Terry Pratchett

REAPER MAN

The Morris dance is common to all inhabited worlds in the multiverse. It is danced under blue skies to celebrate the quickening of the soil and under bare stars because itās springtime and with any luck the carbon dioxide will unfreeze again. The imperative is felt by deep-sea beings who have never seen the sun and urban humans whose only connection with the cycles of nature is that their Volvo once ran over a sheep.

It is danced innocently by raggedy-bearded young mathematicians to an inexpert accordion rendering of ćMrs Widgeryās Lodgerä and ruthlessly by such as the Ninja Morris Men of New Ankh, who can do strange and terrible things with a simple handkerchief and a bell. 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 AāTuin, the world turtle. And even there, only in one place have they got it right. Itās a small village high in the Ramtop Mountains, where the big and simple secret is handed down across the generations.

There, the men dance on the first day of spring, backwards and forwards, bells tied under their knees, white shirts flapping. People come and watch. Thereās an ox roast afterwards, and itās generally considered a nice day out for all the family.

But that isnāt the secret.

The secret is the other dance.

And that wonāt happen for a while yet.

There is a ticking, such as might be made by a clock. And, indeed, in the sky there is a clock, and the ticking of freshly minted seconds flows out from it.

5

At least, it looks a clock. But it is in fact exactly the opposite of a clock, and the biggest hand goes around just once. There is a plain under a dim sky. It is covered with gentle rolling curves that might remind you of something else if you saw it from a long way away, and if you did see it from a long way away youād be very glad that you were, in fact, a long way away.

Three grey figures floated just above it. Exactly what they were canāt be described in normal language. Some people might call them cherubs, although there was nothing rosycheeked about them. 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 didnāt need to speak. They just changed reality so that they had spoken.

One said, It has never happened before. Can it be done?

One said, It will have to be done. There is a personality. Personalities come to an end. Only forces endure. It said this with a certain satisfaction.

One said, Besides... there have been irregularities. Where you get personality, you get irregularities. Well-known fact.

One said, He has worked inefficiently?

One said, No. We canāt get him there.

One said, That is the point. The word is him. Becoming a personality is inefficient. We donāt want it to spread. Supposing gravity developed a personality? Supposing it decided to like people?

One said, Got a crush on them, sort of thing?

One said, in a voice that would have been even chillier if it was not already at absolute zero, No.

One said, Sorry. Just my little joke.

One said, Besides, sometimes he wonders about his job. Such speculation is dangerous.

One said, No argument there.

One said, Then we are agreed?

6

One, who seemed to have been thinking about something, said, Just one moment. Did you not just use the singular pronoun, Īmyā? Not developing a personality, are you?

One said, guiltily, Who? Us?

One said. Where there is personality, there is discord.

One said. Yes. Yes. Very true.

One said, All right. But watch it in future.

One said, Then we are agreed?

They looked up at the face of Azrael, outlined against the sky. In fact, it ?loas? the sky.

Azrael nodded, slowly.

One said, Very well. Where is this place?

One said, It is the Discworld. It rides through space on the back of a giant turtle.

One said, Oh, one of that sort. I hate them.

One said, Youāre doing it again. You said ĪIā.

One said, No! No! I didnāt! I never said ĪIā! . . . oh, bugger . . .

It burst into flame ?iyld? burned in the same way that a small cloud of vapour burns, quickly and with no residual mess. Almost immediately, another one appeared. It was identical in appearance to its vanished sibling.

One said, Let that be a lesson. To become a personality is to end. And now . . . let us go.

Azrael watched them skim away.

It is hard to fathom the thoughts of a creature so big that, in real space, his length would be measured only in terms of the speed of light. 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.

And this is the room where the future pours into the past via the pinch of the now.

Timers line the walls. Not hour-glasses, although they have the same shape. Not egg-timers, such as you might buy

7

as a souvenir attached to a small board with the name of the holiday resort of your choice jauntily inscribed on it by someone with the same sense of style as a jelly doughnut. Itās not even sand in there. Itās seconds, endlessly turning the maybe into the was. And every lifetimer has a name on it. And the room is full of the soft hissing of people living.

Picture the scene . . .

And now add the sharp clicking of bone on stone, getting closer.

A dark shape crosses the field of vision and moves up the endless shelves of sibilant glassware. Click, click. Hereās a glass with the top bulb nearly empty. Bone fingers rise and reach out. Select. And another. Select. And more. Many, many more. Select, Select.

Itās all in a dayās work. Or it would be, if days existed here.

Click, click, a~, the dark shape moves patiently along the rows.

And stops.

And hesitates.

Because hereās a small gold timer, not much bigger than a watch. It wasnāt there yesterday, or wouldnāt have been if yesterdays existed here.

Bony fingers close around it and hold it up to the light. Itās got a name on it, in small capital letters.

The name is DEATH.

Death put down the timer, and then picked it up again. The sands of time were already pouring through. He turned it over experimentally, just in case. The sand went on pouring, only now it was going upwards. He hadnāt really expected anything else.

It meant that, even if tomorrows could exist here, there werenāt going to be any. Not any more.

There was a movement in the air behind him. Death turned slowly, and addressed the figure that wavered indistinctly in the gloom.

8

WHY?

It told him.

BUT THAT IS . . . NOT RIGHT.

It told him that No, it was right.

Not a muscle moved on Deathās face, because he hadnāt got any.

I SHALL APPEAL.

It told him, he should know that there was no appeal. Never any appeal. Never any appeal.

Death thought about this, and then he said:

I HAVE ALWAYS DONE MY DUTY AS I SAW FIT.

The figure floated closer. It looked vaguely like a grey-robed and hooded monk.

It told him, We know. That is why weāre letting you keep the horse.

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.

ĪYou donāt get the kind of sun now that you used to get, Ī said one of them.

ĪYouāre right there. We had proper sun in the good old hours. It were all yellow. None of this red stuff.ā

ĪIt were higher, too.ā

ĪIt was. Youāre right.ā

ĪAnd nymphs and larvae showed you a bit of respect.ā

ĪThey did. They did,ā said the other mayfly vehemently.

ĪI reckon, if mayflies these hours behaved a bit better, weād still be having proper sun.ā

The younger mayflies listened politely.

ĪI remember, Ī said one of the oldest mayflies, Īwhen all this was fields, as far as you could see.ā

9

The younger mayflies looked around.

ĪItās still fields,ā one of them ventured, after a polite interval.

ĪI remember when it was better fields,ā said the old mayfly sharply.

ĪYeah, Ī said his colleague.āAnd there was a cow.ā

ĪThatās right! Youāre right! I remember that cow! Stood right over there for, oh, forty, fifty minutes. It was brown, as I recall.ā

ĪYou donāt get cows like that these hours.ā

ĪYou donāt get cows at all.ā

ĪWhatās a cow?ā said one of the hatchlings.

ĪSee?ā said the oldest mayfly triumphantly.āThatās modern Ephemeroptera for you.ā It paused.āWhat were we doing before we were talking about the sun?ā

ĪZigzagging aimlessly over the water,ā said one of the young flies; This was a fair bet in any case.

ĪNo, before that.ā

ĪEr . . . you were telling us about the Great Trout.ā

ĪAh. Yes. Right. The Trout. Well, you see, if youāve been a good mayfly, zigzagging up and down properly -ā Ī- taking heed of your elders and betters -ā

Ī- yes, and taking heed of your elders and betters,

then eventually the Great Trout -ā

Clop

Clop

ĪYes?ā said one of the younger mayflies.

There was no reply.

ĪThe Great Trout what?ā said another mayfly, nervously.

They looked down at a series of expanding concentric rings on the water.

ĪThe holy sign!ā said a mayfly.āI remember being told about that! A Great Circle in the water! Thus shall be the sign of the Great Trout!ā

The oldest of the young mayflies watched the water

10

thoughtfully. It was beginning to realise that, as the most senior fly present, it now had the privilege of hovering closest to the surface.

ĪThey say, Ī said the mayfly at the top of the zigzagging crowd, Īthat when the Great Trout comes for you, you go to a land flowing with . . . flowing with . . .ā

Mayflies donāt eat. It was at a loss.āFlowing with water, Ī it finished lamely.

ĪI wonder, Ī said the oldest mayfly.

ĪIt must be really good there, Ī said the youngest.

ĪOh? Why?ā

Ī ĪCos no-one ever wants to come back.ā

Whereas the oldest things on the Discworld were the famous Counting Pines, which grow right on the permanent snowline of the high Ramtop Mountains.

The Counting Pine is one of the few known examples of borrowed evolution.

Most species do their own evolving, making it up as they go along, which is the way Nature intended. And this is all very natural and organic and in tune with mysterious cycles of the cosmos, which believes that thereās nothing like millions of years of really frustrating trial and error to give a species moral fibre and, in some cases, backbone.

This is probably fine from the speciesā point of view, but from the perspective of the actual individuals involved it can be a real pig, or at least a small pink root-eating reptile that might one day evolve into a real pig.

So the Counting Pines avoided all this by letting other vegetables do their evolving for them. A pine seed, coming to rest anywhere on the Disc, immediately picks up the most effective local genetic code via morphic resonance and grows into whatever best suits the soil and climate, usually doing much better at it than the native trees themselves, which it usually usurps.

11

What makes the Counting Pines particularly noteworthy, however, is the way they count.

Being dimly aware that human beings had learned to tell the age of a tree by counting the rings, the original Counting Pines decided that this was why humans cut trees down.

Overnight every Counting Pine readjusted its genetic code to produce, at about eye-level on its trunk, in pale letters, its precise age. Within a year they were felled almost into extinction by the ornamental house number plate industry, and only a very few survive in hard-to-reach areas.

The six Counting Pines in this clump were listening to the oldest, whose gnarled trunk declared it to be thirty-one thousand, seven hundred and thirty-four years old. The conversation took seventeen years, but has been speeded up.

ĪI remember when all this wasnāt fields.ā

The pines stared out over a thousand miles of landscape. The sky flickered like a bad special effect from a time travel movie. Snow appeared, stayed for an instant, and melted.

ĪWhat was it, then?ā said the nearest pine.

ĪIce. If you can call it ice. We had proper glaciers in those days. Not like the ice you get now, here one season and gone the next. It hung around for ages.ā

ĪWhat happened to it, then?ā

ĪIt went.ā

ĪWent where?ā

ĪWhere things go. Everythingās always rushing off.ā

ĪWow. That was a sharp one.ā

ĪWhat was?ā

ĪThat winter just then.ā

ĪCall that a winter? When I was a sapling we had winters -ā

Then the tree vanished.

After a shocked pause for a couple of years, one of the

12

clump said: ĪHe just went! Just like that! One day he was here, next he was gone!ā

If the other trees had been humans, they would have shuffled their feet.

ĪIt happens, lad,ā said one of them, carefully.āHeās been taken to a Better Place,ā you can be sure of that. He was a good tree.ā

The young tree, which was a mere five thousand, one hundred and eleven years old, said: ĪWhat sort of Better Place?ā

ĪWeāre not sure, Ī said one of the clump. It trembled uneasily in a week-long gale.āBut we think it involves . . . sawdust.ā

Since the trees were unable even to sense any event that took place in less than a day, they never heard the sound of axes.

Windle Poons, oldest wizard in the entire faculty of Unseen University - home of magic, wizardry and big dinners - was also going to die.

He knew it, in a frail and shaky sort of way.

Of course, he mused, as he wheeled his wheel-chair over the flagstones towards his ground-floor study, in a general sort of way everyone knew they were going to die, even the common people. No-one knew where you were before you were born, but when you were born, it wasnāt long before you found youād arrived with your return ticket already punched.

But wizards really knew. Not if death involved violence or murder, of course, but if the cause of death was simply a case of running out of life then . . . well, you knew. You generally got the premonition in time to return your library books and make sure your best

ĪIn this case, three better places. The front gates of Nos 31, 7, and 34 Elm Street. Ankh-Morpork.

13

suit was clean and borrow quite large sums of money from your friends.

He was one hundred and thirty. It occurred to him that for most of his life heād been an old man. Didnāt seem fair, really.

And no-one had said anything. Heād mentioned it in the Uncommon Room last week, and no-one had taken the hint. And at lunch today theyād hardly spoken to him. Even his old so-called friends seemed to be avoiding him, and he wasnāt even trying to borrow

money.

It was like not having your birthday remembered, only worse.

He was going to die all alone, and no-one cared.

He bumped the door open with the wheel of the chair and fumbled on the table by the door for the tinder box.

That was another thing. Hardly anyone used tinder boxes these days. They bought the big smelly yellow matches the alchemists made. Windle disapproved. Fire was important. You shouldnāt be able to switch it on just like that, it didnāt show any respect. That was people these days, always rushing around and . . . fires. Yes, it had been a lot warmer in the old days, too.

The kind of fires they had these days didnāt warm you up unless you were nearly on top of them. It was something in the wood . . . it was the wrong sort of wood.

Everything was wrong these days. More thin. More fuzzy. No real life in anything. And the days were shorter. Mmm. Something had gone wrong with the days. They were shorter days. Mmm. Every day took an age to go by, which was odd, because days plural went past like a stampede. There werenāt many things people wanted a 130-year-old wizard to do, and Windle had got into the habit of arriving at the dining-table up to two hours before each meal, simply to pass the time.

Endless days, going by fast. Didnāt make sense.

14

Mmm. Mind you, you didnāt get the sense now that you used to get in the old days.

And they let the University be run by mere boys now. In the old days it had been run by proper wizards, great big men built like barges, the kind of wizards you could look up to. Then suddenly theyād all gone off somewhere and Windle was being patronised by these boys who still had some of their own teeth. Like that Ridcully lad. Windle remembered him clearly. Thin lad, sticking-out ears, never wiped his nose properly, cried for his mother in the dorm on the first night. Always up to mischief. Someone had tried to tell Windle that Ridcully was Archchancellor now.

Mmm. They must think he was daft.

Where was that damn tinder box? Fingers . . . you used to get proper fingers in the old days . . .

Someone pulled the covers off a lantern. Someone else pushed a drink into his groping hand.

ĪSurprise!ā

In the hall of the house of Death is a clock with a pendulum like a blade but with no hands, because in the house of Death there is no time but the present. (There was. of course. a present before the present now, but that was also the present. It was just an older one.)

The pendulum is a blade that would have made Edgar Allan Poe give it all up and start again as a stand-up comedian on the scampi-in-a-casket circuit. It swings with a faint whum-whum noise, gently slicing thin rashers of interval from the bacon of eternity.

Death stalked past the clock and into the sombre gloom of his study. Albert, his servant, was waiting for him with the towel and dusters.

ĪGood morning, master.ā

Death sat down silently in his big chair. Albert draped the towel over the angular shoulders.

ĪAnother nice day,ā he said, conversationally.

Death said nothing.

15

Albert flapped the polishing cloth and pulled back Deathās cowl.

ALBERT.

Death pulled out the tiny golden timer.

DO YOU SEE THIS?

ĪYes, sir. Very nice. Never seen one like that before. Whose is it?ā

MINE.

Albertās eyes swivelled sideways. On one corner of Deathās desk was a large timer in a black frame. It contained no sand.

ĪI thought that one was yours, sir?ā he said.

IT WAS. NOW THIS IS. A RETIREMENT PRESENT. FROM AZRAEL HIMSELF.

Albert peered at the thing in Deathās hand.

ĪBut . . . the sand, sir. Itās pouring.ā

QUITE SO.

ĪBut that means . . . I mean . . . ?ā

IT MEANS THAT ONE DAY THE SAND WILL ALL BE POURED, ALBERT.

ĪI know that, sir, but . . . you . . . I thought Time was something that happened to other people, sir. Doesnāt it? Not to you, sir.ā By the end of the sentence Albertās voice was beseeching.

Death pulled off the towel and stood up.

COME WITH ME.

ĪBut youāre Death, master,ā said Albert, running crab-legged after the tall figure as it led the way out into the hall and down the passage to the stable.

ĪThis isnāt some sort of joke, is it?ā he added hopefully.

I AM NOT KNOWN FOR MY SENSE OF FUN.

ĪWell, of course not, no offense meant. But listen, you canāt die. because youāre Death, youād have to happen to yourself, itād be like that snake that eats its own tail -ā

NEVERTHELESS, I AM GOING TO DIE. THERE IS NO APPEAL.

ĪBut what will happen to me?ā Albert said. Terror glittered

16

on his words like flakes of metal on the edge of a knife.

THERE WILL BE A NEW DEATH.

Albert drew himself up.

ĪI really donāt think I could serve a new master,ā he said.

THEN GO BACK INTO THE WORLD. I WILL GIVE YOU MONEY. YOU HAVE BEEN A GOOD SERVANT, ALBERT.

ĪBut if I go back -ā

YES, said Death. YOU WILL DIE.

In the warm, horsey gloom of the stable, Deathās pale horse looked up from its oats and gave a little whinny of greeting. The horseās 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.

Death took the saddle down from its hook and glanced at Albert, who was suffering a crisis of conscience.

Thousands of years before, Albert had opted to serve Death rather than die. He wasnāt exactly immortal. Real time was forbidden in Deathās realm. There was only the ever-changing now, but it went on for a very long time. He had less than two months of real time left; he hoarded his days like bars of gold.

ĪI, er . . .ā he began.āThat is -ā

YOU FEAR TO DIE?

ĪItās not that I donāt want . . . I mean, Iāve always . . . itās just that life is a habit thatās hard to break . . .ā

Death watched him curiously, as one might watch a beetle that had landed on its back and couldnāt turn over.

Finally Albert lapsed into silence.

I UNDERSTAND, said Death, unhooking Binkyās bridle.

ĪBut you donāt seem worried! Youāre really going to die?ā

YES. IT WILL BE A GREAT ADVENTURE.

ĪIt will? Youāre not afraid?ā

I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO BE AFRAID.

ĪI could show you, if you like,ā Albert ventured.

NO. I SHOULD LIKE TO LEARN BY MYSELF. I SHALL HAVE

17

EXPERIENCES. AT LAST.

ĪMaster . . . if you go, will there be -?ā

A NEW DEATH WILL ARISE FROM THE MINDS OF THE LIVING, ALBERT.

ĪOh.ā Albert looked relieved.āYou donāt happen to know what heāll be like, do you?ā

NO.

ĪPerhaps Iād better, you know, clean the place up a bit, get an inventory prepared, that sort of thing?ā

GOOD IDEA, said Death, as kindly as possible. WHEN I SEE THE NEW DEATH, I SHALL HEARTILY RECOMMEND YOU.

ĪOh. Youāll see him, then?ā

OH. YES. AND I MUST LEAVE NOW.

ĪWhat. so soon?ā

CERTAINLY. MUSTNāT WASTE TIME!

Death adjusted the saddle, and then turned and held the tiny hour-glass proudly in front of Albertās hooked nose.

SEE! I HAVE TIME. AT LAST, I HAVE TIME

Albert backed away nervously.

ĪAnd now that you have it, what are you going to do with it?ā he said.

Death mounted his horse.

I AM GOING TO SPEND IT.

The party was in full swing. The banner with the legend ĪGoodebye Windle 130 Gloriouse Yearsā was dripping a bit in the heat. Things were getting to the point where there was nothing to drink but the punch and nothing to eat but the strange yellow dip with the highly suspicious tortillas and nobody minded. The wizards chatted with the forced jolliness of people who see one another all day and are now seeing one another all evening.

