Disclaimer: Out of respect for Sir Terry Pratchett, I'm putting this in, even if I really didn't want to do an out of universe statement. The entire Discworld and everything on it is his intellectual property, not mine. I could claim Fourweed as mine, but I'll play it safe and give the character to him.
That said, I am very grateful that he allows us to write fanfics based on the Discworld. Thank you.
From here on, assume everything to be his, or at least based on his work, because I'm not breaking character for another disclaimer (except maybe at the very end).
P.S. Also thanks to all of the other Discworld fanfic writers, particulary A.A. Pessimal and OldStoneFace, who have shown me that it can be done properly.
Here, There, and Everywhere… (Subject to Transport)
Previously Untold, Completely Unauthorised, and Most Importantly Nearly True Tales of the Discworld
(The escapades of Fourweed)
Publishers Introduction: From the desk of S. Barker, Editor in Chief of Fallacious Fables Publishers
Drifting through the great astral wastelands, in a reality often talked about, often seen, but always completely misunderstood, happens to be a great Star Turtle. On its back, four (possibly five at one time) pachyderms, forever moaning about the load (never mind what the Turtle thinks) and trying their hardest not to slip off. And rotating away on their backs, blissfully unaware of the irritation the friction of such a movement causes on the poor creatures directly below, is a thin, disk shaped world. The Discworld. Our world.
Populated by all manner of beings, fair and foul (but usually foul… or fowl, depending on just who's responsible for the spelling), there are nonetheless creatures that are rather a mystery to popular science. The Shadowing Lemma (Because no one bar mathematicians seem to be able to track it down – and they don't tend to be in a condition to relate the experience afterwards), the Clock Building Cuckoo (how do they get it wrong time after time?) and the Pointless Albatross (The name says it all). And perhaps the most mysterious of all, something that bears more than a passing resemblance to the albatross (in that it seems to do nothing but look at things and take pictures), the tourist.
On the Discworld, tourism is still a fairly new idea. Indeed, some still consider it to be a "profession". Many are the stories that have been written about the Discworld's first tourist, a rather naive man with a name that roughly translated as "Twoflower". Some, may even be true. But less well known are those who came after, and one in particular had escapades every bit as interesting as his predecessor.
Like Twoflower, he hailed from Bes Pelargic in the Agatean Empire, that far away land surrounded by sea or, where the sea can't be bothered to be cooperative, a great wall. Traditionally, the wall is there for protection – but not in the way you'd expect. Invaders there may be, all seeking the untold riches reportedly found within, but throughout history the Heavenly Guard tended to have other things on their mind. Stepping hard on the inquisitive fingers of those they catch trying to get out. Which makes Twoflower's successful exit of the country all the more remarkable.
There exists within the Agatean empire, the now legendary tome "What I did on my Holiday". Despite the great interest of the then Grand Vizier Lord Hong, it spread rapidly throughout the country and caused a small revolution amongst the masses. And when the dust finally settled, barely anyone had not found the opportunity to see what all the fuss was about.
Sometime later, inspired by the stories listed in the tome, another man set about gathering everything he would need for a journey of his own. He had his reasons; he had a similar name, he was from the same place... it couldn't be a coincidence. But, budgetary limitations reared their ugly head, and he was forced to acquire certain items from various shady sources – most notably, the "little odds and sods shop behind the office that I swear wasn't there yesterday."
"… uh, so where is it?"
"Right ther… Oh."
Anyway, on a dark and misty night, he made his move. With great difficulty, he scrambled up the wall, carefully eyed the small guard hut and, noting the Heavenly Guard busy with making placards, scurried over and all but fell from the other side.
That was his first mistake… the gates were unlocked (1). And pretty soon after, he made his second, bigger mistake. Following in the footsteps of his predecessor (or not, because Twoflower took a ship), he crossed half the world and came to Ankh-Morpork,"Citie of One Thousand Surprises".
His name, was Fourweed - strangely adequate, because it well indicated just what he'd come looking for. And he'd caught wind that the quaint Shades were, by dint of some rather curious local morphology, home to a few particularly interesting specimens… Dandelions, Stinging Nettles, Knotweed… that sort of thing (2).
