Reaper Man (33 page)

“And who was that masked man?”

They both looked around.

There was no one there.

In the village in the Ramtops where they understand what the Morris dance is all about, they dance it just once, at dawn, on the first day of spring. They don’t dance it after that, all through the summer. After all, what would be the point? What use would it be?

But on a certain day when the nights are drawing in, the dancers leave work early and take, from attics and cupboards, the
other
costume, the black one, and the
other
bells. And they go by separate ways to a valley among the leafless trees. They don’t speak. There is no music. It’s very hard to imagine what kind there could be.

The bells don’t ring. They’re made of octiron, a magic metal. But they’re not, precisely, silent bells. Silence is merely the absence of noise. They make the opposite of noise, a sort of heavily textured silence.

And in the cold afternoon, as the light drains from the sky, among the frosty leaves and in the damp air, they dance the
other
Morris. Because of the balance of things.

You’ve got to dance both, they say. Otherwise you can’t dance either.

Windle Poons wandered across the Brass Bridge. It was the time in Ankh-Morpork’s day when the night people were going to bed and the day people were waking up. For once, there weren’t many of either around.

Windle had felt moved to be here, at this place, on this night, now. It wasn’t exactly the feeling he’d had when he knew he was going to die. It was more the feeling that a cogwheel gets inside a clock—things turn, the spring unwinds, and this is where you’ve got to be…

He stopped, and leaned over. The dark water, or at least very runny mud, sucked at the stone supports. There was an old legend…what was it, now? If you threw a coin into the Ankh from the Brass Bridge you’d be sure to return? Or was it if you just threw
up
into the Ankh? Probably the former. Most of the citizens, if they dropped a coin into the river, would be sure to come back if only to look for the coin.

A figure loomed out of the mist. He tensed.

“Morning, Mr. Poons.”

Windle let himself relax.

“Oh. Sergeant Colon? I thought you were someone else.”

“Just me, your lordship,” said the watchman cheerfully. “Turning up like a bad copper.”

“I see the bridge has got through another night without being stolen, sergeant. Well done.”

“You can’t be too careful, I always say.”

“I’m sure we citizens can sleep safely in one another’s beds knowing that no one can make off with a five-thousand-ton bridge overnight,” said Windle.

Unlike Modo the dwarf, Sergeant Colon did know the meaning of the word “irony.” He thought it meant “sort of like iron.” He gave Windle a respectful grin.

“You have to think quick to keep ahead of today’s international criminal, Mr. Poons,” he said.

“Good man. Er. You haven’t, er, seen anyone else around, have you?”

“Dead quiet tonight,” said the sergeant. He remembered himself and added, “No offense meant.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll be moving along, then,” said the sergeant.

“Fine. Fine.”

“Are you all right, Mr. Poons?”

“Fine. Fine.”

“Not going to throw yourself in the river again?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Well. Good night, then.” He hesitated. “Forget my own head next,” he said. “Chap over there asked me to give this to you.” He held out a grubby envelope.

Windle peered into the mists.

“What chap?”

“That ch—oh, he’s gone. Tall chap. Bit odd-looking.”

Windle unfolded the scrap of paper, on which was written: OOoooEeeeOooEeeeOOOeee.

“Ah,” he said.

“Bad news?” said the sergeant.

“That depends,” said Windle, “on your point of view.”

“Oh. Right. Fine. Well…good night, then.”

“Goodbye.”

Sergeant Colon hesitated for a moment, and then shrugged and strolled on.

As he wandered away, the shadow behind him moved and grinned.

W
INDLE
P
OONS
?

Windle didn’t look around.

“Yes?”

Out of the corner of his eye Windle saw a pair of bony arms rest themselves on the parapet. There was the faint sound of a figure trying to make itself comfortable, and then a restful silence.

“Ah,” said Windle. “I suppose you’ll want to be getting along?”

N
O RUSH
.

“I thought you were always so punctual.”

I
N THE CIRCUMSTANCES
,
A FEW MINUTES MORE WILL NOT MAKE A LOT OF DIFFERENCE
.

