Small medium, large headache c3

The heat and oppressive heaviness of the air grew ever stronger inside number 667 Elm Street.

The two revived Apache war chiefs, Golathlé and Dasoda-Hae, stood with sweat trickling down their faces and bodies, bodies which had formerly belonged to an accountant caslled Mr Milgram, and a self-styled psychic investigator called Mr Pettigrew, who was now studying all the psychic phenomena he could ever have hoped to avoid at rather close quarters. To them, this was like the sweat lodge, reviving and cleansing.

Somewhere, Milgram and Pettigrew were still alive, in essence: in all probability it wasn't a particularly nice somewhere, and their respective psychic essences were in all probability screaming with fear and pain and terror.

Their bodies now resonated to the extraordinarily powerful morphic fields of long-dead Apache chiefs, men who in life had all the primitive barbarian vigour of Cohen the Barbarian and none of his self-control or fundamental restraint. The old morphic fields hadn't stood a hope in hell of maintaining Pettigrew or Milgram's shape and likenesses: the borrowed bodies had obediently morphed into forms more pleasing to their new owners, and a timebomb was ticking. For a fundamentally thin and weedy accountant to be transformed into a beefy, broad-chested and rather squat Apache chief, the transformation required more power or energy than the original body could comfortably provide for very long. In short, Pettigrew and Milgram's bodies were dying, and within a few days the spirits occupying them would need to look for new hosts.

The women, young Ethylene Lewisham and mrs Agnes Cookham, hung feebly in their bonds, now beyond fear, soaked in sweat and traumatized into silence.

And the Indian witch-doctor Misquamacus, similarly occupying and burning up the body of the medium Daphne Moleclencher, danced and capered around the room, to the sound of the unseen drummers pounding out a heart-beat- fast tempo, to the chant of

T'kela la! T'kela la! Cthulu F'tha'gn! T'kela la!

"They come!" he howled.

The Wendigo! Our elder brothers and sisters! They are here!"

One wall of the séance room had become a glowing, rippling, silver screen, like mercury twisted through ninety degrees. And now things were probing through it, like dark creatures bred in a filthy pit seeking to break out of their placental sacks. Long spindly protuberances that might have been legs, that might have been feelers, that might have been jaws, probed and prodded and eventually ripped through the mercury. The stench of carrion flesh accompanied them. Agnes Cookham vomited.

Misquamacus saw this and laughed.

"We welcome you, older brothers! We greet you, older sisters! A sacrifice is arranged for thee…"

He indicated the two hanging women with his pointing bone.

"Gather your strength!"

Two of the things had broken through, at present the size of Shetland ponies and looking like something that might have had woodlouse in its ancestry. But they were perceptibly growing, and stood there, trembling as if newborn, gaining their strength. A third was breaking through the quicksilver barrier.

Then Misquamacus did an unexpected thing. He reached into a leather bag at his waist and threw a handful of dust and plant heads at the screen. It exploded into cold flame, fire that gave no heat, trapping the thing that was trying to get through. It screamed and writhed in the cold fire.

"Misquamacus?" asked the Yawner, confused.

"It was necessary! We have returned to rule our world again, do you remember? Do you want them ALL coming through the door? Now we run! These two and the white man will occupy each others' attention while we slip away! There is great magic near here, I feel it!"

The three of them raced for the front door.

They will see us in different shapes to these, were the last words the women heard of the Indian magic-man.

Under the table, the dwarf Bjorn Pettistrop looked cautiously through a gap in the curtain Daphne Moleclencher had prudishly mounted there to cover its legs.(1) He gripped his axe tighter, and waited for the time…

Outside in the street, a noise arose, part cheer and part appreciation of good street theatre. The door of Number 667 had opened, and a woman and two men were seen to run into the street, pause, and take stock of their surroundings.

They looked just like Daphne Moleclencher, Stanley Pettigrew and Joseph Milgram.

Hold your fire!" Ridcully bellowed at his wizards. His eyes narrowed. Something was wrong here, if only he could just see past what was apparently there…

The trio made a decision, and started to run up Elm Street, in the direction of the docks. A Watchman ran towards them.

