Reaper Man (31 page)

“That’s pretty unfortunate,” said Windle.

it’s not too bad,
said One-Man-Bucket.
it was my twin brother you had to feel sorry for. she looked out ten seconds before me to give him
his
name.

Windle Poons thought about it.

“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” he said. “Two-Dogs-Fighting?”

Two-Dogs-Fighting? Two-Dogs
Fighting? said One-Man-Bucket.
wow, he’d have given his right arm to be called Two-Dogs
-Fighting.

It was later that the story of Windle Poons really came to an end, if “story” means all that he did and caused and set in motion. In the Ramtop village where they dance the real Morris dance, for example, they believe that no one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away—until the clock he wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone’s life, they say, is only the core of their actual existence.

As he walked through the foggy city to an appointment he had been awaiting ever since he was born, Windle felt that he could predict that final end.

It would be in a few weeks’ time, when the moon was full again. A sort of codicil or addendum to the life of Windle Poons—born in the year of the Significant Triangle in the Century of the Three Lice (he’d always preferred the old calendar with its ancient names to all this new-fangled numbering they did today) and died in the year of the Notional Serpent in the Century of the Fruitbat, more or less.

There’d be two figures running across the high moorland under the moon. Not entirely wolves, not entirely human. With any luck, they’d have best of both worlds. Not just feeling…but knowing.

Always best to have both worlds.

Death sat in his chair in his dark study, his hands steepled in front of his face.

Occasionally he’d swivel the chair backward and forward.

Albert brought him in a cup of tea and exited with diplomatic soundlessness.

There was one lifetimer left on Death’s desk. He stared at it.

Swivel, swivel. Swivel, swivel.

In the hall outside, the great clock ticked on, killing time.

Death drummed his skeletal fingers on the desk’s scarred woodwork. In front of him, stacked up with impromptu bookmarks in their pages, were the lives of some of the Discworld’s great lovers.
*
Their fairly repetitive experiences hadn’t been any help at all.

He got up and stalked to a window and stared out at his dark domain, his hands clenching and unclenching behind his back.

Then he snatched up the lifetimer and strode out of the room.

Binky was waiting in the warm fug of the stables. Death saddled him quickly and led him out into the courtyard, and then rode up into the night, toward the distant glittering jewel of the Discworld.

He touched down silently in the farmyard, at sunset.

He drifted through a wall.

He reached the foot of the stairs.

He raised the hourglass and watched the draining of Time.

And then he paused. There was something he had to know. Bill Door had been curious about things, and he could remember everything about being Bill Door. He could look at emotions laid out like trapped butterflies, pinned on cork, under glass.

Bill Door was dead, or at least had ceased his brief existence. But—what was it?—someone’s actual life was only the core of their real existence? Bill Door had gone, but he had left echoes. The memory of Bill Door was owed something.

Death had always wondered why people put flowers on graves. It made no sense to him. The dead had gone beyond the scent of roses, after all. But now…it wasn’t that he felt he understood, but at least he felt that there was something there capable of understanding.

In the curtained blackness of Miss Flitworth’s parlor a darker shape moved through the darkness, heading toward the three chests on the dresser.

Death opened one of the smaller ones. It was full of gold coins. They had an untouched look about them. He tried the other small chest. It was also full of gold.

He’d expected something more from Miss Flitworth, although probably not even Bill Door would have known what.

He tried the large chest.

There was a layer of tissue paper. Under the paper, some white silky thing, some sort of a veil, now yellowed and brittle with age. He gave it an uncomprehending stare and laid it aside. There were some white shoes. Quite impractical for farm wear, he felt. No wonder they’d been packed away.

There was more paper; a bundle of letters tied together. He put them on top of the veil. There was never anything to be gained from observing what humans said to one another—language was just there to hide their thoughts.

And then there was, right at the bottom, a smaller box. He pulled it out and turned it over and over in his hands. Then he unclicked the little latch and lifted the lid.

Clockwork whirred.