In the middle of it all Windle Poons sat with a huge glass of rum and a funny hat on his head. He was almost in tears.

ĪA genuine Going-Away party!ā he kept muttering.āHavenāt had one of them since old ćScratcherä

18

He Went Away, Ī the capital letters fell into place easily, Īback in, mm, the Year of the Intimidating, mm, Porpoise. Thought everyone had forgotten about Īem.ā

ĪThe Librarian looked up the details for us, Ī said the Bursar, indicating a large orangutan who was trying to blow into a party squeaker.āHe also made the banana dip. I hope someone eats it soon.ā

He leaned down.

ĪCan I help you to some more potato salad?ā he said, in the loud deliberate voice used for talking to imbeciles and old people.

Windle cupped a trembling hand to his ear.

ĪWhat? What?ā

ĪMore! salad! Windle?ā

ĪNo, thank you.ā

ĪAnother sausage, then?ā

ĪWhat?ā

ĪSausage!ā

ĪThey give me terrible gas all night,ā said Windle.

He considered this for a moment, and then took five.

ĪEr,ā shouted the Bursar, Īdo you happen to know what time -?ā

ĪEh?ā

ĪWhat! Time?ā

ĪHalf past nine,ā said Windle, promptly if indistinctly.

ĪWell, thatās nice, Ī said the Bursar.āIt gives you the rest of the evening, er, free.ā

Windle rummaged in the dreadful recesses of his wheelchair, a graveyard for old cushions, dog-eared books and ancient, half-sucked sweets. He flourished a small green-covered book and pushed it into the Bursarās hands.

The Bursar turned it over. Scrawled on the cover were the words: Windle Poons Hys Dyary. A piece of bacon rind marked todayās date.

19

Under Things to Do, a crabbed hand had written: Die.

The Bursar couldnāt stop himself from turning the page.

Yes. Under tomorrowās date, Things to Do: Get Born.

His gaze slid sideways to a small table at the side of the room. Despite the fact that the room was quite crowded, there was an area of clear floor around the table, as if it had some kind of personal space that no-one was about to invade.

There had been special instructions in the Going Away ceremony concerning the table. It had to have a black cloth, with a few magic sigils embroidered on it.

It had a plate, containing a selection of the better ?canalās?. It had a glass of wine. After considerable discussion among the wizards, a funny paper hat had been added as well.

They all had an expectant look.

The Bursar took out his watch and flicked open the ???

It was one of the ?new-fanged? pocket watches, with hands. They pointed to a quarter past nine. He shook it. A small hatch opened under the 12 and a very small demon poked its head out and said, ĪKnock it off, guvānor, I Īm pedalling as fast as I can.ā

He closed the watch again and looked around desperately. No-one else seemed anxious to come too near Windle Poons. The Bursar felt it was up to him to make polite conversation. He surveyed possible topics. They all presented problems.

Windle Poons helped him out.

ĪIām thinking of coming back as a woman,ā he said conversationally.

The Bursar opened and shut his mouth a few times.

ĪIām looking forward to it,ā Poons went on.āI think it might, mm, be jolly good fun.ā

The Bursar riffled desperately through his limited

20

repertoire of small talk relating to women. He leaned down to Windleās gnarled ear.

ĪIsnāt there rather a lot of, Ī he struck out aimlessly, Īwashing things? And making beds and cookery and all that sort of thing?ā

ĪNot in the kind of, mm, life I have in mind,ā said Windle firmly.

The Bursar shut his mouth. The Archchancellor banged on a table with a spoon.

ĪBrothers -ā he began, when there was something approaching silence. This prompted a loud and ragged chorus of cheering.

Ī- As you all know we are here tonight to mark the, ah, retirementā - nervous laughter - Īof our old friend and colleague Windle Poons. You know, seeing old Windle sitting here tonight puts me in mind, as luck would have it, of the story of the cow with three wooden legs. It appears that there was this cow, and -ā

The Bursar let his mind wander. He knew the story.

The Archchancellor always mucked up the punch line, and in any case he had other things on his mind.

He kept looking back at the little table.

The Bursar was a kindly if nervous soul, and quite enjoyed his job. Apart from anything else, no other wizard wanted it. Lots of wizards wanted to be Archchancellor, for example, or the head of one of the eight orders of magic, but practically no wizards wanted to spend lots of time in an office shuffling bits of paper and doing sums. All the paperwork of the University tended to accumulate in the Bursarās office, which meant that he went to bed tired at nights but at least slept soundly and didnāt have to check very hard for unexpected scorpions in his night-shirt.

Killing off a wizard of a higher grade was a recognised way of getting advancement in the orders.

However, the only person likely to want to kill the Bursar was someone else who derived a quiet pleasure from columns of numbers, all neatly arranged, and

21

people like that donāt often go in for murder. *

He recalled his childhood, long ago, in the Ramtop Mountains. He and his sister used to leave a glass of wine and a cake out every Hogswatchnight for the Hogfather. Things had been different, then. Heād been a lot younger and hadnāt known much and had probably been a lot happier.

For example, he hadnāt known that he might one day be a wizard and join other wizards in leaving a glass of wine and a cake and a rather suspect chicken vol-au-vent and a paper party hat for . . .

. . . someone else.

Thereād been Hogswatch parties, too, when he was a little boy. Theyād always follow a certain pattern.

Just when all the children were nearly sick with excitement, one of the grown-ups would say, archly, ĪI think weāre going to have a special visitor!ā and, amazingly ?oq cue?, thereād be a suspicious ringing of hog bells outside the window and in would come . . .

. . . in would come . . .

The Bursar shook his head. Someoneās granddad in false whiskers, of course. Some jolly old boy with a sack of toys, stamping the snow off his boots. Someone who gave you something.

Whereas tonight . . .

Of course, old Windle probably felt different about it. After one hundred and thirty years, death probably had a certain attraction. You probably became quite interested in finding out what happened next.

The Archchancellorās convoluted anecdote wound jerkily to its close. The assembled wizards laughed dutifully, and then tried to work out the joke.

The Bursar looked surreptitiously at his watch. It was now twenty minutes past nine.

________________________________________________________________

* At least, until the day they suddenly pick up a paper-knife and carve their way out through Cost Accounting and into forensic history.

22

Windle Poons made a speech. It was long and rambling and disjointed and went on about the good old days and he seemed to think that most of the people around him were people who had been, in fact, dead for about fifty years, but that didnāt matter because you

got into the habit of not listening to old Windle.

The Bursar couldnāt tear his eyes away from his watch. From inside came the squeak of the treadle as the demon patiently pedalled his way towards infinity.

Twenty-five minutes past the hour.

The Bursar wondered how it was supposed to happen. Did you hear - I think weāre going to have a very special visitor - hoofbeats outside?

Did the door actually open or did He come through it? Silly question. He was renowned for His ability to get into sealed places - especially into sealed places, if you thought about it logically. Seal yourself in anywhere and it was only a matter of time.

The Bursar hoped Heād use the door properly. His nerves were twanging as it was.

The conversational level was dropping. Quite a few other wizards, the Bursar noticed, were glancing at the door.

Windle was at the centre of a very tactfully widening circle. No-one was actually avoiding him, it was just that an apparent random Brownian motion was gently moving everyone away.

Wizards can see Death. And when a wizard dies, Death arrives in person to usher him into the Beyond. The Bursar wondered why this was considered a plus -

ĪDonāt know what youāre all looking at,ā said Windle, cheerfully.

The Bursar opened his watch.

The hatch under the 12 snapped up.

ĪCan you knock it off with all this shaking around?ā squeaked the demon.āI keeps on losing count.ā

ĪSorry, Ī the Bursar hissed. It was nine twenty-nine.

The Archchancellor stepped forward.

23

ćBye, then, Windle,ā he said, shaking the old manās parchment-like hand.āThe old place wonāt seem the same without you.ā

ĪDonāt know how weāll manage,ā said the Bursar, thankfully.

ĪGood luck in the next life,ā said the Dean.āDrop in if youāre ever passing and happen to, you know, remember who youāve been.ā

ĪDonāt be a stranger, you hear?ā said the Archchancellor.

Windle Poons nodded amiably. He hadnāt heard what they were saying. He nodded on general principles.

The wizards, as one man, faced the door.

The hatch under the 12 snapped up again.

ĪBing bing bong bing,ā said the demon.āBingely-bingely bong bing bing.ā

ĪWhat?ā said the Bursar, jolted.

ĪHalf past nine, Ī said the demon.

The wizards turned to Windle Poons. They looked faintly accusing.

ĪWhatāre you all looking at?ā he said.

The seconds hand on the watch squeaked onwards.

ĪHow are you feeling?ā said the Dean loudly.

ĪNever felt better,ā said Windle.āIs there any more of that, mm, rum left?ā

The assembled wizards watched him pour a generous measure into his beaker.

ĪYou want to go easy on that stuff,ā said the Dean nervously.

ĪGood health!ā said Windle Poons.

The Archchancellor drummed his fingers on the table.

ĪMr Poons, Ī he said, Īare you quite sure?ā

Windle had gone off at a tangent.āAny more of these toturerillas? Not that I call it proper food,ā he said, Īdippinā bits of hard bikky in sludge, whatās so special

24

about that? What I could do with right now ?is? one of Mr Dibblerās famous meat pies -ā

And then he died.

The Archchancellor glanced at his fellow wizards, and then tiptoed across to the wheelchair and lifted a blueveined wrist to check the pulse. He shook his head.

ĪThatās the way I want to go, Ī said the Dean.

ĪWhat, muttering about meat pies?ā said the Bursar.

ĪNo. Late.ā

ĪHold on. Hold on,ā said the Archchancellor.āThis isnāt right, you know. According to tradition, Death himself turns up for the death of a wiz - Ī

ĪPerhaps He was busy, Ī said the Bursar hurriedly.

ĪThatās right,ā said the Dean.āBit of a serious flu epidemic over Quirm way, Iām told.ā

ĪQuite a storm last night, too. Lots of shipwrecks, I daresay, Ī said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

ĪAnd of course itās springtime, when you get a great many avalanches in the mountains.ā

ĪAnd plagues.ā

The Archchancellor stroked his beard thoughtfully.

ĪHmm, Ī he said.

Alone of all the creatures in the world, trolls believe that all living things go through Time backwards. If the past is visible and the future is hidden, they say, then it means you must be facing the wrong way. Everything alive is going through life back to front. And this is a very interesting idea. considering it was invented by a race who spend most of their time hitting one another on the head with rocks.

Whichever way around it is, Time is something that living creatures possess.

Death galloped down through towering black clouds.

And now he had Time, too.

The time of his life.

Windle Poons peered into the darkness.

25

ĪHallo?ā he said.āHallo. Anyone there? What ho?ā

There was a distant, forlorn soughing, as of wind at the end of a tunnel.

ĪCome out. come out, wherever you are,ā said Windle, his voice trembling with mad cheerfulness.āDonāt worry. Iām quite looking forward to it, to tell the truth.ā

He clapped his spiritual hands and rubbed them together with forced enthusiasm.

ĪGet a move on. Some of us have got new lives to go to,ā he said.

The darkness remained inert. There was no shape, no sound. It was void, without form. The spirit of Windle Poons moved on the face of the darkness.

It shook its head.āBlow this for a lark,ā it muttered.āThis isnāt right at all.ā

It hung around for a while and then, because there didnāt seem anything else for it, headed for the only home it had ever known.

It was a home heād occupied for one hundred and thirty years. It wasnāt expecting him back and put up a lot of resistance. You either had to be very determined or very powerful to overcome that sort of thing, but Windle Poons had been a wizard for more than a century. Besides, it was like breaking into your own house, the old familiar property that youād lived in for years. You knew where the metaphorical window was that didnāt shut properly.

In short, Windle Poons went back to Windle Poons.

Wizards donāt believe in gods in the same way that most people donāt find it necessary to believe in, say, tables. They know theyāre there, they know theyāre there for a purpose, theyād probably agree that they have a place in a well-organised universe, but they wouldnāt see the point of believing, of going around saying, ĪO great table, without whom we are as naughtā. Anyway, either the gods are there whether you believe or not, or exist only as a function of the belief, so either way you might as well ignore the

26

whole business and, as it were, eat off your knees.

Nevertheless, there is a small chapel off the Universityās Great Hall, because while the wizards stand right behind the philosophy as outlined above, you donāt become a success~ wizard by getting up godsā noses even if those noses only exist in an ethereal or metaphorical sense. Because while wizards donāt believe in gods they know for a fact that gods believe in gods.

And in this chapel lay the body of Windle Poons.

The University had instituted twenty-four hours ???āting-in-state ever since the embarrassing affair thirty years previously with the late Prissal ĪMerry Ranksterā Teatar.

The body of Windle Poons opened its eyes. Two coins jingled on to the stone floor.

The hands, crossed over the chest, unclenched.

Windle raised his head. Some idiot had stuck a lily in his stomach.

His eyes swivelled sideways. There was a candle on either side of his head.

He raised his head some more.

There were two more candles down there, too.

Thank goodness for old Teatar, he thought. Otherwise Iād already be looking at the underside of a rather cheap pine lid.

Funny thing, he thought. Iām thinking. Clearly.

Wow.

Windle lay back, feeling his spirit refilling his body like gleaming molten metal ?filling? through a mould.

White-hot thoughts seared across the darkness of his brain, fired sluggish neurones into action.

It was never like this when I was alive.

But Iām not dead.

Not alive and not dead.

Sort of non-alive.

Or un-dead.

Oh dear . . .

27

He swung himself upright. Muscles that hadnāt worked properly for seventy or eighty years jerked into overdrive. For the first time in his entire life, he corrected himself, better make that Īperiod of existenceā, Windle Poonsā body was entirely under Windle Poonsā control. And Windle Poons Ī spirit wasnāt about to take any lip from a bunch of muscles.

Now the body stood up. The knee joints resisted for a while, but they were no more able to withstand the onslaught of will-power than a sick mosquito can withstand a blowtorch.

The door to the chapel was locked. However, Windle found that the merest pressure was enough to pull the lock out of the woodwork and leave fingerprints in the metal of the door handle.

ĪOh, goodness, Ī he said.

He piloted himself out into the corridor. The distant clatter of cu~~ery and the buzz of voices suggested that one of the Universityās four daily meals was in progress.

He wondered whether you were allowed to eat when you were dead. Probably not, he thought.

And could he eat, anyway? It wasnāt that he wasnāt hungry. It was just that . . . well, he knew how to think, and walking and moving were just a matter of twitching some fairly obvious nerves, but how exactly did your stomach work?

It began to dawn on Windle that the human body is not run by the brain, despite the brainās opinion on the matter. In fact itās run by dozens of complex automatic systems, all whirring and clicking away with the kind of precision that isnāt noticed until it breaks down.

He surveyed himself from the control room of his skull. He looked at the silent chemical factory of his liver with the same sinking feeling as a canoe builder might survey the controls of a computerised super-tanker. The mysteries of his kidneys awaited Windleās mastery of renal control. What, when you got right down to it, was a spleen? And how did you make it go?

28

His heart sank.

Or, rather, it didnāt.

ĪOh, gods,ā muttered Windle, and leaned against the wall. How did it work, now? He prodded a few, likely-looking nerves. Was it systolic . . . diastolic . . . systolic . . . diastolic . . .? And then there were the lungs, too . . .

Like a conjurer keeping eighteen plates spinning at the same time - like a man trying to programme a video recorder from an instruction manual translated from Japanese into Dutch by a Korean rice-husker - like, in fact, a man finding out what total self-control really means, Windle Poons lurched onwards.

The wizards of Unseen University set great store by big, solid meals. A man couldnāt be expected to get down to some serious wizarding, they held, without soup, fish, game, several huge plates of meat, a pie or two, something big and wobbly with cream on it, little

savoury things on toast, fruit, nuts and a brick-thick mint with the coffee. It gave him a lining to his stomach. It was also important that the meals were served at regular times. It was what gave the day shape, they said.

Except for the Bursar, of course. He didnāt eat much, but lived on his nerves. He was certain he was anorectic, because every time he looked in a mirror he saw a fat man. It was the Archchancellor, standing behind him and shouting at him.

And it was the Bursarās unfortunate fate to be sitting opposite the doors when Windle Poons smashed them in because it was easier than fiddling with the handles.

He bit through his wooden spoon.

The wizards revolved on their benches to stare.

Windle Poons swayed for a moment, assembling control of vocal chords, lips and tongue, and then said:

ĪI think I may be able to metabolise alcohol.ā

29

The Archchancellor was the first one to recover.

ĪWindle!ā he said.āWe thought you were dead!ā

He had to admit that it wasnāt a very good line. You didnāt put people on a slab with candles and lilies all round them because you think theyāve got a bit of a headache and want a nice lie down for half an hour.

Windle took a few steps forward. The nearest wizards fell over themselves in an effort to get away.

ĪI am dead, you bloody young fool,ā he muttered.āThink I go around looking like this all the time? Good grief.ā He glared at the assembled wizardry.āAnyone here know what a spleen is supposed to do?ā

He reached the table, and managed to sit down.

ĪProbably something to do with the digestion,ā he said.āFunny thing, you can go through your whole life with the bloody thing ticking away or whatever it does, gurgling or whatever, and you never know what the hell itās actually for. Itās Like when youāre lying in

bed of a night and you hear your stomach or something go pripple-ipple-goinnng. Itās just a gurgle to you, but who knows what marvellously complex chemical exchange processes are really going -ā

ĪYouāre an undead?ā said the Bursar, managing to get the words out at last.

ĪI didnāt ask to be,ā said the late Windle Poons irritably looking at the food and wondering how the blazes one went about turning it into Windle Poons.āI only came back because there was nowhere else to go. Think I want to be here?ā

ĪBut surely,ā said the Archchancellor, Īdidnāt . . . you know the fella, the one with the skull and the scythe -ā

ĪNever saw him,ā said Windle, shortly, inspecting the nearest dishes.āReally takes it out of you, this un-dyinā.ā

The wizards made frantic signals to one another over his head. He looked up and glared at them.

ĪAnd donāt think I canāt see all them frantic signals,ā he said. And he was amazed to realise that this

30

was true. Eyes that had viewed the past sixty years trough a pale, fuzzy veil had been bullied into operating like the finest optical machinery.

In fact two main bodies of thought were occupying the minds of the wizards of Unseen University.

What was being thought by most of the wizards was: this is terrible, is it really old Windle in there, he was such a sweet old buffer, how can we get rid of it?

How can we get nād ofit?

What was being thought by Windle Poons, in the humming, flashing cockpit of his brain, was: well, itās bye. There is life after death. And itās the same one. Just my luck.

ĪWell, Ī he said, Ī whatāre you going to do about it?ā

It was five minutes later. Half a dozen of the most senior wizards scurried along the draughty corridor in the wake of the Archchancellor, whose robes billowed ?out? behind him.