"Madam! Do you need assistance?" he asked, innocently, wondering why the woman was impatiently waving him off.

Mrs Cake tugged insistently at Ridcully's robes.

"That ain't Daphne!" she shouted. "Well, it is and it isn't. It's something that's took her over!"

Mrs Cake! Mr Wizard! They're the bloody Apaches! Can't you see? They're only using those shapes! yelled the Indian One-Man Bucket from the psychic plane.


Watch constable Ernie Meadows was only doing as he'd been taught, in dealing with helping confused victims of hostage-taking, massacres, natural disasters, and so on. It was a great pity for him that Watch training did not, as a rule, cover supernatural disasters.

Racing to offer assistance and a nice warm blanket to survivors of whatever had been going on in there, he was consternated (although very briefly) when the confused middle-aged lady who he was trying to wrap in a blanket lashed out with such force he was flung into the air and impacted several yards up the side of a building thirty feet away. His last conscious thought was "that's very strange" , as his body flopped down and came to rest on hard unyielding cobblestones, to a general "Oooooh…" from the crowd.

ERNEST MEADOWS?

"Yes?"

Ernie sat up and rubbed his head. Everything felt strange.

A black-clad figure stood in front of him.

AREN'T YOU GLAD YOU WERE IN AN OCCUPATION WITH A BURIAL CLUB AND A WIDOWS AND ORPHANS' FUND?

"What happened to me?"

A POWERFUL RED INDIAN SORCERER HAS RETURNED FROM THE GRAVE. HE IS INTENT ON RETURNING TO HOWONDALAND TO GATHER HIS TRIBE AND RESTORE THE GREATNESS OF THE APACHE PEOPLE.

"And she killed me?"

HE. ALTHOUGH THAT IS NOT STRICTLY ACCURATE. HE BEGAN MALE, BUT HAD TO SURRENDER CERTAIN... BODILY PARTS... AS TESTAMENT TO HIS PACT WITH THE DARK ENTITIES WHO GAVE HIM POWER. IT MAKES IT EASIER FOR HIM TO OCCUPY A FEMALE BODY. YOU WERE UNLUCKY ENOUGH TO BE THERE, I'M AFRAID. AND IN THE APACHE LANGUAGE, THE WORD FOR "NOT-AN-APACHE" IS COGNATE WITH WORDS LIKE "TARGET", "VICTIM", AND "KILL ON SIGHT"

"Oh"

NOT A NICE PEOPLE, I'M AFRAID. NOW IF YOU'LL EXCUSE ME…

Death turned and stalked off. The spirit of Ernest Meadows watched Carrot kneel by his corpse, then sadly shake his head and cover the body with the blanket he had been trying to offer to the strange woman. He sighed, and evaporated into his new world.


In using magic against Meadows, Misquamacus had inadvertently exposed himself to the wizards. He barely had time to throw up a shield against the converging power of half a dozen staffs; the impact threw him to his knees, but he recovered quickly, pointed his bone(3),and aimed an imprecation at Ridcully, who he judged to be the most powerful of the fat white men. Now it was Ridcully's time to throw out a last-ditch defensive spell, although the force of the magic thrown by the Indian sent him sprawling on his back. He was closely followed by Recent Runes and the Senior Wrangler, as the entity followed through its advantage with more magic. The Dean, hyped up with adrenaline, was cheerfully firing back, whooping "Take that, injun!"

Damn cowboy, thought Ridcully, as he struggled back to consciousness.

Meanwhile, in the guise of Pettigrew and Milgram, the two Apache chiefs sought to blend in with the crowd and make it towards…. The words of Misquamacus appeared in their heads.

Make for water. The docks. Big ships. Find one bound for Howondaland. I will join you presently.

"Get them too!" shrieked Mrs Cake. "They're getting' away!""

The Dean, one of the old-time monsters of wizardry who required no encouragement to use a staff as the Gods intended it to be used, lined them up and fired. The crimson fire had no effect except to strip away whatever magic it was that enabled the two chiefs to be seen as Pettigrew and Milgram: in their place were two short, broad, muscular, copper-skinned Red Indians with lank black hair held back with hide bands.

