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

by Terry Pratchett

And it is never danced properly. Except on the Discworld, which is flat and supported on the backs of four elephants which travel through space on the shell of Great A’Tuin, the world turtle. And even there, only in one place have they got it right.

They might be numbered among those who see to it that gravity operates and that time stays separate from space. Call them auditors. Auditors of reality. They were in conversation without speaking. They didn’t need to speak. They just changed reality so that they had spoken.

Supposing gravity developed a personality? Supposing it decided to like people? One said, Got a crush on them, sort of thing?

But he turned his enormous bulk and, with eyes that stars could be lost in, sought among the myriad worlds for a flat one. On the back of a turtle. The Discworld—world and mirror of worlds. It sounded interesting. And, in his prison of a billion years, Azrael was bored.

Click, click, as the dark shape moves patiently along the rows. And stops. And hesitates. Because here’s a small gold timer, not much bigger than a watch. It wasn’t there yesterday, or wouldn’t have been if yesterdays existed here. Bony fingers close around it and hold it up to the light. It’s got a name on it, in small capital letters. The name is DEATH.

The sun was near the horizon. The shortest-lived creatures on the Disc were mayflies, which barely make it through twenty-four hours. Two of the oldest zigzagged aimlessly over the waters of a trout stream, discussing history with some younger members of the evening hatching. “You don’t get the kind of sun now that you used to get,” said one of them.

Death pulled out the tiny golden timer. DO YOU SEE THIS? “Yes, sir. Very nice. Never seen one like that before. Whose is it?” MINE. Albert’s eyes swiveled sideways. On one corner of Death’s desk was a large timer in a black frame. It contained no sand. “I thought that one was yours, sir?” he said. IT WAS. NOW THIS IS. A RETIREMENT PRESENT. FROM AZRAEL HIMSELF.

In the warm, horsey gloom of the stable, Death’s pale horse looked up from its oats and gave a little whinny of greeting. The horse’s name was Binky. He was a real horse. Death had tried fiery steeds and skeletal horses in the past, and found them impractical, especially the fiery ones, which tended to set light to their own bedding and stand in the middle of it looking embarrassed.

“Maybe he’ll die,” they told one another hopefully, as they watched him try to break the crust on the river Ankh for an early morning dip. “All this healthy exercise can’t be good for him.”

When he’d got a grip on himself, he made out the sharp features of his old friend Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, the Discworld’s walking, talking argument in favor of the theory that mankind had descended from a species of rodent.

Ankh-Morpork has always had a fine tradition of welcoming people of all races, colors and shapes, if they have money to spend and a return ticket.

“That shows a very proper spirit.” “Esprit de corpse,” said the Senior Wrangler.

It was the living who ignored the strange and wonderful, because life was too full of the boring and mundane. But it was strange. It

“You’re to sleep in the barn, understand?” she said. SLEEP? YES. OF COURSE. YES, I WILL HAVE TO SLEEP.

I expect you want some dinner?” I WOULD? AH. YES. THE MEAL OF THE EVENING. YES. “You look half starved, to tell the truth. More than half, really.”

Can you use a scythe?” Bill Door seemed to meditate on the question for some time. Then he said, I THINK THE ANSWER TO THAT IS A DEFINITE “YES,” MISS FLITWORTH.

It was this dynamic interplay of power blocs that made Ankh-Morpork such an interesting, stimulating and above all bloody dangerous place in which to live.*

“What the hell is it?” said Ridcully. “Amazingly sensitive magical measuring device,” said the Dean. “Measures the density of a magical field. A thaumometer.”

“What we’ve got to present here,” said Ridcully, “is a united front. Right?” “Agreed,” said the Chief Priest. “Right. For now.” A small rug sinewaved past at eye level. The Chief Priest handed back the brandy bottle. “Incidentally, mother says you haven’t written lately,” he said.

The other Guild leaders tried to be nice to him, in the same way that people try to be kind to other people who are standing on the ledges of very high buildings.

Either way, Ludmilla was a decent upright young woman for three weeks in every four and a perfectly well-behaved hairy wolf thing for the rest of the time.

And then there was this “sleep.” He knew what it was. People did it for quite a lot of the time. They lay down and sleep happened. Presumably it served some purpose. He was watching out for it with interest. He would have to subject it to analysis.

While he had been waiting to experience sleep, something had stolen part of his . . . of his life. He’d completely missed it, too—

Eventually she said: “It’s good. You’ve got the swing and everything.” THANK YOU, MISS FLITWORTH. “But why one blade of grass at a time?”