The conversation went like this:

ĪItās got to be Windle! It even talks like him!ā

ĪItās not old Windle. Old Windle was a lot older!ā

ĪOlder? Older than dead?ā

ĪHeās said he wants his old bedroom back, and I donāt see why I should have to move out -ā

ĪDid you see his eyes? Like gimlets !ā

ĪEh? What? What dāyou mean? You mean like that dwarf who runs the delicatessen on Cable Street?ā

ĪI mean like they bore into you!ā

Ī- itās got a lovely view of the gardens and Iāve had all my stuff moved in and itās not fair -ā

ĪHas this ever happened before?ā

ĪWell, there was old Teatar -ā

ĪYes, but he never actually died, he just used to put green paint on his face and push the lid off the coffin and shout ćSurprise, surprise -ä Ī

ĪWeāve never had a zombie here.ā

ĪHeās a zombie?ā

31

ĪI think so -ā

ĪDoes that mean heāll be playing kettle drums and doing that bimbo dancing all night, then?ā

ĪIs that what they do?ā

ĪOld Windle? Doesnāt sound like his cup of tea. He never liked dancing much when he was alive -ā

ĪAnyway, you canāt trust those voodoo gods. Never trust a god who grins all the time and wears a top hat, thatās my motto.ā

Ī- Iām damned if Iām going to give up my bedroom to a zombie after waiting years for it -ā

ĪIs it? Thatās a funny motto.ā

Windle Poons strolled around the inside of his own head again.

Strange thing, this. Now he was dead, or not living any more, or whatever he was, his mind felt clearer than it had ever done.

And control seemed to be getting easier, too. He hardly had to bother about the whole respiratory thing, the spleen seemed to be working after a fashion, the senses were operating at full speed. The digestive system was still a bit of a mystery, though.

He looked at himself in a silver plate.

He still looked dead. Pale face, red under the eyes. A dead body. Operating but still, basically, dead. Was that fair? Was that justice? Was that a proper reward for being a firm believer in reincarnation for almost 130 years? You come back as a corpse?

No wonder the undead were traditionally considered to be very angry.

Something wonderful, if you took the long view, was about to happen.

If you took the short or medium view, something horrible was about to happen.

Itās like the difference between seeing a beautiful new star in the winter sky and actually being close to

32

the supernova. Itās the difference between the beauty of morning dew on a cobweb and actually being a fly.

It was something that wouldnāt normally have happened for thousands of years.

It was about to happen now.

It was about to happen at the back of a disused cupboard in a tumble-down cellar in the Shades, the oldest and most disreputable part of Ankh-Morpork.

Plop.

It was a sound as soft as the first drop of rain on a century of dust.

ĪMaybe we could get a black cat to walk across his coffin.ā

ĪHe hasnāt got a coffin!ā wailed the Bursar, whose grip on sanity was always slightly tentative.

ĪOK, so we buy him a nice new coffin and then we get a black cat to walk across it?ā

ĪNo, thatās stupid. Weāve got to make him pass water.ā

ĪWhat?ā

ĪPass water. Undeads canāt do it.ā

The wizards, who had crowded into the Archchancellorās study, gave this statement their full, fascinated attention.

ĪYou sure?ā said the Dean.

ĪWell-known fact,ā said the Lecturer in Recent Runes flatly.

ĪHe used to pass water all the time when he was alive, Ī said the Dean doubtfully.

ĪNot when heās dead, though.ā

ĪYeah? Makes sense.ā

ĪRunning water, Ī said the Lecturer in Recent Runes suddenly.āItās running water. Sorry. They canāt cross over it.ā

ĪWell, I canāt cross ?liling? water, either,ā said the Dean.

33

ĪUndead! Undead!ā The Bursar was becoming a little unglued.

ĪOh, stop teasing him, Ī said the Lecturer, patting the trembling man on the back.

ĪWell, I canāt, Ī said the Dean.āI sink.ā

ĪUndead canāt cross running water even on a bridge.ā

ĪAnd is he the only one, eh? Are we going to have a plague of them, eh?ā said the Lecturer.

The Archchancellor drummed his fingers on his desk.

ĪDead people walking around is unhygienic, Ī he said.

This silenced them. No-one had ever looked at it that way, but Mustrum Ridcully was just the sort of man who would.

Mustrum Ridcully was, depending on your point of view, either the worst or the best Archchancellor that Unseen University had had for a hundred years.

There was too much of him, for one thing. It wasnāt that he was particularly big, it was just that he had the kind of huge personality that fits any available space. Heād get roaring drunk at supper and that was fine and acceptable wizardly behaviour. But then heād go back to his room and play darts all night and leave at five in the morning to go duck hunting. He shouted at people. He tried to jolly them along. And he hardly ever wore proper robes. Heād persuaded Mrs Whitlow, the Universityās dreaded housekeeper, to make him a sort of baggy trouser suit in garish blue and red; twice a day the wizards stood in bemusement and watched him jog purposefully around the University buildings, his pointy wizarding hat tied firmly on his head with string. Heād shout cheerfully up at them, because fundamental to the make-up of people like ??? Mustrum Ridcully is an iron belief that everyone else would like it, too, if only they tried it.

ĪMaybe heāll die, Ī they told one another hopefully, as they watched him try to break the crust on the river Ankh for an early morning dip.āAll this healthy exercise canāt be good for him.ā

34

Stories trickled back into the University. The Archchancellor had gone two rounds bare-fisted with Detritus, the huge odd-job troll at the Mended Drum. The Archchancellor had arm-wrestled with the Librarian for a bet and, although of course he hadnāt won, still had his arm afterwards.

The Archchancellor wanted the University to form its own football team for the big city game on Hogswatchday.

Intellectually, Ridcully maintained his position for two reasons. One was that he never, ever, changed his mind about anything. The other was that it took him several minutes to understand any new idea put to him, and this is a very valuable trait in a leader, because anything anyone is still trying to explain to you after two minutes is probably important and anything they give up after a mere minute or so is almost certainly something they shouldnāt have been bothering you with in the first place.

There seemed to be more Mustrum Ridcully than one body could reasonably contain.

Plop. Plop.

In the dark cupboard in the cellar, a whole shelf was already full.

There was exactly as much Windle Poons as one body could contain, and he steered it carefully along the corridors.

I never expected this, he thought. I donāt deserve this. Thereās been a mistake somewhere.

He felt a cool breeze on his face and realised heād tottered out into the open air. Ahead of him were the Universityās gates, locked shut.

Suddenly Windle Poons felt acutely claustrophobic.

Heād waited years to die, and now he had, and here he was stuck in this - this mausoleum with a lot of daft old men, where heād have to spend the rest of his life

35

being dead. Well, the first thing to do was get out and make a proper end to himself -

Ī ĪEvening, Mr Poons.ā

He turned around very slowly and saw the small figure of Modo, the Universityās dwarf gardener, who was sitting in the twilight smoking his pipe.

ĪOh. Hallo, Modo.ā

ĪI Īeard you was took dead, Mr Poons.ā

ĪEr. Yes. I was.ā

ĪSee you got over it, then.ā

Poons nodded, and looked dismally around the walls. The University gates were always locked at sunset every evening, obliging students and staff to climb over the walls. He doubted very much that heād be able to manage that.

He clenched and unclenched his hands. Oh, well . . .

ĪIs there any other gateway around here, Modo?ā he said.

ĪNo, Mr Poons.ā

ĪWell, where shall we have one?ā

ĪSorry, Mr Poons?ā

There was the sound of tortured masonry, followed by a vaguely Poons-shaped hole in the wall. Windleās hand reached back in and picked up his hat.

Modo relit his pipe. You see a lot of interesting things in this job, he thought.

In an alley, temporarily out of sight of passers-by, someone called Reg Shoe, who was dead, looked both ways, took a brush and a paint tin out of his pocket, and painted on the wall the words:

DEAD YES! GONE NO!

. . . and ran away, or at least lurched off at high speed.

The Archchancellor opened a window on to the night.

ĪListen, Ī he said.

The wizards listened.

A dog barked. Somewhere a thief whistled, and was

36

??? from a neighbouring rooftop. In the dis-

??? people were having the kind of quarrel that

??? t of the surrounding streets to open their

??? d listen in and make notes. But these were by major themes against the continuous hum and buzz of the city. Ankh-Morpork purred through the night, en route for the dawn, like a huge living creature although, of course, this was only a metaphor.

ĪWell?ā said the Senior Wrangler.āI canāt hear anything special.ā

ĪThatās what I mean. Dozens of people die in Ankh-Morpork every day. If theyād all started coming back like poor old Windle, donāt you think weād know about it? The placeād be in uproar. More uproar than usual, I mean.ā

ĪThereās always a few undead around,ā said the Dean, doubtfully.āVampires and zombies and banshees and so on.ā

ĪYes, but theyāre more naturally undead,ā said the Archchancellor.āThey know how to carry it off. Theyāre born to it.ā

ĪYou canāt be born to be undead,ā the Senior Wrangler * pointed out.

ĪI mean itās traditional,ā the Archchancellor snapped.āThere were some very respectable vampires where I grew up. Theyād been in their family for centuries.ā

ĪYes, but they drink blood,ā said the Senior Wrangler.āThat doesnāt sound very respectable to me.ā

ĪI read where they donāt actually need the actual blood,ā said the Dean, anxious to assist.āThey just

_______________________________________________________________

* The post of Senior Wrangler was an unusual one, as was the name itself. In some centres of learning, the Senior Wrangler is a leading philosopher; in others, heās merely someone who looks after horses. The Senior Wrangler at Unseen University was a philosopher who looked like a horse, thus neatly encapsulating all definitions.

37

need something thatās in blood. Hemogoblins, I think itās called.ā

The other wizards looked at him.

The Dean shrugged.āSearch me,ā he said.āHemo-goblins. Thatās what it said. Itās all to do with people having iron in their blood.ā

ĪIām damn sure Iāve got no iron goblins in my blood,ā said the Senior-Wrangler.

ĪAt least theyāre better than zombies,ā said the Dean.āA much better class of people. Vampires donāt go shuffling around the whole time.ā

ĪPeople can be turned into zombies, you know,ā said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, in conversational tones.āYou donāt even need magic. Just the liver of a certain rare fish and the extract of a particular kind of root. One spoonful, and when you wake up, you Īre a zombie.ā

ĪWhat type of fish?ā said the Senior Wrangler.

ĪHow shauld I know?ā

ĪHow should anyone know, then?ā said the Senior Wrangler nastily.āDid someone wake up one morning and say, hey, hereās an idea, Iāll just turn someone into a zombie, all Iāll need is some rare fish liver and a piece of root, itās just a matter of finding the right one? You can see the queue outside the hut, canāt you? No. 94, Red Stripefish liver and Maniac root . . . didnāt work. No. 95, Spikefish liver and Dum-dum root . . . didnāt work. No. 96 -ā

ĪWhat are you talking about?ā the Archchancellor demanded.

ĪI was simply pointing out the intrinsic unlikelihood of -ā

ĪShut up,ā said the Archchancellor, matter-of-factly.āSeems to me . . . seems to me . . . look, death must be going on, right? Death has to happen. Thatās what beinā alive is all about. Youāre alive, and then youāre dead. It canāt just stop happening.ā

ĪBut he didnāt turn up for Windle, Ī the Dean pointed out.

38

??? on all the time, Ī said Ridcully, ignoring him.

?Most? of things die all the time. Even vegetables.ā

?You? wonāt think Death ever came for a potato,ā ?said? Dean doubtfully.

ĪDeath comes for everything,ā said the Archchancellor, firmly.

The wizards nodded sagely.

After a while the Senior Wrangler said, ĪDo you know, I read the other day that every atom in your body is changed every seven years? New ones keep getting attached and old ones keep on dropping off. It goes on all the time. Marvellous, really.ā

?e_? The Senior Wrangler could do to a conversation ?that? it takes quite thick treacle to do to the pedals of a precision watch.

ĪYes? What happens to the old ones?ā said Ridcully, interested despite himself.

ĪDunno. They just float around in the air, I suppose, until they get attached to someone else.ā

The Archchancellor looked affronted.

ĪWhat, even wizards?ā

ĪOh, yes. Everyone. Itās part of the miracle of existence.ā

ĪIs it? Sounds like bad hygiene to me,ā said the Archchancellor.āI suppose thereās no way of stopping ?it?

ĪI shouldnāt think so,ā said the Senior Wrangler, doubtfully.āI donāt think youāre supposed to stop miracles of existence.ā

ĪBut that means everythinā is made up of everythinā else, Ī said Ridcully.

ĪYes. Isnāt it amazing?ā

ĪItās disgusting, is what it is, Ī said Ridcully, shortly.

ĪAnyway, the point Iām making . . . the point Iām making . . .ā He paused, trying to remember.āYou canāt just abolish death, thatās the point. Death canāt die. Thatās like asking a scorpion to sting itself.ā

ĪAs a matter of fact,ā said the Senior Wrangler,

39

always ready with a handy fact.āyou can get a scorpion to -ā

ĪShut up, Ī said the Archchancellor.

ĪBut we canāt have an undead wizard wandering around,ā said the Dean.āThereās no telling what he might take it into his head to do. Weāve got to . . . put a stop to him. For his own good.ā

ĪThatās right,ā said Ridcully.āFor his own good. Shouldnāt be too hard. There must be dozens of ways to deal with an undead.ā

ĪGarlic,ā said the Senior Wrangler flatly.āUndead donāt like garlic.ā

ĪDonāt blame them. Canāt stand the stuff,ā said the Dean.

ĪUndead! Undead!ā said the Bursar, pointing an accusing finger. They ignored him.

ĪYes, and then thereās sacred items,ā said the Senior Wrangler.ā?~your? basic undead chunkles into dust as soon as look at Īem. And they donāt like daylight. And if the worst comes to the worst, you bury them at a crossroads. Thatās surefire, that is. And you stick a stake in them to make sure they donāt get up again.ā

ĪWith garlic on it,ā said the Bursar.

ĪWell, yes. I suppose you could put garlic on it,ā the Senior Wrangler conceded, reluctantly.

ĪI donāt think you should put garlic on a good steak,ā said the Dean. ĪJust a little oil and seasoning.ā

ĪRed pepper is nice,ā said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, happily.

ĪShut up,ā said the Archchancellor.

Plop.

The cupboard doorās hinges finally gave way, spilling its contents into the room.

Sergeant Colon of the Ankh-Morpork City Guard was on duty. He was guarding the Brass Bridge, the main link between Ankh and Morpork. From theft.

40

??? came to crime prevention, Sergeant Colon

??? ~fest to think big.

??? ras a school of thought that believed the

??? to get recognised as a keen guardian of the law in Ankh-Morpork would be to patrol the streets and alleys, bribe informants, follow suspects and so on.

Sergeant Colon played truant from this particular school. Not, he would, hasten to say, because trying to keeping down crime in Ankh-Morpork was like trying to keep down salt in the sea and the only recognition ?~ony? keen guardian of the law was likely to get was the ?eort? that goes, ĪHey, that body in the gutter, isnāt that ?ald? Sergeant Colon?ā but because the modern, go-ahead, intelligent law officer ought to be ?at least? one jump ahead of the contemporary criminal. One day someone was bound to try to steal the Brass Bridge, and then theyād find Sergeant Colon right there waiting for them.

In the meantime, it offered a quiet place out of the wind where he could have a relaxing smoke and probably not see anything that would upset him.

He leaned with his elbows on the parapet, wondering vaguely about Life.

A figure stumbled out of the mist. Sergeant Colon recognised the familiar pointy hat of a wizard.

ĪGood evening, officer, Ī its wearer croaked.

ĪMorning, yāhonour.ā

ĪWould you be kind enough to help me up on to the parapet, officer?ā

Sergeant Colon hesitated. But the chap was a wizard. A man could get into serious trouble not helping wizards.

ĪTrying out some new magic, yāhonour?ā he said, brightly, helping the skinny but surprisingly heavy body up on to the crumbling stonework.

ĪNo.ā

41

Windle Poons stepped off the bridge. There was a squelch. *

Sergeant Colon looked down as the waters of the Ankh closed again, slowly.

Those wizards. Always up to something.

He watched for a while. After several minutes there was a disturbance in the scum and debris near the base of one of the pillars of the bridge, where a flight of greasy stairs led down to the water.

A pointy hat appeared.

Sergeant Colon heard the wizard slowly climb the stairs, swearing under his breath.

Windle Poons reached the top of the bridge again. He was soaked.

ĪYou want to go and get changed,ā Sergeant Colon volunteered.āYou could catch your death, standing around like that.ā

ĪHah!ā

ĪGet your feet in front of a roaring fire, thatās what Iād do.ā

ĪHah!ā

Sergeant Colon looked at Windle Poons in his own private puddle.

ĪYou been trying some special kind of underwater magic, yāhonour?ā he ventured.

ĪNot exactly, officer.ā

ĪIāve always wondered about what itās like under water,ā said Sergeant Colon, encouragingly.āThe mystāries of the deep, strange and wonderful creatures . . . my mum told me a tale once, about this little boy what turned into a mermaid, well, not a mermaid, and he had all these adventures under the s -ā

________________________________________________________________

* 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 ćrunningä or, for that matter, ćwaterä.

42

??? ~ained away under Windle Poonsā dread-

??? g,ā said Windle. He turned and started to

??? into the mist.āVery, very boring. Very

??? d.ā

??? Colon was left alone. He lit a fresh ?cigarette with a ? trembling hand, and started to walk hur- ~edly towards the Watch headquarters.

ĪThat face, Ī he told himself.āAnd those eyes . . . just whatsisname . . . whoās that bloody dwarf who runs the delicatessen on Cable Street . . .ā

ĪSargeant!ā

Colon froze. Then he looked down. A face was starring up at him from ground level. When heād got a grip ?on? himself, he made out the sharp features of his old ?Qd? Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler, the Discworldās ?Buling?, talking argument in favour of the theory that mankind had descended from a species of rodent.

C.M.O.T. Dibbler ?liked? to describe himself as a merchant adventurer; everyone else liked to describe him as an itinerant pedlar whose money-making shemes were always let down by some small but vital ?w?, such as trying to sell things he didnāt own or which didnāt work or, sometimes, didnāt even exist.

Fairy gold is well known to evaporate by morning, but it was a reinforced concrete slab by comparison to some of Throatās merchandise.

He was standing at the bottom of some steps that led down to one of Ankh-Morporkās countless cellars.

ĪHallo, Throat.ā

ĪWould you step down here a minute, Fred? I could use a bit of legal aid.ā

ĪGot a problem, Throat?ā

Dibbler scratched his nose.

ĪWell, Fred . . . Is it a crime to be given something? I mean, without you knowing it?ā

ĪSomeone been giving you things, Throat?ā

43

Throat nodded.āDunno. You know I keep merchandise down here?ā he said.

ĪYeah.ā

ĪYou see, I just come down to do a bit of stock-taking, and . . .ā He waved a hand helplessly.āWell . . . take a look . . .ā

He opened the cellar door.

In the darkness something went plop.

Windle Poons lurched aimlessly along a dark alley in the Shades, arms extended in front of him, hands hanging down at the wrists. He didnāt know why. It just seemed the right way to go about it.

Jumping off a building? No, that wouldnāt work, either. It was hard enough to walk as it was, and two broken legs wouldnāt help. Poison? He imagined it would be like having a very bad stomach ache. Noose? Hanging around would probably be more boring than sitting on the bottom of the river.

He reached a noisome courtyard where several alleys met. Rats scampered away from him. A cat screeched and scurried off over the rooftops.

As he stood wondering where he was, why he was, and what ought to happen next, he felt the point of a knife against his backbone.

