Trials of Trivial Boxer - A Terry Pratchet Fan-Fiction

Visiting

Hefina had always liked walking by herself. She liked the feeling of the empty night around her, and the cloak of the stars. She generally liked black, but as with any town that had a witch, she had had to settle for dark blue. She wore the darkest blue she could, and made sure that her liking for lace was sure to mark her out as not a wtich. Despite the suggestions, and in some cases insults, of others, she had no interest in being a witch. She had worked that out a long time ago. Being a witch, which came with some powers, did not make up for the calls of the job, out in all hours, all weathers, making sure cows lived, or dealing with unnatural Things doing what they shouldn't. Not her. She was quite content with stringing beads on strings, and sewing interesting clothing. Her little shop didn't make much, but she liked it here, even if pretty much everyone though she was a little odd. Creative types stuck out on the chalk, but as the only one, people asked her for all kinds of things, from rings to pendants to the more... intimate gifts. And she could make them. She could make pretty much anything she put her mind too. Tonight she was walking with her sketchpad looking for inspiration. While she had been wandering, her mind on nothing imparticulary, she found herself in a clearing in a part of the wood she didn't recognise. This should have surprised her. Growing up on the chalk she had walked these hills all her life, and knew them like the back of her hand. It should have made her stop and take stock. Instead, she sat down and began to draw.

Trivial was prepared for the weekly service. He wad even slipped on an extra layer of clothing to try to protect him from the bruising of low-flying fruit. Being an optotmist, he had even slipped a small sack behind the alter, just in case. He stood by the old frayed bell-rope and eyeed the sun, or what he could see of it, judging the time. As the sun peeked over the hills, Trivual began to ring.

The first to arrive was a man in smart trousers, worn but highly polished shoes, and a pressed shirt, missing it's collar and sleeves. Trivial smiled at him and the man said "'ing Morris". Trivial was about to ask for clarification when the man shuffled off towards a curtained-off section of the temple. Moments later he returned wearing a guards uniform*, it's brass buttons sparkling. Walking, perhaps, a little taller. The man, presumably something Morris, gently took the rope from Trivials hands, and expertly continued the peel.

Trivial stepped back to admire the ringing-work, and tried again to get Morris' first name, when a loud sound, almost made him say something very un-Omnian. It was a sound that was almost exactly like a bag-pipe being beaten to death with a bag full of cats. He looked round for the source of the noise, and saw, in a corner a diminutive woman sat on the organ stool warming it up(*2). She had a determined look on her face and her tongue stuck on in concentration. At parts she had to stand to play the peddles as well as reach up to the top row of keys. It was not this that truly surprised Trivial, but the fact that she had snuck in unnoticed. Just as Trivial was about enquire how she did it, he was confronted by a hat. Not the same hat as before, this one appeared to double as a fruit stall. It did, however, belong to the same woman, at least, the dimensions, shoes and tonne of voice was the same. IT said "Move it, Omnian" as she prodded Trivial out of the way. She was follwed by a taller man, with a kindly and apologetic face. His shoulder-blades hunched in defeat. He seemed about to speak until the hat called "'Arold, where's the cushion?, and he scuttled off to help the hat into her seat.

Slowly about a dozen people filed their way in, some with nods to others, and some just silently taking their seat. A plump woman, in the furthest row back, a grinning thin elderly woman at the front, all of them sprinkled around the Temple as though some unseen forced stopped them from sitting together. Trivial looked at them all, and let his heart to out to them. Then he moved to the front to tell them that Om loved them, too.

Hefina was woken by the sounds of a ringing bell. One side of her was damp where the morning dew had formed on her clothing. She glanced at her drawing pad, still clutched tightly in her hands. She noticed that it was covered in intricate circles and points, then quickly forgot about them. She sat up, closing her notebook and looked towards the source of the noise. The bells had stopped, and had been replaced by a droning noise. Intrigued, she stood and walked towards it.