Confused, exposed, the two ran for cover.

And then the front of no 667 erupted outwards in a shower of masonry, splintered wood, and broken glass. The crowd roared its approval. Then screamed with fear and revulsion as the first of the stinking, malformed, corpse-white, woodlouse-like creatures stumbled blinking into the light. It had grown to the size of a small elephant, and was still growing. Behind it, a second one was shambling into the light, shaking bricks and splintered windows off itself. Incredibly, a small determined body was on its back, hanging on for dear life with one hand, wielding an axe with the other, and shrieking

"T'dr'duzk b'hazg t't!!" with every impact.

The forward creature was immediately hit by powerful bursts of magic from the wizards' staffs, but despite being surrounded in a coruscating haze of eight-colour rainbow light, with billiard balls, doves, and Flags of all Nations being called into existence from the void, this had no perceptible effect. Indeed, the things seemed to be growing larger still.

"Get them to stop!" Ponder Stibbons screamed from the command post. An overworked thaumometer was pouring black smoke as he threw it away.

"Cease fire! Stop! Desist, you fellows!" Ridcully screamed, loudly.

"Why?" said the Dean, petulantly. "I'm enjoying this!"

"Because I'm the sodding Arch-chancellor, that's why!" Ridcully bellowed. "And besides, these are Things from the Dungeon Dimensions! They bloody well feed on magic! You're helping them grow bigger!"

"T'dr'duzk b'hazg t't!!" came the bellowing roar again. "T'dr'duzk b'hazg t't!!"

"Fellows" Recent Runes quavered. "That isn't some… you know, eldrich summoning designed to bring more chthonic horrors from the void, is it?"

Ridcully was impressed. For the first time he could remember, somebody had attempted to use the word "chthonic" in everyday spoken discourse. He'd considered it a word safe for use only by highly experienced stunt-linguists.

"No!" Sergeant Littlebottom of the watch, said, aghast. "There's a dwarf up there on the back of one of those things! Look! And he's using he most terrible battle-cry of all…"

"Today is a good day for somebody else to die" translated Captain Carrot, suddenly pale.

He turned and beckoned he crowd, shouting in Dwarvish

"What are you waiting for? One of our people is in trouble here! He's fighting the thing!"

To illustrate his point, he leapt forward, drawing his sword, and took a swing at an unearthly leg. The blade cut deep, drawing ichor. The creature reared and screamed, an oddly high-pitched noise.

Then, one by one, axe-bearing dwarves stepped forward. Without a word being spoken, they formed a closing circle around each beast, hemming it in, chopping and hewing at its legs.

"That was the tactic for fighting dragons in the old days" Carrot explained to Ridcully and the wizards. "Stay away from the fire, but prevent it from moving and turning, and give it no room to move."(4)

The tactic worked: the two monsters found themselves stuck in the middle of a horde of battle-frenzied Dwarfs, with no room to move. But Carrot and the wizards were watching a disturbing phenomena: for every leg hacked through , a new one appeared to be regenerating. Meanwhile, wounded or dazed dwarfs were being carefully assisted to the rear, although more were taking their places.


"They'll never win like this!" Carrot mused.

"I really don't know if there's anything else we can do, lad" Ridcully said, pushing his wizard's hat up and mopping his brow. "Those damn things thrive on magic."

A couple of senior Assassins had joined the throng, and were coolly discussing the practicalities of how you inhume a twenty-foot long carnivorous woodlouse that can regenerate itself.

"Lots of salt, maybe?" one inquired, as the mandibles of the thing swept up a screaming dwarf who was still wielding his axe.

"Works on slugs, kind of thing?" replied the other.

"Or maybe boiling water poured down the entrance to the nest?"

"You'd need a lot of boiling water!" the other one remarked, drily

"And I wouldn't like to live in a garden with that sort of nest!"

Cheery suddenly picked her ears up.

"I've got it!" she yelled. "Captain Carrot, can you promise me an amnesty? If things appear on the street that Mr Vimes doesn't want to see on the street?"

"Well, he is in Sto Helit for that Interpol conference…" Carrot mused.