But enough about that. What follows is an (possibly true) account of his escapades, in Ankh-Morpork and beyond… if he ever got out of the city and didn't become just another "ethnic minority". We here at the Fallacious Fables Publishers would like to point out that, despite extensive research at great peril to our bananas, that we never managed to discover the true identity of the author. But, as the original manuscripts are to be found in the Unseen University library, behind a bookshelf in a hidden set of galleries that someone has helpfully labelled "L-Space", we have no reason to disbelieve their authenticity. Other researchers are on the case at this very moment, and we will endeavour to provide you the author's identity at the first opportunity, in a revised edition (estimated price AM$ 45, or the equivalent in stamps).
Enjoy!
Article 1: Fancy Lightening Your Load, Sir?
The Ms. Barker's book of Faux Facts – Travel Edition, has this (and plenty more) to say on the subject of Ankh-Morpork.
The land approach to the city of Ankh-Morpork, is one that any traveller will remember for a lifetime. It is perhaps, one of the few places in the world where a free lunch is guaranteed – the Sto Plains surrounding the city are used almost entirely for growing cabbage – that most flavoursome of foods – and with such numbers available at any one time, travellers are free to pick one for a nibble.
Closer to, and you may begin to see the two distinct halves of the twinned city. Historically, these have been referred to respectively as proud Ankh, and pestilent Morpork, but this is an outright lie. Do not mention it to a local, unless a member of the Watch is visible, in which case someone will be available to help (3).
Another thing you may notice is Ankh-Morpork's most distinctive ranged feature; its smell. A heady odour of truly magnificent proportions, it has its origins in a whole number of factors, including the cabbages. As with the Ankh Morpork nicknames, for your own safety it is best not to believe the tales. The story of an invading army that made it as far as the walls before their nose plugs gave out is slander at its worst.
On reaching the city gates, take a moment to notice the exquisite stonework before passing through and meeting the local guild representatives, who will be happy to assist you.
…
(Ms. Barker cannot be held legally accountable for any damage acquired from actually attempting to pick a cabbage).
…
"Well, I don't think much of that."
A certain gate was currently being "looked at" by a certain, diminutive looking man. His garments were… strange, to say the least. Baggy shorts, not a particularly good choice of clothing considering the local temperature, and the fact it was currently raining. A vivid, short sleeved shirt coloured in the fashion of a sunset. And a hat, a strange thing with a brow only at the front, sitting on top of his head and trying frantically to hide any trace of his pony tailed, straw textured black hair.
"Really, what was all the fuss about?" he continued, staring up at the stonework above him, a rather plain arch with a simple portcullis – no wooden gates to be seen. "Then again, it could be tradit- WHOAH!"
KERSPLACH!
He leant back just a teensy bit too far on his little, makeshift raft of two planks, overbalanced, and fell in the… drink. The hat attempted to float away, and failed miserably. Because, this wasn't just any gate. This was the Water Gate, where the river Ankh had the audacity to enter the city. In a way, the man was fortunate. He'd just fallen in the Ankh. But then again, he'd just fallen in the Ankh, a river that at times seems to be more soil and loam than water, not to mention a fair helping of dung... or worse.
"Alright Sir?" called a voice. "Need some help?"
The man raised his head from the ooze on which he lay, sinking at such a sluggish rate as to make slowsand embarrassed, and espied a scruffy looking fellow staring back at him from the narrow wooden walkway running alongside.
"Ah, the toted Ankh Morporkian trait of generosity, good natured helpers all round! Yes, a rope would be useful!"
The onlooker was notably a long time in responding, looking rather puzzled for such a simple statement. Eventually, by which point the man had sunk another couple of... millimetres, he stuck his finger in his ear and withdrew... something (something unspeakable).
"What was that Sir? Didn't quite catch it."
"A rope, if you'd be so kind?"
"A hope? Well I could give you directions to the nearest... temp... Bugger, must be something left in there. Dope? No, didn't look like you meant to compliment me. Mope? Nah, that doesn't sound right... ah! Rope!"
