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Authors: Terry Pratchett
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getting away with it.
A warm autumnal wind was blowing leaves off the rowan trees as the recruits marched among the foothills. It was the morning of the next day, and the mountains were behind them.
Polly passed the time identifying the birds in the hedgerows. It was a habit. She knew most of them.
She hadn’t set out to be an ornithologist. But birds brought Paul alive. All the…slowness in the rest of histhinking became a flash of lightning in the presence of birds. Suddenly he knew their names, habits, and habitats, could whistle their songs, and, after Polly had saved up for a box of paints off a traveler at the inn, had painted a picture of a wren so real you could hear it.
Their mother had been alive then. The row had gone on for days. Pictures of living creatures were an Abomination in the eyes of Nuggan. Polly had asked why there were pictures of the Duchess everywhere, and had been thrashed for it. The picture had been burned, the paints thrown away.
It was a terrible thing. Her mother had been a kind woman, or as kind as a devout woman could be while trying to keep up with the whims of Nuggan, and she’d died slowly and painfully, amid pictures of the Duchess and among the echoes of unanswered prayers, but that was the memory that crawled treacherously into Polly’s mind every time: the fury and the scolding, while the little bird seemed to flutter in the flames.
In the fields, women and old men were getting in the spoiled wheat after last night’s rain, hoping to save what they could. There weren’t any young men visible. Polly saw some of the other recruits steal a glance at the scavenging parties, and wondered if they were thinking the same thing.
They saw no one else on the road until midday, when the party was marching through a landscape of low hills; the sun had boiled away some of the clouds and, for a moment at least, summer was back—moist and sticky and mildly unpleasant, like a party guest who won’t go home.
A red blob in the distance became a rather larger blob and resolved itself into a loose knot of men. Polly knew what to expect as soon as she saw it. By the reaction of some of the others, they did not. There was a moment of collision and confusion as people walked into one another, and then the party stopped and stared.
It took the wounded men some time to draw level, and some time to pass. Two able-bodied men, as far as Pollycould tell, were trundling a handcart on which a third man lay. Others were limping on crutches, or had arms in slings, or wore red jackets with an empty sleeve. Perhaps worse were the ones like the man in the inn, gray-faced, staring straight ahead, jackets buttoned tight despite the heat.
One or two of the injured glanced at the recruits as they lurched past, but there was no expression in their eyes beyond a terrible determination.
Jackrum reined in the horse.
“All right, twenty minutes breather,” he muttered.
Igor turned, nodded to the party of wounded heading grimly onward, and said, “Permithion to thee if I can do anything for them, Tharge?”
“You’ll get your chance soon enough, lad,” said the sergeant.
“Tharge?” said Igor, looking hurt.
“Oh, all right. If you must. D’you want someone to give you a hand?”
There was a nasty laugh from Corporal Strappi.
“Some athithtance would be a help, yeth, Thargeant,” said Igor with dignity.
The sergeant looked at the squad, and nodded.
“Private Halter, step forward! Know anything about doctorin’?”
The red-headed Tonker stepped forward smartly.
“I’ve butchered pigs for me mam, Sarge,” he said.
“Capital! Better than an army surgeon, upon my oath. Off you go. Twenty minutes, remember!”
“And don’t let Igor bring back any souvenirs!” said Strappi, and laughed his scraping laugh again.
The rest of the boys sat down on the grass by the road, and one or two of them disappeared into the bushes. Polly went on the same errand, but pushed in a lot further, and
A warm autumnal wind was blowing leaves off the rowan trees as the recruits marched among the foothills. It was the morning of the next day, and the mountains were behind them.
Polly passed the time identifying the birds in the hedgerows. It was a habit. She knew most of them.
She hadn’t set out to be an ornithologist. But birds brought Paul alive. All the…slowness in the rest of histhinking became a flash of lightning in the presence of birds. Suddenly he knew their names, habits, and habitats, could whistle their songs, and, after Polly had saved up for a box of paints off a traveler at the inn, had painted a picture of a wren so real you could hear it.
Their mother had been alive then. The row had gone on for days. Pictures of living creatures were an Abomination in the eyes of Nuggan. Polly had asked why there were pictures of the Duchess everywhere, and had been thrashed for it. The picture had been burned, the paints thrown away.
It was a terrible thing. Her mother had been a kind woman, or as kind as a devout woman could be while trying to keep up with the whims of Nuggan, and she’d died slowly and painfully, amid pictures of the Duchess and among the echoes of unanswered prayers, but that was the memory that crawled treacherously into Polly’s mind every time: the fury and the scolding, while the little bird seemed to flutter in the flames.
In the fields, women and old men were getting in the spoiled wheat after last night’s rain, hoping to save what they could. There weren’t any young men visible. Polly saw some of the other recruits steal a glance at the scavenging parties, and wondered if they were thinking the same thing.
They saw no one else on the road until midday, when the party was marching through a landscape of low hills; the sun had boiled away some of the clouds and, for a moment at least, summer was back—moist and sticky and mildly unpleasant, like a party guest who won’t go home.
A red blob in the distance became a rather larger blob and resolved itself into a loose knot of men. Polly knew what to expect as soon as she saw it. By the reaction of some of the others, they did not. There was a moment of collision and confusion as people walked into one another, and then the party stopped and stared.
It took the wounded men some time to draw level, and some time to pass. Two able-bodied men, as far as Pollycould tell, were trundling a handcart on which a third man lay. Others were limping on crutches, or had arms in slings, or wore red jackets with an empty sleeve. Perhaps worse were the ones like the man in the inn, gray-faced, staring straight ahead, jackets buttoned tight despite the heat.
One or two of the injured glanced at the recruits as they lurched past, but there was no expression in their eyes beyond a terrible determination.
Jackrum reined in the horse.
“All right, twenty minutes breather,” he muttered.
Igor turned, nodded to the party of wounded heading grimly onward, and said, “Permithion to thee if I can do anything for them, Tharge?”
“You’ll get your chance soon enough, lad,” said the sergeant.
“Tharge?” said Igor, looking hurt.
“Oh, all right. If you must. D’you want someone to give you a hand?”
There was a nasty laugh from Corporal Strappi.
“Some athithtance would be a help, yeth, Thargeant,” said Igor with dignity.
The sergeant looked at the squad, and nodded.
“Private Halter, step forward! Know anything about doctorin’?”
The red-headed Tonker stepped forward smartly.
“I’ve butchered pigs for me mam, Sarge,” he said.
“Capital! Better than an army surgeon, upon my oath. Off you go. Twenty minutes, remember!”
“And don’t let Igor bring back any souvenirs!” said Strappi, and laughed his scraping laugh again.
The rest of the boys sat down on the grass by the road, and one or two of them disappeared into the bushes. Polly went on the same errand, but pushed in a lot further, and
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