Chris Patterson - Going Postal

‘How exactly will you do that?' she managed.

‘I've no idea, but anything is possible if I can dance with you and still have ten toes left. Shall we dance, Miss Dearheart?'

She was amazed and surprised and bewildered, and Moist von Lipwig liked that in a person. For some reason, he felt immensely happy. He didn't know why, and he didn't know what he was going to do next, but it was going to be fun .

He could feel that old electric feeling, the one you got deep inside when you stood right there in front of a banker who was carefully examining an example of your very best work. The universe held its breath, and then the man would smile and say ‘Very good, Mr Assumed Name, I will have my clerk bring up the money right away.' It was the thrill not of the chase but of the standing still, of remaining so calm, composed and genuine that, for just long enough, you could fool the world and spin it on your finger. They were the moments he lived for, when he was really alive and his thoughts flowed like quicksilver and the very air sparkled. Later, that feeling would present its bill. For now, he flew.

He was back in the game. But, for now, by the light of the burning yesterdays, he waltzed with Miss Dearheart while the scratch band scratched away.

Then she went home to bed, puzzled but smiling oddly, and he went up to his office, which was missing the whole of one wall, and got religion as it had never been got before.

The young priest of Offler the Crocodile God was somewhat off-balance at 4 a.m., but the man in the winged hat and golden suit seemed to know what should be happening and so the priest went along with it. He was not hugely bright, which was why he was on this shift.

‘You want to deliver this letter to Offler?' he said, yawning. An envelope had been placed in his hand.

‘It's addressed to him,' said Moist. ‘And correctly stamped. A smartly written letter always gets attention. I've also brought a pound of sausages, which I believe is customary. Crocodiles love sausages.'

‘Strictly speaking, you see, it's prayers that go up to the gods,' said the priest doubtfully. The nave of the temple was deserted, except for a little old man in a grubby robe, dreamily sweeping the floor.

‘As I understand it,' said Moist, ‘the gift of sausages reaches Offler by being fried, yes? And the spirit of the sausages ascends unto Offler by means of the smell? And then you eat the sausages?'

‘Ah, no. Not exactly. Not at all,' said the young priest, who knew this one. ‘It might look like that to the uninitiated, but, as you say, the true sausagidity goes straight to Offler. He, of course, eats the spirit of the sausages. We eat the mere earthly shell, which believe me turns to dust and ashes in our mouths.'

‘That would explain why the smell of sausages is always better than the actual sausage, then?' said Moist. ‘I've often noticed that.'

The priest was impressed. ‘Are you a theologian, sir?' he said.

‘I'm in... a similar line of work,' said Moist. ‘But what I'm getting at is this: if you were to read this letter it would be as though Offler himself was reading it, am I right? Through your eyeballs the spirit of the letter would ascend unto Offler? And then I could give you the sausages.'

The young priest looked desperately around the temple. It was too early in the morning. When your god, metaphorically, doesn't do much until the sandbanks have got nice and warm, the senior priests tend to lie in.

‘I suppose so,' he said reluctantly. ‘But would you rather wait until Deacon Jones gets—'

‘I'm in rather a hurry,' said Moist. There was a pause. ‘I've brought some honey mustard,' he added. ‘The perfect accompaniment to sausages.'

Suddenly, the priest was all attention. ‘What sort?' he said.

‘Mrs Edith Leakall's Premium Reserve,' said Moist, holding up the jar.

The young man's face lit up. He was low in the hierarchy and got barely more sausage than Offler.

‘God, that's the expensive stuff!' he breathed.

‘Yes, it's the hint of wild garlic that does it,' said Moist. ‘But perhaps I should wait until Deacon—'

The priest grabbed the letter and the jar. ‘No, no, I can see you are in a hurry,' he said. ‘I'll do it right away. It's probably a request for help, yes?'

‘Yes. I'd like Offler to let the light of his eyes and the gleam of his teeth shine on my colleague Tolliver Groat, who is in the Lady Sybil Hospital,' said Moist.

‘Oh, yes,' said the acolyte, relieved, ‘we often do this sort of—'

‘And I would also like one hundred and fifty thousand dollars,' Moist went on. ‘Ankh-Morpork dollars preferred, of course, but other reasonably hard currencies would be acceptable.'

There was a certain spring in his step as Moist walked back to the ruin of the Post Office. He'd sent letters to Offler, Om and Blind Io, all important gods, and also to Anoia, a minor goddess of Things That Stick In Drawers.* She had no temple and was handled by a jobbing priestess in Cable Street, but Moist had a feeling that by the end of the day Anoia was destined for higher things. He only picked her because he liked the name.

* Often, but not uniquely, a ladle, but sometimes a metal spatula or, rarely, a mechanical egg-whisk that nobody in the house admits to ever buying. The desperate mad rattling and cries of ‘How can it close on the damn thing but not open with it? Who bought this? Do we ever use it?' is as praise unto Anoia. She also eats corkscrews.

He'd leave it about an hour. Gods worked fast, didn't they?

The Post Office was no better by grey daylight. About half of the building was still standing. Even with tarpaulins, the area under cover was small and dank. People were milling around, uncertain of what to do.

He'd tell them.

The first person he saw was George Aggy, heading for him at a high-speed hobble.

‘Terrible thing, sir, terrible thing. I came as soon as—' he began.

‘Good to see you, George. How's the leg?'

‘What? Oh, feels fine, sir. Glows in the dark, but on the other hand that's a great saving in candles. What are we—'

‘You're my deputy while Mr Groat's in hospital,' said Moist. ‘How many postmen can you muster?'

‘About a dozen, sir, but what shall we—'

‘Get the mail moving, Mr Aggy! That's what we do. Tell everyone that today's special is Pseudopolis for ten pence, guaranteed! Everyone else can get on with cleaning up. There's still some roof left. We're open as usual. More open than usual.'

‘But...' Aggy's words failed him, and he waved at the debris. ‘All this?'

‘Neither rain nor fire, Mr Aggy!' said Moist sharply.

‘Doesn't say that on the motto, sir,' said Aggy.

‘It will by tomorrow. Ah, Jim...'

The coachman bore down on Moist, his enormous driving cape flapping.

‘It was bloody Gilt, wasn't it!' he growled. ‘Arson around! What can we do for you, Mr Lipwig?'

‘Can you still run a service to Pseudopolis today?' said Moist.

‘Yes,' said Jim. ‘Harry and the lads got all the horses out as soon as they smelled smoke, and only lost one coach. We'll help you, damn right about that, but the Trunk is running okay. You'll be wasting your time.'

‘You provide the wheels, Jim, and I'll give them something to carry,' said Moist. ‘We'll have a bag for you at ten.'

‘You're very certain, Mr Lipwig,' said Jim, putting his head on one side.

‘An angel came and told me in my sleep,' said Moist.

Jim grinned. ‘Ah, that'd be it, then. An angel, eh? A very present help in times of trouble, or so I'm given to understand.'

‘So I believe,' said Moist, and went up to the draughty, smoke-blackened, three-walled cave that was the wreckage of his office. He brushed off the ash from the chair, reached into his pocket, and put the Smoking Gnu's letter on his desk.