See it turn, in its perfect impossibility. The disk, on four great elephants on the back of a greater turtle, floating in the infinite void. See, if you can, the great ropes of octrine that twist and writhe in the nothingness: lightning bolts thick as mountains, strong and furious as life itself. Not alive but made of life. See them dance beyond the edge of sight, the pegs and joinings of this world.
See the lights that stretch and twinkle like living things and so they are, the life of cities that spread like primordial slime over the face of the disk. And see here the mouth of darkness, the cave on the slopes of Mount Dunmanifestin, home of the gods.
See the God before his altar.
See here where it started. See the apocalypse-spark, the life that twists on the ancient stone. And see the God, the God who was, the God who is. See him here as he pierces hands, feet, heart. Hear the screams that the God ignores, intent on the knife. See the Lonely God who is his own last priest, whose name was worshipped, feared, forgotten. See the madness of the God. Hear the words, ancient when the Turtle was hatched, old when the elephants were birthed from an unknown womb beyond the stars. Hear the words of the God, and fear.
A spark of light above the silent form. A spark that does not burn out, but burns in, twisting and burrowing in space and time, before sliding into dimensions never charted.
See the God smile.
It was a tawdry and unworthy pleasure, but Sam Vimes liked walking through The Heights in his ragged copper's uniform. The streets were clean here, and white, throwing back the hot summer sunlight from wall to roof until you squinted as into a sharp light, throwing the street into a soft focus. Here and there, darker figures scuttled in the weak shadows, hauling rubbish bins behind them. They were human—the shambling gnolls that cleaned the rest of the city1 would have sent the smooth, crisp people of these streets into a fit of conniptions.
It was only in the past few months that Vimes had begun patrolling The Heights. There was little crime2 here. Truthfully, there was no crime. No one3 would be stupid enough to try and rob any of these neat and stately manors, conspicuously unbarred.
[[1 Everyone knew the gnolls kept the streets clean. (Well, cleaner) However, no one seemed to know what they did with what they collected. Oddly enough, and against all previous human experience, absolutely nobody was curious enough to find out.
2. At least 'crime' as the people in the white houses behind the white shutters would define it. Personally, whenever Vimes walked past the house of Mr. Boggis, President of the Thieves Guild, he thought their definitions needed to be updated.
3. At least, no one who valued their teeth, fingers, and ability to walk without the assistance of complicated and expensive machinery. ]]
The beat was new, and the inhabitants of the heights were still unused to the bedraggled brown figures slouching along the pristine sidewalk. In his less charitable moments, Vimes had considered sending Corporal Nobbs to walk the Heights beat. Human pity stayed him- not for the sleek figures in fine carriages who lived here, but for the others, the maids and streetcleaners. He suspected that even an Ankh-Morpork washerwoman couldn't scrub the streets clean enough to dispel the essence of Nobby-ness the little corporal carried with him. In the end, Vimes did it himself. No one else would know what to look for.
He smiled to himself as he saw a carriage pull past him, stopping a few yards up the street. His shoulders slumped, his deceptively fast and rolling stride becoming a shuffle. He tilted his helmet back, and whistled. He considered putting his hands behind his back and waggling his truncheon, but felt that would be tempting the God of Overacting to strike him dead on the spot.
A man stepped out of the carriage. Medium height, he wore tight black clothing that did him no favors. He looked around with the comfortable air of a man with ten thousand dollars a year of his ancestor's money. His gaze sharpened as his eyes passed over Vimes, dismissing him. He turned back to help a woman out of the carriage. She wore a pale pink dress that whispered 'expensive' louder than most clothes could shout.
When the young man turned around again, Vimes was still there, shuffling along as insolently as if he had a right to be there. And Vimes waited .Waited for the spine to stiffen, the mouth to open, the eyes to meet the face….
And there. An evil delight leapt in him as shock, fear and then a blank mask replaced the naked contempt. To his credit, the young man recovered quickly and sketched a respectful bow.
"Your Grace Vimes." he said, so you could hear the capitals.
Vimes ransacked his memory. Something stupid. Something like a rich, fat little…
"Ah, Mr. Toadstooll. What a pleasure it is to see you on this fine day."
A thin smile.
"It's Toh-ad-schul, Your Grace. Pronounced in the Klatchian fashion."
"Is that so, is that so. The things you learn every day. And this, I presume, is your wife, the lovely Mrs. Toadstooll?" Vimes sketched a bow, deeper and neater than Toadstools, and blessed the long hours Wilikins had spent teaching him.
The eyes, which were not toadlike at all, but something like a sheep's, narrowed.
"My apologies, Your Grace. My wife, Molly."
"A pleasure to meet you, ma'am."
"The pleasure is all mine, Your Grace. I've heard of you, of course. Many times. But I have not had the pleasure of your acquaintance."
Vimes smiled charmingly, another skill Wilikins had taught him.
"Well, ma'am, speaking in my position as Commander of the City Watch, I hope I do not have many opportunities to further the acquaintance."
She laughed, longer and louder than the hoary old joke had deserved the day it was coined. Vimes felt the hot flush of half-guilt that came whenever a woman who was not his wife found him attractive.
