Terry Pratchett - Thief of Time

“An immortal?”

SOMEONE SUBJECT TO… SOMEONE ELSE.

“You're going to have to be a lot clearer than that.”

SUSAN… YOU KNOW THAT I ADOPTED AND RAISED YOUR MOTHER, AND FOUND A SUITABLE HUSBAND FOR HER

“Yes, yes,” snapped Susan. “How could I forget? I look in my mirror every day.”

THIS IS… DIFFICULT FOR ME. THE TRUTH IS, I WAS NOT THE ONLY ONE TO INVOLVE MYSELF LIKE THAT. WHY LOOK SURPRISED? IS IT NOT WELL KNOWN THAT GODS DO THIS SORT OF THING ALL THE TIME?

“Gods, yes, but people like you—”

PEOPLE LIKE US ARE STILL LIKE PEOPLE…

Susan did an unusual thing, and listened. That's not an easy task for a teacher.

SUSAN, YOU WILL KNOW THAT WE WHO ARE… OUTSIDE HUMANITY.

“I'm not outside humanity,” said Susan sharply. “I just have a few… extra talents.”

I DID NOT MEAN YOU, OF COURSE. I MEANT THE OTHERS WHO ARE NOT HUMAN AND YET PART OF HUMANITY'S UNIVERSE—WAR AND DESTINY AND PESTILENCE AND THE REST OF US—WE ARE ENVISAGED AS HUMAN BY HUMANS AND THUS, IN VARIOUS FASHIONS, WE TAKE ON SOME ASPECTS OF HUMANITY. IT CAN BE NO OTHER WAY. EVEN THE VERY BODY SHAPE FORCES UPON OUR MINDS A CERTAIN WAY OF OBSERVING THE UNIVERSE. WE PICK UP HUMAN TRAITS… CURIOSITY, ANGER, RESTLESSNESS…

“This is basic stuff, Grandfather.”

YES. AND YOU KNOW, THEREFORE, THAT SOME OF US… TAKE AN INTEREST IN HUMANITY.

“I know . I am one of the results .”

YES. ER… AND SOME OF US TAKE AN INTEREST WHICH IS, ER, MORE…

“Interesting?”

…PERSONAL. AND YOU HAVE HEARD ME SPEAK OF THE… PERSONIFICATION OF TIME…

“You didn't tell me much. She lives in a palace of glass, you once said.” Susan felt a small, shameful and yet curiously satisfying sensation in seeing Death discomfited. He looked like someone who was being forced to reveal a skeleton in the closet.

YES. ER… SHE FELL IN LOVE WITH A HUMAN…

“How very romantick ,” said Susan, inserting the k. Now she was being childishly perverse, she knew, but life as Death's granddaughter was not easy, and just occasionally she had the irresistible urge to annoy.

AH. A PUN, OR PLAY ON WORDS, said Death wearily, ALTHOUGH I SUSPECT YOU WERE MERELY TRYING TO BE TIRESOME.

“Well, that sort of thing used to happen a lot in antiquity, didn't it?” said Susan. “Poets were always falling in love with moonlight or hyacinths or something, and goddesses were forever—”

BUT THIS WAS REAL, said Death.

“How real do you mean?”

TIME HAD A SON.

“How could—”

TIME HAD A SON. SOMEONE MOSTLY MORTAL. SOMEONE LIKE YOU.

Tick

A member of the Clockmakers' Guild called on Jeremy once a week. It was nothing formal. In any case there was often some work for him to do, or some results to be collected, because whatever else you might say about him, the boy had a genius for clocks.

Informally, the visit was also a delicate way to make sure that the lad was taking his medicine and wasn't noticeably crazy.

The clockmakers were well aware that the intricate mechanisms of the human brain could occasionally throw a screw. The Guild's members tended to be meticulous people, always in pursuit of an inhuman accuracy, and this took its toll. It could cause problems. Springs were not the only things that got wound up. The Guild committee were, by and large, kind and understanding men. They were not, on the whole, men accustomed to guile.

