Last Continent (18 page)

‘Would you like to blow your nose?' said Ponder.

The god looked panicky. ‘Where to?'

‘I mean, you sort of hold . . . Look, here's my handkerchief, you just sort of put it over your nose and sort of . . . well, snuffle into it.'

‘Snuffle,' said the god. ‘Interesting. And what a curiously white leaf.'

‘No, it's a cotton handkerchief,' said Ponder. ‘It's . . . made.' He stopped there. He knew that handkerchiefs
were
made, and cotton was involved, and he had some vague recollection of looms and things, but when you got right down to it you obtained handkerchiefs by going into a shop and saying, ‘I'd like a dozen of the reinforced white ones, please, and how much do you charge for embroidering initials in the corners?'

‘You mean . . . created?' said the god, suddenly very suspicious. ‘Are you gods too?'

Beside his foot a small shoot pushed through the sand and began to grow rapidly.

‘No, no,' said Ponder. ‘Er . . . you just take some cotton and . . . hammer it flat, I think . . . and you get handkerchiefs.'

‘Oh, then you're tool-using creatures,' said the god, relaxing a little. The shoot near his foot was already a plant now, and putting out leaves and a flowerbud.

He blew his nose loudly.

The wizards drew closer. They were not, of course, afraid of gods, but gods tended to have uncertain tempers and a wise man kept away from them. However, it's hard to be frightened of someone who's having a good blow.

‘You're really the god in these parts?' said Ridcully.

The god sighed. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘I thought it would be so easy, you know. Just one small island. I could start all over again. Do it
properly
. But it's
all going completely wrong.' Beside him the little plant opened a nondescript yellow flower.

‘Start all over again?'

‘Yes. You know . . . godliness.' The god waved a hand in the direction of the Hub.

‘I used to work over there,' he said. ‘Basic general godding. You know, making people out of clay, old toenails, and so on? And then sitting on mountaintops and casting thunderbolts and all the rest of it. Although,' he leaned forward and lowered his voice, ‘very few gods can actually do that, you know.'

‘Really?' said Ridcully, fascinated.

‘Very hard thing to steer, lightning. Mostly we waited until a thunderbolt happened to hit some poor soul and then spake in a voice of thunder and said it was his fault for being a sinner. I mean, they were bound to have done
something
, weren't they?' The god blew his nose again. ‘Quite depressing, really. Anyway . . . I suppose the rot set in when I tried to see if it was possible to breed a more inflammable cow.'

He looked at the questioning expressions.

‘Burnt offerings, you see. Cows don't actually burn all that well. They're naturally rather soggy creatures and frankly everyone was running out of wood.'

They carried on staring at him. He tried again.

‘I really couldn't see the point of the whole business, to tell you the truth. Shouting, smiting, getting angry all the time . . . don't think anyone was getting anything out of it, really. But the worst part . . . You know the worst part? The worst part
was that if you actually
stopped
the smiting, people wandered off and worshipped someone else. Hard to believe, isn't it? They'd say things like, “Things were a lot better when there was more smiting,” and, “If there was more smiting, it'd be a lot safer to walk the streets.” Especially since all that'd
really
happened was that some poor shepherd who just happened to be in the wrong place during a thunderstorm had caught a stray bolt. And then the priests would say, “Well, we all know about shepherds, don't we, and now the gods are angry and we could do with a much bigger temple, thank you.”'

‘Typical priestly behaviour,' sniffed the Dean.

‘But they often
believed
it!' the god almost wailed. ‘It was really
so
depressing. I think that before we made humanity, we broke the mould. There'd be a bad weather front, a few silly shepherds would happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and next thing you know it was standing room only on the sacrificial stones and you couldn't see for the smoke.' He had another good blow on a piece of Ponder's handkerchief that had so far remained dry. ‘I mean, I
tried
. God knows I tried, and since that's me, I know what I'm talking about. “Thou Shalt Lie Down Flat in Thundery Weather,” I said. “Thou Shalt Site the Midden a Long Way from the Well,” I said. I even told them, “Thou Shalt Really Try to Get Along with One Another.”'

