From the Shelf of E.M. Fledermaus

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"... I just think the world ought to be more sort of organized."

Rincewind and the Picture Box and the Logic (or lack thereof really) of Life on the Disc

All eyes in the room were watching the stranger—except for a pair belonging to Rincewind the wizard, who was sitting in the darkest corner nursing a mug of very small beer.

When he [Rincewind] returned, the being called Twoflower was hanging limply over his shoulder. It was small and skinny, and dressed very oddly in a pair of knee length britches and a shirt in such a violent and vivid conflict of colors that Weasel's fastidious eye was offended even in the half-light.

But two were coming up it now. The Weasel's eyes, always at their sharpest in gloom and half-light, made out the shapes of two mounted me and some sort of low beast behind them. Doubtless a rich merchant escaping with as much treasure as he could lay frantic hands on. The Weasel said as much to his companion, who sighed.

There was, for example the theory that A'Tuin had come from nowhere and would continue at a uniform crawl, or steady gait, into nowhere, for all time. This theory was popular among academics.

“Any other advice?” said Vimes, gloomily. “Just be yourself,” said Sweeper. “See it through. There’ll come a time when you’ll look back and see how it all made sense.” “Really?” “I wouldn’t lie. It’ll be a perfect moment. Believe me.” ... This was a perfect moment. Not even Reg, fussing around smoothing down earth and patting turf into place, could detract from it. There’ll come a time when it’ll all be clear, Sweeper had said. A perfect moment. The occupants of these graves had died for something. In the sunset glow, in the rising of the moon, in the taste of the cigar, in the warmth that comes from sheer exhaustion, Vimes saw it.

Reg had a hunted look. He made a dive for safety. “Well, at least we can agree on Truth, Freedom, and Justice, yes?” There was a chorus of nods. Everyone wanted those. They didn’t cost anything. A match flared in the dark, and they turned to see Vimes light a cigar. “You’d like Freedom, Truth, and Justice, wouldn’t you, Comrade Sergeant?” said Reg encouragingly. “I’d like a hard-boiled egg,” said Vimes, shaking the match out. There was some nervous laughter, but Reg looked offended. “In the circumstances, Sergeant, I think we should set our sights a little higher—” “Well, yes, we could,” said Vimes, coming down the steps. He glanced at the sheets of paper in front of Reg. The man cared. He really did. And he was serious. He really was. “But…well, Reg, tomorrow the sun will come up again, and I’m pretty sure that whatever happens we won’t have found Freedom, and there won’t be a whole lot of Justice, and I’m damn sure we won’t have found Truth. But it’s just possible that I might get a hard-boiled egg."

The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork was standing looking out of the window when they entered. The room was otherwise deserted. “Ah, Vimes,” he said without turning around. “I thought you might be late. In the circumstances, I dismissed the committee. They were sorry, as indeed was I, sorry to hear about Stronginthearm. No doubt you have been writing the official letter.” Vimes flashed a questioning expression at Carrot, who rolled his eyes and shrugged. Vetinari found out things very quickly. “Yes, that’s right,” said Vimes. “And on such a beautiful day as this, too,” said Vetinari. “Although there’s a storm heading our way, I see.” He turned. He had a sprig of lilac pinned to his robe.

The three stood in silence. They were not, on the whole, men with a vocabulary designed for times like this. After a while, though, Nobby felt moved to speak. “He gave me a spoon once,” he said to the air in general. “Yeah, I know,” said Colon. “My dad pinched it off me when he come out of prison, but it was my spoon,” said Nobby persistently. “That means a lot to a kid, your own spoon.” “Come to that, he was the first person to make me a sergeant,” said Colon. “Got busted again, of course, but I knew I could do it again then. He was a good copper.” “He bought a pie off me, first week I was starting out,” said Dibbler. “Ate it all. Didn’t spit out anything.” There was more silence.

