Rincewind stood up. There was only one thing to do now, and he did it. He panicked blindly, just as the ship’s bogeys hit the little upgrade and flung it, sparkling like a salmon, into the sky and over the Edge.
A few seconds later there was a thunder of little feet and the Luggage cleared the rim of the world, legs still pumping determinedly, and plunged down into the universe.
THE END
Rincewind woke up and shivered. He was freezing cold.
So this is it, he thought. When you die you go to a cold, damp, misty freezing place. Hades, where the mournful spirits of the Dead troop forever across the sorrowful marshes, corpse-lights flickering fitfully in the encircling—hang on a minute…
Surely Hades wasn’t this uncomfortable? And he was very uncomfortable indeed. His back ached where a branch was pressing into it, his legs and arms hurt where the twigs had lacerated them and, judging by the way his head was feeling, something hard had recently hit it. If this was Hades it sure was hell—hang on a minute…
Tree. He concentrated on the word that floated up from his mind, although the buzzing in his ears and the flashing lights in front of his eyes made this an unexpected achievement. Tree. Wooden thing. That was it. Branches and twigs and things. And Rincewind, lying in it. Tree. Dripping wet. Cold white cloud all around. Underneath, too. Now that was odd.
He was alive and lying covered in bruises in a small thorn tree that was growing in a crevice in a rock that projected out of the foaming white wall that was the Rimfall. The realization hit him in much the same way as an icy hammer. He shuddered. The tree gave a warning creak.
Something blue and blurred shot past him, dipped briefly into the thundering waters, and whirred back and settled on a branch near Rincewind’s head. It was a small bird with a tuft of blue and green feathers. It swallowed the little silver fish that it had snatched from the Fall and eyed him curiously.
Rincewind became aware that there were lots of similar birds around.
They hovered, darted and swooped easily across the face of the water, and every so often one would raise an extra plume of spray as it stole another doomed morsel from the waterfall. Several of them were perching in the tree. They were as iridescent as jewels. Rincewind was entranced.
He was in fact the first man ever to see the rimfishers, the tiny creatures who had long ago evolved a lifestyle quite unique even for the Disc. Long before the Krullians had built the Circumfence the rimfishers had devised their own efficient method of policing the edge of the world for a living.
They didn’t seem bothered about Rincewind. He had a brief but chilling vision of himself living the rest of his life out in this tree, subsisting on raw birds and such fish as he could snatch as they plummeted past.
The tree moved distinctly. Rincewind gave a whimper as he found himself sliding backward, but managed to grab a branch. Only, sooner or later, he would fall asleep…
There was a subtle change of scene, a slight purplish tint to the sky. A tall, black-cloaked figure was standing on the air next to the tree. It had a scythe in one hand. Its face was hidden in the shadows of the hood.
I HAVE COME FOR THEE, said the invisible mouth, in tones as heavy as a whale’s heartbeat.
The trunk of the tree gave another protesting creak, and a pebble bounced off Rincewind’s helmet as one root tore loose from the rock.
Death Himself always came in person to harvest the souls of wizards.
“What am I going to die of?” said Rincewind.
The tall figure hesitated.
PARDON? it said.
“Well, I haven’t broken anything, and I haven’t drowned, so what am I about to die of? You can’t just be killed by Death; there has to be a reason,” said Rincewind. To his utter amazement he didn’t feel terrified anymore. For about the first time in his life he wasn’t frightened. Pity the experience didn’t look like lasting for long.
Death appeared to reach a conclusion.
YOU COULD DIE OF TERROR, the hood intoned. The voice still had its graveyard ring, but there was a slight tremor of uncertainty.
“Won’t work,” said Rincewind smugly.
THERE DOESN’T HAVE TO BE A REASON, said Death. I CAN JUST KILL YOU.
“Hey, you can’t do that! It’d be murder!”
The cowled figure sighed and pulled back its hood. Instead of the grinning death’s head that Rincewind had been expecting he found himself looking up into the pale and slightly transparent face of a rather worried demon, of sorts.
“I’m making rather a mess of this, aren’t I?” it said wearily.
“You’re not Death! Who are you?” cried Rincewind.
“Scrofula.”
“Scrofula?”
“Death couldn’t come,” said the demon wretchedly. “There’s a big plague on in Pseudopolis. He had to go and stalk the streets. So he sent me.”
“No one dies of scrofula! I’ve got rights. I’m a wizard!”
“All right, all right. This was going to be my big chance,” said Scrofula, “but look at it this way—if I hit you with this scythe you’ll be just as dead as you would be if Death had done it. Who’d know?”