Windle nodded. They stood side by side in silence, while around them was the muted roar of the city.

“You know,” said Windle, “it’s a wonderful afterlife. Where were you?”

I
WAS BUSY
.

Windle wasn’t really listening. “I’ve met people I never even knew existed. I’ve done all sorts of things. I’ve really got to know who Windle Poons
is
.”

W
HO IS HE
,
THEN
?

“Windle Poons.”

I
CAN SEE WHERE THAT MUST HAVE COME AS A SHOCK
.

“Well, yes.”

A
LL THESE YEARS AND YOU NEVER SUSPECTED
.

Windle Poons did know exactly what irony meant, and he could spot sarcasm too.

“It’s all very well for you,” he mumbled.

P
ERHAPS
.

Windle looked down at the river again.

“It’s been great,” he said. “After all this time. Being needed is important.”

Y
ES
. B
UT WHY
?

Windle looked surprised.

“I don’t know. How should I know? Because we’re all in this together, I suppose. Because we don’t leave our people in there. Because you’re a long time dead. Because anything is better than being alone. Because humans are human.”

A
ND SIXPENCE IS SIXPENCE
. B
UT CORN IS NOT JUST CORN
.

“It isn’t?”

N
O
.

Windle leaned back. The stone of the bridge was still warm from the day’s heat.

To his surprise, Death leaned back as well.

B
ECAUSE YOU’RE ALL YOU’VE GOT
, said Death.

“What? Oh. Yes. That as well. It’s a great big cold universe out there.”

Y
OU’D BE AMAZED
.

“One lifetime just isn’t enough.”

O
H
, I
DON’T KNOW
.

“Hmm?”

W
INDLE
P
OONS
?

“Yes?”

T
HAT
WAS
YOUR LIFE
.

And, with great relief, and general optimism, and a feeling that on the whole everything could have been much worse, Windle Poons died.

Somewhere in the night, Reg Shoe looked both ways, took a furtive paintbrush and small pot of paint from inside his jacket, and painted on a handy wall: Inside Every Living Person is a Dead Person Waiting to Get Out…

And then it was all over. The end.

Death stood at the window of his dark study, looking out onto his garden. Nothing moved in that still domain. Dark lilies bloomed by the trout pool, where little plaster skeleton gnomes fished. There were distant mountains.

It was his own world. It appeared on no map.

But now, somehow, it lacked something.

Death selected a scythe from the rack in the huge hall. He strode past the huge clock without hands and went outside. He stalked through the black orchard, where Albert was busy about the beehives, and on until he climbed a small mound on the edge of the garden. Beyond, to the mountains, was unformed land—it would bear weight, it had an existence of sorts, but there had never been any reason to define it further.

Until now, anyway.

Albert came up behind him, a few dark bees still buzzing around his head.

“What are you doing, master?” he said.

R
EMEMBERING
.

“Ah?”

I
REMEMBER WHEN ALL THIS WAS STARS
.

What was it? Oh, yes…

He snapped his fingers. Fields appeared, following the gentle curves of the land. “Golden,” said Albert. “That’s nice. I’ve always thought we could do with a bit more color around here.”

Death shook his head. It wasn’t quite right yet. Then he realized what it was. The lifetimers, the great room filled with the roar of disappearing lives, was efficient and necessary; you needed something like that for good order. But…

He snapped his fingers again and a breeze sprang up. The cornfields moved, billow after billow unfolding across the slopes.

A
LBERT
?

“Yes, master?”

H
AVE YOU NOT GOT SOMETHING TO DO
? S
OME LITTLE JOB
?

“I don’t think so,” said Albert.

A
WAY FROM HERE
,
IS WHAT
I
MEAN
.

“Ah. What you mean is, you want to be alone,” said Albert.

I
AM ALWAYS ALONE
. B
UT JUST NOW
I
WANT TO BE ALONE BY MYSELF
.

“Right. I’ll just go and, uh, do some little jobs back at the house, then,” said Albert.

