Terry Pratchett - The Carpet People

"Oh." Snibril tried to think. Pismire was right. It was almost impossible to hold a conversation with someone who'd already heard it once. "You really know everything that's going to happen?" was all he could think of.

There was the trace of a smile in the depths of the hood.

"Not everything. How can anyone know everything? But a number of things I do know, yes."

Snibril looked around desperately. Bane and Pismire were deep in conversation with wights, and were not paying him any attention.

"But ... but ... supposing you knew when you were going to die? Supposing a wild animal was going to attack you?"

"Yes?" said Noral politely.

"You could just make sure you weren't there?"

"Weren't there when you died?" said the wight. "That would be a good trick."

"No! I mean ... you could avoid-"

"I know what you mean. But we couldn't. It's hard to explain. Or easy to explain and hard to understand. We have to follow the Thread. The one Thread. We mustn't break it."

"Doesn't anything ever come as a surprise?" said Snibril.

"I don't know. What is a surprise?"

"Can you tell me what's going to happen to me? To all of us? You know what's been happening already. It would help a lot to know the future."

The dark hood turned towards him.

"It wouldn't. It makes living very hard."

"We need help," said Snibril, in a frantic whisper. "What's Fray? Where can we go to be safe? What should we do? Can't you tell us?"

The wight leaned closer.

"Can you keep a secret?" it said, conspiratorially.

"Yes!" said Snibril.

"Really keep a secret? Even though you'd give anything to tell other people? Even though it's like trying to hold a hot coal in your hand? Can you really keep a secret?"

"Er ... yes."

"Well," said the wight, leaning back again. "So can we."

"But-"

"Enjoy your meal."

"Will I?"

"Yes. You certainly did." The wight went to turn away, and then turned back. "And you may keep the belt."

"Oh. You know I've got the belt."

"I do now."

Snibril hesitated. "Hang on," he said, "I only said that because you-"

"It's best if you don't try to understand," said Noral, kindly.

Snibril ate for a while, but the questions kept bothering him.

"Listen. Everything happens," said Noral. "Like a Thread of the Carpet. Nothing can be changed. Even the changes are ... already part of the future. That's all you need to know."

It was a strange meal. You could never be certain if the person you were talking to was listening to what you were going to say in ten minutes' time. It only cheered up a bit when one of the wights gave Glurk an axe. It was his grandfather's, although the handle and the blade had been replaced a few times.

Bane and Pismire were quiet when the travellers went back to their carts.

"Did they tell you anything?" asked Snibril.

"No," said Pismire. "They never do. But ... "

"It's the way they acted," said Bane. "They can't help it."

"They don't like what it is they're not telling us," said Pismire.

A week passed. The carts went on northward. Around them the Carpet changed. On either side of the narrow track the hairs towered up, and now they were deep red. The fluff bushes, too, even the dust briars, grew in every shade of red.

To Snibril it seemed as though they were walking through a great fire that had been frozen suddenly. But it was cool and peaceful and at night, for the first time since they had left the village, they heard no snargs.

And that, of course, made people want to stop. "At least for a few weeks," said Cadmic Hargolder, the spearmaker, when several villagers came to Glurk's cart one evening. "They've probably forgotten about us, anyway, and perhaps we can go home."

"They don't forget," said Bane. "Not them. Besides, we must go on. Head for Ware."

"You two can, if you like," said Cadmic. "As for me ... "

"As for us, we'll keep together, Cadmic, at least while I'm chief of this tribe," said Glurk. "I won't think we're safe till I'm certain the nearest moul is a long way away. Makes sense to head for Ware. Things'll be better there, you'll see. If any of you think different, well ... "

There was something in that "well". It was a very deep "well". It was full of unspoken threats.

But there were still angry mutterings. Then they came across the moul.

It was while Snibril and Bane were walking ahead along the track, out of sight but within hearing of the carts. Snibril said little. He kept thinking about "General".

He'd seen Dumii officers occasionally. Not often. Tregon Marus wasn't very important. They didn't like it much, so far from home. Bane moved like a soldier. People called 'General' shouldn't go around looking so shabby ... And now they were going to Ware, apparently. No-one had discussed it. Suddenly it just seemed to be happening.

Things would be all right in Ware, though. It was the most famous place in the Carpet. Better than anywhere else. Safe. There were legions and legions of soldiers there ...

Bane was probably sensing his thoughts, but he was, unusually for him, chatting aimlessly about nothing in particular.

Neither saw the moul until they were almost on top if it. It sat astride its snarg in the middle of the track, hand halfway to sword hilt, staring straight at them with a look of terror.

Bane gave a grunt and drew his sword, then almost fell over when Snibril's arm shot out and grabbed his shoulder.

"What are you doing, you idiot?"

"Look at it," said Snibril. Observe, Pismire always said, before acting ...

The moul had not moved. Snibril crept forward. Then, reaching up, he tapped the creature on its snout. Without saying a word he pointed to the snarg's legs. Thick drifts of dust lay undisturbed around them.

There was even a film of dust on the moul. It sat there, a statue, staring blankly at nothing.

"How could it-" Snibril began.

"Don't know. Pismire might," said Bane, rather roughly, because he felt a bit of a fool. "Come on. You take its head and I'll take its legs."

They gingerly unseated it from its snarg and carried it, still in a sitting position, back to the carts.

Snibril stuck his knife in his belt where he could reach it easily, just in case. But the moul seemed to be made out of grit.

They found Pismire already fully occupied. Glurk had been out hunting and had come back with a wild pig. Or at least the statue of one.

"There was a whole herd of these," Glurk was saying.

He tapped the pig with his spear. It went boinnng.

"Should go "oink"," he told them. "Not boinnng."

Pismire took Snibril's knife and rapped the moul on the chest. It went ping.

"Should go "Aaaggh!"' said Glurk.

"Are they dead?" asked Snibril.

"Not sure," said Pismire, and one or two of the more nervous watchers strolled hurriedly away. "Look."

Snibril looked into the moul's eyes. They were wide open, and a dull black. But deep in them there was something ... just a nicker, a tiny imprisoned spark in the pool of darkness.

Snibril shuddered and turned away, meeting Pismire's steady gaze. "Amazing. Premature fossilization. And I didn't know there were any termagants in these parts. Tonight's guards had better be picked for their hearing."

"Why?" said Glurk.

"Because they'd better wear blindfolds."

"Why?"

There was a shout, and Yrno Berius came running up with one of his hounds in his arms.

"Heard him bark," he gasped. "Went to find him, found him like this."

Pismire examined it.

"Lucky," he said, vaguely.

"I don't think so!" said Yrno.

"Not him," said Pismire. "You."

The dog was still in a crouched position, ready to spring, with its teeth bared and its tail between its legs.