It seemed to move in his head.
He blinked, but it still hurt. His eyes seemed to want to wander off in different directions.
Rincewind hurried further along the cave, ignoring the rest of the paintings. The piled rubble of the collapsed ceiling reached nearly to the surface, but there was space on the other side, going on into darkness. It looked as though he was in a piece of tunnel that had collapsed.
‘You walked right past it,’ said the kangaroo.
He turned. It was standing on the little beach.
‘I didn’t see you get down here,’ said Rincewind. ‘How did you get down here?’
‘Come on, I’ve got to show you something. You can call me Scrappy, if you like.’
‘Why?’
‘We’re mates, ain’t we? I’m here to help you.’
‘Oh, dear.’
‘Can’t make it alone across this land, mate. How d’you think you’ve survived so far? Water’s bloody hard to find out here these days.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, I just keep falling into—’
Rincewind stopped.
‘Yeah,’ said the kangaroo. ‘Strike you as odd, does it?’
‘I thought I was just naturally lucky,’ said Rincewind. He thought about what he’d just said. ‘I must have been crazy.’
There weren’t even flies down here. There was the occasional faint ripple on the water, and that wasn’t comforting, since there wasn’t apparently anything to stir the surface. Up above, the sun was torching the ground and the flies swarmed like, well, flies.
‘Why isn’t there anyone else here?’ he said.
‘Come and see,’ said the kangaroo.
Rincewind raised his hands and backed away. ‘Are we talking teeth and stings and fangs?’
‘Just look at that painting there, mate.’
‘What, the one of the kangaroo?’
‘Which one’s that, mate?’
Rincewind looked along the wall. The kangaroo picture wasn’t where he remembered it.
‘I could’ve sworn—’
‘That’s the one I want you to look at, over there.’
Rincewind looked at the stone. What it showed, outlined in red ochre, were dozens of hands.{25}
He sighed. ‘Oh, right,’ he said, wearily. ‘I see the problem. Exactly the same thing happens to me.’
‘What’re you talking about, mister?’
‘It’s just the same with me when I try to take snaps with an iconograph,’ said Rincewind. ‘You set up a nice picture, the demon paints away, and when you look at it, whoops, you had your thumb in the way. I must have got a dozen pictures of my thumb. No, I can see your lad there, doing his painting, in a bit of a hurry, got his brush all ready then, splosh, he’d forgotten to take his hand off the—’
‘No. It’s the painting underneath I’m talking about, mister.’
Rincewind looked closer. There were fainter lines there, which you’d think were just flaws in the rock if you weren’t looking. Rincewind squinted. Other lines seemed to fit … Yes, someone had painted figures … They were …
He blew away some sand.
Yes, they were …
… curiously familiar …
‘Yes,’ said Scrappy, his voice apparently coming from a distance. ‘Look a bit like you, don’t they …?’
‘But they’re—’ he began. He straightened up. ‘How long have these paintings been here?’
‘Well, lessee,’ said the kangaroo. ‘Out of the sun and the weather, nothing to disturb ’em … Twenty thousand years?’
‘That’s not right!’
‘Nah, true, prob’ly thirty thousand, in a nice sheltered spot like this.’
‘But these are … That’s my …’
‘O’ course, when I say thirty thousand years,’ said the kangaroo, ‘I mean it depends how you look at it. Even them hand paintings on the top’ve been there five thousand years, see. And those faint ones … Oh, yes, got to be pretty old, tens of thousands of years, except—’
‘Except what?’
‘They weren’t here last week, mate.’
‘You’re saying they’ve been here for ages … but not for very long?’
‘See? I knew you was clever.’
‘And now you’re going to tell me what the hell you’re talking about?’
‘Right.’
‘Excuse me, I’ll just find something to eat.’
Rincewind lifted up a rock. There were a couple of jam sandwiches underneath.
The wizards were civilized men of considerable education and culture. When faced with being inadvertently marooned on a desert island they understood immediately that the first thing to do was place the blame.
‘It really was very clear!’ shouted Ridcully, waving his hand frantically in the air at the place where the window had been. ‘And I put a sign on it!’
‘Yes, but you’ve got a “Do Not Disturb” sign nailed to your study door,’ said the Senior Wrangler, ‘and you still expect Mrs Whitlow to bring you your tea in the mornings!’
‘Gentlemen, please!’ said Ponder Stibbons. ‘We’ve got to sort some things out right now!’
‘Yes indeed!’ roared the Dean. ‘And it was his fault! The sign wasn’t large enough!’
‘I mean we have to—’
‘There are ladies present!’ snapped the Senior Wrangler.
‘Lady.’ Mrs Whitlow uttered the word carefully and with deliberation, like a gambler putting down a winning hand. She stood primly watching them. Her expression said: I’m not worried, because with all these wizards around nothing bad can happen.
The wizards adjusted their attitudes.
‘Ai do apologize if Ai’ve done something wrong,’ she said.
‘Oh, not, not wrong,’ said Ridcully quickly. ‘Not exactly wrong. As such.’
‘Anyone could have done it,’ said the Senior Wrangler. ‘I could hardly read the lettering myself.’
‘And, taking the broad view, it’s certainly better to be stuck out here in the fresh air and sunshine than in that stuffy study,’ Ridcully went on.
‘That’s quite a broad view, sir,’ said Ponder doubtfully.
‘And we’ll be back home in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,’ said Ridcully, beaming.
‘Unfortunately, this doesn’t look a very agricultural sort of—’ Ponder began.
‘Figure of speech, Mister Stibbons, figure of speech.’
‘The sun’s going down, sir,’ Ponder persisted. ‘Which means it’ll be night time soon.’
Ridcully looked nervously at Mrs Whitlow, and then at the sun.
‘Is there a problem?’ said Mrs Whitlow.
‘Oh, good heavens, no!’ said Ridcully hastily.
‘Ai notice the little hole in the wall doesn’t seem to have come back,’ said Mrs Whitlow.
‘We, er—’
‘It’s a little prank, is it?’ the housekeeper went on. ‘Ai’m sure you gentlemen will have your fun, and no mistake.’
‘Yes, that’s—’
‘But Ai should be grateful if you would send me back now, Archchancellor. We’re doing the laundry this afternoon, and Ai’m afraid we’re having a lot of trouble with the Dean’s sheets.’
The Dean suddenly knew how a mosquito feels in the beam of a searchlight.
‘We’ll sort this out directly, never fear, Mrs Whitlow,’ said Ridcully, not taking his eyes off the wretched Dean. ‘In the meantime, why don’t you take a seat and enjoy the rather wonderful sheets, I mean sunshine?’