‘Did it work?'

‘I can't say for sure. Everyone was slaughtered by the followers of the god in the next valley who
told them to kill everyone who didn't believe in him. Ghastly fellow, I'm afraid.'

‘And the flaming cows?' said Ridcully.

‘The what?' said the god, sunk in misery.

‘The more inflammable cow,' said Ponder.

‘Oh, yes. Another good idea that didn't work. I just thought, you know, that if you could find the bit in, say, an oak tree which says “Be inflammable” and glue it into the bit of the cow which says “Be soggy” it'd save a lot of trouble. Unfortunately, that produced a sort of bush that made distressing noises and squirted milk, but I could see the
principle
was sound. And frankly, since my believers were all dead or living in the next valley by then I thought, to hell with it all, I'd come back here and get to grips with it and do it all more
sensibly
.' He brightened up a bit. ‘You know, it's amazing what you get if you break even the common cow down into very small bits.'

‘Soup,' said Ridcully.

‘Because, sooner or later,
everything
is just a set of instructions,' the god went on, apparently not listening.

‘That's just what I've always said!' said Ponder.

‘Have you?' said the god, peering at him. ‘Well, anyway . . . that's how it all began. I thought it would be a much better idea to create creatures that could change their own instructions when they needed to, you see . . .'

‘Oh, you mean evolution,' said Ponder Stibbons.

‘Do I?' The god looked thoughtful. ‘“Changing over time . . .” Yes, that's actually quite a good word, isn't it? Evolution. Yes, I suppose that's what
I do. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to be working properly.'

Beside him, there was a pop. The little plant had fruited. Its pod had sprung open and there appeared to be, bunched up like a chrysanthemum, a fresh white hankie.

‘You see?' he said. ‘That's the sort of thing I'm up against. Everything is so completely
selfish
about it.' He took the handkerchief in an absentminded way, blew his nose on it, crumpled it up, and dropped it on the ground.

‘I'm sorry about the boat,' he continued. ‘It was a bit of a rush job, you see. I just didn't want anyone upsetting everything, but I really don't believe in smiting, so I thought that
since
you wanted to leave here I should help you do so as soon as possible. I think I did rather a good job, in the circumstances. It'll find new land automatically, I think. So why didn't you go?'

‘The bare naked lady on the front was a bit of a giveaway,' said Ridcully.

‘The what?' The god peered in the direction of the boat. ‘These eyes are not particularly efficient . . . Oh, dear, yes. The figure. Morphic bloody resonance again. Will you
stop
doing that!'

The handkerchief plant had just put forth another fruit. The god narrowed his eyes, pointed his finger and incinerated it.

As one man the wizards stepped back.

‘I stop concentrating for five minutes and everything loses any sense of discipline,' said the god. ‘Everything wants to make itself damn
useful
! I can't think why!'

‘Sorry? Am I getting this right? You're a
god
of
evolution
?' said Ponder.

‘Er . . . is that wrong?' said the god anxiously.

‘But it's been happening for ages, sir!'

‘Has it? But I only started a few years ago! Do you mean someone else is doing it?'

‘I'm afraid so, sir,' said Ponder. ‘People breed dogs for fierceness and racehorses for speed and . . . well, even my uncle can do amazing things with his nuts, sir—'

‘And everyone knows that you can cross a river with a bridge, ahaha,' said Ridcully.

‘Can you?' said the god of evolution seriously. ‘I'd have thought that you simply get some very soggy wood. Oh dear.'

Ridcully winked at Ponder Stibbons. Gods were often not good at humour, and this one was even worse than Ridcully.

‘We're back in time, Mister Stibbons,' he said. ‘It may not have happened already
yet
, eh?'

‘Oh. Yes,' said Ponder.

‘Anyway, two gods of evolution wouldn't be a bad thing, would they?' said Ridcully. ‘Makes it a lot more interestin'. The one who's best at it would win.'

The god stared at him with his mouth open. Then he shut it just enough to mouth Ridcully's words to himself, snapped his fingers, and vanished in a puff of little white lights.