The tune wasn’t particularly good. Death had heard all the music that had ever been written, and almost all of it had been better than this tune. It had a plinkety plonkety quality, a tinny little one-two-three rhythm.

In the musical box, over the busily spinning gears, two wooden dancers jerked around in a parody of a waltz.

Death watched them until the clockwork ran down. Then he read the inscription.

It had been a present.

Beside him, the lifetimer poured its grains into the bottom bulb. He ignored it.

When the clockwork ran down, he wound it up again. Two figures, spinning through time. And when the music stopped, all you needed was to turn the key.

When it ran down again, he sat in the silence and the dark, and reached a decision.

There were only seconds left. Seconds had meant a lot to Bill Door, because he’d had a limited supply. They meant nothing at all to Death, who’d never had any.

He left the sleeping house, mounted up, and rode away.

The journey took an instant that would have taken mere light three hundred million years, but Death travels inside that space where Time has no meaning. Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it.

There was company on the ride—galaxies, stars, ribbons of shining matter, streaming and eventually spiraling toward the distant goal.

Death on his pale horse moved down the darkness like a bubble on a river.

And every river flows somewhere.

And then, below, a plain. Distance was as meaningless here as time, but there was a sense of hugeness. The plain could have been a mile away, or a million miles; it was marked by long valleys or rills which flowed away to either side as he got closer.

And landed.

He dismounted, and stood in the silence. Then he went down on one knee.

Change the perspective. The furrowed landscape falls away into immense distances, curves at the edges, becomes a fingertip.

Azrael raised his finger to a face that filled the sky, lit by the faint glow of dying galaxies.

There are a billion Deaths, but they are all aspects of the one Death: Azrael, the Great Attractor, the Death of Universes, the beginning and end of time.

Most of the universe is made up of dark matter, and only Azrael knows who it is.

Eyes so big that a supernova would be a mere suggestion of a gleam on the iris turned slowly and focused on the tiny figure on the immense whorled plains of his fingertips. Beside Azrael the big Clock hung in the center of the entire web of the dimensions, and ticked onward. Stars glittered in Azrael’s eyes.

The Death of the Discworld stood up.

L
ORD
, I
ASK FOR
—

Three of the servants of oblivion slid into existence alongside him.

One said, Do not listen. He stands accused of meddling.

One said, And morticide.

One said, And pride. And living with intent to survive.

One said, And siding with chaos against good order.

Azrael raised an eyebrow.

The servants drifted away from Death, expectantly.

L
ORD
,
WE KNOW THERE IS NO GOOD ORDER EXCEPT THAT WHICH WE CREATE
…

Azrael’s expression did not change.

T
HERE IS NO HOPE BUT US
. T
HERE IS NO MERCY BUT US
. T
HERE IS NO JUSTICE
. T
HERE IS JUST US
.

The dark, sad face filled the sky.

A
LL THINGS THAT ARE
,
ARE OURS
. B
UT WE MUST CARE
. F
OR IF WE DO NOT CARE
,
WE DO NOT EXIST
. I
F WE DO NOT EXIST
,
THEN THERE IS NOTHING BUT BLIND OBLIVION
.

A
ND EVEN OBLIVION MUST END SOME DAY
. L
ORD
,
WILL YOU GRANT ME JUST A LITTLE TIME
? F
OR THE PROPER BALANCE OF THINGS
. T
O RETURN WHAT WAS GIVEN
. F
OR THE SAKE OF PRISONERS AND THE FLIGHT OF BIRDS
.

Death took a step backward.

It was impossible to read expression in Azrael’s features.

Death glanced sideways at the servants.

L
ORD
,
WHAT CAN THE HARVEST HOPE FOR
,
IF NOT FOR THE CARE OF THE
R
EAPER
M
AN
?

He waited.

L
ORD
? said Death.

In the time it took to answer, several galaxies unfolded, whirled around Azrael like paper streamers, impacted, and were gone.

Then Azrael said:

And another finger reached out across the darkness toward the Clock.