He shuffled out of sight, almost immediately returning with one of the slimiest ropes the sinking (ha, ha) man had ever seen. It was a wonder he managed to get enough of a grip to toss a length of it out, but toss it he did. The end came down by the man, who wrinkled his nose in disgust. Even over the background Smell of Ankh Morpork, this thing stank. Of fish, as it happened, which gave him a fairly good idea of where it came from. Naturally, he was reluctant to touch it, but between the options of getting his hands dirty and suffering a long, humiliating, drawn out death, well, what choice was there?
"So, Tourist are ya?" asked the scruffy fellow, as he hauled the man from the water. "I've seen your type before... a couple of times anyway. From the other side of Sator Square anyway. At least, I would have if the troll hadn't been in the way. So, what were you doing in there anyway? Don't you lot normally come in by one of the road gates?"
"Thought I'd dodge the crowds" the tourist responded. "The name's Fourweed by the way... and I suppose I owe you something, don't I? A little thank you for rescuing me?"
"Oh you don't ne- well, if you feel you have to, then who am I to object?"
Had Fourweed been paying attention, he might have noticed his new friend was doing something behind his back. His hands were moving furiously, fingers waving around like no-one's business. But, being a tourist of the same cloth as his idol (if a little bit more cynical at times), he'd probably have written it off as nerves. And anyway, he had other things on his mind.
"Oh, but I... (he paused, mouth moving silently as if he was struggling to remember which word to use)...insist. It's only courtesy after all. How could I not repay such a fine gentleman?"
Fine Gentlemen? Even by Ankh Morpork's "so low we're in the basement" standards, the other was a shabby one. Barely a scrap of cloth on him that hadn't been patched several times. And, it may have been clichéd, but some of the patches did indeed have patches.
Fourweed, almost certainly just wrote his appearance off as the standard local attire. The diminutive tourist raised his fingers to his mouth, and let out a whistle. And then, he waited.
The other man looked around nervously, a strangely hunted look on his face, like someone who thinks he can hear dogs howling in the distance. Not that anything of that sort materialised. And nor did anything else.
"Uh, yeah, lovely voice, thanks for sharing it. I was expecting something a little more material tho-"
The sound of fluttering wings suddenly filled the air, as one of Ankh-Morpork's feral pigeons chose that moment to fly overhead... and settle into a hover. And then it was gone in a puff of feathers, because something else rammed into it... and swallowed it whole.
"Ah, Baggage! There you are!" Fourweed announced cheerfully. A Rhinu, if you please?"
The other man looked up, and immediately back down again. That wasn't a box floating up there, was it? No, surely not. Certainly not a shoebox sized octagonal wooden box hovering on countless little bird wings, all flapping away in a ring surrounding its middle. No, nothing like that at all.
Something fell from above, a book thudded into Fourweed's head. Followed by a bag of dirty laundry, some badly rolled cigars, a battered iconograph... and a couple of shiny golden coins. The tourist's eyes glazed over, which was probably why he didn't notice something fishy going on overhead. Nor the fingers reaching from a shadow and deftly removing one of the coins.
"Ouch..." he muttered. "All the times that's happened, and you still end up with a headache. Where was I?"
Barely audible over the background noise of the city, a few grunting noises drifting from an upstairs open window. The box, despite the noose strangely attached to it, running between it and that very window, wasn't moving.
"Uh... you were just about to... give me a reward?"
Fourweed removed his tourist hat and rubbed his head, wincing at the forming bump. His eyes slowly refocused.
"...Was I..? To him of al... Oh, yes, I was! How could I have forgotten?"
"Search me, Sir!" the scruffy one responded, an undisguised gleam coming to his eyes as the tourist (almost hesitantly it seemed) handed him the remaining coin.
"Out of curiosity, where is the gate?"
...the scruff, busy fingering his new acquisition (while using his peripheral vision to keep watch on various shadows in what can best be referred to as "pouncing range"), took a moment to notice he'd just been asked a question.
"What's that? Rate? No... Ate... not likely... Gate? What gate?"
Fourwind looked at him with a suspicious "you can't be this stupid" expression. Luckily for him, the scruff's education (Thieves Guild, journeyman – failed on grounds of "no common sense") didn't extend to reading faces, beyond the old "happy", "scared" and "run away now" expressions. And anyway, he was more concerned that Fourweed might look up. He needn't have worried, because Fourweed was too busy staring at him.
