Terry Pratchett: The Fifth Elephant

They say the world is flat and supported on the back of four elephants who themselves stand on the back of a giant turtle.

They say that the elephants, being such huge beasts, have bones of rock and iron, and nerves of gold for better conductivity over long distances.

They say that the fifth elephant came screaming and trumpeting through the atmosphere of the young world all those years ago and landed hard enough to split continents and raise mountains.

No one actually saw it land, which raised the interesting philosophical question: when millions of tons of angry elephant come spinning through the sky, and there is no one to hear it, does it—philosophically speaking—make a noise?

And if there was no one to see it hit, did it actually hit?

In other words, wasn't it just a story for children, to explain away some interesting natural occurrences?

As for the dwarfs, whose legend it is, and who mine a lot deeper than other people, they say that there is a grain of truth in it.

On a clear day, from the right vantage point on the Ramtops, a watcher could see a very long way across the plains. If it was high summer, they could count the columns of dust as the ox trains plodded on, at a top speed of two miles an hour, each pair pulling a train of two wagons carrying four tons apiece. Things took a long time to get anywhere, but when they did, there was certainly a lot of them. To the cities of the Circle Sea they carried raw material, and sometimes people who were off to seek their fortune and a fistful of diamonds.

To the mountains they brought manufactured goods, rare things from across the oceans, and people who had found wisdom and a few scars.

There was usually a day's travelling between each convoy. They turned the landscape into an unrolled time machine. On a clear day you could see last Tuesday.

Heliographs twinkled in the distant air as the columns flashed messages back and forth, about bandit presence, cargoes and the best place to get double egg, treble chips and a steak that overhung the plate all round.

Lots of people travelled on the carts. It was cheap, it beat walking, and you got there eventually.

Some people travelled for free.

The driver of one wagon was having problems with his team. They were skittish. He'd expect this in the mountains, where all sorts of wild creatures might regard the oxen as a travelling meal, but here there was nothing more dangerous than cabbages.

Behind him, down in a narrow space between the loads of cut lumber, something slept.

It was just another day in Ankh-Morpork...

Sergeant Colon balanced on a shaky ladder at one end of the Brass Bridge, one of the city's busiest thoroughfares. He clung by one hand to the tall pole with the box on top of it, and with the other he held up a home-made picture book to the slot in the front of the box.

'And this is another sort of cart,' he said. 'Got it?'

' 's,' said a very small voice from within the box.

'O-kay,' said Colon, apparently satisfied. He dropped the book and pointed down the length of the bridge.

'Now, you see those two markers what has been painted across the cobbles?'

' 's'

'And they mean... ?'

'If-a-cart-g's-tween-dem-in-less'na-minute-'s-goin-too-fas',' the little voice parroted.

'Well done. And then you... ?'

'Painta-pic-cher.'

'Taking care to show... ?'

'Driver's-face-or-cart-lisens.'

'And if it's night-time you... ?'

'Use-der-sal'mander-to-make-it-bright...'

'Well done, Rodney. And one of us will come along every day and collect your pictures. Got everything you want?'

'What's that, sergeant?'

Colon looked down at the very large, brown, upturned face, and smiled.

'Afternoon, All,' he said, climbing ponderously down the ladder. 'What you're looking at, Mister Jolson, is the modern Watch for the new millenienienum... num.'

' 's a bit big, Fred,' said All Jolson, looking at it critically. 'I've seen lots of smaller ones.'

'Watch as in City Watch, All.'

'Ah, right.'

'Anyone goes too fast around here and Lord Vetinari'll be looking at his picture next morning. The iconographs do not lie, All.'

'Right, Fred. 'cos they're too stupid.'

'His lordship's got fed up with carts speeding over the bridge, see, and asked us to do something about it. I'm Head of Traffic now, you know.'

'Is that good, Fred?'

'I should just think so!' said Sergeant Colon expansively. 'It's up to me to keep the, er, arteries of the city from clogging up, leadin' to a complete breakdown of commerce and ruination for us all. Most vital job there is, you could say.'

'And it's just you doing it, is it?'

'Well, mainly. Mainly. Corporal Nobbs and the other lads help, of course.'

All Jolson scratched his nose. 'It was on a similar subject that I wanted to talk to you, Fred,' he said.

'No problem, All.'

'Something very odd's turned up outside my restaurant, Fred.'

Sergeant Colon followed the huge man around the corner. Fred usually liked All's company because, next to All, he was very skinny indeed. All Jolson was a man who'd show up on an atlas and change the orbit of small planets. Paving stones cracked under his feet. He combined in one body—and there was plenty of room left over—Ankh-Morpork's best chef and its keenest eater, a circumstance made in mashed potato heaven. Sergeant Colon couldn't remember what the man's real first name had been; he'd picked up the nickname by general acclaim, since no one seeing him in the street for the first time could believe that it was all Jolson.

There was a big cart on Broad Way. Other traffic was backed up trying to manoeuvre around it.

'Had my meat delivered at lunchtime, Fred, and when my carter came out...' All Jolson pointed to the large triangular construction locked around one wheel of the cart. It was made of oak and steel, with yellow paint sloshed over it.

Fred tapped it carefully. 'I can see where your problem is, right here,' he said. 'So how long was your carter in there?'

'Well. I gave him lunch...'

'And very good lunches you do, All, I've always said. What was the special today?'

'Smitten steak with cream sauce and slumpie, and black death meringue to follow,' said All Jolson.

There was a moment of silence as they both pictured this meal. Fred Colon gave a little sigh.

'Butter on the slumpie?'

'You wouldn't insult me by suggesting I'd leave it off, would you?'

'A man could linger a long time over a meal like that,' said Fred. 'The trouble is, the Patrician, All, gets very short about carts parking on the street for more than ten minutes. He reckons that's a sort of crime.'

'Taking ten minutes to eat one of my lunches isn't a crime, Fred, it's a tragedy,' said All. 'It says here "City Watch—$15 removal", Fred. That's a couple of days' profits, Fred.'

'Thing is,' said Fred Colon, 'it'll be paperwork, see? I can't just wave that away. I only wish I could. There's all them counterfoils on the spike in my office. If it was me running the Watch, of course... but my hands are tied, see...'

The two men stood some way apart, hands in pockets, apparently paying little attention to one another. Sergeant Colon began to whistle under his breath.

'I know a thing or two,' said All, carefully. 'People think waiters ain't got ears.'

'I know lots of stuff, All,' said Colon, jingling his pocket change.

Both men stared at the sky for a while.

'I may have some honey ice cream left over from yesterday—'

Sergeant Colon looked down at the cart.

'Here, Mister Jolson,' he said, in a voice of absolute surprise. 'Some complete bastard's put some sort of clamp on your wheel! Well, we'll soon see about that .'