Reaper Man (Discworld, #11; Death, #2)

by Terry Pratchett

The Dean shrugged. “Search me,” he said. “Hemogoblins. That’s what it said. It’s all to do with people having iron in their blood.” “I’m damn sure I’ve got no iron goblins in my blood,” said the Senior Wrangler.

There must be dozens of ways to deal with an undead.” “Garlic,” said the Senior Wrangler flatly. “Undead don’t like garlic.” “Don’t blame them. Can’t stand the stuff,” said the Dean. “Undead! Undead!” said the Bursar, pointing an accusing finger. They ignored him.

And you stick a stake in them to make sure they don’t get up again.” “With garlic on it,” said the Bursar. “Well, yes. I suppose you could put garlic on it,” the Senior Wrangler conceded, reluctantly. “I don’t think you should put garlic on a good steak,” said the Dean. “Just a little oil and seasoning.” “Red pepper is nice,” said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, happily. “Shut up,” said the Archchancellor.

It was another dawn. Cyril the cockerel stirred on his perch. The chalked words glowed in the half light. He concentrated. He took a deep breath. “Dock-a-loodle-fod!” Now that the memory problem was solved, there was only the dyslexia to worry about.

“You? We can’t take you,” said the Dean, glaring at the Librarian. “You don’t know a thing about guerrilla warfare.” “Oook!” said the Librarian, and made a surprisingly comprehensive gesture to indicate that, on the other hand, what he didn’t know about orangutan warfare could be written on the very small pounded up remains of, for example, the Dean.

Occasionally people would climb the mountain and add a stone or two to the cairn at the top, if only to prove that there is nothing really damn stupid that humans won’t do.

“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.”

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.

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

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.”

Vermine are small black-and-white rodents found in the Ramtop Mountains. They are ancestors of the lemming, which as is well known throws itself over cliffs and drowns in lakes on a regular basis. Vermine used to do that, too. The point is, though, that dead animals don’t breed, and over the millennia more and more vermine were descendants of those vermine who, when faced with a cliff edge, squeaked the rodent equivalent of Blow that for a Game of Soldiers. Vermine now abseil down cliffs, and build small boats to cross lakes. When their rush leads them to the seashore they sit around avoiding one another’s gaze for a while, and then leave early to get home before the rush.