MISS FLITWORTH, WHY DOES NOT THE COCKEREL CROW PROPERLY? “Oh, that’s just Cyril. He hasn’t got a very good memory. Ridiculous, isn’t it? I wish he’d get it right.”

Bill Door found a piece of chalk in the farm’s old smithy, located a piece of board among the debris, and wrote very carefully for some time. Then he wedged the board in front of the henhouse and pointed Cyril toward it. THIS YOU WILL READ, he said. Cyril peered myopically at the “Cock-A-Doodle-Doo” in heavy gothic script. Somewhere in his tiny mad chicken mind a very distinct and chilly understanding formed that he’d better learn to read very, very quickly.

He’d found some old overalls hanging in the barn. They seemed far more appropriate for a Bill Door than a robe woven of absolute darkness, so he’d put them on. And Miss Flitworth had given him a broad-brimmed straw hat.

Bill Door sought desperately for something to say. He had never been very good at small talk. He’d never had much occasion to use it.

He was told, We bring good news. “Good news? Good news?” Ridcully squirmed under the gazerless gaze. “Oh, good. That is good news.” He was told, Death has retired. “Pardon?” He was told, Death has retired.

People get exactly the wrong idea about belief. They think it works back to front. They think the sequence is, first object, then belief. In fact, it works the other way.

An agoraphobic bogeyman seemed to complete the full set.

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.

And, above all, and around all, and permeating all, was the smell. It smelled of long, dull afternoons.

“You knew him?” she said. I THINK I MET HIM ONCE.

“He never mentioned you,” said Miss Flitworth archly. “Not by name. Not as Bill Door.” I DON’T THINK HE WOULD HAVE MENTIONED ME, said Bill Door slowly.

Bill Door hadn’t been aware of it coming. But there it was, a gray figure floating in the darkness of the barn. Somehow it had got hold of the golden timer. It told him, Bill Door, there had been a mistake.

It told him, Bill Door, there had been a mistake. The glass shattered. Fine golden seconds glittered in the air, for a moment, and then settled. It told him, Return. You have work to do. There has been a mistake.

It told him, Return. You have work to do. There has been a mistake. The figure faded. Bill Door nodded. Of course there had been a mistake. Anyone could see there had been a mis...

How could they stand to be alive? Obviously it was something you had to be born to.

There were already some life timers on his desk. He didn’t remember putting them there, but that didn’t matter, the important thing was to get on with the job . . . He picked up the nearest one, and read the name.

“Lod-a-foodle-wok!”

“Best thing you could do right now is finish off that porridge. It’s good for you. They say it builds healthy bones.” Bill Door looked down at the bowl. CAN I HAVE SOME MORE?

Bill looked from her to the hen. BUT WE FEED THEM, he said helplessly. “That’s right. And then they feed us.

Chickens are a lot more stupid than humans, and don’t have the sophisticated mental filters that prevent them seeing what is truly there. It knew where it was and who was looking at it. He looked into its small and simple life and saw the last few seconds pouring away. He’d never killed. He’d taken life, but only when it was finished with. There was a difference between theft and stealing by finding. NOT THE CLEAVER, he said wearily. GIVE ME THE CHICKEN. He turned his back for a moment, then handed the limp body to Miss Flitworth. “Well done,” she said, and went back to the kitchen.

He’d never killed. He’d taken life, but only when it was finished with. There was a difference between theft and stealing by finding. NOT THE CLEAVER, he said wearily. GIVE ME THE CHICKEN. He turned his back for a moment, then handed the limp body to Miss Flitworth. “Well done,” she said, and went back to the kitchen. Bill Door felt Cyril’s accusing gaze on him. He opened his hand. A tiny spot of light hovered over his palm. He blew on it, gently, and it faded away. After lunch they put down the rat poison. He felt like a murderer.

After lunch they put down the rat poison. He felt...

They were followed by a . . . shape. It was about six inches high. It wore a black robe. It held a small scythe in one skeletal paw. A bone-white nose with brittle gray whiskers protruded from the shadowy hood. Bill Door reached out and picked it up. It didn’t resist, but stood on the palm of his hand and eyed him as one professional to another.

It was about six inches high. It wore a black robe. It held a small scythe in one skeletal paw. A bone-white nose with brittle gray whiskers protruded from the shadowy hood. Bill Door reached out and picked it up. It didn’t resist, but stood on the palm of his hand and eyed him as one professional to another. Bill Door said: AND YOU ARE—? The Death of Rats nodded. SQUEAK.

Bill Door said: AND YOU ARE—? The Death of Rats...

I EXPECT, he said, THAT YOU COULD MURDER A PIECE OF CHEESE?