Y
OU DO THAT
.

Death stood alone, watching the wheat dance in the wind. Of course, it was only a metaphor. People were more than corn. They whirled through tiny crowded lives, driven literally by clock work, filling their days from edge to edge with the sheer effort of living. And all lives were exactly the same length. Even the very long and very short ones. From the point of view of eternity, anyway.

Somewhere, the tiny voice of Bill Door said: from the point of view of the owner, longer ones are best.

S
QUEAK
.

Death looked down.

A small figure was standing by his feet.

He reached down and picked it up, held it up to an investigative eye socket.

I
KNEW
I’
D MISSED SOMEONE
.

The Death of Rats nodded.

S
QUEAK
?

Death shook his head.

N
O
, I
CAN’T LET YOU REMAIN
, he said. I
T’S NOT AS THOUGH
I’
M RUNNING A FRANCHISE OR SOMETHING
.

S
QUEAK
?

A
RE YOU THE ONLY ONE LEFT
?

The Death of Rats opened a tiny skeletal hand. The tiny Death of Fleas stood up, looking embarrassed but hopeful.

N
O
. T
HIS SHALL
NOT
BE
. I
AM IMPLACABLE
. I
AM
D
EATH…ALONE.

He looked at the Death of Rats.

He remembered Azrael in his tower of loneliness.

A
LONE
…

The Death of Rats looked back at him.

S
QUEAK
?

Picture a tall, dark figure, surrounded by cornfields…

N
O
,
YOU CAN’T RIDE A CAT
. W
HO EVER HEARD OF THE
D
EATH OF
R
ATS RIDING A CAT
? T
HE
D
EATH OF
R
ATS WOULD RIDE SOME KIND OF DOG
.

Picture more fields, a great horizon-spanning network of fields, rolling in gentle waves…

D
ON’T ASK
ME
I
DON’T KNOW
. S
OME KIND OF TERRIER, MAYBE
.

…fields of corn, alive, whispering in the breeze…

R
IGHT
,
AND THE
D
EATH OF
F
LEAS CAN RIDE IT TOO
. T
HAT WAY YOU KILL TWO BIRDS WITH ONE STONE
.

…awaiting the clockwork of the seasons.

M
ETAPHORICALLY
.

And at the end of all stories Azrael, who knew the secret, thought: I REMEMBER WHEN ALL THIS WILL BE AGAIN.

*
In this case, three better places. The front gates of Nos 31, 7, and 34 Elm Street, Ankh-Morpork.

*
At least, until the day they suddenly pick up a paper knife and carve their way out through Cost Accounting and into forensic history.

*
The post of Senior Wrangler was an unusual one, as was the name itself. In some centers of learning, the Senior Wrangler is a leading philosopher; in others, he’s merely someone who looks after horses. The Senior Wrangler at Unseen University was a philosopher who looked
like
a horse, thus neatly encapsulating all definitions.

*
It is true that the undead cannot cross running water. However, the naturally turbid river Ankh, already heavy with the mud of the plains, does not, after having passed through the city (pop. 1,000,000) necessarily qualify under the term “running” or, for that matter, “water.”

*
Although not common on the Discworld there are, indeed, such things as anti-crimes, in accordance with the fundamental law that everything in the multiverse has an opposite. They are, obviously, rare. Merely giving someone something is not the opposite of robbery; to be an anti-crime, it has to be done in such a way as to cause
outrage and/or humiliation to the victim
. So there is breaking-and-decorating, proffering-with-embarrassment (as in most retirement presentations) and whitemailing (as in threatening to reveal to his enemies a mobster’s secret donations, for example, to charity). Anti-crimes have never really caught on.

*
i.e., everywhere outside the Shades.

*
Rains of fish, for example, were so common in the little landlocked village of Pine Dressers that it had a flourishing smoking, canning and kipper-filleting industry. And in the mountain regions of Syrrit many sheep, left out in the fields all night, would be found in the morning to
be facing the other way
, without the apparent intervention of any human agency.