"Jason?"

"Yes, Mum?"

"They bin dancin' around the stones."

Jason hit his thumb.

There were a number of gods in the mountains and forests of Lancre. One of them was known as Heme the Hunted. He was a god of the chase and the hunt. More or less.

Most gods are created and sustained by belief and hope. Hunters danced in animal skins and created gods of the chase, who tended to be hearty and boisterous with the tact of a tidal wave. But they are not the only gods of hunting. The prey has an occult voice too, as the blood pounds and the hounds bay. Heme was the god of the chased and the hunted and all small animals whose ultimate destiny is to be an abrupt damp squeak.

He was about three feet high with rabbit ears and very small horns. But he did have an extremely good turn of speed, and was using it to the full as he tore madly through the woods.

"They're coming! They're coming! They're all coming back!"

"Who are?" said Jason Ogg. He was holding his thumb in the water trough.

Nanny Ogg sighed.

"Them." she said. "You know. Them. We ain't certain, but. . ."

"Who's Them?"

Nanny hesitated. There were some things you didn't tell ordinary people. On the other hand, Jason was a blacksmith, which meant he wasn't ordinary. Blacksmiths had to keep secrets. And he was family; Nanny Ogg had had an adventurous youth and wasn't very good at counting, but she was pretty certain he was her son.

"You see," she said, waving her hands vaguely, "them stones. . . the Dancers . . . see, in the old days . . . see, once upon a time. . ."

She stopped, and tried again to explain the essentially fractal nature of reality.

"Like . . . there's some places that're thinner than others, where the old doorways used to be, well, not doorways, never exactly understood it myself, not doorways as such, more places where the world is thinner .