"OK, Cheery. As acting Watch commander, I trust your judgement. Whatever you have in mind, use it and there'll be no comeback. Just this once, mind you!"

"Thank you, sir!"

Cheery ran off, grabbing a passing Dwarf and speaking quickly and rapidly to him. The Dwarf looked apprehensively at Carrot. Carrot nodded, reassuringly. He raced off with Cheery.

So that's what she's got in mind…. Carrot thought. Clever.

Meanwhile, the three Indians were considering their escape. Crowds were blocking Elm Street on both sides, whilst the Watch barriers were keeping the intervening space clear. They were currently disregarded, but it was clear this would not last for ever.

"This is a white man's city! We are useless here! " Dasoda-Hae, Mangas Colorados, complained to Misquamacus. "we must escape it."

"Perhaps, while they are distracted by the Wendigo, we can enter one of those houses and pass into a quieter place on the other side, where our steps will be unimpeded and our passage unseen?" said the Yawner.

Misquamacus leant on his bone, lost in thought. He was aware hat by breaking the agreement with the Wendigo that had allowed him and the chiefs to return to Earth, there could be no going back, and the revenge of the Wendigo, should he end up in their netherworld again, would be too terrible to contemplate. Yet he could not risk sharing the world with them: he knew hat sooner or later, they would renege on any agreement to leave the red man's hunting grounds alone. Should the paler-skinned, brown-skinned and black-skinned humans all be sacrificed to them, it was no great loss. In their time, all three skins, the brown, the paleskins, and black-skinned buffalo-men had tried to wrest from the Indian what was his: let them suffer. But the Indians were his people.

Meanwhile, the Dwarfs pressed in on their target. The rise and fall of their axes sent the echoes of chopping noises resounding around a hushed street. The high-pitched angry scream of the Wendigo, and the Dwarvish battlecries, punctuated his thought.

A new Dwarvish battlecry rent the air:

Dzj'eronimo! Dzj'eronimo!

The Yawner sat up and smiled. They were calling his name out there. That was.. gratifying.(5)


Meanwhile, Otto Chriek, like any photographer who has been in the presence of paranormal activity, was discovering how bloody frustratingly difficult it is to get good shots. All his imps seemed to have huddled themselves into terrified bundles inside the iconographs, and were resolutely refusing to unhuddle and do their job.

He voiced a spiky oath in Borogravian, stopped thumping the iconograph boxes in frustration, and realised there was nothing for it but the experimental silver nitrate film camera. At least my salamanders do not appear to be affected. The sky has grown pleasingly dark as if a storm is in the promise. But I have never seen those anvil-shaped clouds before.

"Mr Chriek?"

It was Carrot, walking towards him, but skimming his eyes over the pages of a book, looking for all the world like an actor learning his lines.

"How may I assist, Captain?"

"I have something to try which I believe may work. But it needs your assistance. When I call for you to do so, can you ignite every salamander you have, please? Try not to do it before I call you." Carrot paused. " You do have your personal remedy handy?"

"How kind of you to ask, Captain. Yes, about my neck on a string, as alvays".

Carrot nodded.

"And… purely for the article in the Times, you understand. That book offers the secret of defeating these things?"

"I believe it does, Mr Chriek. I'm just off to fight their leader now."

"An entity six wizards could not defeat?"

"Ah. I'm not a wizard. Just a man who walks."

Carrot tipped his hat to Otto, and walked away, in the direction of Misquamacus.

He cupped his hands and called

"Misquamacus, a.k.a. the so-called Master of Manitous, a.k.a. the North Wind, you are under arrest along with your co-conspirators, identity currently unknown, for conspiracy to import banned supernatural entities from the Dungeon Dimensions with intent to endanger life and property. You are also charged with the murder of Watch Lance-Constable Ernest Meadows and criminal damage to number six hundred and sixty-seven Elm Street, Ankh-Morpork. Please give yourself up and come quietly!"


Cheery put the word out on the Dwarf bush telegraph as to what was needed. and assured her people that the devices she required were subject to temporary amnesty by order of Captain Head-Banger. Far more quickly than she'd imagined, a dozen Dwarfs appeared, dressed as deep-down knockermen for their personal protection, each wearing the wicked patent device for dispersing firedamp in deep mines.