Up against one wall, lilac trees were growing. That is, at some point in the past a lilac had been planted there, and had given rise, as lilac will, to hundreds of whippy suckers, so that what had once been one stem was now a thicket. Every branch was covered in pale mauve blooms. The graves were still just visible in the tangled vegetation. In front of them stood Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, Ankh-Morpork’s least successful businessman, with a sprig of lilac in his hat. He caught sight of the watchmen and nodded to them. They nodded back. All three stood looking down at the seven graves. Only one had been maintained. The marble headstone on that one was shiny and moss-free, the turf was clipped, the stone border was sparkling. Moss had grown over the wooden markers of the other six, but it had been scraped off the central one, revealing the name: John Keel And carved underneath, by someone who had taken some pains, was: How Do They Rise Up A huge wreath of lilac flowers, bound with purple ribbon, had been placed on the grave. On top of it, tied around with another piece of purple ribbon, was an egg. “Mrs. Palm and Mrs. Battye and some of the girls were up here earlier,” said Dibbler. “And, of course, Madam always makes sure there’s the egg.”

In the crowded main office of the Pseudopolis Yard Watch House, Sergeant Colon absentmindedly adjusted the sprig of lilac that he’d stuck into his helmet like a plume. ... Tucked behind his [Nobby's] ear, in the place usually reserved for his cigarette, was another wilting lilac flower. ... After the door had shut one of the watchmen looked up from the desk where he’d been wrestling with a report and the effort of writing down, as policemen do, what ought to have happened. “Sarge?” “Yes, Corporal Ping?” “Why’re some of you wearing purple flowers, Sarge?” There was a subtle change in the atmosphere, a suction of sound caused by many pairs of ears listening intently. All the officers in the room had stopped writing. “I mean, I saw you and Reg and Nobby wearing ’em this time last year, and I wondered if we were all supposed to…” Ping faltered. Sergeant Colon’s normally amiable eyes had narrowed and the message they were sending was: you’re on thin ice, lad, and it’s starting to creak… “I mean, my landlady’s got a garden and I could easily go and cut a—” Ping went on in an uncharacteristic attempt at suicide. “You’d wear the lilac today, would you?” said Colon quietly. “I just meant that if you wanted me to I could go and—” “Were you there?” said Colon, getting to his feet so fast that his chair fell over. “Steady, Fred,” murmured Nobby. “I didn’t mean…” Ping began. “I mean…was I where, Sarge?” Colon leaned on the desk, bringing his round red face an inch away from Ping’s nose. “If you don’t know where there was, you weren’t there,” he said in the same quiet voice. He stood up straight again. “Now me an’ Nobby has got a job to do,” he said. “At ease, Ping. We are going out.” “Er…” This was not being a good day for Corporal Ping. “Yes?” said Colon. “Er…standing orders, Sarge…you’re the ranking officer, you see, and I’m orderly officer for the day, I wouldn’t ask otherwise but…if you’re going out, Sarge, you’ve got to tell me where you’re going. Just in case anyone has to contact you, see? I got to write it down in the book. In pen and everything,” he added. “You know what day it is, Ping?” said Colon. “Er…25th of May, Sarge.” “And you know what that means, Ping?” “Er…” “It means,” said Nobby, “that anyone important enough to ask where we’re going—” “—knows where we’ve gone,” said Fred Colon. The door slammed behind them.

The scent rolled over him. He looked up. Overhead, a lilac tree was in bloom. He stared. Damn! Damn! Damn! Every year he forgot. Well, no. He never forgot. He just put the memories away, like old silverware that you didn’t want to tarnish. And every year they came back, sharp and sparkling, and stabbed him in the heart. And today, of all days… He reached up, and his hand trembled as he grasped a bloom and gently broke the stem. He sniffed at it. He stood for a moment, staring at nothing. And then he carried the sprig of lilac carefully back up to his dressing room.

Finished The Colour of Magic last night, and I'm caught up on my soap (as far as recent airings, anyway), so probably tomorrow will start quote uploads during the afternoon while my wife is at work. We'll see what I feel up to. You wouldn't think it would take a lot of energy, but having to make sure of typos and formatting and everything means a lot of concentration and my illnesses affect my cognitive skills, so ┐⁠(⁠￣⁠ヘ⁠￣⁠)⁠┌