Reaper Man

by Terry Pratchett

“And the spells you just said will go off…?”

  “And second now, Archchancellor.”

  “So…whatever’s going to happen…is going to happen to us?”

  “Yes, Archchancellor.”

  Ridcully patted Windle on the head.

  “Sorry about this,” he said.

  Windle turned awkwardly to look down the passageway.

  There was something behind the Queen. It looked like a perfectly ordinary bedroom door, advancing in a series of small steps, as though someone was carefully pushing it along in front of them.

  “What is it?” said Red.

  Windle raised himself as far as he could.

  “Schleppel!”

  “Oh, come on,” said Reg.

  “It’s Schleppel!” shouted Windle. “Schleppel! It’s us! Can you help us out?”

  The door paused. Then it was flung aside.

  Schleppel unfolded himself to his full height.

  “Hallo, Mr. Poons. Hallo, Reg,” he said.

  They stared at the hairy shape that nearly filled the passageway.

  “Er, Schleppel…er…could you clear the way for us?” Windle quavered.

  “No problem, Mr. Poons. Anything for a friend.”

  A hand the size of a wheelbarrow glided through the steam and tore into the blockage, ripping it out with incredible ease.

  “Hey, look at me!” said Schleppel. “You’re right. A bogeyman needs a door like a fish needs a bicycle! Say it now and say it loud, I’m—”

  “And now could you get out of the way, please?”

  “Sure. Sure. Wow!” Schleppel took another swipe at the Queen.

  The trolley shot forward.

  “And you’d better come with us!” Windle shouted, as Schleppel disappeared in the mists.

  “No he shouldn’t,” said the Archchancellor, as they sped along. “Believe me. What was it?”

  “He’s a bogeyman,” said Windle.

  “I thought you only get them in closets and things?” shouted Ridcully.

  “He’s come out of the closet,” said Reg Shoe proudly. “And he’s found himself.”

  “Just so long as we can lose him.”

  “We can’t just leave him—”

  “We can! We can!” snapped Ridcully.

  There was a sound behind them like an eruption of swamp gas. Green light streamed past.

  “The spells are starting to go off!” shouted the Dean. “Move it!”

  The trolley whirred out of the entrance and soared up into the cool of the night, wheels screaming.

  “Yo!” bellowed Ridcully, as the crowd scattered ahead of them.

  “Does that mean I can say yo too?” said the Dean.

  “All right. Just once. Everyone can say it just once.”

  “Yo!”

  “Yo!” echoed Reg Shoe.

  “Oook!”

  “Yo!” said Windle Poons.

  “Yo!” said Schleppel.

  (Somewhere in the darkness, where the crowd was thinnest, the gaunt shape of Mr. Ixolite, the world’s last surviving banshee, sidled up to the shaking building and bashfully shoved a note under the door.

  It said: OOOOeeeOOOeeeOOOeee.)

  The trolley plowed to a very definitive stop. No one turned around. Reg said, slowly: “You’re behind us, right?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Shoe,” said Schleppel happily.

  “Should we worry when he’s in front of us?” said Ridcully. “Or is it worse because we know he’s behind us?”

  “Hah! No more closets and cellars for this bogey,” said Schleppel.

  “That’s a shame, because we’ve got some really big cellars at the University,” said Windle Poons quickly.

  Schleppel was silent for a while. Then he said, in an exploratory tone of voice, “How big?”

  “Huge.”

  “Yeah? With rats?”

  “Rats aren’t the half of it. There’s escaped demons and all sorts down there. Infested, they are.”

  “What are you doing?” hissed Ridcully. “That’s our cellars you’re talking about.”

  “You’d prefer him under your bed, would you?” murmured Windle. “Or walking around behind you?”

  Ridcully nodded briskly.

  “Wow, yes, those rats are getting really out of hand down there,” he said loudly. “Some of them—oh, about two feet long, wouldn’t you say, Dean?”

  “Three feet,” said the Dean. “At least.”

  “Fat as butter, too,” said Windle.

  Schleppel gave this some thought. “Well, all right,” he said reluctantly. “Maybe I’ll just wander in and have a look at them.”

  The big store exploded and imploded at the same time, something it is almost impossible to achieve without a huge special effects budget or three spells all working against one another. There was the impression of a vast cloud expanding but at the same time moving away so rapidly that the overall effect was of a shrinking point. Walls buckled and were sucked in. Soil ripped up from the ravaged fields and spiraled into the vortex. There was a violent burst of non-music, which died almost instantly.

  And then nothing, except a muddy field.

  And, floating down from the early morning sky like snow, thousands of white flakes. They slid silently through the air and landed lightly on the crowd.

  “It’s not seeding, is it?” said Reg Shoe.

  Windle grabbed one of the flakes. It was a crude rectangle, uneven and blotchy. It was just about possible, with a certain amount of imagination, to make out the words:

  “No,” said Windle. “Probably not.”

  He lay back and smiled. It was never too late to have a good life.

  And when no one was looking, the last surviving trolley on the Discworld rattled off sadly into the oblivion of the night, lost and alone.*

  “Pog-a-grodle-fig!”

  Miss Flitworth sat in her kitchen.

  Outside, she could hear the despondent clanking as Ned Simnel and his apprentice picked up the tangled remains of the Combination Harvester. A handful of other people were theoretically helping, but were really taking the opportunity to have a good look around. She’d made a tray of tea, and left them to it.