There were faint screams of rage from the servants, and then screams of realization, and then three brief, blue flames.

All other clocks, even the handless clock of Death, were reflections of the Clock. Exactly reflections of the Clock; they told the universe what the time was, but the Clock told Time what time is. It was the mainspring from which all time poured.

And the design of the Clock was this: that the biggest hand only went around once.

The second hand whirred along a circular path that even light would take days to travel, forever chased by the minutes, hours, days, months, years, centuries and ages. But the Universe hand went around once.

At least, until someone wound up the clockwork.

And Death returned home with a handful of Time.

A shop bell jangled.

Druto Pole, florist, looked over a spray of
floribrunda Mrs. Shover
. Someone was standing among the vases of flowers. They looked slightly indistinct; in fact, even afterward, Druto was never sure who had been in his shop and how his words had actually sounded.

He oiled forward, rubbing his hands.

“How may I hel—”

F
LOWERS
.

Druto hesitated only for a moment.

“And the, er, destination for these—”

A L
ADY
.

“And do you have any pref—”

L
ILIES
.

“Ah? Are you sure that lilies are—?”

I
LIKE LILIES
.

“Um…it’s just that lilies are a little bit somber—”

I
LIKE SOMB
—

The figure hesitated.

W
HAT DO YOU RECOMMEND
?

Druto slipped smoothly into gear. “Roses are always very well received,” he said. “Or orchids. Many gentlemen these days tell me that ladies find a single specimen orchid more acceptable than a bunch of roses—”

G
IVE ME LOTS
.

“Would that be orchids or roses?”

B
OTH
.

Druto’s fingers twined sinuously, like eels in grease.

“And I wonder if I could interest you in these marvelous sprays of
Nervousa Gloriosa
—”

L
OTS OF THEM
.

“And if Sir’s budget would stretch, may I suggest a single specimen of the extremely rare—”

Y
ES
.

“And possibly—”

Y
ES
. E
VERYTHING
. W
ITH A RIBBON
.

When the shop bell had jangled the purchaser out, Druto looked at the coins in his hand. Many of them were corroded, all of them were strange, and one or two were golden.

“Um,” he said. “That will do nicely…”

He became aware of a soft pattering sound.

Around him, all over the shop, petals were falling like rain.

A
ND THESE
?

“That’s our De Luxe assortment,” said the lady in the chocolate shop. It was such a high-class establishment that it sold, not sweets, but confectionery—often in the form of individual gold-wrapped swirly things that made even larger holes in a bank balance than they did in a tooth.

The tall dark customer picked up a box that was about two feet square. On a lid like a satin cushion it had a picture of a couple of hopelessly cross-eyed kittens looking out of a boot.

W
HAT FOR IS THIS BOX PADDED
? I
S IT TO BE SAT ON
? C
AN IT BE THAT IT IS CAT-FLAVORED
? he added, his tone taking on a definite menace, or rather more menace than it had already.

“Um, no. That’s our Supreme Assortment.”

The customer tossed it aside.

N
O
.

The shopkeeper looked both ways and then pulled open a drawer under the counter, at the same time lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Of course,” she said, “for that
very special
occasion…”

It was quite a small box. It was also entirely black, except for the name of the contents in small white letters; cats, even in pink ribbons, wouldn’t be allowed within a mile of a box like this. To deliver a box of chocolates like this, dark strangers drop from chairlifts and abseil down buildings.

The dark stranger peered at the lettering.

“D
ARK
E
NCHANTMENTS
,” he said. I
LIKE
IT
.

“For those intimate moments,” said the lady.

The customer appeared to consider the relevance of this.

Y
ES
. T
HAT SEEMS APPROPRIATE
.

The shopkeeper beamed.

“Shall I wrap them up, then?”

Y
ES
. W
ITH A RIBBON
.

“And will there be anything else, sir?”

The customer seemed to panic.

E
LSE
? S
HOULD THERE BE ANYTHING ELSE
? I
S THERE SOMETHING ELSE
? W
HAT IS IT THAT SHOULD BE DONE
? “I’m sorry, sir?”

