Last Continent (40 page)

And if it wasn't raining then probably those terrible currents they talked about were still around, too.

It wasn't a
bad
country. They were big on hats. They were big on
big
hats. He could save up and buy a farm on the Never-Never and watch sheep. After all, they fed themselves and they made more sheep. All you had to do was pick the wool off occasionally. The Luggage'd probably settle down to being a sheepdog.

Except . . . that there wasn't any more water. No more sheep, no more farms. Mad, and Crocodile Crocodile, the lovely ladies Darleen and Letitia, Remorse and his horses, all those people who'd shown him how to find the things you could eat without throwing up too often . . . all drying up, and blowing away . . .

Him, too.

G'DAY
.

‘Ook?'

‘Oh,
no
. . .' Rincewind moaned.

THROAT A BIT PARCHED
?

‘Look, you're not supposed to—'

IT'S ALL RIGHT, I HAVE AN APPOINTMENT DOWN IN THE CITY. THERE'S BEEN A FIGHT OVER THE LAST BOTTLE OF BEER. HOWEVER, LET ME ASSURE YOU OF MY PERSONAL ATTENTION AT ALL TIMES
.

‘Well, thank you. When it's time to stop living, I will certainly make Death my number one choice!'

Death faded.

‘The cheek of him, turning up like that! We're not dead yet,' shouted Rincewind to the burning sky. ‘There's lots we could do! If we could get to the Hub we could cut loose a big iceberg and tow it here and that'd give us plenty of water . . . if we could get to the Hub! Where there's hope there's life, I'll have you know! I'll find a way! Somewhere there's a way of making rain!'

Death had gone.

Rincewind swung the bullroarer menacingly. ‘And don't come back!'

‘Ook!'

The Librarian gripped Rincewind's arm, and sniffed the air.

Then Rincewind caught the smell too.

Rincewind spoke a fairly primitive language, and it had no word for ‘that smell you get after rain' other than ‘that smell you get after rain'. Anyone trying to describe the smell would have to flounder among words like moisture, heat, vapour and, with a following wind, exhalation.

Nevertheless, there was the smell you get after rain. In this burning land, it was like a brief jewel in the air.

Rincewind whirled the piece of wood again. It made noise out of all proportion to the movement, and there was that smell again.

He turned it over. It was still just a wooden oval. There weren't any markings on it.

He gripped the end of the string and whirled the thing experimentally a few more times.

‘Did you notice that when it did this—' he began.

It wouldn't stop. He couldn't lower his arm.

‘Er . . . I think it wants to be spun,' he said.

‘Ook!'

‘You think I should?'

‘Ook!'

‘That's very helpful. Oooh—'

The Librarian ducked.

Rincewind spun. He couldn't see the wood now because the string was getting longer with each turn. A blur curved through the air some way from the tower, getting further away with each spin.

The sound of it was a long-drawn-out drone.

When it was well out over the city it exploded in a thunderclap. But something still whirled on the end of the line, like a tight silver cloud, throwing out a trail of white particles that made a spiral that sped out wider and wider.

The Librarian was flat on his face with his hands over his head.

Air roared up the side of the tower, carrying dust, wind, heat and budgerigars. Rincewind's robe flapped around his chin.

Letting go was unthinkable. He wasn't even sure if he could, until it wanted him to.

Thin as smoke now, the spiral drifted out into the heat haze.

(. . . and out over the red desert and the unheeding kangaroos, and as the tail of it flew out over the coast and into the wall of storms the warring airs melted peacefully together . . . the clouds stopped their stately spin around the last continent, boiled up in confusion and thunderheads, reversed their direction and began to fall
inwards
. . .)

And the string whipped out of Rincewind's hand, stinging his fingers. The bullroarer flew away, and he didn't see it fall.

This may have been because he was still pirouetting, but at last gravity overcame momentum and he fell full length on the boards.

‘I think my feet have caught fire,' he muttered.

