharp smell of snow, so vivid that her breath condensed in the air. There were sounds, hooves, the snap of branches in a freezing forest A bright shining ball . . . Susan jerked awake and thrust the scroll aside. She unrolled the next one, which looked as though it was made of strips of bark. Characters hovered over the surface. Whatever they were, they had never been designed to be read by the eye; you could believe they were a Braille for the touching mind. Images ribboned across her senses - wet fur, sweat, pine, soot, iced air, the tang of damp ash, pig ... manure, her governess mind hastily corrected. There was blood ... and the taste of . . ..beans? It was all images without words. Almost ... animal. 'But none of this is right! Everyone knows he's a jolly old fat man who hands out presents to kids!' she said aloud. 'Is. Is. Not was. You know how it is,' said the raven. 'Do I?'

'It's like, you know, industrial re-training,' said the bird. 'Even gods have to move with the times, am I right? He was probably quite different thousands of years ago. Stands to reason. No one wore stockings, for one thing.' He. scratched at his beak. 'Yersss,' he continued expansively, 'he was probably just your basic winter demi-urge. You know ... blood on the snow, making the sun come up. Starts off with animal sacrifice, y'know, hunt some big hairy animal to death, that kind of stuff. You know there's some people up on the Ramtops who kill a wren at Hogswatch and walk around from house to house singing about it? With a whack-fol-oh-diddle-dildo. Very folkloric, very myffic.'

'A wren? Why?'

'I dunno. Maybe someone said, hey, how'd you like to hunt this evil bastard of an eagle with his big sharp beak and great ripping talons, sort of thing, or how about instead you hunt this wren, which is basically about the size of a pea and goes “twit”? Go on, you choose. Anyway, then later on it sinks to the level of religion and then they start this business where some poor bugger finds a special bean in his tucker, oho, everyone says, you're king, mate, and he thinks “This is a bit of all right” only they don't say it wouldn't be a good idea to start any long books, 'cos next thing he's legging it over the snow with a dozen other buggers chasing him with holy sickles so's the earth'll come to life again and all this snow'll go away. Very, you know ... ethnic. Then some bright spark thought, hey, looks like that damn sun comes up anyway, so how come we're giving those druids all this free grub? Next thing you know, there's a job vacancy. That's the thing about gods. They'll always find a way to, you know ... hang on.'

'The damn sun comes up anyway,' Susan repeated. 'How do you know that?'

'Oh, observation. It happens every morning. I seen it.'

'I meant all that stuff about holy sickles and things.' The raven contrived to look smug. 'Very occult bird, your basic raven,' he said. 'Blind Io the Thunder God used to have these myffic ravens that flew everywhere and told him everything that was going on.'

'Used to?'

'WeeeW ... you know how he's not got eyes in his face, just these, like, you know, free-floating eyeballs that go and zoom around . . .' The raven coughed in species embarrassment. 'Bit of an accident waiting to happen, really.'

'Do you ever think of anything except eyeballs?'

'Well ... there's entrails.' SQUEAK. 'He's right, though,' said Susan. 'Gods don't die. Never completely die . . .' There's always somewhere, she told herself. Inside some stone, perhaps, or the words of a song, or riding the mind of some animal, or maybe in a whisper on the wind. They never entirely go, they hang on to the world by the tip of a fingernail, always fighting to find a way back. Once a god, always a god. Dead, perhaps, but only like the world in winter 'All right,' she said. 'Let's see what happened to him . . .' She reached out for the last book and tried to open it at random ... The feeling lashed at her out of the book, like a whip ... ... hooves, fear, blood, snow, cold, night . . . She dropped the scroll. It slammed shut. SQUEAK? 'I'm. . . all right.' She looked down at the book and knew that she'd been given a friendly warning, such as a pet animal might give when it was crazed with pain but just still tame enough not to claw and bite the