Read Online Nation by Terry Pratchett - Free Book Online
Authors: Terry Pratchett
Tags: Drama, Fiction, General, Humorous stories, Fantasy, People & Places, Action & Adventure, Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic, Nature & the Natural World, Social Issues, English; Irish; Scottish; Welsh, Tsunamis, Survival Stories, Young adult fiction; English, Interpersonal relations, Australia & Oceania, Oceania, Alternative histories (Fiction); English, Survival, Survival skills
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women grew the things that made the living enjoyable, possible, and longer: spices and fruits and chewing roots. They had ways of making crops grow bigger or more tasty. They dug up or traded plants and brought them here, and knew the secrets of seeds and pods and things. They raised pink bananas here and rare plantains and yams, including the jumping yam. They also grew medicines here, and babies.
Here and there around the edges of the gardens were huts. Mau approached them carefully, beginning to feel nervous. Someone should be shouting at him, some old woman should be pointing and mumbling, and he should be running away very fast with his hands cupped over his groin, just in case. Anything would be better than this sunny, empty silence.
So there are still rules, he thought. I brought them with me. They’re in my head.
There were baskets in some of the huts, and bunches of roots hung from the ceiling, out of reach of small fingers. They were maniac roots. You learned about them very early on. They made the best beer of all or they killed you as dead as a stone, and the secret ingredient that decided which of these happened was a song that everybody knew.
He found what he was looking for in the hut by the spring. A whole bowl of chopped root was hissing and bubbling gently to itself under a pile of palm leaves. The sharp, prickly smell filled the hut.
How much did some dead men drink? He filled a calabash with the stuff, which should be enough. He was careful how he poured it, because it was very dangerous at this stage, and he hurried away before a ghost could catch him.
He reached the valley of the Grandfathers without spilling much, and tipped the contents of the calabash into the big stone bowl in front of the sealed cave. From the gnarly old trees a couple of grandfather birds watched him carefully.
He spat into the bowl, and the beer seethed for a while. Big yellow bubbles burst on the surface.
Then he sang. It was a simple little song, easy to remember, about the four brothers, all sons of Air, who one day decided to race around the huge belly of their father to see which of them would court the woman who lived in the Moon, and the tricks each one played on the others so that he could be first. Babies learned it. Everyone knew it. And, for some reason, singing that song turned the poison into beer. It really did.
The beer foamed in the bowl. Mau watched the big round stone, just in case, but the Grandfathers probably had a way of drinking beer from the spirit world.
He sang his way through the song, taking care not to miss any verse, especially the one that was very funny when you did the right gestures. When he finished, the beer had gone clear, with golden bubbles rising to the top. Mau took a sip, to check. His heart didn’t stop after one beat, so the beer was probably fine.
He took a few steps back and said, to the wide open sky: “Here is your beer, Grandfathers!”
Nothing happed. It was a bad thought, but a thank you might have been nice.
Then the world drew a breath and the breath became voices: YOU HAVE FAILED TO DO THE CHANT!
“I have sung the song! It is good beer!”
WE MEAN THE CHANT THAT CALLS US TO THE BEER!
A couple more grandfather birds crash-landed in the trees.
“I didn’t know there was one!”
YOU ARE A LAZY BOY!
Mau grabbed at this. “That’s right, I’m just a boy! There is no one to teach me! Can you—?”
HAVE YOU RIGHTED THE GOD ANCHORS? NO! And with that the voices snapped into silence, leaving only the sighing of the wind.
Well, it looked like good beer. What was a chant needed for? Mau’s mother had made good beer, and people had just turned up.
With a flapping of wings, a grandfather bird landed on the edge of the beer stone and gave him the usual stare that said: If you are going to die, hurry up. Otherwise, leave.
Mau shrugged and walked away. But he hid behind a tree, and he was good at hiding. Maybe the big round stone would roll.
It didn’t take
Here and there around the edges of the gardens were huts. Mau approached them carefully, beginning to feel nervous. Someone should be shouting at him, some old woman should be pointing and mumbling, and he should be running away very fast with his hands cupped over his groin, just in case. Anything would be better than this sunny, empty silence.
So there are still rules, he thought. I brought them with me. They’re in my head.
There were baskets in some of the huts, and bunches of roots hung from the ceiling, out of reach of small fingers. They were maniac roots. You learned about them very early on. They made the best beer of all or they killed you as dead as a stone, and the secret ingredient that decided which of these happened was a song that everybody knew.
He found what he was looking for in the hut by the spring. A whole bowl of chopped root was hissing and bubbling gently to itself under a pile of palm leaves. The sharp, prickly smell filled the hut.
How much did some dead men drink? He filled a calabash with the stuff, which should be enough. He was careful how he poured it, because it was very dangerous at this stage, and he hurried away before a ghost could catch him.
He reached the valley of the Grandfathers without spilling much, and tipped the contents of the calabash into the big stone bowl in front of the sealed cave. From the gnarly old trees a couple of grandfather birds watched him carefully.
He spat into the bowl, and the beer seethed for a while. Big yellow bubbles burst on the surface.
Then he sang. It was a simple little song, easy to remember, about the four brothers, all sons of Air, who one day decided to race around the huge belly of their father to see which of them would court the woman who lived in the Moon, and the tricks each one played on the others so that he could be first. Babies learned it. Everyone knew it. And, for some reason, singing that song turned the poison into beer. It really did.
The beer foamed in the bowl. Mau watched the big round stone, just in case, but the Grandfathers probably had a way of drinking beer from the spirit world.
He sang his way through the song, taking care not to miss any verse, especially the one that was very funny when you did the right gestures. When he finished, the beer had gone clear, with golden bubbles rising to the top. Mau took a sip, to check. His heart didn’t stop after one beat, so the beer was probably fine.
He took a few steps back and said, to the wide open sky: “Here is your beer, Grandfathers!”
Nothing happed. It was a bad thought, but a thank you might have been nice.
Then the world drew a breath and the breath became voices: YOU HAVE FAILED TO DO THE CHANT!
“I have sung the song! It is good beer!”
WE MEAN THE CHANT THAT CALLS US TO THE BEER!
A couple more grandfather birds crash-landed in the trees.
“I didn’t know there was one!”
YOU ARE A LAZY BOY!
Mau grabbed at this. “That’s right, I’m just a boy! There is no one to teach me! Can you—?”
HAVE YOU RIGHTED THE GOD ANCHORS? NO! And with that the voices snapped into silence, leaving only the sighing of the wind.
Well, it looked like good beer. What was a chant needed for? Mau’s mother had made good beer, and people had just turned up.
With a flapping of wings, a grandfather bird landed on the edge of the beer stone and gave him the usual stare that said: If you are going to die, hurry up. Otherwise, leave.
Mau shrugged and walked away. But he hid behind a tree, and he was good at hiding. Maybe the big round stone would roll.
It didn’t take
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