Headology – and the Holy Ghost

Everyone knows and loves Terry Pratchett the satirist.

But once in a while, I read one of his books – particularly an earlier one – and remember there’s also Terry Pratchett, the fantasist.

In particular, a recent re-reading of his “Lords and Ladies” reminds me that Pratchett really knows fantasy and feels it all the way down to the bones of the Earth, or at least to the bones of the elephants supporting the Discworld on the back of the Great A’Tuin.

Witness the denouement in Lords and Ladies:

“Oh, yes. You know I never entered your circle. I could see where it led. So I had to learn. All my life. The hard way. And the hard way’s pretty hard, but not so hard as the easy way. I learned. From the trolls and the dwarfs and from people. Even from pebbles.”

The Queen lowered her voice.

“You will not be killed,” she whispered. “I promise you that. You’ll be left alone, to dribble and gibber and soil yourself and wander from door to door for scraps., And they’ll say: there goes the mad old woman.”

“They say that now,” said Granny Weatherwax. “They think I can’t hear.”

“But inside,” said the Queen, ignoring this, “inside, I’ll keep just a part of you which looks out through your eyes and knows what you’ve become.”

“And there will be none to help,” said the Queen. She was closer now, her eyes pinpoints of hatred. “No charity for the mad old woman. YHou’ll see what you have to eat to stay alive. And we’ll be with you all the time inside your head, just to remind you. You could have been the great one, there was so much you could have done. And inside you’ll know it, and you’ll plead all the dark night long for the silence of the elves.”

The Queen wasn’t expecting it. Granny Weatherwax’s hand shot out, pieces of rope falling away from it, and slapped her across the face.

“You threaten me with this?” she said. “Me? When I am becoming old?”

The elf woman’s hand rose slowly to the livid mark across her cheek. The elves raised their bows, waiting for an order.

“Go back,” said Granny. “You call yourself some kind of goddess and you know nothing, madam, nothing. What don’t die can’t live. What don’t live can’t change. What don’t change can’t learn. The smallest creature that dies in the grass knows more than you. You’re right. I’m older. You’ve lived longer than me, but I’m older than you. And better’n you. And, madam, that ain’t hard.”

Headology. That’s the magic of Pratchett that I appreciate. Granny Weatherwax has never needs spells (though sometimes she’s had to get along with a bag of Nanny Ogg’s boiled sweets). The magic of Granny Weatherwax is that she’s lived. It’s that she’s old.

Oh, to be old.

And secondarily – and this probably would annoy Pratchett – I see a good level of Christian and even Mormon theology in this passage, indeed, in this entire book. Pratchett the Humanist has come to the theological realization that is perfectly in line with the theology I believe, in that the Devil wants us to see him and his followers as far, far better than we – and it’s the old (the old in experience, the old in knowing the Spirit of the Lord) who can see the Queen for what she really is – an elf-woman, bent on our destruction for her amusement and delight. That’s the Devil’s goal, always has been.

So blessed be the old in spirit, and blessed be the tellers of fantasy, who convince us to believe the little lies, so that we may in turn believe the big ones.

I WILL GIVE YOU A LIFT BACK, said Death, after a while.

“Thank you. Now . . . tell me . . .”

WHAT WOULD HAVE HAPPENED IF YOU HADN’T SAVED [THE HOGFATHER]?

“Yes! The sun would have risen just the same, yes?”

NO.

“Oh, come on! You can’t expect me to believe that! It’s an astronomical fact!”

THE SUN WOULD NOT HAVE RISEN.

She turned on him.

“It’s been a long night, Grandfather! I’m tired and I need a bath! I don’t need silliness!”

THE SUN WOULD NOT HAVE RISEN.

“Really? Then what would have happened, pray?”

A MERE BALL OF FLAMING GAS WOULD HAVE ILLUMINATED THE WORLD.

They walked in silence for a moment.

“Ah,” said Susan dully. “Trickery with words. I would have thought you’d have been more literal minded than that.”

I AM NOTHING IF NOT LITERAL-MINDED TRICKERY WITH WORDS IS WHERE HUMANS LIVE.

“All right,” said Susan. “I’m not stupid. You’re saying humans need . . . fantasies to make life bearable?”

REALLY? AS IF IT WERE SOME KIND OF PINK PILL? NO. HUMANS NEED FANTASY TO BE HUMAN. TO BE THE PLACE WHERE THE FALLING ANGEL MEETS THE RISING APE.

“Tooth fairies? Hogfathers? Little. . .”

YES. AS PRACTICE. YOU HAVE TO START OUT LEARNING TO BELIEVE THE LITTLE LIES.

“So you can believe the big ones?”

YES. JUSTICE. MERCY. DUTY. THAT SORT OF THING.

“They’re not the same at all!”

YOU THINK SO? THEN TAKE THE UNIVERSE AND GRIND IT DOWN TO THE FINEST POWDER AND SIEVE IT THROUGH THE FINEST SIEVE AND THEN SHOW ME ONE ATOM OF JUSTICE, ONE MOLECULE OF MERCY. AND YET – Death waved a hand. AND YET YOU ACT AS IF THERE IS SOME IDEAL ORDER IN THE WORLD, AS IF THERE IS SOME . . . RIGHTNESS IN THE UNIVERSE BY WHICH IT MAY BE JUDGED.

“Yes, but people have to believe that, or what’s the point – “

MY POINT EXACTLY.

Out of the best books, they say, we will find God.

When I read Lords and Ladies, I hear this screaming at me, from Ecclesiastes:

And I gave my heart to seek and search out by wisdom concerning all things that are done under heaven: this sore travail hath God given to the sons of man to be exercised therewith. (Ecclesiastes 1:13)

I am, Mr. Pratchett. I am.