Terry Pratchett - Discworld 10 Moving Pictures

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giant gleaming like the madness of gods ...

And then the gleam is seen as the glint in a giant eye and it is eclipsed

by the blink of an eyelid and the darkness moves a flipper and Great

A’Tuin, star turtle, swims onward through the void.

On its back, four giant elephants. On their shoulders, rimmed with wa-

ter, glittering under its tiny orbiting sunlet, spinning majestically around

the mountains at its frozen Hub, lies the Discworld, world and mirror of

worlds.

Nearly unreal.

Reality is not digital, an on-off state, but analog. Something gradual. In

other words, reality is a quality that things possess in the same way that

they possess, say, weight. Some people are more real than others, for ex-

ample. It has been estimated that there are only about five hundred real

people on any given planet, which is why they keep unexpectedly running

into one another all the time.

The Discworld is as unreal as it is possible to be while still being just

real enough to exist.

And just real enough to be in real trouble.

About thirty miles Turnwise of Ankh-Morpork the surf boomed on the

wind-blown, seagrass-waving, sand-dunecovered spit of land where the

Circle Sea met the Rim Ocean.

The hill itself was visible for miles. It wasn’t very high, but lay amongst

the dunes like an upturned boat or a very unlucky whale, and was covered

in scrub trees. No rain fell here, if it could possibly avoid it. Although the

wind sculpted the dunes around it, the low summit of the hill remained in

an everlasting, ringing calm.

Nothing but the sand had changed here in hundreds of years.

Until now.

A crude hut of driftwood had been built on the long curve of the beach,

although describing it as ‘built’ was a slander on skilled crude hut builders

ther your clothes died when you did, he thought, or maybe you just men

tally dressed yourself from force of habit.

Habit also led him to the pile of driftwood beside the hut. When. he

tried to gather a few sticks, though, his hands passed through them.

He swore.

It was then that he noticed a figure standing by the water’s edge, look-

ing out to sea. It was leaning on a scythe. The wind whipped at its black

robes.

He started to hobble towards it, remembered he was dead, and began to

stride. He hadn’t stridden for decades, but it was amazing how it all came

back to you.

Before he was halfway to the dark figure, it spoke to him.

DECCAN RIBOBE, it said.

‘That’s me.’

LAST KEEPER OF THE DOOR.

‘Well, I suppose so.’

Death hesitated.

YOU ARE OR YOU AREN’T, he said.

Deccan scratched his nose. Of course, he thought, you have to be able to

touch yourself. Otherwise you’d fall to bits.

‘Technic’ly, a Keeper has to be invested by the High Priestess,’ he said.

‘And there ain’t been a High Priestess for thousands o’ years. See, I just

learned it all from old Tento, who lived here before me. He jus’ said to me

one day, "Deccan, it looks as though I’m dyin’, so it’s up to you now, ‘cos if

there’s no-one left that remembers properly it’ll all start happening again

and you know what that means." Well, fair enough. But that’s not what

you’d call a proper investmenting, I’d say.’

He looked up at the sandy hill.

‘There was jus’ me and him,’ he said. ‘And then jus’ me, remembering

Holy Wood. And now... ‘ He raised his hand to his mouth.

‘Oo-er,’ he said.

YES.

‘... It’s a terrible responsibility, bein’ the only one able to do your job ...’

YES, said Death.

‘Well, of course, I’m not telling you anything ... ‘

NO.

‘... I mean, I was hopin’ someone’d get shipwrecked or somethin’, or

come treasure huntin’, and I could explain it like old Tento explained it to

me, teach ‘em the chants, get it all sorted out before I died ... ‘

YES?

‘I s’pose there’s no chance that I could sort of ... ‘

NO.

‘Thought not,’ said Deccan despondently.

He looked at the waves crashing down on the shore.

‘Used to be a big city down there, thousands of years ago,’ he said. ‘I

mean, where the sea is. When it’s stormy you can hear the ole temple bells

ringin’ under the sea.’

I KNOW.

‘I used to sit out here on windy nights, listenin’. Used to imagine all

them dead people down there, ringin’ the bells.’

AND NOW WE MUST GO.

‘Ole Tento said there was somethin’ under the hill there that could

make people do things. Put strange fancies in their ‘eads,’ said Deccan,

reluctantly following the stalking figure. ‘I never had any strange fancies.’

BUT YOU WERE CHANTING, said Death. He snapped his fingers.

A horse ceased trying to graze the sparse dune grass and trotted up to

Death. Deccan was surprised to see that it left hoofprints in the sand. He’d

have expected sparks, or at least fused rock.

‘Er,’ he said, ‘can you tell me, er ... what happens now?’

Death told him.

‘Thought so,’ said Deccan glumly.

....

Nothing happened for a whole day. Then, in a little hollow on the edge

of the brooding hill, a few grains of sand shifted and left a tiny hole.

Something emerged. Something invisible. Something joyful and selfish

and marvellous. Something as intangible as an idea, which is exactly what

it was. A wild idea.

It was old in a way not measurable by any calendar known to Man and

what it had, right now, was memories and needs. It remembered life, in

other times and other universes. It needed people.

It rose against the stars, changing shape, coiling like smoke.

There were lights on the horizon.

It liked lights.

It regarded them for a few seconds and then, like an invisible arrow,

extended itself towards the city and sped away.

It liked action, too ...

And several weeks went past.

There’s a saying that all roads lead to Ankh-Morpork, greatest of Disc-

world cities.

At least, there’s a saying that there’s a saying that all roads lead to

Ankh-Morpork.

And it’s wrong. All roads lead away from Ankh-Morpork, but some-

times people just walk along them the wrong way.

Poets long ago gave up trying to describe the city. Now the more cun-

ning ones try to excuse it. They say, well, maybe it is smelly, maybe it is

overcrowded, maybe it is a bit like Hell would be if they shut the fires off

and stabled a herd of incontinent cows there for a year, but you must admit

that it is full of sheer, vibrant, dynamic life. And this is true, even though it

is poets that are saying it. But people who aren’t poets say, so what? Mat-

tresses tend to be full of life too, and no-one writes odes to them. Citizens

hate living there and, if they have to move away on business or adventure

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摘要：

giantgleaminglikethemadnessofgods...AndthenthegleamisseenastheglintinagianteyeanditiseclipsedbytheblinkofaneyelidandthedarknessmovesaflipperandGreatA’Tuin,starturtle,swimsonwardthroughthevoid.Onitsback,fourgiantelephants.Ontheirshoulders,rimmedwithwa-ter,glitteringunderitstinyorbitingsunlet,spinning...

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