Reaper Man

by Terry Pratchett

  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.

  LORD, 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.

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

  Azrael’s expression did not change.

  THERE IS NO HOPE BUT US. THERE IS NO MERCY BUT US. THERE IS NO JUSTICE. THERE IS JUST US.

  The dark, sad face filled the sky.

  ALL THINGS THAT ARE, ARE OURS. BUT WE MUST CARE. FOR IF WE DO NOT CARE, WE DO NOT EXIST. IF WE DO NOT EXIST, THEN THERE IS NOTHING BUT BLIND OBLIVION.

  AND EVEN OBLIVION MUST END SOME DAY. LORD, WILL YOU GRANT ME JUST A LITTLE TIME? FOR THE PROPER BALANCE OF THINGS. TO RETURN WHAT WAS GIVEN. FOR 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.

  LORD, WHAT CAN THE HARVEST HOPE FOR, IF NOT FOR THE CARE OF THE REAPER MAN?

  He waited.

  LORD? 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—”

  FLOWERS.

  Druto hesitated only for a moment.

  “And the, er, destination for these—”

  A LADY.

  “And do you have any pref—”

  LILIES.

  “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.

  WHAT 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—”

  GIVE ME LOTS.

  “Would that be orchids or roses?”

  BOTH.

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

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

  LOTS OF THEM.

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

  YES.

  “And possibly—”

  YES. EVERYTHING. WITH 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.

  AND 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.

  WHAT FOR IS THIS BOX PADDED? IS IT TO BE SAT ON? CAN 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.

  NO.

  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.

  “DARK ENCHANTMENTS,” he said. I LIKE IT.

  “For those intimate moments,” said the lady.

  The customer appeared to consider the relevance of this.

  YES. THAT SEEMS APPROPRIATE.

  The shopkeeper beamed.

  “Shall I wrap them up, then?”

  YES. WITH A RIBBON.

  “And will there be anything else, sir?”

  The customer seemed to panic.

  ELSE? SHOULD THERE BE ANYTHING ELSE? IS THERE SOMETHING ELSE? WHAT 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.

  DIAMONDS? OH. DIAMONDS. IS 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—”

  HOW 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.

  NO.

  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.

  ARE 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.

  WHERE 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.

  THANK 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.

  ALSO SOME CHOCOLATE ASSORTMENT, THE SORT LADIES LIKE.

  She stared at the black box.

  ALSO 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.

  WHERE 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.

  WHAT 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.”

  THANKSGIVING TO WHO?

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

  I HAD PLANNED TO SHOW YOU MARVELS. FINE CITIES. ANYTHING YOU WANTED. “Anything?”

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

  YES, MISS FLITWORTH.

  He reached out and took her hand.

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

  LOOK.

  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.

  THEY’RE DIAMONDS. A KING’S RANSOM IN DIAMON
DS.

  “Which king?”

  ANY 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?”

  I’M SORRY, MISS FLITWORTH.

  “This big diamond’s a bit heavy. Nice, though,” she added, grudgingly. “Where’d you get it?”

  FROM PEOPLE WHO THOUGHT IT WAS THE TEAR OF A GOD.

  “And is it?”

  NO. GODS NEVER WEEP. IT IS COMMON CARBON THAT HAS BEEN SUBJECT TO GREAT HEAT AND PRESSURE, THAT IS ALL.

  “Inside every lump of coal there’s a diamond waiting to get out, right?”

  YES, MISS FLITWORTH.

  There was no sound for a while, except the clip-clop of Binky’s hoofs. Then Miss Flitworth said, archly:

  “I do know what’s going on, you know. I saw how much sand there was. And so you thought ‘She’s not a bad old stick, I’ll show her a good time for a few hours, and then when she’s not expecting it, it’ll be time for the old cut-de-grass’, am I right?”

  Death said nothing.

  “I am right, aren’t I?”

  I CAN’T HIDE ANYTHING FROM YOU, MISS FLITWORTH.

  “Huh, I suppose I should be flattered. Yes? I expect you’ve got a lot of calls on your time.”

  MORE THAN YOU COULD POSSIBLY IMAGINE, MISS FLITWORTH.

  “In the circumstances, then, you might as well go back to calling me Renata again.”

  There was a bonfire in the meadow beyond the archery field. Death could see figures moving in front of it. An occasional tortured squeak suggested that someone was tuning up a fiddle.

  “I always come along to the harvest dance,” said Miss Flitworth, conversationally. “Not to dance, of course. I generally look after the food and so on.”