A
PRESENT FOR A LADY
.

The shopkeeper was left a little adrift by this sudden turning of the tide of conversation. She swam toward a reliable cliché.

“Well, they do say, don’t they, that diamonds are a girl’s best friend?” she said brightly.

D
IAMONDS
? O
H
. D
IAMONDS
. I
S THAT SO
?

They glittered like bits of starlight on a black velvet sky.

“This one,” said the merchant, “is a particularly excellent stone, don’t you think? Note the fire, the exceptional—”

H
OW FRIENDLY IS IT
?

The merchant hesitated. He knew about carats, about adamantine luster, about “water” and “make” and “fire,” but he’d never before been called upon to judge gems in terms of general affability.

“Quite well-disposed?” he hazarded.

N
O
.

The merchant’s fingers seized on another splinter of frozen light.

“Now
this
,” he said, confidence flowing back into his voice, “is from the famous Shortshanks mine. May I draw your attention to the exquisite—”

He felt the penetrating stare drill through the back of his head.

“But not, I must admit, noted for its friendliness,” he said lamely.

The dark customer looked disapprovingly around the shop. In the gloom, behind troll-proof bars, gems glowed like the eyes of dragons in the back of a cave.

A
RE ANY OF THESE FRIENDLY
? he said.

“Sir, I think I can say, without fear of contradiction, that we have never based our purchasing policy on the amiability of the stones in question,” said the merchant. He was uncomfortably aware that things were wrong, and that somewhere in the back of his mind he knew what was wrong with them, and that somehow his mind was not letting him make that final link. And it was getting on his nerves.

W
HERE IS THE BIGGEST DIAMOND IN THE WORLD
?

“The biggest? That’s easy. It’s the Tear of Offler, it’s in the innermost sanctuary of the Lost Jewelled Temple of Doom of Offler the Crocodile God in darkest Howandaland, and it weighs eight hundred and fifty carats. And, sir, to forestall your next question, I personally would go to bed with it.”

One of the nice things about being a priest in the Lost Jewelled Temple of Doom of Offler the Crocodile God was that you got to go home early most afternoons. This was because it was lost. Most worshippers never found their way there. They were the lucky ones.

Traditionally, only two people ever went into the innermost sanctuary. They were the High Priest and the other priest who wasn’t High. They had been there for years, and took turns at being the high one. It was an undemanding job, given that most prospective worshippers were impaled, squashed, poisoned or sliced by booby-traps even before making it as far as the little box and the jolly drawing of a thermometer
*
outside the vestry.

They were playing Cripple Mr. Onion on the high altar, beneath the very shadow of the jewel-encrusted statue of Offler Himself, when they heard the distant creak of the main door.

The High Priest didn’t look up.

“Heyup,” he said. “Another one for the big rolling ball, then.”

There was a thump and a rumbling, grinding sound. And then a very final bang.

“Now,” said the High Priest. “What was the stake?”

“Two pebbles,” said the low priest.

“Right.” The High Priest peered at his cards. “Okay, I’ll see your two peb—”

There was the faint sound of footsteps.

“Chap with a whip got as far as the big sharp spikes last week,” said the low priest.

There was a sound like the flushing of a very old dry lavatory. The footsteps stopped.

The High Priest smiled to himself.

“Right,” he said. “See your two pebbles and raise you two pebbles.”

The low priest threw down his cards.

“Double Onion,” he said.

The High Priest looked down suspiciously.

The low priest consulted a scrap of paper.

“That’s three hundred thousand, nine hundred and sixty-four pebbles you owe me,” he said.

There was the sound of footsteps.

The priests exchanged glances.

“Haven’t had one for poisoned-dart alley for quite some time,” said the High Priest.

“Five says he makes it,” said the low priest.

“You’re on.”

There was a faint clatter of metal points on stone.

“It’s a shame to take your pebbles.”

There were footsteps again.