Dr Hopkins, the Guild's secretary, was surprised when the door of Jeremy's shop was opened by a man who appeared to have survived a very serious accident.

“Er, I'm here to see Mr Jeremy,” he managed.

“Yeth, thir. The marthter ith in, thur.”

“And you, mm, are…?”

“Igor, thur. Mr Jeremy wath kind enough to take me on, thur.”

“You work for him?” said Dr Hopkins, looking Igor up and down.

“Yeth, thur.”

“Mm… Have you been standing too close to some dangerous machinery?”

“ No , thur. He ith in the workthop, thur.”

“Mr Igor,” said Dr Hopkins, as he was ushered into the shop, “you do know that Mr Jeremy has to take medicine, don't you?”

“Yeth, thur. He mentionth it often.”

“And he, mm, his general health is…?”

“Good, thur. He ith enthuthiathtic for hith work, thur. Bright-eyed and buthy-tailed.”

“Buthy-tailed, eh?” said Dr Hopkins weakly. “Mm… Mr Jeremy doesn't usually keep servants. I'm afraid he threw a clock at the head of the last assistant he had.”

“Really, thur?”

“Mm, he hasn't thrown a clock at your head, has he?”

“No, thur. He actth quite normally,” said Igor, a man with four thumbs and stitches all around his neck. He opened the door into the workshop. “Dr Hopkinth, Mr Jeremy. I will make thome tea, thur.”

Jeremy was sitting bolt upright at the table, his eyes gleaming.

“Ah, doctor,” he said. “How kind of you to come.”

Dr Hopkins took in the workshop.

There had been changes. Quite a large piece of lath-and-plaster wall, covered in pencilled sketches, had been removed from somewhere and stood on an easel on one side of the room. The benches, usually the resting places of clocks in various stages of assembly, were covered with lumps of crystal and slabs of glass. And there was a strong smell of acid.

“Mm… something new?” Dr Hopkins ventured.

“Yes, doctor. I've been examining the properties of certain superdense crystals,” said Jeremy.

Dr Hopkins took a deep breath of relief. “Ah, geology. A wonderful hobby! I'm so glad. It's not good to think about clocks all the time, you know!” he added, jovially, and with a soupçon of hope.

Jeremy's brow wrinkled, as if the brain behind it was trying to fit around an unfamiliar concept.

“Yes,” he said at last. “Did you know, doctor, that copper octirate vibrates exactly two million, four hundred thousand and seventy-eight times a second?”

“As much as that, eh?” said Dr Hopkins. “My word.”

“Indeed. And light shone through a natural prism of octivium quartz splits into only three colours?”

“Fascinating,” said Dr Hopkins, reflecting that it could be worse. “Mm… is it me, or is there a rather… sharp smell in the air?”

“Drains,” said Jeremy. “We've been cleaning them. With acid. Which is what we needed the acid for. For cleaning the drains.”

“Drains, eh?” Dr Hopkins blinked. He wasn't at home in the world of drains. There was a crackling sound and blue light flickered under the door of the kitchen.

“Your, mm, man Igor,” he said. “All right, is he?”

“Yes, thank you, doctor. He's from Uberwald, you know.”

“Oh. Very… big, Uberwald. Very big country.” That was one of only two things Dr Hopkins knew about Uberwald. He coughed nervously, and mentioned the other one. “People there can be a bit strange, I've heard.”

“Igor says he's never had anything to do with that kind of person,” said Jeremy calmly.

“Good. Good. That is good,” said the doctor. Jeremy's fixed smile was beginning to unnerve him. “He, mm, seems to have a lot of scars and stitches.”

“Yes. It's cultural.”

“Cultural, is it?” Dr Hopkins looked relieved. He was a man who tried to see the best in everybody, but the city had got rather complicated since he was a boy, with dwarfs and trolls and golems and even zombies. He wasn't sure he liked everything that was happening, but a lot of it was “cultural”, apparently, and you couldn't object to that, so he didn't. “Cultural” sort of solved problems by explaining that they weren't really there.

The light under the door went out. A moment later Igor came in with two cups of tea on a tray.