ĪOK, grandad,ā said a voice behind him, Īitās your money or your life.ā

In the darkness Windle Poonsā mouth formed a horrible grin.

ĪI Īm not playing about, old man, Ī said the voice.

ĪAre you Thievesā Guild?ā said Windle, without turning around.

ĪNo, weāre . . . freelances. Come on, letās see the colour of your money.ā

ĪHavenāt got any,ā said Windle. He turned around. There were two more muggers behind him.

ĪYe gods, look at his eyes,ā said one of them.

Windle raised his arms above his head.

44

ĪOoooooooh,ā he moaned.

The muggers backed away. Unfortunately, there was a wall behind them. They flattened themselves against it.

ĪOoooOOOOoooobuggeroffoooOOOooo, Ī said Windle, who hadnāt realised that the only way of escape lay through him. He rolled his eyes for better effect.

Maddened by terror, the would-be attackers dived under his arms, but not before one of them had sunk his knife up to the hilt in Windleās pigeon chest.

He looked down at it.

ĪHey! That was my best robe!ā he said.āI wanted to be buried in - will you look at it? You know how difficult it is to darn silk? Come back here this - Look at it, right where it shows -ā

He listened. There was no sound but the distant and retreating scurry of footsteps.

Windle Poons removed the knife.

ĪCould have killed me,ā he muttered, tossing it away.

In the cellar, Sergeant Colon picked up one of the objects that lay in huge drifts on the floor.

ĪThere must be thousands of Īem,ā said Throat, behind him.āWhat I want to know is, who put them there?ā *

_______________________________________________________________

* Although not common on the Discworld there are, indeed, such things as anti-crimes, in accordance with the fundamental law that everything in the multiverse has an opposite. They are, obviously, rare. Merely giving someone something is not the opposite of robbery; to be an antierime, it has to be done in such a way as to cause outrage ?Pn~Uor? humiliation to the victim. So there is breaking-and-decorating, proffering-with-embarrassment (as in most retirement presentations) and whitemailing (as in threatening to reveal to his enemies a mobsterās secret donations, for example, to charity). Anti-crimes have never really caught on.

45

Sergeant Colon turned the object round and round in his hands.

ĪNever seen one of these before, Ī he said. He gave a shake. His face lit up.āPretty, aināt they?ā

ĪThe door was locked and everything,ā said Throat ĪAnd I Īm paid up with the Thievesā Guild.ā

Colon shook the thing again.

Ī Nice,ā he said.

ĪFred?ā

Colon, fascinated, watched the little snowflakes far inside the tiny glass globe.āHmm?ā

ĪWhat am I supposed to do?ā

ĪDunno. I suppose theyāre yours, Throat. Can imagine why anyoneād want to get rid of Īem, though.

He turned towards the door. Throat stepped into his path.

ĪThen thatāll be twelve pence, Ī he said smoothly.

ĪWhat for?

ĪFor the one you just put in your pocket, Fred.ā

Colon fished the globe out of his pocket.

ĪCome on!ā he protested.āYou just found them ?heh? They didnāt cost you a penny!ā

ĪYes, but thereās storage . . . packing . . . handling . .

ĪTuppence, Ī said Colon desperately.

ĪTenpence.ā

ĪThreepence.ā

ĪSevenpence - and thatās cutting my own throat ??? mark you.ā

ĪDone,ā said the sergeant, reluctantly. He gave the globe another shake.

ĪNice, aināt they?ā he said.

ĪWorth every penny,ā said Dibbler. He rubbed his hands together hopefully.āShould sell like hot cakeā he said, picking up a handful and shoving them into box.

He locked the door behind them when they left.

In the darkness something went plop.

46

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

According to the Guild of Merchants Ī famous publication, Welkome to Ankh-Morporke, Citie of One Thousand Surprises, `you the visitor will be asurred of a Warm Wellcome in the countless Ins and hostelries of this Ancient Citie, where many specialise in catering for the taste of guest from distant part. So if you a Manne, Trolle, Dwarfe, Goblin or Gnomm, Ankh-Morpork will raise your Glass convivial and say: Cheer! Here looking, you Kid! Up, You Bottom!ā

Windle Poons didnāt know where undead went for a good time. All he knew, and he knew it for a certainty, was that if they could have a good time anywhere then they could probably have it in Ankh-Morpork.

His laboured footsteps led him deeper into the Shades. Only they werenāt so laboured now.

For more than a century Windle Poons had lived inside the walls of Unseen University. In terms of accumulated years, he may have lived a long time. In terms of experience, he was about thirteen.

He was seeing, hearing and smelling things heād never seen, heard or smelled before.

The Shades was the oldest part of the city. If you could do a sort of relief map of sinfulness, wickedness and all-round immorality, rather like those representations of the gravitational field around a Black Hole, then even in Ankh-Morpork the Shades would be represented by a shaft. In fact the Shades was remarkably like the aforesaid well-known astronomical phenomenon: it had a certain strong attraction, no light escaped from it, and it could indeed become a gateway to another world. The next one.

The Shades was a city within a city.

The streets were thronged. Muffled figures slunk past on errands of their own. Strange music wound up

47

from sunken stairwells. So did sharp and exciting smells.

Poons passed goblin delicatessens and dwarf bars from which came the sounds of singing and fighting which dwarfs traditionally did at the same time. And there were trolls, moving through the crowds like . . . like big people moving among little people. They werenāt shambling, either.

Windle had hitherto seen trolls only in the more select parts of the city, where they moved with exaggerated caution in case they accidentally clubbed someone to death and ate them. In the Shades they strode, unafraid, heads held so high they very nearly rose above their shoulder-blades.

Windle Poons wandered through the crowds like random shot on a pinball table. Here a blast of smoky sound from a bar spun him back into the street, there a discreet doorway promising unusual and forbidden delights attracted him like a magnet. Windle Poonsā life hadnāt included even very many usual an approved delights. He wasnāt even certain what they were. Some sketches outside one pink-lit, inviting doorway left him even more mystified but incredible anxious to learn.

He turned around and around in pleased astonishment.

This place! Only ten minutes walk or fifteen minutes * lurch from the University! And heād never known it was there! All these people! All this noise. All this life!

Several people of various shapes and species jostle him. One or two started to say something, shut their mouths quickly, and hurried off.

They were thinking . . . his eyes! Like gimlets!

And then a voice from the shadows said: ĪHallo, bigboy. You want a nice time?ā

_________________________________

* i.e., everywhere outside the Shades.

48

ĪOh, yes!ā said Windle Poons, lost in wonder.āOh, yes! Yes!ā

He turned around.

ĪBloody hell!ā There was the sound of someone hurrying away down an alley.

Windleās face fell.

Life, obviously, was only for the living. Perhaps this back-to-your-body business had been a mistake after all. Heād been a fool to think otherwise.

He turned and, hardly bothering to keep his own heart beating, went back to the University.

Windle trudged across the quad to the Great Hall.

The Archchancellor would know what to do

ĪThere he is!ā

ĪItās him!ā

ĪGet him!ā

Windleās trained thought ran over a cliff. He looked around at five red, worried, and above all familiar faces.

ĪOh, hallo, Dean,ā he said, unhappily.āAnd is that the Senior Wrangler? Oh, and the Archchancellor, this is -ā

ĪGrab his arm!ā

ĪDonāt look at his eyes!ā

ĪGrab his other arm!ā

ĪThis is for your own good, Windle!ā

ĪItās not Windle! Itās a creature of the Night!ā

ĪI assure you -ā

ĪHave you got his legs?ā

ĪGrab his leg!ā

ĪGrab his other leg!ā

ĪHave you grabbed everything?ā roared the Archchancellor.

The wizards nodded.

Mustrum Ridcully reached into the massive recesses of his robe.

ĪRight, fiend in human shape,ā he growled, what dāyou think of this, then? Ah-ha!ā

49

Windle squinted at the small object that was thrust triumphantly under his nose.

ĪWell, er . . .ā he said diffidently, ĪIād say . . . yes . . . hmm . . . yes, the smell is very distinctive, isnāt it . . . yes, quite definitely. Allium sativum. The common domestic garlic. Yes?ā

The wizards stared at him. They stared at the little white clove. They stared at Windle again.

ĪI am right, arenāt I?ā he said, and made an attempt at a smile.

ĪEr,ā said the Archchancellor.āYes. Yes, thatās right.ā Ridcully cast around for something to add.

ĪWell done, Ī he said.

ĪThank you for trying,ā said Windle.āI really appreciate it.ā He stepped forward. The wizards might as well have tried to hold back a glacier.

ĪAnd now I Īm going to have a lie down, Ī he said.ā Itās been a long day.ā

He lurched into the building and creaked along the corridors until he reached his room. Someone else seemed to have moved some of their stuff into it, but Windle dealt with that by simply picking it all up in one sweep of his arms and throwing it out into the corridor.

Then he lay down on the bed.

Sleep. Well, he was tired. That was a start. But sleeping meant letting go of control, and he wasnāt too certain that all the systems were fully functional yet.

Anyway, when you got right down to it, did he have to sleep at all? After all, he was dead. That was supposed to be just like sleeping, only even more so. They said that dying was just like going to sleep, although of course if you werenāt careful bits of you could rot and drop off.

What were you supposed to do when you slept, anyway? Dreaming . . . wasnāt that all to do with sorting out your memories, or something? How did you go about it?

He stared at the ceiling.

50

ĪI never thought being dead would be so much trouble, Ī he said aloud.

After a while a faint but insistent squeaking noise made him turn his head.

Over the fireplace was an ornamental candlestick, fixed to a bracket on the wall. It was such a familiar piece of furniture that Windle hadnāt really seen it for fifty years.

It was coming unscrewed. It spun around slowly, squeaking once a turn. After half a dozen turns it fell off and clattered to the floor.

Inexplicable phenomena were not in themselves unusual on the Discworld. * It was just that they normally had more point, or at least were a bit more interesting.

Nothing else seemed to be about to move. Windle relaxed, and went back to organising his memories. There was stuff in there heād completely forgotten about.

There was a brief whispering outside, and then the door burst open -

ĪGet his legs! Get his legs!ā

ĪHold his arms!ā

Windle tried to sit up.āOh, hallo, everyone, Ī he said. ĪWhatās the matter?ā

The Archchancellor, standing at the foot of the bed, fumbled in a sack and produced a large, heavy object.

He held it aloft.

ĪAh-ha!ā he said.

Windle peered at it.

ĪYes?ā he said, helpfully.

_______________________________________________________________

* Rains of fish. for example, were so common in the little landlocked village of Pine Dressers that it had a flourishing smoking, canning and kipper-filleting industry. And in the mountain regions of Syrrit many sheep, left out in the fields all night, would be found in the morning to be facing the other ulay, without the apparent intervention of any human agency.

51

ĪAh-ha,ā said the Archchancellor again, but with slightly less conviction.

ĪItās a symbolic double-handled axe from the cult of Blind Io,ā said Windle.

The Archchancellor gave him a blank look.

ĪEr, yes,ā he said, Īthatās right.ā He threw it over his shoulder, almost removing the Deanās left ear, and fished in the sack again.

ĪAh-ha!ā

ĪThatās a rather fine example of the Mystic Tooth of Offler the Crocodile God, Ī said Windle.

ĪAh-ha!ā

ĪAnd thatās a . . . let me see now . . . yes, thatās the matched set of sacred Flying Ducks of Ordpor the Tasteless. I say, eh ?it? is fun!ā

ĪAh-ha.ā

ĪThatās . . . donāt tell me, donāt tell me . . . thatās the holy linglongrrf the notorious Sootee cult, isnāt it?ā

ĪAh-ha?ā

ĪI think that oneās the three-headed fish of the Howanda three-headed fish religion,ā said Windle.

ĪThis is ridiculous,ā said the Archchancellor. dropping the fish.

The wizards sagged. Religious objects werenāt such a surefire undead cure after all.

ĪIām really sorry to be such a nuisance, Ī said Windle.

The Dean suddenly brightened up.

ĪDaylight!ā he said excitedly.āThatāll do the trick!ā

ĪGet the curtain!ā

ĪGet the other curtain!ā

ĪOne, two, three . . . now!ā

Windle blinked in the invasive sunlight.

The wizards held their breath.

ĪI Īm sorry,ā he said.āIt doesnāt seem to work.ā

They sagged again.

ĪDonāt you feel anything?ā said Ridcully.

ĪNo sensation of crumbling into dust and blowing away?ā said the Senior Wrangler hopefully.

52

ĪMy nose tends to peel if I Īm out in the sun too long,ā said Windle.āI don Īt know if thatās any help.ā He tried to smile.

The wizards looked at one another and shrugged.

ĪGet out,ā said the Archchancellor. They trooped out.

Ridcully followed them. He paused at the door and waved a finger at Windle.

ĪThis uncooperative attitude, Windle, is not doing you any good,ā he said, and slammed the door behind him.

After a few seconds the four screws holding the door handle very slowly unscrewed themselves. They rose up and orbited near the ceiling for a while, and then fell.

Windle thought about this for a while.

Memories. He had lots of them. One hundred and thirty years of memories. When he was alive he hadnāt been able to remember one-hundredth of the things he knew but now he was dead, his mind uncluttered with everything except the single silver thread of his thoughts, he could feel them all there. Everything heād ever read, everything heād ever seen, everything heād ever heard. All there, ranged in ranks. Nothing forgotten. Everything in its place.

Three inexplicable phenomena in one day. Four, if you included the fact of his continued existence. That was really inexplicable.

It needed explicating.

Well, that was someone elseās problem. Everything was someone elseās problem now.

The wizards crouched outside the door of Windleās room.

ĪGot everything?ā said Ridcully.

ĪWhy canāt we get some of the servants to do it?ā muttered the Senior Wrangler.āItās undignified.ā

ĪBecause I want it done properly and with dignity,ā snapped she Archchancellor. ĪIf anyoneās going to

53

bury a wizard at a crossroads with a stake hammered through him, then wizards ought to do it. After all, weāre his friends.ā

ĪWhat is this thing, anyway?ā said the Dean, inspecting the implement in his hands.

ĪItās called a shovel, Ī said the Senior Wrangler.āIāve seen the gardeners use them. You stick the sharp end in the ground. Then it gets a bit technical.ā

Ridcully squinted through the keyhole.

ĪHeās lying down again,ā he said. He got up, brushing the dust off his knees, and grasped the door handle.āRight,ā he said.āTake your time from me.

One...two...ā

Modo the gardener was trundling a barrow load of hedge trimmings to a bonfire behind the new High Energy Magic research building when about half a dozen wizards went past at, for wizards, high speed.

Windle Poons was being borne aloft between them.

Modo heard him to say, ĪReally, Archchancellor, are you quite sure this one will work -?ā

ĪWeāve got your best interests at heart,ā said Ridcully.

ĪIām sure, but -ā

ĪWeāll soon have you feeling your old self again,ā said the Bursar.

ĪNo, we wonāt,ā hissed the Dean.āThatās the whole point!ā

ĪWeāll soon have you not feeling your old self again, thatās the whole point,ā stuttered the Bursar, as they rounded the corner.

Modo picked up the handles of the barrow again and pushed it thoughtfully towards the secluded area where he kept his bonfire, his compost heaps, his leaf-mould pile, and the little shed he sat in when it rained.

He used to be assistant gardener at the palace, but this job was a lot more interesting. You really got to see life.

54

Ankh-Morpork society is street society. There is always something interesting going on. At the moment, the driver of a two-horse fruit wagon was holding the Dean six inches in the air by the scruff of the Deanās robe and was threatening to push the Deanās face through the back of the Deanās head.

ĪItās peaches, right?ā he kept bellowing.āYou know what happens to peaches what lies around too long?

They get bruised. Lots of things round here are going to get bruised.ā

ĪI am a wizard, you know, Ī said the Dean, his pointy shoes dangling.āIf it wasnāt for the fact that it would be against the rules for me to use magic in anything except a purely defensive manner, you would definitely be in a lot of trouble.ā

ĪWhat you doing, anyway?ā said the driver, lowering the Dean so he could look suspiciously over his shoulder.

ĪYeah,ā said a man trying to control the team pulling a lumber wagon, Īwhatās going on? Thereās people here being paid by the hour, you know!ā

ĪMove along at the front there!ā

The lumber driver turned in his seat and addressed the queue of carts behind him.āIām trying to, Ī he said.

ĪItās not my fault, is it? Thereās a load of wizards digging up the godsdamn street!ā

The Archchancellorās muddy face peered over the edge of the hole.

ĪOh, for heavenās sake, Dean, Ī he said, ĪI told you to sort things out!ā

ĪYes, I was just asking this gentleman to back up and go another way,ā said the Dean, who was afraid he was beginning to choke.

The fruiterer turned him around 90 that he could see along the crowded streets.āEver tried to back up sixty carts all at once?ā he demanded.āItās not easy. Especially when everyone canāt move because you guys have got it soās the carts are backed up all round

55

the block and no-one can move because everyoneās in someone elseās way, right?ā

The Dean tried to nod. He had wondered himself about the wisdom of digging the hole at the junction of the Street of Small Gods and Broad Way, two of the busiest streets in Ankh-Morpork. It had seemed logical at the time. Even the most persistent undead ought to stay decently buried under that amount of traffic. The only problem was that no-one had thought seriously about the difficulty of digging up a couple of main streets during the busy time of day.

ĪAll right, all right, whatās going on here?ā

The crowd of spectators opened to admit the bulky figure of Sergeant Colon of the Watch. He moved through the people unstoppably, his stomach leading the way. When he saw the wizards, waist deep in a hole in the middle of the road, his huge red face brightened up.

ĪWhatās this, then?ā he said. ĪA gang of international crossroads thieves?ā

He was overjoyed. His long-term policing strategy was paying off!

The Archchancellor tipped a shovelful of Ankh-Morpork loam over his boots.

ĪDonāt be stupid, man,ā he snapped.āThis is vitally important.ā

ĪOh, yes. Thatās what they all say,ā said Sergeant Colon, not a man to be easily steered from a particular course of thought once heād got up to mental speed. ĪI bet thereās hundreds of villages in heathen places like Klatch thatād pay good money for a nice prestigious crossroads like this, eh?ā

Ridcully looked up at him with his mouth open.

ĪWhat are you gabbling about, officer?ā he said. He pointed irritably to his pointy hat.āDidnāt you hear me? Weāre wizards. This is wizard business. So if you could just sort of direct the traffic around us, thereās a good chance -ā

56

Ī- these peaches bruise as soon as you even look at Īem -ā said a voice behind Sergeant Colon.

ĪThe old idiots have been holding us up for half an hour,ā said a cattle drover who had long ago lost control of forty steers now wandering aimlessly around the nearby streets.āI wants Īem arrested.ā

It dawned on the sergeant that he had inadvertently placed himself centre stage in a drama involving hundreds of people, some of them wizards and all of them angry.

ĪWhat are you doing, then?ā he said weakly.

ĪWeāre burying our colleague. What does it look like?ā said Ridcully.

Colonās eyes swivelled to an open coffin by the side of the road. Windle Poons gave him a little wave.

ĪBut . . . heās not dead . . . is he?ā he said, his forehead wrinkling as he tried to get ahead of the situation.

ĪAppearances ,,Can be deceptive, Ī said the Archchancellor.

