Terry Pratchett - Equal Rites

The grounds of the University stretched right down to the river. By day they were a neat formal pattern of gravel paths and hedges, but in the middle of a wet wild night the hedges seemed to have moved and the paths had simply gone off somewhere to stay dry.

A weak wyrdlight shone inefficiently among the dripping leaves. But most of the rain found its way through anyway.

“Can you use one of them wizard fireballs?”

“Have a heart, madam.”

“Are you sure she would have come this way?”

“There’s a sort of jetty thing down here somewhere, unless I’m lost.”

There was the sound of a heavy body blundering wetly into a bush, and then a splash.

“I’ve found the river, anyway.”

Granny Weatherwax peered through the soaking darkness. She could hear a roaring and could dimly make out the white crests of floodwater. There was also the distinctive river smell of the Ankh, which suggested that several armies had used it first as a urinal and then as a sepulchre.

Cutangle splashed dejectedly towards her.

“This is foolishness,” he said, “meaning no offence, madam. But it’ll be out to sea on this flood. And I’ll die of cold.”

“You can’t get any wetter than you are now. Anyway, you walk wrong for rain.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You go all hunched up, you fight it, that’s not the way. You shouldwell, move between the drops.” And, indeed, Granny seemed to be merely damp.

“I’ll bear that in mind. Come on, madam. It’s me for a roaring fire and a glass of something hot and wicked.”

Granny sighed. “I don’t know. Somehow I expected to see it sticking out of the mud, or something. Not just all this water.”

Cutangle patted her gently on the shoulder.

“There may be something else we can do—” he began, and was interrupted by a zip of lightning and another roll of thunder.

“I said maybe there’s something—” he began again.

“What was that I saw?” demanded Granny.

“What was what?” said Cutangle, bewildered.

“Give me some light!”

The wizard sighed wetly, and extended a hand. A bolt of golden fire shot out across the foaming water and hissed into oblivion.

“There!” said Granny triumphantly.

“It’s just a boat,” said Cutangle. “The boys use them in the summer—”

He waded after Granny’s determined figure as fast as he could.

“You can’t be thinking of taking it out on a night like this,” he said. “It’s madness!”

Granny slithered along the wet planking of the jetty, which was already nearly under water.

“You don’t know anything about boats!” Cutangle protested.

“I shall have to learn quickly, then,” replied Granny calmly.

“But I haven’t been in a boat since I was a boy!”

“I wasn’t actually asking you to come. Does the pointy bit go in front?”

Cutangle moaned.

“This is all very creditable,” he said, “but perhaps we can wait till morning?”

A flash of lightning illuminated Granny’s face.

“Perhaps not,” Cutangle conceded. He lumbered along the jetty and pulled the little rowing boat towards him. Getting in was a matter of luck but he managed it eventually, fumbling with the painter in the darkness.

The boat swung out into the flood and was carried away, spinning slowly.

Granny clung to the seat as it rocked in the turbulent waters, and looked expectantly at Cutangle through the murk.

“Well?” she said.

“Well what?” said Cutangle.

“You said you knew all about boats.”

“No. I said you didn’t.”

“Oh.”

They hung on as the boat wallowed heavily, miraculously righted itself, and was carried backwards downstream.

“When you said you hadn’t been in a boat since you were a boy. . .” Granny began.

“I was two years old, I think.”

The boat caught on a whirlpool, spun around, and shot off across the flow.

“I had you down as the sort of boy who was in and out of boats all day long.”

“I was born up in the mountains. I get seasick on damp grass, if you must know,” said Cutangle.

The boat banged heavily against a submerged tree trunk, and a wavelet lapped the prow.

“I know a spell against drowning,” he added miserably.

“I’m glad about that.”

“Only you have to say it while you’re standing on dry land.”

“Fake your boots off.” Granny commanded.

“What?”

“Take your boots off, man!”

Cutangle shifted uneasily on his bench.

“What have you in mind?” he said.

“The water is supposed to be outside the boat, I know that much!” Granny pointed to the dark tide sloshing around the bilges: “Fill your boots with water and tip it over the side!”

Cutangle nodded. He felt that the last couple of hours had somehow carried him along without him actually touching the sides, and for a moment he nursed the strangely consoling feeling that his life was totally beyond his control and whatever happened no one could blame him. Filling his boots with water while adrift on a flooded river at midnight with what he could only describe as a woman seemed about as logical as anything could be in the circumstances.

A fine figure of a woman, said a neglected voice at the back of his mind. There was something about the way she used the tattered broomstick to scull the boat across the choppy water that troubled long-forgotten bits of Cutangle’s subconscious.

Not that he could be certain about the fine figure, of course, what with the rain and the wind and Granny’s habit of wearing her entire wardrobe in one go. Cutangle cleared his throat uncertainly. Metaphorically a fine figure, he decided.

“Um, look,” he said. “This is all very creditable, but consider the facts, I mean, the rate of drift and so forth, you see? It could be miles out on the ocean by now. It might never come to shore again. It might even go over the Rimfall.”

Granny, who had been staring out across the water, turned around.

“Can’t you think of anything else at all helpful that we could be doing?” she demanded.

Cutangle baled for a few moments.

“No,” he said.

“Have you ever heard of anyone coming Back?”

“No.”

“Then it’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

“I never liked the ocean,” said Cutangle. “It ought to be paved over. There’s dreadful things in it, down in the deep bits. Ghastly sea monsters. Or so they say.”

“Keep baling, my lad, or you’ll be able to see if they’re right.”

The storm rolled backwards and forwards overhead. It was lost here on the flat river plains; it belonged in the high Ramtops, where they knew how to appreciate a good storm. It grumbled around, looking for even a moderately high hill to throw lightning at.

The rain settled down to the gentle patter of rain that is quite capable of keeping it up for days. A sea fog also rolled in to assist it.

“If we had some oars we could row, if we knew where we were going,” said Cutangle. Granny didn’t answer.

He heaved a few more bootfuls of water over the side, and it occurred to him that the gold braiding on his robe would probably never be the same again. It would be nice to think it might matter, one day.

“I don’t suppose you do know which way the Hub is, by any chance?” he ventured. “Just making conversation.”

“Look for the mossy side of trees,” said Granny without turning her head.

“Ali, " said Cutangle, and nodded.

He peered down gloomily at the oily waters, and wondered which particular oily waters they were. Judging by the salty smell they were out in the bay now.

What really terrified him about the sea was that the only thing between him and the horrible things that lived at the bottom of it was water. Of course, he knew that logically the only thing that separated him from, say, the man-eating tigers in the jungles of Klatch was mere distance, but that wasn’t the same thing at all. Tigers didn’t rise up out of the chilly depths, mouths full of needle teeth ….