  Now she sat with her chin in her hands, staring at nothing.

  There was a knock at the open door. Spigot poked his red face into the room.

  “Please, Miss Flitworth—”

  “Hmm?”

  “Please, Miss Flitworth, there’s a skeleton of a horse walking around in the barn! It’s eating hay!”

  “How?”

  “And it’s all falling through!”

  “Really? We’ll keep it, then. At least it’ll be cheap to feed.”

  Spigot hung around for a while, twisting his hat in his hands.

  “You all right, Miss Flitworth?”

  “You all right, Mr. Poons?”

  Windle stared at nothing.

  “Windle?” said Reg Shoe.

  “Hmm?”

  “The Archchancellor just asked if you wanted a drink.”

  “He’d like a glass of distilled water,” said Mrs. Cake.

  “What, just water?” said Ridcully.

  “That’s what he wants,” said Mrs. Cake.

  “I’d like a glass of distilled water, please,” said Windle.

  Mrs. Cake looked smug. At least, as much of her as was visible looked smug, which was that part between the Hat and her handbag, which was a sort of counterpart of the hat and so big that when she sat clasping it on her lap she had to reach up to hold the handles. When she’d heard that her daughter had been invited to the University she’d come too. Mrs. Cake always assumed that an invitation to Ludmilla was an invitation to Ludmilla’s mother as well. Mothers like her exist everywhere, and apparently nothing can be done about them.

  The Fresh Starters were being entertained by the wizards, and trying to look as though they were enjoying it. It was one of those problematical occasions with long silences, sporadic coughs, and people saying isolated things
like, “Well, isn’t this nice.”

  “You looked a bit lost there, Windle, for a moment,” said Ridcully.

  “I’m just a bit tired, Archchancellor.”

  “I thought you zombies never slept.”

  “I’m still tired,” said Windle.

  “You’re sure you wouldn’t like us to have another go with the burial and everything? We could do it properly this time.”

  “Thank you all the same, but no. I’m just not cut out for the undead life, I think.” Windle looked at Reg Shoe. “Sorry about that. I don’t know how you manage it.” He grinned apologetically.

  “You’ve got every right to be alive or dead, just as you choose,” said Reg severely.

  “One-Man-Bucket says people are dying properly again,” said Mrs. Cake. “So you could probably get an appointment.”

  Windle looked around.

  “She’s taken your dog for a walk,” said Mrs. Cake.

  “Where’s Ludmilla?” he said.

  Windle smiled awkwardly. Mrs. Cake’s premonitions could be very wearing.

  “It’d be nice to know that Lupine was being looked after if I…went,” he said. “I wonder, could you take him in?”

  “Well…” said Mrs. Cake uncertainly.

  “But he’s—” Reg Shoe began, and then saw Windle’s expression.

  “I must admit it’d be a relief to have a dog around the place,” said Mrs. Cake. “I’m always worrying about Ludmilla. There’s a lot of strange people around.”

  “But your dau—” Reg began again.

  “Shut up, Reg,” said Doreen.

  “That’s all settled, then,” said Windle. “And have you got any trousers?”

  “What?”

  “Any trousers in the house?”

  “Well, I suppose I’ve got some that belonged to the late Mr. Cake, but why—”

  “Sorry,” said Windle. “My mind was wandering. Don’t know what I’m saying, half the time.”

  “Ah,” said Reg, brightly, “I see. What you’re saying is that when he—”

  Doreen nudged him viciously.

  “Oh,” said Reg. “Sorry. Don’t mind me. I’d forget my own head if it wasn’t sewn on.”

  Windle leaned back, and shut his eyes. He could hear the occasional scrap of conversation. He could hear Arthur Winkings asking the Archchancellor who did his decorating, and where the University got its vegetables. He heard the Bursar moaning about the cost of exterminating all the cursewords, which had somehow survived the recent changes and had taken up residence in the darkness of the roof. He could even, if he strained his perfect hearing, hear the whoops of Schleppel in the distant cellars.

  They didn’t need him. At last. The world didn’t need Windle Poons.

  He got up quietly and lurched to the door.

  “I’m just going out,” he said. “I may be some time.”

  Ridcully gave him a half-hearted nod, and concentrated on what Arthur had to say about how the Great Hall could be entirely transformed with some pine-effect wallpaper.

  Windle shut the door behind him and leaned against the thick, cool wall.

  Oh, yes. There was one other thing.

  “Are you there, One-Man-Bucket?” he said softly. how did you know?

  “You’re generally around.”

  heh heh, you’ve caused some real trouble there! you know what’s going to happen next full moon?

  “Yes, I do. And I think, somehow, that they do too.”

  but he’ll become a wolfman.

  “Yes. And she’ll become a wolfwoman.”

  all right, but what kind of relationship can people have one week in four?

  “Maybe at least as good a chance of happiness as most people get. Life isn’t perfect, One-Man-Bucket.”

  you’re telling me?

  “Now, can I ask you a personal question?” said Windle. “I mean I’ve just got to know…”

  huh.

  “After all, you’ve got the astral plane to yourself again.”

  oh, all right.

  “Why are you called One—”

  is that all? I thought you could work that one out, a clever man like you. in my tribe we’re traditionally named after the first thing the mother sees when she looks out of the teepee after the birth. it’s short for One-Man-Pouring-a-Bucket-of-Water-over-Two-Dogs.

  “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 a
t 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.