ĪBut he just waved to me,ā said the sergeant, desperately.

ĪSo?ā

ĪWell, itās not normal for -ā

ĪItās all right, sergeant, Ī said Windle.

Sergeant Colon sidled closer to the coffin.

ĪDidnāt I see you throw yourself into the river last night?ā he said, out of the corner of his mouth.

ĪYes. You were very helpful, Ī said Windle.

ĪAnd then you threw yourself sort of out again,ā said the sergeant.

ĪIām afraid so.ā

ĪBut you were down there for ages.ā

ĪWell, it was very dark, you see. I couldnāt find the steps.ā

Sergeant Colon had to concede the logic of this.

ĪWell, I suppose you must be dead, then,ā he said. ĪNo-one could stay down there who wasnāt dead.ā

ĪThis is it,ā Windle agreed.

57

ĪOnly why are you waving and talking?ā said Colon.

The Senior Wrangler poked his head out of the hole.

ĪItās not unknown for a dead body to move and make noises after death, Sergeant,ā he volunteered.āItās all down to involuntary muscular spasms.ā

ĪActually, Senior Wrangler is right,ā said WindlePoons.āI read that somewhere.ā

ĪOh.ā Sergeant Colon looked around.āRight, Ī he said, uncertainly.āWell . . . fair enough, I suppose . . .ā

ĪOK, weāre done,ā said the Archchancellor, scrambling out of the hole, Īitās deep enough. Come on, Windle, down you go.ā

ĪI really am very touched, you know,ā said Windle, lying back in the coffin. It was quite a good one, from the mortuary in Elm Street. The Archchancellor had let him choose it himself.

Ridcully picked up a mallet.

Windle sat up again.

ĪEveryoneās going to so much trouble -ā

ĪYes, right,ā said Ridcully, looking around.

ĪNow - whoās got the stake?ā

Everyone looked at the Bursar.

The Bursar looked unhappy.

He fumbled in a bag.

ĪI couldnāt get any, Ī he said.

The Archchancellor put his hand over his eyes.

ĪAll right,ā he said quietly.āYou know, Iām not surprised? Not surprised at all. What did you get? Lamb chops? A nice piece of pork?ā

ĪCelery, Ī said the Bursar.

ĪItās his nerves, Ī said the Dean, quickly.

ĪCelery,ā said the Archchancellor, his self-control rigid enough to bend horseshoes around.ā Right.ā

The Bursar handed him a soggy green bundle.

Ridcully took it.

ĪNow, Windle, Ī he said, ĪI Īd like you to imagine that what I have in my hand -ā

58

ĪItās quite all right, Ī said Windle.

ĪIām not actually sure I can hammer -ā

ĪI donāt mind, I assure you, Ī said Windle.

ĪYou donāt?ā

ĪThe principle is sound,ā said Windle.āIf you just hand me the celery but think hammering a stake, thatās probably sufficient.ā

ĪThatās very decent of you,ā said Ridcully.āThat shows a very proper spirit.ā

ĪEsprit de corpse,ā said the Senior Wrangler.

Ridcully glared at him, and thrust the celery dramatically towards Windle.

ĪTake that!ā he said.

ĪThank you,ā said Windle.

ĪAnd now letās put the lid on and go and have some lunch,ā said Ridcully.āDonāt worry, Windle. Itās bound to work. Today is the last day of the rest of your life.ā

Windle lay in the darkness, listening to the hammering. There was a thump and a muffled imprecation against the Dean for not holding the end properly.

And then the patter of soil on the lid, getting fainter and more distant.

After a while a distant rumbling suggested that the commerce of the city was being resumed. He could even hear muffled voices.

He banged on the coffin lid.

ĪCan you beep it down?ā he demanded.āThereās people down here trying to be dead!ā

He heard the voices stop. There was the sound of feet hurrying away.

Windle lay there for some time. He didnāt know how long. He tried stopping all functions, but that just made things uncomfortable. Why was dying so difficult? Other people seemed to manage it, even without practice.

Also, his leg itched.

He tried to reach down to scratch it, and his hand

59

touched something small and irregularly shaped. He managed to get his fingers around it.

It felt like a bundle of matches.

In a coffin? Did anyone think heād smoke a quiet cigar to pass the time?

After a certain amount of effort he managed to push one boot off with the other boot and ease it up until he could just grasp it. This gave him a rough surface to strike the match on.

Sulphurous light filled his tiny oblong world.

There was a tiny scrap of cardboard pinned to the inside of the lid.

He read it.

He read it again.

The match went out.

He lit another one, just to check that what he had read really did exist.

The message was still as strange, even third time round:

Dead? Depressed?

Feel like starting it all again?

Then why not come along to the

FRESH START CLUB

Thursdays, 12 pm. 668 Elm Street

EVERY BODY WELCOME

The second match went out, taking the last of the oxygen with it.

Windle lay in the dark for a while, considering his next move and finishing off the celery.

Whoād have thought it?

And it suddenly dawned on the late Windle Poons that there was no such thing as somebody elseās problem, and that just when you thought the world had pushed you aside it turned out to be full of

60

strangeness. He knew from experience that the living never found out half of what was really happening, because they were too busy being the living. The onlooker sees most of the game, he told himself.

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 had things in it like screws that unscrewed themselves, and little written messages to the dead.

He resolved to find out what was going on. And then . . . if Death wasnāt going to come to him, heād go to Death. He had his rights, after all. Yeah. Heād lead the biggest missing-person hunt of all time.

Windle grinned in the darkness.

Missing - believed Death.

Today was the first day of the rest of his life.

And Ankh-Morpork lay at his feet. Well, metaphorically. The only way was up.

He reached up, felt for the card in the dark, and pulled it free. He stuck it between his teeth.

Windle Poons braced his feet against the end of the box, pushed his hands past his head, and heaved.

The soggy loam of Ankh-Morpork moved slightly.

Windle paused out of habit to take a breath, and realised that there was no point. He pushed again. The end of the coffin splintered.

Windle pulled it towards him and tore the solid pine like paper. He was left with a piece of plank which would have been a totally useless spade for anyone with un-zombie-like strength.

Turning on to his stomach, tucking the earth around him with his impromptu spade and ramming it back with his feet, Windle Poons dug his way towards a fresh start.

Picture a landscape, a plain with rolling curves.

Itās late summer in the octarine grass country below the towering peaks of the high Ramtops, and the predominant

61

colours are umber and gold. Heat sears the landscape. Grasshoppers sizzle, as in a frying pan. Even the air is too hot to move. Itās the hottest summer in living memory and, - in these parts, thatās a long, long time.

Picture a figure on horseback, moving slowly along a road thatās an inch deep in dust between fields of corn that already promise an unusually rich harvest.

Picture a fence of baked, dead wood. Thereās a notice pinned to it. The sun has faded the letters, but they are still readable.

Picture a shadow, falling across the notice. You can almost hear it reading both the words.

Thereās a track leading off the road, towards a small group of bleached buildings.

Picture dragging footsteps.

Picture a door, open.

Picture a cool, dark room, glimpsed through the open doorway. This isnāt a room that people live in a lot. Itās a room for people who live outdoors but have to come inside sometimes, when it gets dark. Itās a room for harnesses and dogs, a room where oilskins are hung up to dry. Thereās a beer barrel by the door. There are flagstones on the floor

and, along the ceiling beams, hooks for bacon. Thereās a scrubbed table that thirty hungry men could sit down at.

There are no men. There are no dogs. There is no beer.

There is no bacon.

There was silence after the knocking, and then the flap flap of slippers on flagstones. Eventually a skinny old woman with a face the colour and texture of a walnut peered around the door.

ĪYes?ā she said.

THE NOTICE SAID ĪMAN WANTEDā.

ĪDid it? Did it? Thatās been up there since before last winter!ā

I AM SORRY? YOU NEED NO HELP?

The wrinkled face looked at him thoughtfully.

ĪI canāt pay moreān sixpence a week, mind,ā it said.

62

The tall figure looming against the sunlight appeared to consider this.

YES. it said, eventually.

ĪI wouldnāt even know where to start you workinā, either. We havenāt had any proper help here for three years. I just hire the lazy goodfornothinās from the village when I want Īem.ā

YES?

ĪYou donāt mind, then?ā

I HAVE A HORSE.

The old woman peered around the stranger. In the yard was the most impressive horse sheād ever seen. Her eyes narrowed.

ĪAnd thatās your horse. is it?ā

YES.

ĪWith all that silver on the harness and everything?ā

YES.

ĪAnd you want to work for sixpence a week?ā

YES.

The old woman pursed her lips. She looked from the stranger to the horse to the dilapidation around the farm.

She appeared to reach a decision, possibly on the lines that someone who owned no horses probably didnāt have much to fear from a horse thief.

ĪYouāre to sleep in the barn, understand?ā she said.

SLEEP? YES. OF COURSE. YES, I WILL HAVE TO SLEEP.

ĪCouldnāt have you in the house anyway. It wouldnāt be right.ā

THE BARN WILL BE QUITE ADEQUATE, I ASSURE YOU.

ĪBut you can come into the house for your meals.ā

THANK YOU.

ĪMy nameās Miss Flitworth.ā

YES.

She waited.

ĪI expect you have a name, too,ā she prompted.

YES. THATāS RIGHT.

She waited again.

63

IāM SORRY?

ĪWhat is your name?ā

The stranger stared at her for a moment, and then looked around wildly.

ĪCome on,ā said Miss Flitworth.āl aināt employing no-one without no name. Mr . . . ?ā

The figure stared upwards.

MR SKY?

ĪNo-oneās called Mr Sky.ā

MR . . . DOOR?

She nodded.

ĪCould be. Could be Mr Door. There was a chap called Doors I knew once. Yeah. Mr Door. And your first name? Donāt tell me you havenāt got one of those, too. Youāve got to be a Bill or a Tom or a Bruce or one of those names.ā

YES.

ĪWhat?ā

ONE OF THOSE.

ĪWhich one?ā

ER. THE FIRST ONE?

ĪYouāre a Bill?ā

YES?

Miss Flitworth rolled her eyes.

ĪAll right, Bill Sky . . .ā she said.

DOOR.

ĪYeah. Sorry. All right, Bill Door . . .ā

CALL ME BILL.

ĪAnd you can call me Miss Flitworth. I expect you want some dinner?ā

I WOULD? AH. YES. THE MEAL OF THE EVENING. YES.

ĪYou look half starved, to tell the truth. More than half, really.ā She squinted at the figure. Somehow it was very hard to be certain what Bill Door looked like, or even remember the exact sound of his voice. Clearly he was there, and clearly he had spoken - otherwise why did you remember anything at all?

ĪThereās a lot of people in these parts as donāt use the name they were born with,ā she said. Īl always say thereās

64

nothing to be gained by going around asking persānal questions. I suppose you can work, Mr Bill Door? Iām still getting the hay in off the high meadows and thereāll be a lot of work come harvest. Can you use a scythe?ā

Bill Door seemed to meditate on the question for some time. Then he said, I THINK THE ANSWER TO THAT IS A DEFINITE ĪYESā, MISS FLITWORTH.

Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler also never saw the sense in asking personal questions, at least insofar as they applied to him and were on the lines of ĪAre these things yours to sell?ā But no-one appeared to be coming forward to berate him for selling off their property, and that was good enough for him. Heād sold more than a thousand of the little globes this morning, and heād had to employ a troll to keep up a flow from the mysterious source of supply in the cellar.

People loved them.

The principle of operation was laughably simple and easily graspable by the average Ankh-Morpork citizen after a few false starts.

If you gave the globe a shake, a cloud of little white snowflakes swirled up in the liquid inside and settled, delicately, on a tiny model of a famous Ankh-Morpork landmark. In some globes it was the University, or the Tower of Art, or the Brass Bridge, or the Patricianās Palace. The detail was amazing.

And then there were no more left. Well, thought Throat, thatās a shame. Since they hadnāt technically belonged to him - although morally, of course, morally they were his - he couldnāt actually complain.

Well, he could complain, of course, but only under his breath and not to anybody specific. Maybe it was all for the best, come to think of it. Stack Īem high, sell Īem cheap. Get Īem off your hands - it made it much easier to spread them in a gesture of injured innocence when you said ĪWho, me?ā

They were really pretty, though. Except, strangely

65

enough, for the writing. It was on the bottom of each globe, in shaky, amateurish letters, as if done by someone who had never seen writing before and was trying to copy some down. On the bottom of every globe, below the intricate little snowflake-covered building, were the words:

~fo r~3

4h~ MorPorā

2

Mustrum Ridcully, Archchancellor of Unseen University, was a shameless autocondimentor. * He had his own special cruet put in front of him at every meal. It consisted of salt, three types of pepper, four types of mustard, four types of vinegar, fifteen different kinds of chutney and his special favourite: Wow-Wow Sauce, a mixture of mature scumble, pickled cucumbers, capers, mustard, mangoes, figs, grated wahooni, anchovy essence, asafetida and, significantly, sulphur and saltpetre for added potency.

Ridcully inherited the formula from his uncle who, after half a pint of sauce on a big meal one evening, had a charcoal biscuit to settle his stomach, lit his pipe and disappeared in mysterious circumstances, although his shoes were found on the roof the following summer.

There was cold mutton for lunch. Mutton went well with Wow-Wow Sauce; on the night of Ridcully

________________________________________________________________

* Someone who will put certainly salt and probably pepper on any meal you put in front of them whatever it is and regardless of how much itās got on it already and regardless of how it tastes. Behavioural psychiatrists working for fast-food outlets around the universe have saved billions of whatever the local currency is by noting the autocondimenting phenomenon and advising their employers to leave seasoning out in the first place. This is really true.

66

seniorās death, for example, it had gone at least three miles.

Mustrum tied his napkin behind his neck, rubbed his hands together, and reached out.

The cruet moved.

He reached out again. It slid away.

Ridcully sighed.

ĪAll right, you fellows,ā he said.āNo magic at Table, you know the rules. Whoās playing silly buggers?ā

The other senior wizards stared at him.

ĪI, I, I donāt think we can play it any more, Ī said the Bursar, who at the moment was only occasionally bouncing off the sides of sanity, ĪI, I, I think we lost some of the pieces . . .ā

He looked around, giggled, and went back to trying to cut his mutton with a spoon. The other wizards were keeping knives out of his way at present.

The entire cruet floated up into the air and started to spin slowly. Then it exploded.

The wizards, dripping vinegar and expensive spices, watched it owlishly.

ĪIt was probably the sauce,ā the Dean ventured.āIt was definitely going a bit critical last night.ā

Something dropped on his head and landed in his lunch. It was a black iron screw, several inches long.

Another one mildly contused the Bursar.

After a second or two, a third landed point down on the table by the Archchancellorās hand and stuck there.

The wizards turned their eyes upwards.

The Great Hall was lit in the evenings by one massive chandelier, although the word so often associated with glittering prismatic glassware seemed inappropriate for the huge, heavy, black, tallow-encrusted thing that hung from the ceiling like a threatening overdraft. It could hold a thousand candles. It was directly over the senior wizardsā table.

Another screw tinkled on to the floor by the fireplace.

The Archchancellor cleared his throat.

67

ĪRun?ā he suggested.

The chandelier dropped.

Bits of table and crockery smashed into the walls.

Lumps of lethal tallow the size of a manās head whirred through the windows. A whole candle, propelled out of the wreckage at a freak velocity, was driven several inches into a door.

The Archchancellor disentangled himself from the remains of his chair.

ĪBursar!ā he yelled.

The Bursar was exhumed from the fireplace.

ĪUm, yes, Archchancellor?ā he quavered.

ĪWhat was the meaninā of that?ā

Ridcullyās hat rose from his head.

It was a basic floppy-brimmed, pointy wizarding hat, but adapted to the Archchancellorās outgoing lifestyle. Fishing flies were stuck in it. A very small pistol crossbow was shoved in the hatband in case he saw something to shoot while out jogging, and Mustrum Ridcully had found that the pointy bit was just the right size for a small bottle of Bentinckās Very Old Peculiar Brandy. He was quite attached to his hat.

But it was no longer attached to him.

It drifted gently across the room. There was a faint but distinct gurgling noise.

The Archchancellor leapt to his feet.āBugger that,ā he roared.āThat stuffās nine dollars a fifth!ā He made a leap for the hat, missed, and kept on going until he drifted to a halt several feet above the ground.

The Bursar raised a hand, nervously.

ĪPossibly woodworm?ā he said.

ĪIf there is any more of this,ā growled Ridcully, Īanymore at all, dāyou hear, I shall get very angry!ā

He was dropped to the floor at the same time as the big doors opened. One of the college porters bustled in, followed by a squad of the Patricianās palace guard.

The guard captain looked the Archchancellor up and down with the expression of one to whom the

68

word Īcivilianā is pronounced in the same general tones as Īcockroachā.

ĪYou the head chap?ā he said.

The Archchancellor smoothed his robe and tried to straighten his beard.

ĪI am the Archchancellor of this university, yes,ā he said.

The guard captain looked curiously around the hall.

The students were all cowering down the far end. Splashed food covered most of the walls to ceiling height. Bits of furniture lay around the wreckage of the chandelier like trees around ground zero of a meteor strike.

Then he spoke with all the distaste of someone whose own further education had stopped at age nine, but whoād heard stories . . .

ĪIndulging in a bit of youthful high spirits, were we?ā he said.āThrowinā a few bread rolls around, that kind of thing?ā

ĪMay I ask the meaning of this intrusion?ā said Ridcully, coldly.

The guard captain leaned on his spear.

ĪWell,ā he said, Īitās like this. The Patrician is barricaded in his bedroom on account of the furniture in the palace is zooming around the place like you wouldnāt believe, the cooks wonāt even go back in the kitchen on account of whatās happening in there . . .ā

The wizards tried not to look at the spearās head. It was starting to unscrew itself.

ĪAnyway,ā the captain went on, oblivious to the faint metallic noises, Īthe Patrician calls through the keyhole, see, and says to me, ćDouglas, I wonder if you wouldnāt mind nipping down to the University and asking the head man if he would be so good as to step up here, if heās not too busy?ä But I can always go back and tell him youāre engaginā in a bit of student humour, if you like.ā

The spearhead was almost off the shaft.

69

ĪYou listening to me?ā said the captain suspiciously.

ĪHmm? What?ā said the Archchancellor, tearing his eyes away from the spinning metal.āOh. Yes. Well, I can assure you, my man, that we are not the cause of -ā

ĪAargh!ā

ĪPardon?ā

ĪThe spearhead fell on my foot!ā

ĪDid it?ā said Ridcully, innocently.

The guard captain hopped up and down.

ĪListen, are you bloody hocus-pocus merchants coming or not?ā he said, between bounces.āThe boss is not very happy. Not very happy at all.ā

A great formless cloud of Life drifted across the Discworld, like water building up behind a dam when the sluice gates are shut. With no Death to take the life force away when it was finished with, it had nowhere else to go.

Here and there it earthed itself in random poltergeist activity, like flickers of summer lightning before a big storm. Everything that exists, yearns to Live. Thatās what the cycle of life is all about. Thatās the engine that drives the great biological pumps of evolution. Everything tries to inch its way up the tree, clawing or tentacling or sliming its way up to the next niche until it gets to the very top - which, on the whole, never seems to have been worth all that effort.