“All right, but there’s still the—” a creak, a splash “—crocodile tank.”

There were footsteps.

“No one’s
ever
got past the dreaded guardian of the portals—”

The priests looked into one another’s horrified faces.

“Hey,” said the one who was not High. “You don’t think it could be—”

“Here? Oh, come
on
. We’re in the middle of a godsdamn
jungle
.” The High Priest tried to smile. “There’s no way it could be—”

The footsteps got nearer.

The priests clutched at one another in terror.

“Mrs. Cake!”

The doors exploded inward. A dark wind drove into the room, blowing out the candles and scattering the cards like polka-dot snow.

The priests heard the chink of a very large diamond being lifted out of its socket.

T
HANK YOU
.

After a while, when nothing else seemed to be happening, the priest who wasn’t High managed to find a tinder box and, after several false starts, got a candle alight.

The two priests looked up through the dancing shadows at the statue, where a hole now gaped that should have contained a very large diamond.

After a while, the High Priest sighed and said, “Well, look at it like this: apart from us, who’s going to know?”

“Yeah. Never thought of it like that. Hey, can I be High Priest tomorrow?”

“It’s not your turn until Thursday.”

“Oh, come on.”

The High Priest shrugged, and removed his High Priesting hat.

“It’s very depressing, this kind of thing” he said, glancing up at the ravaged statue. “Some people just don’t know how to behave in a house of religion.”

Death sped across the world, landing once again in the farmyard. The sun was on the horizon when he knocked on the kitchen door.

Miss Flitworth opened it, wiping her hands on her apron. She grimaced short-sightedly at the visitor, and then took a step back.

“Bill Door? You gave me quite a start—”

I
HAVE BROUGHT YOU SOME FLOWERS
.

She stared at the dry, dead stems.

A
LSO SOME CHOCOLATE ASSORTMENT
,
THE SORT LADIES LIKE
.

She stared at the black box.

A
LSO HERE IS A DIAMOND TO BE FRIENDS WITH YOU
.

It caught the last rays of the setting sun.

Miss Flitworth finally found her voice.

“Bill Door, what are you thinking of?”

I
HAVE COME TO TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ALL THIS
.

“You have? Where to?”

Death hadn’t thought this far.

W
HERE WOULD YOU LIKE
?

“I ain’t proposing to go anywhere tonight except to the dance,” said Miss Flitworth firmly.

Death hadn’t planned for this, either.

W
HAT IS THIS DANCE
?

“Harvest dance. You know? It’s tradition. When the harvest is in. It’s a sort of celebration, and like a thanksgiving.”

T
HANKSGIVING TO WHO
?

“Dunno. No one in particular, I reckon. Just general thankfulness, I suppose.”

I
HAD PLANNED TO SHOW YOU MARVELS
. F
INE CITIES
. A
NYTHING YOU WANTED
. “Anything?”

Y
ES
. “Then we’re going to the dance, Bill Door. I always go every year. They rely on me. You know how it is.”

Y
ES
, M
ISS
F
LITWORTH
.

He reached out and took her hand.

“What, you mean now?” she said, “I’m not ready—”

L
OOK
.

She looked down at what she was suddenly wearing.

“That’s not my dress. It’s got all glitter on it.”

Death sighed. The great lovers of history had never encountered Miss Flitworth. Casanunder would have handed in his stepladder.

T
HEY’RE DIAMONDS
. A
KING’S RANSOM IN DIAMONDS
.

“Which king?”

A
NY KING
.

“Coo.”

Binky walked easily along the road to the town. After the length of infinity, a mere dusty road was a bit of a relief.

Sitting sidesaddle behind Death, Miss Flitworth explored the rustling contents of the box of Dark Enchantments.

“Here,” she said, “someone’s had all the rum truffles.” There was another crackle of paper. “
And
from the bottom layer, too, I hate that, people starting the bottom layer before the top one’s been properly finished. And I can tell you’ve been doing it because there’s a little map in the lid and by rights there should be rum truffles, Bill Door?”