‘
Now
you've done it,' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

‘No cake for
you
,' said the Bursar.

‘All I said was the one who's best at it would
win,' said Ridcully.

‘Actually, he didn't look upset,' said Ponder. ‘He looked as if he'd suddenly realized something.'

Ridcully looked up at the small mountain in the centre of the island, and appeared to reach a decision.

‘All right, we'll leave,' he said. ‘The reason this island's so odd is that some rather daft god is messing around with it. That's a pretty good explanation as far as I'm concerned.'

‘But, sir—' Ponder began.

‘See that little vine just by the Senior Wrangler there? It's only been growing for the last ten minutes,' said the Dean.

It looked like a small cucumber vine, except that the fruits were yellow and oblong.

‘Pass me your penknife, Mister Stibbons,' said Ridcully.

Ridcully sliced the fruit in half. It wasn't fully ripe yet, but the pattern of pink and yellow squares was clearly visible, surrounded by a layer of something sticky and sweet.

‘But I only
thought
about that cake ten minutes ago!' said the Senior Wrangler.

‘Seems perfectly logical to
me
,' said Ridcully, ‘I mean, here we are, wizards, we move about, we want to leave the island . . . What will we take with us? Anyone?'

‘Food, obviously,' said Ponder. ‘But—'

‘Right! If
I
was a vegetable, I'd want to make myself useful in a hurry, yes? No good hanging around for a thousand years just growing bigger seeds! No fear! All those other plants might come
up with a better idea in the meantime! No, you see an opportunity and you
go
for it! There might not be another boat along for years!'

‘Millennia,' said the Dean.

‘Even longer,' Ridcully agreed. ‘Survival of the fastest, eh? So I suggest we load up and go, gentlemen.'

‘What, just like that?' said Ponder.

‘Certainly. Why not?'

‘But . . . but . . . but think of the things we could learn here!' said Ponder. ‘The possibilities are breathtaking! At last there's a god who's actually got the right idea! At last we can get some answers to all the important questions! We could . . . we can . . . Look, we can't just
go
. I mean, not
go
! I mean . . . we're wizards, aren't we?'

He was aware that he had their full attention, something that wizards did not often give. Usually they defined ‘listening' as a period in which you worked out what you were going to say next. It was disconcerting.

Then the spell broke. The Senior Wrangler shook his head. ‘Curious way of looking at things,' he said, turning away. ‘So . . . I vote we take plenty of those cheese nuts, Archchancellor.'

‘Good provisioning is the essence of successful exploration,' said the Dean. ‘Quite a roomy vessel, too, so we needn't stint.'

Ridcully pulled himself aboard via a trailing tendril, and sniffed.

‘Smells rather like pumpkin,' he said. ‘Always liked pumpkin. A very versatile vegetable.'

Ponder put a hand over his eyes. ‘Oh, really?'
he said, wearily. ‘A group of Unseen University wizards are seriously considering putting to sea on an edible boat?'

‘Fried, boiled, a good base for a soup stock and, of course, excellent in pies,' said the Archchancellor happily. ‘Also the seeds are a tasty snack.'

‘Good with butter,' said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. ‘I suppose there isn't a butter plant anywhere, is there?'

‘There will be soon,' said the Dean. ‘Give us a hand up, will you, Archchancellor?'

Ponder exploded. ‘I don't
believe
this!' he said. ‘You're turning your back on an astonishing god-given opportunity—'

‘Absolutely, Mister Stibbons,' said Ridcully, from above. ‘No offence meant, of course, but if the choice is a trip on the briny deep or staying on a small island with someone trying to create a more inflammable cow then you can call me Salty Sam.'

‘Is this the poop deck?' said the Dean.

‘I hope not,' said Ridcully briskly. ‘You see, Stibbons—'

‘Are you sure?' said the Dean.

‘I'm sure, Dean. You
see
, Stibbons, when you've had a little more experience in these matters you'll learn that there's nothing more dangerous than a god with too much time on his hands—'

‘Except an enraged mother bear,' said the Senior Wrangler.

‘No, they're far more dangerous.'