"And this," she said brightly, "is Thomas!" She lifted a small bundle of what looked like cloth, although the sharp-eyed observer might notice a pink nose poking out from the layers of wrapping.
"Wave hello, Thomas!" she cooed. "Wave hello to the nice policeman!" She somehow separated a indeterminate limb from the package and waved it at Vimes. Vimes, feeling rather silly, waved back, wincing. Thomas Toadstooll. The kid was doomed. Vimes was one of those people made to be awkward around children, and thus beloved by all children, usually the sticky ones. He'd hoped the birth of his own son, Sam, would have changed that, but as it turned out, the only child he liked was his own.
"What a wonderful little boy," he lied, then straightened up officially, and touched his helmet respectfully.
"It was a pleasure meeting you, ma'am, and your Thomas. I'm afraid, however, that I must be going ."
She looked disappointed for a moment, and Vimes felt newly guilty.
"Good day then, Your Grace."
"Good day, Ma'am. Sir."
And with a bow to the lady and a curt nod to Toadstool, Vimes walked down the road, waiting until he was sure Toadstooll could not see his face before grinning. He supposed it wasn't his proudest moment, striking a little fear into the man. But a man can't be proud of everything he does, can he?
He listened as he walked away, an old coppers habit that he couldn't turn off. They argued quietly, ignoring the slowly receding figure until…
"Thomas? Thomas? Bernie, have you seen Thomas?"
"You had him, dear."
"I know, and I just set him down on the seat for a moment while I got my hat."
"Isn't he still there."
"No," and now there was a hint of panic in her voice. "Bernie, his clothes are still here, but he's gone."
"What? Damned foolish woman, let me see."
Vimes had stopped, and now he turned around.
"Look, Bernie, see? Heres his blankets, and his clothes, and his shoes, and his hat but he isn't here." The panic took root in fertile soil, grew and spread.
"Thomas? Thomas? THOMAS?"
"Excuse me, ma'am, but is there anything I can do to help?"
Molly Toadstooll turned towards Vimes, relief blossoming in her eyes. The law was here, the nice policeman was going to make everything all right. Vimes shrank before that gaze, even as it made him proud. The days when the Watch was a joke, a dumping place for useless boozers, was gone. Now, the police were there to help, to keep the law, to settle disputes. Even Nobby got looks that were less disgusted than they used to be. But at the same time, he knew the truth. He'd seen that look on too many faces, with too many dead bodies in the next room. Coppers didn't help that often. Most of the time, they just wrote the reports, bagged the evidence, and filled out the forms.
"What happened, ma'am?" he asked, in his official voice: smooth, confident, calming.
"My Thomas…he was right here a minute ago. I showed him to you, remember?"
She spread her hands in desperation, questioning her own sanity. Vimes nodded, and she calmed.
"Then, I turned around, laid him on the seat, and stood up to get my hat."
She pointed at the small hatbox strapped just above the door.
"I didn't even turn my back, I just looked away, and when I looked back, he wasn't there. Look!"
She pointed at the bundle. It looked much the same, rumpled and flattened where she had grabbed it, but otherwise still tightly folded, wrapped, and fastened. Vimes reached out and pulled loose the pins. Blanket. Another blanket. And then clothes, perfectly arrayed. A nappy, the sharp scent of urine rising. Vimes reached out and touched it. Still warm. So were the clothes. The little jacket still buttoned, the tiny strings on the hat still tied.
What the hell? Vimes thought to himself. It looked like the kid had simply vanished out of his clothes. He turned around to ask another question, when a scream sounded from up the street.
"JOHN? JOHN?"
Another woman rushed up to the carriage. She was dressed in the almost-a-uniform dark dress and white cap of nannies everywhere.
"Officer, please, have you seen a little boy? About this tall? Had blonde hair?"
"Ma'am, please, calm down. What happened?"
She burst into tears, sobbing, choking on her words.
"I just turned away for a second, I promise! He said he was hot, and I bent down to get his umbrella, and when I got up, he was gone!"
She broke down completely, at that point. Vimes reached inside the cart, and a cold part of him, a part he would not listen too, knew what he would find. The clothes had been moved, tossed to one side by the frantic woman, but they were all there. The little shoes still had little socks tucked inside. Socks with little ducks. He picked up the undersheet, stained oddly. A red, not like blood was red, just red. A patch of dusty gold. He touched it, rubbing white dust on his fingers. No, not dust. Grease. And the smell.
"We'd just come back from the fair up on Cockburn Street," she continued, her crying stopped, "he got his face painted and he said it made him hot so I got his umbrella…"
And Vimes recognized the smell. Greasepaint, a memory of himself in the Small Gods Hogwatch Choir, his mother in the audience, the greasepaint on his face. And if you turned your head and squinted, the gold there, the red, the thin lines of black…
"Was it butterflies?"
Her head jerked up, shocked.
"What?"
"On his face. Did they paint butterflies?"
