Chapter 13

“G’day mate!”

Nick slowly opened his eyes, but everything was blurry and one of his eyes wouldn’t open. He muttered “G’day Bruce.” His entire body ached, like an entire flock of sheep had been tap dancing on his body, from head to foot, which was a very accurate assessment.

“How are ya feelin’ mate?”

In Ankh-Morpork there’s two answers to that question, “Chewed up and spit out” which generally means “Not so bad” and “Chewed up and shit out” which generally means “Not so good.” But this time Nick chose something he never, ever said before. “I feel bad,” which in Ankh-Morpork is generally heard on a deathbed.

“Well mate, ya autta. Y’ been run ragged, baked by th’ sun, chase down by a packa dingaroos, stomped near to death in a sheep stampede, then chewed up by a nuther dingaroo.” Nick was helped to a sitting position and was told, “here, drink this, it’ll help ya sleep. Sleep is what’s gunna heal ya up more’n anything.”

Nick was reluctant to sip what was ever in the cup held to his lips, but a strangely familiar voice said, “It’s ok, I sniffed it.” Thus reassured, Nick drank the potion, which tasted sweet and fruity, but something in the background of its flavor told him he was going back to sleep for a very long time.

“Here, now, drink this up, it’s got vitamins and minerals and will help with dehydration.” And an opened can was held to his lips, and he drank deeply. He didn’t realize how thirsty he was until he started drinking. The draught was bitter, but he wanted as much as he could drink, and his host obliged him as much as he wanted.

After drinking three entire cans of the elixir marked XXXX, his host laid Nick back on the bed and he thanked his host with a loud, long, raucous belch. “Yer welcome mate!” came his host’s response. Then Nick tried to discern the source of the familiar voice to his side, but he was soon asleep.

“How is he doing?” Octavia nervously asked Bruce Bockschecker, doctor of Adscititious Cyanthropy and Assistant Vice Dean of Thaumistic Sustainability at Bugarup University.

“He’s not cactus, but he sure is crook. The lad was stonkered before the dingaroo and sheep touched him, so it will be a while before he can chuck a sickie.”

Octavia fumbled through her translation pamphlet and with the help of Bruce, she soon found out that he said that Nick was in serious condition, but he expected Nick to eventually recover. She took her walking stick and whispered to it, she said, “don’t make me regret not throwing you on a fire.” Then she tucked the walking stick under the covers with Nick which raised a few growls from Gaspode.

“It’s ok, she said she’ll behave.”

“I still don’t trust her,” grumbled Gaspode. His complaints were echoed by a growl from Gula, who hung on an exposed rafter above Nick where she could monitor the comings and goings of those checking on Nick, and strike from above if needed.

As they left the sunny, airy room where Nick was convalescing under the trusty eyes of Gaspode and Gula, Bruce asked Octavia, “Did that dog just say something?”