The dead heat hung on the land like a shroud. Clancy the stockman wiped the sweat off his brow very thoroughly, and wrung out the rag into an empty jam tin. The way things were going, he'd be glad of it. Then, carrying the tin with care, he climbed back down the windmill's ladder.

‘The bore's fine, boss, there's just no bloody water,' he said.

Remorse shook his head. ‘Look at them horses,' he said. ‘Look at the way they're lying down, willya? That's not good. This is it, Clancy. We've battled through thick and thin, and this is too thick altogether by half. We may as well cut their poor bloody throats for the meat that's on 'em—'

A gust of wind took his hat off for him, and blew a lash of scent across the wilted mulga bushes. A horse raised his head.

Clouds were pouring across the sky, rolling and boiling across each other like waves on a beach, so black that in the middle they were blue, lit by occasional flashes.

‘What the hell's
that
?' said Clancy.

The horse stood up awkwardly and stumbled to the rusted trough under the windmill.

Under the clouds, dragging across the land, the air shimmered silver.

Something hit Remorse's head.

He looked down. Something went ‘plut' in the red dust by his boot, leaving a little crater.

‘That is
water
, Clancy,' he said. ‘It's bloody
water
dropping out of the bloody
sky
!'

They stared at one another with their mouths open as, around them, the storm hit and the animals stirred and the red dust turned into mud which spattered them up to their waists.

This was no ordinary rainstorm. This was The Wet.

As Clancy said later, the second best bloody thing that happened that day was that they were near high ground.

The
best
bloody thing was that, with all the corks on their hats, they were able to find the bloody things later on.

There'd been debate about having this year's regatta in Dijabringabeeralong, given the drought.
But it was a tradition. A lot of people came into town for it. Besides, the organizers had discussed it long and hard all the previous evening in the bar of the Pastoral Hotel and had concluded that, no worries, she'll be right.

There were classes for boats pulled by camels, boats optimistically propelled by sails and, a high spot of the event, skiffs propelled by the simple expedient of the crew cutting the bottoms out, gripping the sides and running like hell. It always got a good laugh.

It was while two teams were trotting upriver in the semi-final that the spectators noticed the black cloud pouring over Semaphore Hill like boiling jam.

‘Bushfire,' said someone.

‘Bushfire'd be white. Come on . . .'

That was the thing about fire. If you saw one, everyone went to put it out. Fire spread like wildfire.

But as they turned away there was a scream from the riverbed.

The teams rounded the bend neck and neck, carrying their boats at a record-breaking speed. They reached the slipway, collided in their efforts to get up it, made it to the top locked together, and collapsed in splinters and screams.

‘Stop the regatta!' panted one of the coxes. ‘The river . . . the river . . .'

But by then everyone could see it. Around the bend, travelling slowly because it was pushing in front of it a huge logjam of bushes, carts, rocks and trees, was the flood.

It thundered past and the mobile dam slid on,
scything the river bottom free of all obstruction. Behind it foaming water filled the river from bank to bank.

They cancelled the regatta. A river full of water made a mockery of the whole idea.

The university's gates had burst open and now the angry mob was in the grounds and hammering on the walls.

Above the din, the wizards searched feverishly through the books.

‘Well, have you got something like Maxwell's Impressive Separator?' said Ridcully.

‘What's that do?' said Archchancellor Rincewind.

‘Unmixes two things, like . . . sugar and sand, for example. Uses nanny's demons.'

‘Nano-demons, possibly,' murmured Ponder wearily.

‘Oh, like Bonza Charlie's Beaut Sieve? Yeah, we've got that.'

‘Ah, parallel evolution. Fine. Dig it out, man.'

Archchancellor Rincewind nodded at one of the wizards, and then broke into a grin.

‘Are you thinking about it working on salt?' he said.

‘Exactly! One spell, one bucket of seawater, no more problem . . .'

‘Er, that's not
exactly
true,' said Ponder Stibbons.

‘Sounds perfect to me, man!'

‘It takes a great deal of magic, sir. And the demons take about a fortnight per pint, sir.'