So then, events above. Another lasso appeared from the window just to the left of the first, but the box was having none of it... but it was growling.
"Gate. You know, big... (he idley picked up and consulted the book) ...wooden thing. Fits in that arch there."
"Oh, that. Off for repairs Sir, just like the one at the other end of the city. Can't say I'm upset. Last time we had a fire and they closed it ta flood the city, I nearly suffocated. So, uh, anything else ya need, or should I just continue with my... uh, business?"
Fourweed again missed the furtiveness evident in the man's stance. To be fair, this may have been because his attention was entirely back on the book.
"Actually, I do have one other question. There's this place I'd like to get to. Got a good review in one of the books I'm reading. Could you give me directions to the Shades? (4)"
"The what?"
"Shades."
The scruff looked at him as if he was mad. Again, Fourweed failed to notice this, head still in the book. A certain "Ms. Barkers book of Faux Facts – Travel Edition".
"You see, this guide book has all the details on places you'd be likely to need... but they seem to have forgotten to put a map in. Now, I know that I'm at the Water Gate, and I know that the Shades are a stone's throw from the Unseen University (5), but I have no idea where that is."
You could see (providing your name wasn't Fourweed and you weren't busy readying a pen and paper procured from goodness knows where) that the cogs in the scruff's brain were alternating between "tell him the truth, we'll be rich soon enough anyway" and "give 'im directions to the nearest Johnson and hope it's up to form". Eventually, with another nervous glance upwards and noting the growling box had finally yielded a couple of inches, he settled on the cruel option. Giving directions to the Shades.
"Well, we're on Washer Way. Now to get ta the Shades keep following the river down past the bridge and the Unreal Estate, you'll reach the Water Bridge and Sator Square. Now, you're not too far from the University here, so don't stick around unless you want a talking to. Head away from the river ta the Plaza of Broken Moons, hang a right down The Maul ta reach the Turnwise Broadway. Now from there...
The box moved. In a flash it was gone, streaking into the first window. Cue the muffled shouting, quickly joined by screaming from the next window over. Not that Fourweed noticed, lost in his direction taking.
"When ya reach the end of Cable street, cross Treacle Mine Road, and you're there! ...Can I go now? I think I hear me dear departed ma calling."
Fourweed didn't even look up. "Yes, that should be enough... reach the end of Cable street, cross Tre- was that Treacle Mine, or Treacle Nine?"
He raised his head to find the scruff had vanished. "Funny. I could have sworn he was right next to me... dear departed ma? I know things work differently over here, but that's ridiculous!"
I WOULDN'T SAY THAT. commented a hooded figure stalking past, sending a nearby cat into hysterics. But not Fourweed, because Fourweed didn't notice him. There was a good reason for this. Unless you happen to be a cat, a practitioner of magic (and let's not get into those silly debates over whether the witches even use magic), in a heightened state of awareness, or just plain dead, Death will forever remain unnoticed by you. That isn't to say that you won't see him, just that your subconscious brain will think "Oh, a tall, walking skeleton with a scythe. That can't possibly exist, so I don't think I'll mention it to (insert name here)." Never mind the Noble Dragon that terrorised the city, the Gargoyles, the intelligent pigeons (how is that possible again?) and all the other impossibilities that keep walking past.
"Oh, never mind. I'll figure it out later... where's my iconograph? And my laundry? And my directions? I'm sure I was just holding them!"
Had Fourweed been paying attention, he'd have noticed a couple of shadows snigger. It was so easy to relieve a newcomer of their worldly pos- BOP!
...And it was so easy for unlicensed thieves to be taught the error of their ways. Not that Fourweed would realise this, because the actual Thieves Guild members who had just shown up saw no reason why they should return the pilfered goods. And they likewise saw no reason why they should bother pinching the "guidebook" that the first lot had correctly labelled as "more trouble than it's worth". Gathering their freshly acquired spoils together, they slipped off unnoticed by anyone... unless you counted Death, who had just reappeared from a nearby door. He paused, and watched the tourist from a distance.
"Well, there's the guidebook anyway. Now, where's the Baggage? Baggage!"
A noise from above finally got him to look up. The Baggage lazily drifted from a window, making a sound that had more than a passing resemblance to a burp.