"Please follow me" she said, leading them back to where at least two hundred dwarves were milling around the Wendigo-creatures, each trying to get a telling blow in, and as often as not impeding each other with the press of bodies and the bloodlust.

One dwarf at the back looked around and nudged another, who did a classic double-take. Very soon space opened for the new Dwarfs to spread out, six to a creature. There was deadly silence, apart from the Dopplering cry of a dwarf currently ceasing to cling precariously on to the back of a best, who from his vantage point had seen what was coming and wanted to get out of its way by the shortest possible route.

Dwarf and axe fell twenty feet, landed awkwardly, looked around dazedly for a moment, then was motioned quickly to the rear by one of the knockermen. Bjorn Pettistrop needed no further encouragement, picking up his axe, and running to Cheery, who seemed like the nearest sensible person to speak to.

She tried not to wrinkle her nose at the charnel-smell of the creature that had transferred itself to the luckless Dwarf, who looked at her, chest heaving, eyes wide with near hysteria.

"All I wanted. " he began, "All I bloody well ever wanted, right, was to find out where Grandfather buried the bloody gold…" and then he fell face forward, exhausted.

As cheery called for assistance, the lead knockerman nodded to the others, and switched his ignition on.

Within seconds, the semi-crippled Wendigo were two masses of screaming writhing flame. The threat from that quarter was over, for now.

"Fire!" said Ridcully, triumphantly, to the senior Assassin. "That's what bloody kills 'em!."

YOU BELONG DEAD. Death intoned, swinging his scythe twice.

"Fire. Of course" said the Assassin, trying hard to look wise after the event.

"Fire. Definitely." agreed his colleague. "We could use kit like that at the Guild…"

"Don't even think it!" Cheery said. "At least, not where Mr Vimes can get to hear!"

"Damn' shame the Guild doesn't recruit Dwarfs!" said the senior Assassin, thoughtfully. "Shoe-in for the Teatime Prize, otherwise. Most creative inhumation of a supernatural entity!"


The three Indian spirits straightened up and looked threatening.

"You dare to impede me, impudent human?" Misquamacus said, as Carrot looked him in the eye, or rather, the eye-holes of the mask.

"Do not kill him, great one" urged Mangas Coloradas. "This body that lodges me is of poor quality. I can feel it wearing out. That body would make a fine replacement!"

"No," said Carrot. "That was just to get your attention. I challenge you."

"You challenge me, pitiful white human?" The spirit laughed, hollow, echoing, laughter within the box of the mask.

"Yes. I do. You are aware of the legend of the North Wind and the Walker?"

It is said that not long after the Creation, the People were ensnared and held captive by the evil wiles of the North wind, a cold wicked spirit with no love for the human race.

One alone escaped, he who is called the Walker, the chief and champion of his people. Coming back from a far journey, the Walker found his camp desolate, the bivouacs empty, the fires cold, and the People gone.

It is said that the Walker deliberate long and hard, and then set off to find and confront the North Wind. Finding the evil one, the Walker then challenged him to a duel.

"You have the right" Misquamacus conceded, studying Carrot intently. "You are indeed the Walker and champion of your people. We will fight the stick-fight."

And the North Wind held out his hand to offer a stick to the Walker. The Walker saw it was a human femur, and refused it.

"Not that one" said Carrot.

Misquamacus shrugged.

"Very well, it will all be the same in the end."

The thigh-bone disappeared. And two five-foot lengths of sturdy wooden pole appeared, of clean wood grown and nurtured in Mother Earth.

And they fought long and hard, and the Walker grew weary, but the North Wind remained tireless. The Walker took grievous blows and was hurt.

Carrot sank to his knees, aware of at least one broken rib. Somewhere in the silence, he heard Angua stifle a sob. He painfully got to his feet again. In this Indian sport that was and was not like quarterstaff fighting, or even Morris dancing as practiced in Lancre, there can be only one winner. Cheered on by Mangas Colarados and Geronimo, Misquamacus danced lightly forward to seek to deliver a killing blow.