‘Ah. A significant point, Mister Stibbons.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘However, just because it wouldn't work does not mean it was a
bad
idea – I wish they'd stop that shouting!'

The shouting outside stopped.

‘Perhaps they heard you, sir,' said Ponder.

Pang. Pang, pang . . .

‘Are they throwing stuff on to the roof?' said Archchancellor Rincewind.

‘No, that's probably just rain,' said Ridcully. ‘Now, I suppose you've tried evaporating—'

He realized that no one was listening. Everyone was looking up.

Now the individual thuds had merged into a steady hammering and from outside came the sound of wild cheering.

The wizards struggled in the doorway and finally fought their way outside, where water was pouring off the roof in a solid sheet and cutting a channel in the lawn.

Archchancellor Rincewind stopped abruptly and reached out to the water like a man not sure if the stove is hot.

‘Out of the sky?' he said. He pushed his way out through the liquid curtain. Then he took off his hat and held it upside down to catch the rain.

The crowd had filled the university grounds and spilled out into the surrounding streets. Every face was turned upwards.

‘And those dark things?' Archchancellor Rincewind called out.

‘They
are
the clouds, archchancellor.'

‘There's a hell of a lot of them!'

There were. They piled up over the tower in an enormous, spreading black thunderhead.

A couple of people looked down long enough to see the group of soaked wizards, and there were some cheers. And suddenly they were the new centre of attention, and being picked up and carried shoulder high.

‘They think we did it!' shouted Archchancellor Rincewind, as he was borne aloft.

‘Who's to say we didn't?' shouted Ridcully, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially.

‘Er . . .' someone began.

Ridcully didn't even look round. ‘Shut up, Mister Stibbons,' he said.

‘Shutting up, sir.'

‘Can you hear that thunder?' said Ridcully, as a rumble rolled across the city. ‘We'd better take cover . . .'

The clouds above the tower were rising like water against a dam. Ponder said afterwards the fact that the BU tower was very short and extremely tall at the same time might have been the problem, since the storm was trying to go around it, over it and through it, all at the same time.

From the ground the clouds seemed to open up slowly, leaving a glowing, spreading chimney filled with the blue haze of electrical discharges . . .

. . . and pounced. One solid blue bolt hit the tower at every height all at once, which is technically impossible. Pieces of wood and corrugated
iron roared into the air and rained down across the city.

Then there was just a sizzling, and the rushing of the rain.

The crowd stood up again, cautiously, but the fireworks were over.

‘And that's what we call lightning,' said Ridcully.

Archchancellor Rincewind got up and tried to brush mud off his robe, then found out why you cannot do this.

‘It's not usually as big as that, though,' Ridcully went on.

‘Oh. Good.'

There was a clank from the steaming debris where the tower had stood, and a sheet of metal was pushed aside. Slowly, with much mutual aid and many false starts, two blackened figures emerged. One of them was still wearing a hat, which was on fire although the rain was putting out the flames.

Leaning against one another, weaving from side to side, they approached the wizards.

One of them said, ‘Ook,' very quietly and fell backwards.

The other one looked blearily at the two archchancellors, and saluted. This caused a spark to leap from its fingers and burn its ear.

‘Er, Rincewind,' it said.

‘And what have
you
been up to while we've been doing all this hard work, pray?' said Ridcully.

Rincewind looked around, very slowly.
Occasional little blue streaks crackled in his beard.

‘Well, that all seemed to go pretty well, really. All things considered,' he said, and fell full length into a puddle.

It rained. After that, it rained. Then it rained some more. The clouds were stacked like impatient charter flights over the coast, low on fuel, jockeying for position, and raining. Above all, raining.

Floodwater roared down the rocks and scoured out the ancient muddy waterholes. A species of tiny shrimps whose world for thousands of years had been one small hole under a stone were picked up and carried wholesale into a lake that was spreading faster than a man could run. There had been fewer than a thousand of them. There were a
lot
more next day. Even if the shrimps had been able to count how many, they were far too busy to bother.