"Ah, there you are! What were you doing in there?"
"URP!"
"What? Don't tell me you were hungry! You're a box, you don't need to eat!"
TELL THAT TO THE PAIR OF SKELETONS IN THERE, muttered Death, as only an anthropomorphic personification can. With a voice that is more felt than heard, and is frequently referred to by those "in the know" as similar to the grinding of age old tombstones, the achievement only becomes that much greater. Not that Fourweed's brain was letting any of that past its personal can't exist, can't exist, can't exist barriers.
"Mind taking the book back?" the tourist enquired of his box. It responded with the fairly definitive answer of dropping another few Rhinu onto his head, and flapping off, only stopping to gobble another dozy pigeon before turning a corner and out of sight.
Fourweed stared after it. "Typical. After I stopped the shop owner from burning you too!"
And with that, he bent to pick up the Rhinu (actually getting them before the lurking thieves this time) hoisted the book, and stalked off muttering. Death watched him go.
ANOTHER BIT OF SAPIENT PEARWOOD. LOOSE IN A CITY. I EXPECT MY WORKLOAD WILL BE INCREASING SHORTLY. As he pondered this, the Death of Pigeons (6) swooped past, following the trail of the Baggage in a suicidal attempt to reclaim its captured pigeon souls.
I WONDER, WHO ATTENDS TO US ANTHROPOMORTHIC'S?
Publishers Notes
In hindsight, Fourweed didn't have too many similarities to Twoflower. The name, sure, but personality wise he was quite different. From the accounts that we have so far managed to retrieve, it seems that he was mostly going through the motions of how he thought tourists were supposed to act (an opinion derived from Twoflower's writings). This is also quite possibly the reason he has "the Baggage", another attempt to be as similar to Twoflower as possible.
Underneath that, he appears to be a rather cynical young man, but one who is nonetheless out to see the world. It will be interesting to see how this different approach fares as his adventures unfold.
Footnotes
(1) Yes, well, having a new emperor may have had something to do with that. The Silver Horde, and especially the infamous Cohen, were Barbarians, Vagabonds, Wanderers, and confinement didn't sit too well with them. The change in policy was actually fairly well received, at least, by those who actually believed the news. The Heavenly Guard on the other hand, were a little annoyed at the cessation of normal duties. Their retaliation was (Shock, Horror!) threatening a strike.
(2) Common plants to be sure (particularly the Knotweed, as anyone who's seen a piece of it will tell you). But not on the Discworld. A lack of magical resistance maybe, or perhaps the versions produced by the Shades have other tricks up their… uh, I'll leave that sentence unfinished.
(3) What the guidebook fails to mention (yes, there is missing information… but honestly, how much can you fit in one book again?), is that what the watchman will be helping to do is… pick up the pieces. And call for an undertaker if you're lucky.
(4) This can be explained away as Fourwind believing a little too much of "What I did on my Holiday". It certainly didn't come from his guidebook. No, not a chance. And anyone who tells you otherwise is an idiot.
(5) If that stone was magically powered. Hence the Shades are within a stone's throw of the University, but not the other way round.
(6) There was always something you missed. Not all that long ago, certain… interferers (if you quite rightfully ignored their claims that they were only attempting to streamline things. With a combine harvester) had put Death into an early retirement. Amidst the chaos that followed, a host of new Deaths arose in an attempt to plug the gap, one for every species bar the new one for humans, who was noticeably tardy… and an omnicidal maniac. In other words, hardly someone you want in charge of your eternal soul.
Naturally, the Death we know (love is optional) had to reassert himself, so he (despite being an anthropomorphic personification of a vague genderless force of nature, there is a definite sense that "he" is the correct word) sent the new Death packing and reabsorbed all of the animal Deaths back into himself. All, that is, but the Death of Rats – who he felt was possible companion material, the Death of Fleas – who was, frankly, attached to one of the more tiresome parts of the job, and welcome to it, and the Death of Pigeons – who he just plain missed. Despite successive attempts to correct this oversight, the Death of Pigeons remains loose… this could be something to do with almost exclusively chasing Ankh Morpork pigeons, and learning not a few devious tricks in the process.