"Yes, but I don't see…"
He held up a hand and she stopped talking. His mind raced. Wipe off the paint, that made sense. But who could take a child out of his clothes? What could simply steal a child in a second? He remembered seeing the nanny ahead of him as he'd walked away from the Toadstoolls, and there was no one near her. And the butterfly was still there. What could steal a child out from under makeup?
Magic. Had to be.
And then another woman ran up. She was wearing an expensive silk robe in rich flowing purple, clutching it tight at the throat.
"Officer, please, have you seen my boy? He's about six, he has dark hair, he might have been naked…"
Another woman, face lit up with relief at the sight of a uniform.
"Officer, its my girl, Sally, have you seen a little girl? I think she took her clothes off…"
"Excuse me…"
And Vimes looked up, at women, and a few men hurrying towards him, hurrying out of buildings and they were all shouting, some at him, some just shouting. And there was something, something he had to remember, but they were all so loud.
Three words rose in his mind, curling like ink in clear water.
What about Sam?
The city was growing louder around him. There were far off screams, animal screams of fear and pleading and Sam Vimes stood for a heartbeat. Another. And then there was fear, white and sharp, cold as hot iron.
And then there was nothing to do but run. His city screamed around him, and Sam Vimes who guarded her streets, Sam Vimes who was her knight, who was her law, Sam Vimes ran and did not hear the screams.
Through white streets. A woman, terrified, hair disheveled, mouth open, shouting. He threw her aside without breaking stride. An accident, two carriages both piled up, smashed, horses running away ignored as people dug through the wreckage. Carriage doors stood open, the interiors empty, somehow emptier than they had ever been.
And he ran. Not far, not close enough not fast enough, another punch to a desperate man and he didn't care, he didn't feel and here was his house, his gate sams toy cart was he here no no no it was empty godsdamnit, and the house no sam hallway no sam dining room no sam kitchen
Sybil. Sybil in his room sybil in a heap on the floor sybil with clothes empty clothes gods no not empty and he was on his knees and screaming. Screaming as he knew what he would see. Screaming as he looked. And the little shoes with the little socks. Dragons this time.
She read the question in his face, and the answer was in hers, but she spoke.
"Gone. He just vanished. Sam, I swear, I was watching him, I was looking at him and he just vanished…"
He didn't hear the rest of it, he was already out of the room. A movement at the end of the hallway. He leapt, slamming the figure into the wall. If there was room for surprise, if there was room for anything but pain so great he could not even see it all, feel it all, he would have been surprised at his voice. Flat and calm, with death shot through it like a black thread.
"Where is my son?"
"Sir?"
"Wilikins?" He shook the butler, hearing his head thump on the wall and he didn't care, couldn't care. "Wilikins, where is Sam?"
"With milady, sir? I have not seen him. But sir, I must speak to you, its my niece, Abagail…"
Down the hallway. Outside. He must have gotten outside. Because he couldn't be gone. There could not be a world without Sam. He would not permit it to be so. Not this world. Not this child.
He didn't remember the rest. They told him later that Carrot had come looking for him when the city erupted, that it looked like he was headed towards Unseen University. That he had punched out the first copper that tried to stop him. That Carrot and Angua had tried to hold him, but he'd torn away, howling. How at last Detritus the troll had to come up behind him and wrap his huge arms around Vimes, picking him up wholesale, carrying him to the station.
He came back to himself when Detritus shoved him in a cell, after he rebounded twice from the iron bars. He wanted to weep, to scream, to run mad in the streets, but something inside of him clicked. Something that was him, that was him beneath the copper, beneath the husband, something even beneath the father. Something that knew what he had to do, and something that would do it in the face of all the hells that were.
He stood up, and nodded. Detritus stopped leaning against the door and opened it.
"You done being crazy now, sir." It wasn't a question.
"Yes, sergeant, I am."
"Dat's good sir. Cos we gots work to do."
He walked out towards the door, and stopped, halfway there and turned.
"Detritus, you and Ruby—little Sapphire…"
He trailed off at the look of grief on the troll's face.
"All of dem, Mister Vimes. All de kids. Gone."
"Detritus, I'm…I…"
And Vimes stopped, crossing the room in a step, and did something he'd never done before. He simply wrapped his arms around the big troll. A moment of surprise, and the heavy, gentle arm around his shoulders. The hot, slightly acid splash of troll's tears rained down on his helmet. Vimes realized he was weeping as well, hot tears of loss, of ruin, of damnation. For a long moment that he could not resist, he stood there, leaning against the troll, solid as a wall, and wept with his friend for the loss of both their worlds.
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Author's note:
For those of you a bit confused as to where I'm going with this, well, it's a long story. What it is, essentially, is a look at the Rapture (yes, that whackadoo fundamentalist belief) and its aftereffects if it happened in the discworld.
To completely understand WHY I'm doing this, it would probably be necessary to read the Left Behind critiques available at .com. Suffice it to say that the popular "Left Behind" books depict people who do not feel, think, or act like human beings- who are not characters, so much as cardboard cutouts. So I decided to see what would happen if you took good people like Sam Vimes and Raptured away their children. The result, as you can see, is not so pretty.
Ultimately, this is the story of The Day the Children Were Taken. And what Sam Vimes will do to get them back. Hope you like it.