Everything that exists, yearns to live. Even things that are not alive. Things that have a kind of sub-life, a metaphorical life, an almost life. And now, in the same way that a sudden hot spell brings forth unnatural and exotic blooms . . .

There was something about the little globes. You had to pick them up and give them a shake, watch the pretty snowflakes swirl and glitter. And then take them home and put them on the mantelpiece.

And then forget about them.

70

The relationship between the University and the Patrician, absolute ruler and nearly benevolent dictator of Ankh-Morpork, was a complex and subtle one.

The wizards held that, as servants of a higher truth, they were not subject to the mundane laws of the city.

The Patrician said that, indeed, this was the case, but they would bloody well pay their taxes like everyone else.

The wizards said that, as followers of the light of wisdom, they owed allegiance to no mortal man.

The Patrician said that this may well be true but they also owed a city tax of two hundred dollars per head per annum, payable quarterly.

The wizards said that the University stood on magical ground and was therefore exempt from taxation and anyway you couldnāt put a tax on knowledge.

The Patrician said you could. It was two hundred dollars per capita; if per capita was a problem, decapita could be arranged.

The wizards said that the University had never paid taxes to the civil authority.

The Patrician said he was not proposing to remain civil for long.

The wizards said, what about easy terms?

The Patrician said he was talking about easy terms. They wouldnāt want to know about the hard terms.

The wizards said that there was a ruler back in, oh, it would be the Century of the Dragonfly, who had tried to tell the University what to do. The Patrician could come and have a look at him if he liked.

The Patrician said that he would. He truly would.

In the end it was agreed that while the wizards of course paid no taxes, they would nevertheless make an entirely voluntary donation of, oh, letās say two hundred dollars per head, without prejudice, mutatis mutandis, no strings attached, to be used strictly for non-militaristic and environmentally-acceptable purposes.

71

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. *

Senior wizards did not often get out and about on what Welkome to Ankh-Morporke probably called the thronged highways and intimate byways of the city, but it was instantly obvious that something was wrong. It wasnāt that cobblestones didnāt sometimes fly through the air. but usually someone had thrown them. They didnāt normally float by themselves.

A door burst open and a suit of clothes came out, a pair of shoes dancing along behind it, a hat floating a few inches above the empty collar. Close behind them came a skinny man endeavouring to do with a hastily-snatched flannel what normally it took a whole pair of trousers to achieve.

ĪYou come back here!ā he screamed, as they rounded the corner.āI still owe seven dollars for you!ā

A second pair of trousers scurried out into the street and hurried after them.

The wizards clustered together like a frightened animal with five pointed heads and ten legs, wondering who was going to be the first to comment.

ĪThatās bloody amazing!ā said the Archchancellor.

ĪHmm?ā said the Dean, trying to imply that he saw more amazing things than that all the time, and that in drawing attention to mere clothing running around by itself the Archchancellor was letting down the whole tone of wizardry.

ĪOh, come on. I donāt know many tailors round here

_______________________________________________________________

* Many songs have been written about the bustling metropolis, the most famous of course being: ĪAnkh-Morpork! Ankh-Morpork! So good they named it Ankh-Morpork!ā, but others have included ĪCarry Me Away From Old Ankh-Morporkā, ĪI Fear Iām Going Back to Ankh-Morporkā and the old favourite, ĪAnkh-Morpork Maladyā.

72

whoād throw in a second pair of pants for a seven dollar suit,ā said Ridcully.

ĪOh, Ī said the Dean.

ĪIf it comes past again, try to trip it up soās I can have a look at the label.ā

A bedsheet squeezed through an upper window and flapped away across the rooftops.

ĪYāknow,ā said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, trying to keep his voice calm and relaxed, ĪI donāt think this is magic. It doesnāt feel like magic.ā

The Senior Wrangler fished in one of the deep pockets of his robe. There was a muffled clanking and rustling and the occasional croak. Eventually he produced a dark blue glass cube. It had a dial on the front.

ĪYou carry one of them around in your pocket?ā said the Dean.āA valuable instrument like that?ā

ĪWhat the hell is it?ā said Ridcully.

ĪAmazingly sensitive magical measuring device,ā said the Dean.āMeasures the density of a magical field. A thaumometer.ā

The Senior Wrangler proudly held the cube aloft and pressed a button on the side. A needle on the dial wobbled around a little bit and stopped.

ĪSee?ā said the Senior Wrangler. ĪJust natural background, representing no hazard to the public.ā

ĪSpeak up,ā said the Archchancellor.āI canāt hear you above the noise.ā

Crashes and screams rose from the houses on either side of the street.

Mrs Evadne Cake was a medium, verging on small.

It wasnāt a demanding job. Not many people who died in Ankh-Morpork showed much inclination to chat to their surviving relatives. Put as many mystic dimensions between you and them as possible, that was their motto. She filled in between engagements with dressmaking and church work - any church.

73

Mrs Cake was very keen on religion, at least on Mrs Cakeās terms.

Evadne Cake was not one of those bead-curtain-and-incense mediums, partly because she didnāt hold with incense but mainly because she was actually very good at her profession. A good conjurer can astound you with a simple box of matches and a perfectly ordinary deck of cards, if you would care to examine them, sir, you will see they are a perfectly ordinary deck of cards - he doesnāt need the finger-nipping folding tables and complicated collapsible top hats of lesser prestidigitators. And, in the same way, Mrs Cake didnāt need much in the way of props. Even the industrial-grade crystal ball was only there as a sop to her customers. Mrs Cake could actually read the future in a bowl of porridge. * She could have a revelation in a panful of frying bacon. She had spent a lifetime dabbling in the spirit world, except that in Evadneās case dabbling wasnāt really apposite. She wasnāt the dabbling kind. It was more a case of stamping into the spirit world and demanding to see the manager.

And, while making her breakfast and cutting up dogfood for Ludmilla, she started to hear voices. They were very faint. It wasnāt that they were on the verge of hearing, because they were the kind of voices that ordinary ears canāt hear. They were inside her head.

. . . watch what youāre doing . . . where am I. . . quit shoving, there. . .

And then they faded again.

They were replaced by a squeaking noise from the next room. She pushed aside her boiled egg and waddled through the bead curtain.

The sound was coming from under the severe, no-

________________________________________________________________

* It would say, for example, that you would shortly undergo a painful bowel movement.

74

nonsense hessian cover of her crystal ball.

Evadne went back into the kitchen and selected a heavy frying pan. She waved it through the air once or twice, getting the heft of it, and then crept towards the crystal under its hood.

Raising the pan ready to swat anything unpleasant, she twitched aside the cover.

The ball was turning slowly round and round on its stand.

Evadne watched it for a while. Then she drew the curtains, eased her weight down on the chair, took a deep breath and said, Ī Is there anybody there?ā

Most of the ceiling fell in.

After several minutes and a certain amount of struggle Mrs Cake managed to get her head free.

ĪLudmilla!ā

There were soft footsteps in the passageway and then something come in from the back yard. It was clearly, even attractively female, in general shape, and wore a perfectly ordinary dress. It was also apparently suffering from a case of superfluous hair that not all the delicate pink razors in the world could erase. Also, teeth and fingernails were being worn long this season. You expected the whole thing to growl, but it spoke in a pleasant and definitely human voice.

ĪMother?ā

ĪOiām under Īere.ā

The fearsome Ludmilla lifted up a huge joist and tossed it lightly aside.āWhat happened? Didnāt you have your premonition switched on?ā

ĪOi turned it off to speak to the baker. Cor, that gave me a turn.ā

ĪIāll make you a cup of tea, shall I?ā

ĪNow then, you know you always crushes teacups when itās your Time.ā

ĪIām getting better at it, Ī said Ludmilla.

ĪThereās a good girl, but Iāll do it myself, thanks all the same.ā

75

Mrs Cake stood up, brushed the plaster dust off her apron, and said: ĪThey shouted! They shouted! All at once!ā

Modo the University gardener was weeding a rose bed when the ancient, velvet lawn beside him heaved and sprouted a hardy perennial Windle Poons, who blinked in the light.

ĪIs that you, Modo?ā

ĪThatās right, Mr Poons,ā said the dwarf. ĪShall I give you a hand up?ā

ĪI think I can manage, thank you.ā

ĪIāve got a shovel in the shed, if you like.ā

ĪNo, itās perfectly all right.ā Windle pulled himself out of the grass and brushed the soil off the remains of his robe.āSorry about your lawn,ā he added, looking down at the hole.

ĪDonāt mention it, Mr Poons.ā

ĪDid it take long to get it looking like that?ā

ĪAbout five hundred years, I think.ā

ĪGosh, I am sorry. I was aiming for the cellars, but I seem to have lost my bearings.ā

ĪDonāt you worry about that, Mr Poons,ā said the dwarf cheerfully.āEverythingās growing like crazy anyway. Iāll fill it in this afternoon and put some more seed down and five hundred years will just zoom past, you wait and see.ā

ĪThe way things are going, I probably will,ā said Windle moodily. He looked around. ĪIs the Archchancellor here?ā he said.

ĪI saw them all going up to the palace,ā said the gardener.

ĪThen I think Iāll just go and have a quick bath and a change of clothes. I wouldnāt want to disturb anyone.ā

ĪI heard you wasnāt just dead but buried too, Ī said the gardener, as Windle lurched off.

ĪThatās right.ā

ĪCanāt keep a good man down, eh?ā

76

indle turned back.

ĪBy the way . . . whereās Elm Street?ā

Modo scratched an ear.āIsnāt it that one off Treacle Mine Road?ā

ĪOh, yes. I remember.ā

Modo went back to his weeding.

The circular nature of Windle Poonsā death didnāt bother him much. After all, trees looked dead in the winter, burst forth again every spring. Dried up old seeds went in the ground, fresh young plants sprang up. Practically nothing ever died for long. Take compost, for example.

Modo believed in compost with the same passion that other people believed in gods. His compost heaps heaved and fermented and glowed faintly in the dark, perhaps because of the mysterious and possibly illegal ingredients Modo fed them, although nothing had ever been pried and, anyway, no-one was about to dig into one to see what was in it.

All dead stuff, but somehow alive. And it certainly grew roses. The Senior Wrangler had explained to Modo that his roses grew so big because it was a miracle of existence, but Modo privately thought that they just wanted to get as far away from the compost as possible.

The heaps were in for a treat tonight. The weeds were really doing well. Heād never known plants to grow so fast and luxuriantly. It must be all the compost, Modo thought.

By the time the wizards reached the palace it was in uproar. Pieces of furniture were gliding across the ceiling. A shoal of cutlery, like silvery minnows in mid-air, flashed past the Archchancellor and dived away down a corridor. The place seemed to be in the grip of a selective and tidy-minded hurricane.

Other people had already arrived. They included a group dressed very like the wizards in many ways,

77

although there were important differences to the trained eye.

ĪPriests?ā said the Dean.āHere? Before us?ā

The two groups began very surreptitiously to adopt positions that left their hands free.

ĪWhat good are they?ā said the Senior Wrangler.

There was a noticeable drop in metaphorical temperature.

A carpet undulated past.

The Archchancellor met the gaze of the enormous Chief Priest of Blind Io who, as senior priest of the senior god in the Discworldās rambling pantheon, was the nearest thing Ankh-Morpork had to a spokesman on religious affairs.

ĪCredulous fools,ā muttered the Senior Wrangler.

ĪGodless tinkerers,ā said a small acolyte, peering out from behind the Chief Priestās bully.

ĪGullible idiots !ā

ĪAtheistic scum!ā

ĪServile morons !ā

ĪChildish conjurors!ā

ĪBloodthirsty priests!ā

ĪInterfering wizards!ā

Ridcully raised an eyebrow. The Chief Priest nodded very slightly.

They left the two groups hurling imprecations at each other from a safe distance and strolled nonchalantly towards a comparatively quiet part of the room where, beside a statue of one of the Patricianās predecessors, they turned and faced one another again.

ĪSo . . . how are things in the godbothering business?ā said Ridcully.

ĪWe do our humble best. How is the dangerous meddling with things man was not meant to understand?ā

ĪPretty fair. Pretty fair.ā Ridcully removed his hat and fished inside the pointy bit.āCan I offer you a drop of something?ā

78

ĪAlcohol is a snare for the spirit. Would you care for a cigarette? I believe you people indulge.ā

ĪNot me. If I was to tell you what that stuff does to your lungs -ā

Ridcully unscrewed the very tip of his hat and poured a generous measure of brandy into it.

ĪSo, Ī he said, Īwhatās happening?ā

ĪWe had an altar float up into the air and drop on us.ā

ĪA chandelier unscrewed itself. Everythingās unscrewing itself. You know, I saw a suit of clothes run past on the way here? Two pairs of pants for seven dollars!ā

ĪHmm. Did you see the label?ā

ĪEverythingās throbbing, too. Notice the way everythingās throbbing?ā

ĪWe thought it was you people.ā

ĪItās not magic. Suppose the gods arenāt more than usually unhappy?ā

ĪApparently not.ā

Behind them, the priests and the wizards were screaming chin to chin.

The Chief Priest moved a little closer.

ĪI think I could be strong enough to master and defeat just a little snare,ā he said. ĪI havenāt felt like this since Mrs Cake was one of my flock.ā

ĪMrs Cake? Whatās a Mrs Cake?ā

ĪYou have . . . ghastly Things from the Dungeon. Dimensions and things, yes? Terrible hazards of your ungodly profession?ā said the Chief Priest.

ĪYes.ā

ĪWe have someone called Mrs Cake.ā

Ridcully gave him an enquiring look.

ĪDonāt ask,ā said the priest, shuddering.āJust be grateful youāll never have to find out.ā

Ridcully silently passed him the brandy.

ĪJust between the two of us,ā said the priest, Īhave you got any ideas about all this? The guards are

79

trying to dig his lordship out. You know heāll want answers. I Īm not even certain I know the questions.ā

ĪNot magic and not gods,ā said Ridcully.āCan I have the snare back? Thank you. Not magic and not gods. That doesnāt leave us much, does it?ā

ĪI suppose thereās not some kind of magic you donāt know about?ā

ĪIf there is, we donāt know about it.ā

ĪFair enough, Ī the priest conceded.

ĪI suppose itās not the gods up to a bit of ungodliness on the side?ā said Ridcully, clutching at one last straw. ĪA couple of Īem had a bit of a tiff or something? Messing around with golden apples or something?ā

ĪItās very quiet on the god front right now, Ī said the Chief Priest. His eyes glazed as he spoke, apparently reading from a script inside his head.āHyperopia, goddess of shoes, thinks that Sandelfon, god of corridors, is the long-lost twin brother of Grune, god of unseasonal fruit. Who put the goat in the bed of Offler, the Crocodile God? Is Offler forging an alliance with Seven-handed Sek? Meanwhile, Hoki the Jokester is up to his old tricks -ā

ĪYes, yes, all right,ā said Ridcully.āIāve never been able to get interested in all that stuff, myself.ā

Behind them, the Dean was trying to prevent the Lecturer in Recent Runes from attempting to turn the priest of Offler the Crocodile God into a set of matching suitcases, and the Bursar had a bad nosebleed from a lucky blow with a thurible.

ĪWhat weāve got to present here, Ī said Ridcully, Īis a united front. Right?ā

ĪAgreed, Ī said the Chief Priest.

ĪRight. For now.ā

A small rug sinewaved past at eye level. The Chief Priest handed back the brandy bottle.

ĪIncidentally, mother says you havenāt written lately, Ī he said.

ĪYeah . . .ā The other wizards would have been

80

surprised at their Archchancellorās look of contrite embarrassment.āIāve been busy. You know how it is.ā

ĪShe said to be sure to remind you sheās expecting both of us over for lunch on Hogswatchday.ā

ĪI havenāt forgotten,ā said Ridcully, glumly. ĪIām looking forward to it.ā He turned to the melee behind them.

ĪCut it out, you fellows,ā he said.

ĪBrethren! Desist!ā bellowed the Chief Priest.

The Senior Wrangler released his grip on the head of the high priest of the Cult of Hinki. A couple of curates stopped kicking the Bursar. There was a general adjustment of clothing, a finding of hats and a bout of embarrassed coughing.

ĪThatās better,ā said Ridcully.āNow then, his Eminence the Chief Priest and myself have decided -ā

The Dean glowered at a very small bishop.

ĪHe kicked me! He kicked me!ā

ĪOoo! I never did, my son.ā

ĪYou bloody well did,ā the Dean hissed. ĪSideways, so they wouldnāt see!ā

Ī- have decided -ā repeated Ridcully, glaring at the Dean, Īto pursue a solution to the current disturbances in a spirit of brotherhood and goodwill and that includes you, Senior Wrangler.ā

ĪI couldnāt help it! He pushed me.ā

ĪWell! May you be forgiven!ā said the Archdeacon of Thrume, stoutly.

There was a crash from above. A chaise-longue cantered down the stairs and smashed through the hall door.

ĪI think perhaps the guards are still trying to free the Patrician,ā said the High Priest. ĪApparently even his secret passages locked themselves.ā

ĪAll of them? I thought the sly devil had Īem everywhere,ā said Ridcully.

ĪAll locked,ā said the High Priest. ĪAll of them.ā

ĪAlmost all of them,ā said a voice behind him.

81

Ridcullyās tones did not change as he turned around, except that a slight extra syrup was added.

A figure had apparently stepped out of the wall. It was human, but only by default. Thin, pale, and clad all in dusty black, the Patrician always put Ridcully in mind of a predatory flamingo, if you could find a flamingo that was black and had the patience of a rock.

ĪAh, Lord Vetinari,ā he said, ĪI am so glad you are unhurt.ā

ĪI will see you gentlemen in the Oblong Office, Ī said the Patrician. Behind him, a panel in the wall slid back noiselessly.

ĪI, um, I believe there are a number of guards upstairs trying to free -ā the Chief Priest began.

The Patrician waved a thin hand at him.āI wouldnāt dream of stopping them,ā he said. ĪIt gives them something to do and makes them feel important. Otherwise they just have to stand around all day looking fierce and controlling their bladders. Come this way.ā

The leaders of the other Ankh-Morpork Guilds turned up in ones and twos, gradually filling the room.

The Patrician sat gloomily staring at the paper-work on his desk as they argued.

ĪWell, itās not us,ā said the head of the Alchemists.

ĪThings are always flying through the air when you fellows are around,ā said Ridcully.

ĪYes, but thatās only because of unforeseen exothermic reactions, Ī said the alchemist.

ĪThings keep blowing up,ā translated the deputy-head alchemist, without looking up.

ĪThey may blow up, but they come down again.They donāt flutter around and, e.g., start unscrewing themselves,ā said his chief, giving him a warning frown. ĪAnyway, whyād we do it to ourselves? I tell you, itās hell in my workshop! Thereās stuff whizzing everywhere! Just before I came out, a huge and very expensive piece of glassware broke into splinters !ā

82

ĪMarry, Ītwas a sharp retort, Ī said a wretched voice.

The press of bodies moved aside to reveal the General Secretary and Chief Butt of the Guild of Fools and Joculators. He flinched under the attention, but he generally flinched all the time anyway. He had the look of a man whose face has been Ground Zero for one custard pie too many, whose trousers have been too often awash with whitewash, whose nerves would disintegrate completely at the sound of just one more whoopee-cushion. 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.

