“He does, doesn’t he? That was the Dean,” said Windle.
“They called me their good woman,” said Mrs. Cake. “They told me to be about my business. Don’t see why I should go around helpin’ wizards who call me a good woman when I was only trying to help.”
“I’m afraid wizards don’t often listen,” said Windle. “I never listened for one hundred and thirty years.”
“Why not?”
“In case I heard what rubbish I was saying, I expect. What’s happening, Mrs. Cake? You can tell me. I may be a wizard, but I’m a dead one.”
“Well…”
“Schleppel told me it was all due to life force.”
“It’s buildin’ up, see?”
“What does that mean?”
“There’s more’f it than there should be. You get”—she waved her hands vaguely—“when things are like in a scales only not the same on both sides…”
“Imbalance?”
Mrs. Cake, who looked as though she was reading a distant script, nodded.
“One of them things, yeah…see, sometimes it just happens a little bit, and you get ghosts, because the life is not in the body anymore but it hasn’t gone…and you get less of it in the winter, because it sort of drains away, and it comes back in the spring…and some things concentrate it…”
Modo the University gardener hummed a little tune as he wheeled the strange trolley into his private little area between the Library and the High Energy Magic* building, with a load of weeds bound for composthood.
There seemed to be a lot of excitement around at the moment. It was certainly interesting, working with all these wizards.
Teamwork, that’s what it was. They looked after the cosmic balance, the universal harmonies and the dimensional equilibriums, and he saw to it that the aphids stayed off the roses.
There was a metallic tinkle. He peered over the top of the heap of weeds.
“Another one?”
A gleaming metal wire basket on little wheels sat on the path.
Maybe the wizards had bought it for him? The first one was quite useful, although it was a little bit hard to steer; the little wheels seemed to want to go in different directions. There was probably a knack.
Well, this one would be handy for carrying seed trays in. He pushed the second trolley aside and heard, behind him, a sound which, if it had to be written down, and if he could write, he would probably have written down as: glop.
He turned around, saw the biggest of the compost heaps pulsating in the dark, and said, “Look what I brought you for your tea!”
And then he saw that it was moving.
“Some places, too…” said Mrs. Cake.
“But why should it build up?” said Windle.
“It’s like a thunderstorm, see? You know how you get that prickly feelin’ before a storm? That’s what’s happening now.”
“Yes, but why, Mrs. Cake?”
“Well…One-Man-Bucket says nothing’s dying.”
“What?”
“Daft, isn’t it? He says lots of lives are ending, but not going away. They’re just staying here.”