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

by Terry Pratchett

A blue glow crackled behind a distant hedge. It was moving. “What is it?” IT WAS THE COMBINATION HARVESTER. “Was? What is it now?” Death glanced at the clustering watchers. A POOR LOSER.

Ridcully was simple-minded. This doesn’t mean stupid. It just meant that he could only think properly about things if he cut away all the complicated bits around the edges.

Death lowered the scythe, and examined himself. Yes, all there. Once again, he was the Death, containing all the deaths of the world. Except for— For a moment he hesitated. There was one tiny area of emptiness somewhere, some fragment of his soul, something unaccounted for . . . He couldn’t be quite certain what it was. He shrugged. Doubtless he’d find out. In the meantime, there was a lot of work to be done . . . He rode away. Far off, in his den under the barn, the Death of Rats relaxed his determined grip on a beam.

“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.”

“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.”

“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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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

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.

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?

“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.

“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.” WHO IS HE, THEN? “Windle Poons.” I CAN SEE WHERE THAT MUST HAVE COME AS A SHOCK. “Well, yes.” ALL THESE YEARS AND YOU NEVER SUSPECTED.

Inside Every Living Person is a Dead Person Waiting to Get Out . .

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