ĪWhat do you mean, Geoffrey?ā said Ridcully, as kindly as he could.

The Fool gulped. ĪWell, you see,ā he mumbled, Īwe have sharp as in splinters, and retort as in large glass alchemical vessel, ~~d thus we get a pun on ćsharp retortä which also means, well, a scathing answer. Sharp retort. You see? Itās a play on words. Um. Itās not very good, is it.ā

The Archchancellor looked into eyes like two runny eggs.

ĪOh, apun,ā he said.āOf course. Hohoho.ā He waved a hand encouragingly at the others.

ĪHohoho, Ī said the Chief Priest.

ĪHohoho, Ī said the leader of the Assassinsā Guild.

ĪHohoho,ā said the head Alchemist. ĪAnd, you know, what makes it even funnier is that it was actually an alembic.ā

ĪSo what youāre telling me,ā said the Patrician, as considerate hands led the Fool away, Īis that none of you are responsible for these events?ā

He gave Ridcully a meaningful look as he spoke.

The Archchancellor was about to answer when his eye was caught by a movement on the Patricianās desk.

There was a little model of the Palace in a glass globe. And next to it was a paperknife.

83

The paperknife was slowly bending.

ĪWell?ā said the Patrician.

ĪNot us,ā said Ridcully, his voice hollow. The Patrician followed his gaze.

The knife was already curved like a bow.

The Patrician scanned the sheepish crowd until he found Captain Doxie of the City Guard Day Watch.

ĪCanāt you do something?ā he said.

ĪEr. Like what, sir? The knife? Er. I suppose I could arrest it for being bent.ā

Lord Vetinari threw his hands up in the air.

ĪSo! Itās not magic! Itās not gods! Itās not people! What is it? And whoās going to stop it? Who am I going to call?ā

Half an hour later the little globe had vanished.

No-one noticed. They never do.

Mrs Cake knew who she was going to call.

ĪYou there, One-Man-Bucket?ā she said.

Then she ducked, just in case.

A reedy and petulant voice oozed out of the air.

where have you been I canāt move in here!

Mrs Cake bit her lip. Such a direct reply meant her spirit guide was worried. When he didnāt have anything on his mind he spent five minutes talking about buffaloes and great white spirits, although if One-Man-Bucket had ever been near white spirit heād drunk it and it was anyoneās guess what heād do to a buffalo. And he kept putting Īumsā and Īhows Ī into the conversation.

ĪWhat dāyou mean?ā

- there been a catastrophe or something, some kind of ten-second plague?

ĪNo. Donāt think so.ā

- thereās real pressure here, you know. whatās hokeing everything up?

ĪWhat do you mean?ā

- shutupshutupshutup Iām trying to talk to the lady!

84

- you lot over there, keep the noise down! oh yeaha sez you -

Mrs Cake was aware of other voices trying to drown him out.

ĪOne-Man-Bucket!ā

- heathen savage, am I? so you know what this heathen savage says to youa yeah? listen, Iāve been over here for a hundred years, me! I donāt have to take talk like that from someone whoās still warm! Tight - that does it, you . . .

His voice faded.

Mrs Cake set her jaw.

His voice came back.

- oh yeah? oh yeaha well, maybe you was big when you was alive, friend, but here and now youāre just a bedsheet with holes in it! Oh, so you donāt like that, eh -

ĪHeās going to start fighting again, mum,ā said Ludmilla, who was curled up by the kitchen stove.āHe always calls people ćfriendä just before he hits them.ā

Mrs Cake sighed.

ĪAnd it sounds as if heās going to fight a lot of people,ā said Ludmilla.

ĪOh, all right. Go and fetch me a vase. A cheap one, mind.ā

It is widely suspected, but not generally known, that everything has an associated spirit form which, upon its demise, exists briefly in the draughty gap between the worlds of the living and the dead. This is important.

ĪNo, not that one. That belonged to your granny.ā

This ghostly survival does not last for long without a consciousness to hold it together, but depending on what you have in mind it can last for just long enough.

ĪThat oneāll do. I never liked the pattern.ā

Mrs Cake took an orange vase with pink peonies on it from her daughterās paws.

85

ĪAre you still there, One-Man-Bucket?ā she said.

- Iāll make you regret the day you ever died, you whining -

ĪCatch.ā

She dropped the vase on to the stove. It smashed.

A moment later, there was a sound from the Other Side. If a discorporate spirit had hit another discorporate spirit with the ghost of a vase, it would have sounded just like that.

- right, said the voice of One-Man-Bucket, and thereās more where that came from, OK?

The Cakes, mother and hairy daughter, nodded at each other.

When One-Man-Bucket spoke again, his voice dripped with smug satisfaction.

- just a bit of an altercation about seniority here, he said. just sorting out a bit of personal space. got a lot of problems here, Mrs Cake. itās like a waiting room -

There was a shrill clamour of other disembodied voices.

- could you get a message, please, to Mr -

- tell her thereās a bag of coins on the ledge up the chimney -

- Agnes is not to have the silverware after what she said about our Molly -

- I didnāt have time to feed the cat, could someone go - shutupshutup! That was One-Man-Bucket again. youāve got no idea have you? this is ghost talk, is it? feed the cat? whatever happened to ĪI am very happy here, and waiting for you to join meā?

- listen, if anyone else joins us, weāll be standing on one anotherās heads -

- thatās not the point. thatās not the point, thatās all Iām saying. when youāre a spirit, thereās things you gotta say. Mrs Cake?

ĪYes?ā

- you got to tell someone about this.

Mrs Cake nodded.

86

ĪNow you all go away,ā she said. ĪIām getting one of my headaches.ā

The crystal ball faded.

ĪWell!ā said Ludmilla.

ĪI aināt going to tell no priests,ā said Mrs Cake firmly.

It wasnāt that Mrs Cake wasnāt a religious woman.

She was, as has already been hinted, a very religious woman indeed. There wasnāt a temple, church, mosque or small group of standing stones anywhere in the city that she hadnāt attended at one time or another, as a result of which she was more feared than an Age of Enlightenment; the mere sight of Mrs Cakeās small fat body on the threshold was enough to stop most priests dead in the middle of their invocation.

Dead. That was the point. All the religions had very strong views about talking to the dead. And so did Mrs Cake. They held that it was sinful. Mrs Cake held that it was only common courtesy.

This usually led to a fierce ecclesiastical debate which resulted in Mrs Cake giving the chief priest what she called Īa piece of her mindā. There were so many pieces of Mrs Cakeās mind left around the city now that it was quite surprising that there was enough left to power Mrs Cake but, strangely enough, the more pieces of her mind she gave away the more there seemed to be left.

There was also the question of Ludmilla. Ludmilla was a problem. The late Mr Cake, gods rest his soul, had never so much as even whistled at the full moon his whole life, and Mrs Cake had dark suspicions that Ludmilla was a throwback to the familyās distant past in the mountains, or maybe had contracted genetics as a child. She was pretty certain her mother had once alluded circumspectly to the fact that Great-uncle Erasmus sometimes had to eat his meals under the table. Either way, Ludmilla was a decent upright young woman for three weeks in every four and a

87

perfectly well-behaved hairy wolf thing for the rest of the time.

Priests often failed to see it that way. Since by the time Mrs Cake fell out with whatever priests * were currently moderating between her and the gods, she had usually already taken over the flower arrangements, altar dusting, temple cleaning, sacrificial stone scrubbing, honorary vestigial virgining, hassock repairing and every other vital religious support role by sheer force of personality, her departure resulted in total chaos.

Mrs Cake buttoned up her coat.

ĪIt wonāt work,ā said Ludmilla.

ĪIāll try the wizards. They ought to be tole,ā said Mrs Cake. She was quivering with self-importance, like a small enraged football.

ĪYes, but you said they never Listen,ā said Ludmilla.

ĪGot to try. Byway, what are you doing out of your room?ā

ĪOh, mother. You know I hate that room. Thereās no need -ā

ĪYou canāt be too careful. Supposinā you was to take it into your head to go and chase peopleās chickens? What would the neighbours say?ā

ĪIāve never felt the least urge to chase a chicken, mother,ā said Ludmilla wearily.

ĪOr run after carts, barkinā.ā

ĪThatās dogs, mother.ā

ĪYou just get back in your room and lock yourself in and get on with some sewing like a good girl.ā

_______________________________________________________________

* Mrs Cake was aware that some religions had priestesses. What Mrs Cake thought about the ordination of women was unprintable. The religions with priestesses in Ankh-Morpork tended to attract a large crowd of plain-clothes priests from other denominations who were looking for a few hoursā respite somewhere where they wouldnāt encounter Mrs Cake.

88

ĪYou know I canāt hold the needles properly, mother.ā

ĪTry for your mother.ā

Ī Yes, mother,ā said Ludmilla.

ĪAnd donāt go near the window. We donāt want people upset.ā

ĪYes, mother. And you make sure you put your premonition on, mum. You know your eyesight isnāt what it was.ā

Mrs Cake watched her daughter go upstairs. Then she locked the front door behind her and strode towards Unseen University where, sheād heard, there was too much nonsense of all sorts.

Anyone watching Mrs Cakeās progress along the street would have noticed one or two odd details.

Despite her erratic gait, no-one bumped into her. They werenāt avoiding her, she just wasnāt where they were.

At one point she hesitated, and stepped into an alleyway. A moment later a barrel rolled off a cart that was unloading outside a tavern and smashed on the cobbles where she would have been. She stepped out of the alley and over the wreckage, grumbling to herself.

Mrs Cake spent a lot of the time grumbling. Her mouth was constantly moving, as if she was trying to dislodge a troublesome pip from somewhere in the back of her teeth.

She reached the high black gates of the University and hesitated again, as if listening to some inner voice.

Then she stepped aside and waited.

Bill Door lay in the darkness of the hayloft and waited.

Below, he could hear the occasional horsey sounds of Binky - a soft movement, the champ of a jaw.

Bill Door. So now he had a name. Of course, heād always had a name, but heād been named for what he embodied, not for who he was. Bill Door. It had a good solid ring to it.

Mr Bill Door. William Door, Esq. Billy D - no. Not Billy.

89

Bill Door eased himself further into the hay. He reached into his robe and pulled out the golden timer. There was, quite perceptibly, less sand in the top bulb. He put it back.

And then there was this ćsleepä. 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.

Night drifted across the world, coolly pursued by a new day.

There was a stirring in the henhouse across the yard.

ĪCock-a-doo . . . er.ā

Bill Door stared at the roof of the barn.

ĪCock-a-doodle . . . er.ā

Grey light was filtering in between the cracks.

Yet only moments ago there had been the red light of sunset!

Six hours had vanished.

Bill hauled out the timer. Yes. The level was definitely down. While he had been waiting to experience sleep, something had stolen part of his . . . of his life. Heād completely missed it, too -

ĪCock...cock-a...er...ā

He climbed down from the loft and stepped out into the thin mist of dawn.

The elderly chickens watched him cautiously as he peered into their house. An ancient and rather embarrassed-looking cockerel glared at him and shrugged.

There was a clanging noise from the direction of the house. An old iron barrel hoop was hanging by the door, and Miss Flitworth was hitting it vigorously with a ladle.

He stalked over to investigate.

WHAT FOR ARE YOU MAKING THE NOISE, MISS FLITWORTH?

She spun around, ladle half-raised.

ĪGood grief, you must walk like a cat!ā she said.

I MUST?

90

ĪI meant I didnāt hear you.ā She stood back and looked him up and down.

ĪThereās still something about you I canāt put my finger on, Bill Door,ā she said. ĪWish I knew what it was.ā

The seven-foot skeleton regarded her stoically. He felt there was nothing he could say.

ĪWhat do you want for breakfast?ā said the old woman.

ĪNot that itāll make any difference, Īcos itās porridge.ā

Later she thought: he must have eaten it, because the bowl is empty. Why canāt I remember?

And then there was the matter of the scythe. He looked at it as if heād never seen one before. She pointed out the grass nail and the handles. He looked at them politely.

HOW DO YOU SHARPEN IT, MISS FLITWORTH?

ĪItās sharp enough, for goodness sake.ā

HOW DO YOU SHARPEN IT MORE?

ĪYou canāt. Sharpās sharp. You canāt get sharper than that.ā

Heād swished it aimlessly, and made a disappointed hissing noise.

And there was the grass, too.

The hay meadow was high on the hill behind the farm, overlooking the cornfield. She watched him for a while.

It was the most interesting technique she had ever witnessed. She wouldnāt even have thought that it was technically possible.

Eventually she said: ĪItās good. Youāve got the swing and everything.ā

THANK YOU, MISS FLITWORTH.

ĪBut why one blade of grass at a time?ā

Bill Door regarded the neat row of stalks for some while.

THERE IS ANOTHER WAY?

ĪYou can do lots in one go, you know.ā

NO. NO. ONE BLADE AT A TIME. ONE TIME, ONE BLADE.

ĪYou wonāt cut many that way,ā said Miss Flitworth.

EVERY LAST ONE, MISS FLITWORTH.

ĪYes?ā

TRUST ME ON THIS.

91

Miss Flitworth left him to it and went back to the farm-house. She stood at the kitchen window and watched the distant dark figure for a while, as it moved over the hillside.

I wonder what he did? she thought. Heās got a Past. Heās one of them Men of Mystery, I expect. Perhaps he did a robbery and is Lying Low.

Heās cut a whole row already. One at a time, but somehow faster than a man cutting swathe by swathe . . .

Miss Flitworthās only reading matter was the Farmerās Almanac and Seed Catalogue, which could last a whole year in the privy if no-one was ill. In addition to sober information about phases of the moon and seed sowings it took a certain grisly relish in recounting the various mass murders, vicious robberies and natural disasters that befell mankind, on the lines of ĪJune 15, Year of the Impromptu Stoat: On this Day 150 yrs. since, a Man killed by Freak shower of ?Goul~.h? in Quirmā or Ī14 die at hands of Chume, the Notorious Herring Thrower.ā

The important thing about all these was that they happened a long way away, possibly by some kind of divine intervention. The only things that usually happened locally were the occasional theft of a chicken, and the occasional wandering troll. Of course, there were also robbers and bandits in the hills but they got on well with the actual residents and were essential to the local economy. Even so, she felt sheād certainly feel safer with someone else about the place.

The dark figure on the hillside was well into the second row. Behind it, the cut grass withered in the sun.

I HAVE FINISHED, MISS FLITWORTH.

ĪGo and feed the pig, then. Sheās called Nancy.ā

NANCY, said Bill, turning the word around in his mouth as though he was trying to see it from all sides.

ĪAfter my mother.ā

I WILL GO AND FEED THE PIG NANCY, MISS FLITWORTH.

It seemed to Miss Flitworth that mere seconds went by.

92

I HAVE FINISHED, MISS FLITWORTH.

She squinted at him. Then, slowly and deliberately, she wiped her hands on a cloth, stepped out into the yard and headed for the pigsty.

Nancy was eyeball-deep in the swill trough.

Miss Flitworth wondered exactly what comment she should make. Finally she said, ĪVery good. Very good. You, you, you certainly work . . . fast.ā

MISS FLITWORTH, WHY DOES NOT THE COCKEREL CROW PROPERLY?

ĪOh, thatās just Cyril. He hasnāt got a very good memory. Ridiculous, isnāt it? I wish heād get it right.ā

Bill Door found a piece of chalk in the farmās 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 towards it.

THIS YOU WILL READ he said.

Cyril peered myopically at the ĪCock-A-Doodle-Dooā in heavy gothic script. Somewhere in his tiny mad chicken mind a very distinct and chilly understanding formed that heād better learn to read very, very quickly.

Bill Door sat back among the hay and thought about the day. It seemed to have been quite a full one. Heād cut hay and fed animals and mended a window. Heād 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 heād put them on. And Miss Flitworth had given him a broad-brimmed straw hat.

And heād ventured the half-mile walk into the town. It wasnāt even a one horse town. If anyone had a horse, theyād have eaten it. The residents appeared to make a living by stealing one anotherās washing.

There was a town square, which was ridiculous. It was really only an enlarged crossroads, with a clock tower.

And there was a tavern. Heād gone inside.

93

After the initial pause while everyoneās mind had refocused to allow him room, theyād been cautiously hospitable; news travels even faster on a vine with few grapes.

ĪYouād be the new man up at Miss Flitworthās,ā said the barman.āA Mr Door, I did hear.ā

CALL ME BILL.

ĪAh? Used to be a tidy old farm, once upon a time. We never thought the old girlād stay on.ā

ĪAh,ā agreed a couple of old men by the fireplace.

AH.

ĪNew to these parts, then?ā said the barman.

The sudden silence of the other men in the bar was like a black hole.

NOT PRECISELY.

ĪBeen here before, have you?ā

JUST PASSING THROUGH.

ĪThey say old Miss Flitworthās a loony,ā said one of the figures on the ?t~inches? around the smoke-blackened walls.

ĪBut sharp as a knife, mind,ā said another hunched drinker.

ĪOh, yes. Sheās sharp all right. But still a loony.ā

ĪAnd they say sheās got boxes full of treasure in that old parlour of hers.ā

ĪSheās tight with money, I know that.ā

ĪThat proves it. Rich folk are always tight with money.ā

ĪAll right. Sharp and rich. But still a loony.ā

ĪYou canāt be loony and rich. Youāve got to be eccentric if youāre rich.ā

The silence returned and hovered. Bill Door sought desperately for something to say. He had never been very good at small talk. Heād never had much occasion to use it.

What did people say at times like this? Ah. Yes.

I WILL BUY EVERYONE A DRINK, he announced.

Later on they taught him a game that consisted of a table with holes and nets around the edge, and balls carved expertly out of wood, and apparently balls had to bounce

off one another and into the holes. It was called Pond. He played it well. In fact, he played it perfectly. At the start, he

94

didnāt know how not to. But after he heard them gasp a few times he corrected himself and started making mistakes with painstaking precision; by the time they taught him darts he was getting really good at them. The more mistakes he made, the more people liked him. So he propelled the little feathery darts with cold skill, never letting one drop within a foot of the targets they urged on him. He even sent one ricocheting off a nail head and a lamp so that it landed in someoneās beer, which made one of the older men laugh so much he had to be taken outside into the fresh air.

Theyād called him Good Old Bill.

No-one had ever called him that before.

What a strange evening.

There had been one bad moment, though. Heād heard a small voice say: ĪThat man is a skelington,ā and had turned to see a small child in a nightdress watching him over the top of the bar, without terror but with a sort of fascinated horror.

The landlord, who by now Bill Door knew to be called Lifton, had laughed nervously and apologised.

ĪThatās just her fancy,ā he said.āThe things children say, eh? Get on with you back to bed, Sal. And say youāre sorry to Mr Door.ā

ĪHeās a skelington with clothes on,ā said the child.āWhy doesnāt all the drink fall through?ā

Heād almost panicked. His intrinsic powers were fading, then. People could not normally see him - he occupied a blind spot in their senses, which they filled in some- where inside their heads with something they preferred to encounter. But the adultsā inability to see him clearly wasnāt proof against this sort of insistent declaration, and he could feel the puzzlement around him. Then, just in time, its mother had come in from the back room and had taken the child away. Thereād been muffled complaints on the lines of Ī - a skelington, with all bones on -ā disappearing around the bend in the stairs.