The Rain Goddess heard the plea of the Walker, and sent a storm from her great flat-headed thunderclouds, those which soar high over the mesas in the rainy season. For know ye that the North Wind has no shadow visible to human eyes. But in the flash of the lightning sent by the Goddess…

Carrot was knocked to his knees again. He felt the first drop of rain. With the breath let to him he shouted

"Now, Otto! Now!"

And a million lightning flashes went off at once. Misquamacus and the two Indians shrieked with agony in the intense actinic light. Otto Chriek's emergency b-vord in a phial dropped to the cobblestones, where it shattered.

the shadow of the North Wind became visible. With his remaining strength, the Walker brought down the point of his staff and pinned the North Wind to the ground, held there by his shadow, in the power of the wood nurtured by the Earth Goddess.

And Carrot brought the pole down, end-first, onto the suddenly visible shadow, making the North Wind his prisoner.

The North wind sued for mercy, as a young girl or a prisoner from the effete Navaho nation. And the People were freed, and the essence of the North Wind was broken and divided that he amy not walk the world again with his old strength.

Misquamacus was trapped. He felt his power draining away. Already weakened and blinded by the light, that part of him which was sustaining the spirits of the two chiefs withdrew. They screamed, and were gone from the world. The bodies they vacated appeared to twist and shrink, becoming two rather weedy middle-aged white men again.

YOU TOO BELONG DEAD. YOU WILL GO TO THE APPROPRIATE HAPPY HUNTING GROUNDS WHERE YOU WILL FIND IT HARD TO ESCAPE A SECOND TIME. I HAVE RESERVATIONS ABOUT LEAVING EITHER OF YOU IN THE WORLD, AND FRANKLY, SO SHOULD YOU.

This left only Misquamacus, diminished, enfeebled, unable to twist off the pole that was nailing his shadow to the earth.

"Give us Daphne Moleclencher back" said Carrot, "and we will take that in mitigation of your crimes".

NO NEED, CAPTAIN CARROT. Said Death.

"I can see you, sir? I must be more badly wounded than I thought."

NO. YOU WILL LIVE. TRUST ME ON THIS THE WIZARDS CAN SEE ME. IN THIS ENHANCED MAGICAL FIELD, A LITTLE OF IT HAS RUBBED OFF ON YOU, I THINK.

MISQUAMACUS, HOWEVER, I FIRST TOOK OVER FOUR HUNDRED YEARS AGO. HE HAS A HABIT OF RETURNING. IF IT WERE NORMAL REINCARNATION I WOULDN'T MIND, BUT HE FINDS SOME QUITE INVENTIVE WAYS OF COMING BACK.

MISQUAMACUS, YOU ARE COMING WITH ME. YOU WERE DEFEATED, I HAVE THE RIGHT.

The scythe swung. Carrot blinked. Where the Indian had been, there was a tired looking middle-aged woman.

"Mrs Cake, will you look after her? Thank you. The Patrician may yet want to speak to her, and I don't somehow think he'll require a Caroc reading."

Carrot let himself be steered by Angua towards medical attention. There was a distant cheer: two women had been found alive in the ruins of number 667 and had been dug out by Dwarfs.

Carrot smiled through his pain.

Just another day in the Ankh-Morpork City Watch. But a funeral to arrange and a report to make to Mr Vimes when he returned. Supported by Ponder Stibbons and Angua, he went to find first aid.


(1) And of course to conceal the knocking and table-turning mechanism she resorted to on days when the spirit world was to busy to want to communicate. Like all good psychics, she had to wing it occasionally. (2)

(2) Really good psychics like Mrs Cake didn't need to. Much to her dismay, as life would have been so much easier if she were merely a good psychic.

(3) It was a femur that had formerly belonged to a Yaqui medicine man who had come second in a magical duel. Indian medicine men don't mess around.

(4) As described in Tolkein's The Silmarillion. Of course, this tactic only works on flightless dragons...

(5) The Yawner is best known in American Indian history asGeronimo. In Dwarvish, Dzj'eronimo! means "Here we go, here we go, here we go.."