And all the time the ancient clock over the fireplace had been ticking, ticking, chopping seconds off his life. Thereād seemed so many of them, not long ago . . .

95

There was a faint knocking at the barn door, below the hayloft. He heard it pushed open.

ĪAre you decent, Bill Door?ā said Miss Flitworthās voice in the darkness.

Bill Door analysed the sentence for meaning within context.

YES? he ventured.

ĪIāve brought you a hot milk drink.ā

YES?

ĪCome on, quick now. Otherwise itāll go cold.ā

Bill Door cautiously climbed down the wooden ladder.

Miss Flitworth was holding a lantern, and had a shawl around her shoulders.

ĪItās got cinnamon on it. My Ralph always liked cinnamon.ā She sighed.

Bill Door was aware of undertones and overtones in the same way that an astronaut is aware of weather patterns below him; theyāre all visible, all there, all laid out for study and all totally divorced from actual experience.

THANK YOU, he said.

Miss Flitworth looked around.

ĪYouāve really made yourself at home here,ā she said brightly.

YES.

She pulled the shawl around her shoulders.

ĪIāll be getting back to the house, then,ā she said.āYou can bring the mug back in the morning.ā

She sped away into the night.

Bill Door took the drink up to the loft. He put it on a low beam and sat and watched it long after it grew cold and the candle had gone out.

After a while he was aware of an insistent hissing. He took out the golden timer and put it right at the other end of the loft, under a pile of hay.

It made no difference at all.

Windle Poons peered at the house numbers - a hundred Counting Pines had died for this street alone -

96

and then realised he didnāt have to. He was being short-sighted out of habit. He improved his eyesight.

Number 668 took some while to find because it was in fact on the first floor above a tailorās shop. Entrance was via an alleyway. There was a wooden door at the end of the alley. On its peeling paintwork someone had pinned a notice which read, in optimistic lettering:

ĪCome in! Come in! ! The Fresh Start Club.

Being Dead is only the Beginning! ! !ā

The door opened on to a flight of stairs that smelled of old paint and dead flies. They creaked even more than Windleās knees.

Someone had been drawing on the walls. The phraseology was exotic but the general tone was familiar enough: Spooks of the World Arise, You have Nothing to lose but your Chains and The Silent Majority want DeadRights and End vitalism now!?!

At the top was ?dolanding?, with one door opening off it.

Once upon a time someone had hung an oil lamp from the ceiling, but it looked as though it had never been lit for thousands of years. An ancient spider, possibly living on the remains of the oil, watched him warily from its eyrie.

Windle looked at the card again, took a deep breath out of habit, and knocked.

The Archchancellor strode back into College in a fury, with the others trailing desperately behind him.

ĪWho is he going to call! Weāre the wizards around here!ā

ĪYes, but we donāt actually know whatās happening, do we?ā said the Dean.

ĪSo weāre going to find out!ā Ridcully growled. ĪI donāt know who heās going to call, but Iām damn sure who Iām going to call.ā

He halted abruptly. The rest of the wizards piled into him.

97

ĪOh, no,ā said the Senior Wrangler.āPlease, not that!ā

ĪNothing to it,ā said Ridcully.āNothing to worry about. Read up on it last night, Īsāmatterofact. You can do it with three bits of wood and -ā

ĪFour cc of mouse blood,ā said the Senior Wrangler mournfully.āYou donāt even need that. You can use two bits of wood and an egg. It has to be a fresh egg, though.ā

ĪWhy?ā

ĪI suppose the mouse feels happier about it.ā

ĪNo, I mean the egg.ā

ĪOh, who knows how an egg feels?ā

ĪAnyway,ā said the Dean, Īitās dangerous. Iāve always felt that he only stays in the octogram for the look of the thing. I hate it when he peers at you and seems to be counting.ā

ĪYes,ā said the Senior Wrangler.āWe donāt need to do that. We get over most things. Dragons, monsters. Rats. Remember the rats last year? Seemed to be everywhere. Lord Vetinari wouldnāt listen to us, oh no. He paid that glib bugger in the red and yellow tights a thousand gold pieces to get rid of Īem.ā

ĪIt worked, though,ā said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

ĪOf course it bloody worked,ā said the Dean.āIt worked in Quirm and Sto Lat as well. Heād have got away with it in Pseudopolis as well if someone hadnāt recognised him. Mr so-called Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents!ā

ĪItās no good trying to change the subject,ā said Ridcully.āWeāre going to do the Rite of AshKente. Right?ā

ĪAnd summon Death, Ī said the Dean.āOh, dear.ā

ĪNothing wrong with Death,ā said Ridcully.āProfessional fellow. Job to do. Fair and square. Play a straight bat, no problem. Heāll know whatās happening.ā

98

ĪOh, dear, Ī said the Dean again.

They reached the gateway. Mrs Cake stepped forward, blocking the Archchancellorās path.

Ridcully raised his eyebrows.

The Archchancellor was not the kind of man who takes a special pleasure in being brusque and rude to women. Or, to put it another way, he was brusque and rude to absolutely everyone, regardless of sex, which was equality of a sort. And if the following conversation had not been taking place between someone who listened to what people said several seconds before they said it, and someone who didnāt listen to what people said at all, everything might have been a lot different. Or perhaps it wouldnāt.

Mrs Cake led with an answer.

ĪIām not your good woman!ā she snapped.

ĪAnd who are you, my good woman?ā said the Archchancellor.

ĪWell, thatās no way to talk to a respectable person,ā said Mrs Cake.

ĪThereās no need to be offended, Ī said Ridcully.

ĪOh blow, is that what Iām doinā?ā said Mrs Cake.

ĪMadam, why are you answering me before Iāve even said something?ā

ĪWhat?ā

ĪWhat dāyou mean?ā

ĪWhat do you mean?ā

ĪWhat?ā

They stared at one another, fixed in an unbreakable conversational deadlock. Then Mrs Cake realised.

ĪO Iām prematurely premoniting again,ā she said.

She stuck a finger in her ear and wiggled it around with a squelching noise.āItās all alright now. Now, the reason -ā

But Ridcully had had enough.

ĪBursar,ā he said, Īgive this woman a penny and send her about her business, will you?ā

99

ĪWhat?ā said Mrs Cake, suddenly enraged beyond belief.

ĪThereās too much of this sort of thing these days,ā said Ridcully to the Dean, as they strolled away.

ĪItās the pressures and stresses of living in a big city,ā said the Senior Wrangler.āI read that somewhere. It takes people in a funny way.ā

They stepped through the wicket gate in one of the big doors and the Dean shut it in Mrs Cakeās face.

ĪHe might not come,ā said the Senior Wrangler, as they crossed the quadrangle. ĪHe didnāt come for poor old Windleās farewell party.ā

ĪHeāll come for the Rite,ā said Ridcully.āIt doesnāt just send him an invitation, it puts a bloody RSVP on

ĪOh, good. I like sherry,ā said the Bursar.

ĪShut up, Bursar.ā

There was an alley, somewhere in the Shades, which was the most alley-ridden part of an alley-ridden city.

Something small and shiny rolled into it, and vanished in the darkness.

After a while, there were faint metallic noises.

The atmosphere in the Archchancellorās study was very cold.

Eventually the Bursar quavered: ĪMaybe heās busy?ā

ĪShut up,ā said the wizards, in unison.

Something was happening. The floor inside the chalked magic octogram was going white with frost.

ĪItās never done that before,ā said the Senior Wrangler.

ĪThis is all wrong, you know,ā said the Dean. ĪWe should have some candles and some cauldrons and some stuff bubbling in crucibles and some glitter dust and some coloured smoke -ā

100

ĪThe Rite doesnāt need any of that stuff,ā said Ridcully sharply.

ĪIt might not need them, but I do,ā muttered the Dean.āDoing it without the right paraphernalia is like taking all your clothes off to have a bath.ā

ĪThatās what I do,ā said Ridcully.

ĪHumph. Well, each to his own, of course, but some of us like to think that weāre maintaining standards.ā

ĪPerhaps heās on holiday?ā said the Bursar.

ĪOh, yes,ā sneered the Dean.āOn a beach somewhere? A few iced drinks and a Kiss Me Quick hat?ā

ĪHold on. Hold on. Someoneās coming,ā hissed the Senior Wrangler.

The faint outlines of a hooded figure appeared above the octogram. It wavered constantly, as if it was being seen through superheated air.

ĪThatās him, Ī said the Dean.

ĪNo it isnāt, Ī said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.āItās just a grey ?ro? - thereās nothing in -ā

He stopped.

It turned, slowly. It was filled out, suggesting a wearer, but at the same time had a feeling of hollowness, as if it was merely a shape for something with no shape of its own. The hood was empty.

The emptiness watched the wizards for a few seconds and then focused on the Archchancellor.

It said, Who are you?

Ridcully swallowed. ĪEr. Mustrum Ridcully. Archchancellor.ā

The hood nodded. The Dean stuck a finger in his ear and waggled it around. The robe wasnāt talking.

Nothing was being heard. It was just that, afterwards, you had a sudden memory of what had just failed to be said and no knowledge of how it had got there.

The hood said, You are a superior being on this world?

Ridcully looked at the other wizards. The Dean glared.

101

ĪWell . . . you know . . . yes . . . first among equals and all that sort of thing . . . yes . . .ā Ridcully managed.

He was told, We bring good news.

ĪGood news? Good news?ā Ridcully squirmed under the gazerless gaze.āOh, good. That is good news.ā

He was told, Death has retired.

ĪPardon?ā

He was told, Death has retired.

ĪOh? That is . . . news . . .ā said Ridcully uncertainly.

ĪUh. How? Exactly . . . how?ā

He was told, We apologise for the recent lapse in standards.

ĪLapse?ā said the Archchancellor, now totally mystified.āWell, uh. Iām not sure thereās been a . . . I mean, of course the fella was always knockinā around, but most of the time we hardly . . .ā

He was told, It has all been most irregular.

ĪIt has? Has it? Oh, well, canāt have irregularity,āsaid the Archchancellor.

He was told, It must have been terrible.

ĪWell, I . . . that is . . . I suppose we . . . Iām not sure . . . must it?ā

He was told, But now the burden is removed. Rejoice. That is all. There will be a short transitional period before a suitable candidate presents itself, and then normal service will be resumed. In the meantime, we apologise for any unavoidable inconvenience caused by superfluous life effects.

The figure wavered and began to fade.

The Archchancellor waved his hands desperately.

ĪWait!ā he said.āYou canāt just go like that! I command you to stay! What service? What does it all mean? Who are you?ā

The hood turned back towards him and said, We are nothing.

ĪThatās no help! What is your name?ā

We are oblivion.

The figure vanished.

102

The wizards fell silent. The frost in the octogram began to sublime back into air.

ĪOh-oh, Ī said the Bursar.

ĪShort transitional period? Is that what this is?ā said the Dean.

The floor shook.

ĪOh-oh, Ī said the Bursar again.

ĪThat doesnāt explain why everything is Living a life of its own,ā said the Senior Wrangler.

ĪHold on . . . hold on,ā said Ridcully, ĪIf people are coming to the end of their life and leaving their bodies and everything, but Death isnāt taking them away -ā

ĪThen that means theyāre queuing up here,ā said the Dean.

ĪWith nowhere to go.ā

ĪNot just people,ā said the Senior Wrangler.āIt must be everything. Every thing that dies.ā

ĪFilling up the wadd with life force,ā said Ridcully.

The wizards were speaking in a monotone, everyoneās mind running ahead of the conversation to the distant horror of the conclusion.

ĪHanging around with nothing to do,ā said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

ĪGhosts.ā

ĪPoltergeist activity.ā

ĪGood grief.ā

ĪHang on, though,ā said the Bursar, who had managed to catch up with events.āWhy should that worry us? We donāt have anything to fear from the dead, do we? After all, theyāre just people who are dead.

Theyāre just ordinary people. People like us.ā

The wizards thought about this. They looked at one another. They started to shout, all at once.

No-one remembered the bit about suitable candidates.

Belief is one of the most powerful organic forces in the multiverse. It may not be able to move mountains,

103

exactly. But it can create someone who can.

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.

Belief sloshes around in the firmament like lumps of clay spiralling into a potterās wheel. Thatās how gods get created, for example. They clearly must be created by their own believers, because a brief resume of the lives of most gods suggests that their origins certainly couldnāt be divine. They tend to do exactly the things people would do if only they could, especially when it comes to nymphs, golden showers, and the smiting of your enemies.

Belief creates other things.

It created Death. Not death, which is merely a technical term for a state caused by prolonged absence of life, but Death ?as? the personality. He evolved, as it were, along with life. As soon as a living thing was even dimly aware of the concept of suddenly becoming a non-living thing, there was Death. He was Death long before humans ever considered him; they only added the shape and all the scythe and robe business to a personality that was already millions of years old.

And now he had gone. But belief doesnāt stop. Belief goes right on believing. And since the focal point of belief had been lost, new points sprang up. Small as yet, not very powerful. The private deaths of every species, no longer united but specific.

In the stream, black-scaled, swam the new Death of Mayflies. In the forests, invisible, a creature of sound only, drifted the chop-chop-chop of the Death of Trees.

Over the desert a dark and empty shell moved purposefully, half an inch above the ground . . . the Death of Tortoises.

The Death of Humanity hadnāt been finished yet.

Humans can believe some very complex things.

104

Itās like the difference between off-the-peg and bespoke.

The metallic sounds stopped coming from the alley.

Then there was a silence. It was the particularly wary silence of something making no noise.

And, finally, there was a very faint jangling sound, disappearing into the distance.

ĪDonāt stand in the doorway, friend. Donāt block up the hall. Come on in.ā

Windle Poons blinked in the gloom.

When his eyes became accustomed to it, he realised that there was a semicircle of chairs in an otherwise rather bare and dusty room. They were all occupied.

In the centre - at the focus, as it were, of the half circle - was a small table at which someone had been seated. They were now advancing towards him, with their hand out and a big smile on their face.

ĪDonāt tell me, let me guess,ā they said.āYouāre a zombie, right?ā

ĪEr.ā Windle Poons had never seen anyone with such a pallid skin, such as there was of it, before. Or wearing clothes that looked as if theyād been washed in razor blades and smelled as though someone had not only died in them but was still in them. Or sporting a Glad To Be Grey badge.

ĪI donāt know,ā he said. ĪI suppose so. Only they buried me, you see, and there was this card -ā He held it out, Like a shield.

ĪĪCourse there was.āCourse there was,ā said the figure.

Heās going to want me to shake hands, Windle thought. If I do, I just know Iām going to end up with more fingers than I started with. Oh, my goodness.

Will I end up like that?

ĪAnd I Īm dead, Ī he said, lamely.

ĪAnd fed up with being pushed around, eh?ā said the

105

greenish-skinned one. Windle shook his hand very carefully.

ĪWell, not exactly fed -ā

ĪShoeās the name. Reg Shoe.ā

ĪPoons. Windle Poons,ā said Windle.āEr -ā

ĪYeah, itās always the same, Ī said Reg Shoe bitterly.

ĪOnce youāre dead, people just donāt want to know, right? They act as if youāve got some horrible disease. Dying can happen to anyone, right?ā

ĪEveryone, I should have thought,ā said Windle.

ĪYeah, I know what itās like. Tell someone youāre dead and they look at you as if theyāve seen a ghost,ā

Mr Shoe went on.

Windle realised that talking to Mr Shoe was very much like talking to the Archchancellor. It didnāt actually matter what you said, because he wasnāt listening. Only, in Mustrum Ridcullyās case it was because he just wasnāt bothering, while Reg Shoe was in fact supplying your side of the conversation somewhere inside his own head.

ĪYeah, right, Ī said Windle, giving in.

ĪWe were just finishing off, in fact,ā said Mr Shoe.

ĪLet me introduce you. Everyone, this is -ā He hesitated.

ĪPoons. Windle Poons.ā

ĪBrother Windle,ā said Mr Shoe.āGive him a big Fresh Start welcome!ā

There was an embarrassed chorus of Īhallosā. A large and rather hairy young man at the end of the row caught Windleās eye and rolled his own yellow eyes in a theatrical gesture of fellow feeling.

ĪThis is Brother Arthur Winkings -ā

ĪCount Notfaroutoe, Ī said a female voice sharply.

ĪAnd Sister Doreen - I mean Countess Notfaroutoe, of course -ā

ĪCharmed, Iām sure,ā said the female voice, as the small dumpy woman sitting next to the small dumpy

106

shape of the Count extended a beringed hand. The Count himself gave Windle a worried grin. He seemed to be wearing opera dress designed for a man several sizes larger.

ĪAnd Brother Schleppel -ā

The chair was empty. But a deep voice from the darkness underneath it said, ĪEveninā.ā

ĪAnd Brother Lupine.ā The muscular, hairy young man with the long canines and pointy ears gave

Windleās hand a hearty shake.

ĪAnd Sister Drull. And Brother Gorper. And Brother Ixolite.ā

Windle shook a number of variations on the theme of hand.

Brother Ixolite handed him a small piece of yellow paper. On it was written one word: OoooEeeeOoooEeeeOoooEEEee.

ĪIām sorry there arenāt more here tonight,ā said Mr Shoe.āI do my best, but Iām afraid some people just donāt seem prepared to make the effort.ā

ĪEr . . . dead people?ā said Windle, still staring at the note.

ĪApathy, I call it,ā said Mr Shoe, bitterly.āHow can the movement make progress if people are just going to lie around the whole time?ā

Lupine started making frantic Īdonāt get him startedā signals behind Mr Shoeās head, but Windle wasnāt able to stop himself in time.

ĪWhat movement?ā he said.

ĪDead Rights, Ī said Mr Shoe promptly. ĪIāll give you one of my leaflets.ā

ĪBut, surely, er, dead people donāt have rights?ā said Windle. In the corner of his vision he saw Lupine put his hand over his eyes.

ĪYouāre dead right there, Ī said Lupine, his face absolutely straight. Mr Shoe glared at him.

ĪApathy,ā he repeated.āItās always the same. You do your best for people, and they just ignore you. Do

107

you know people can say what they like about you and take away your property, just because youāre dead? And they -ā

ĪI thought that most people, when they died, just . . . you know . . . died, Ī said Windle.

ĪItās just laziness,ā said Mr Shoe.āThey just donāt want to make the effort.ā

Windle had never seen anyone look so dejected. Reg Shoe seemed to shrink several inches.

ĪHow long have you been undead, Vindle?ā said Doreen, with brittle brightness.

ĪHardly any time at all, Ī said Windle, relieved at the change of tone.āI must say itās turning out to be different than I imagined.ā

ĪYou get used to it,ā said Arthur Winkings, alias Count Notfaroutoe, gloomily.āThatās the thing about being undead. Itās as easy as falling off a cliff. Weāre all undead hereā

Lupine coughed.

ĪExcept Lupine, Ī said Arthur.

ĪIām more what you might call honorary undead,ā said Lupine.

ĪHim being a werewolf, Ī explained Arthur.

ĪI thought he was a werewolf as soon as I saw him, Īsaid Windle, nodding.

ĪEvery full moon,ā said Lupine. ĪRegular.ā

ĪYou start howling and growing hair, Ī said Windle.

They all shook their heads.

ĪEr, no,ā said Lupine.āI more sort of stop howling and some of my hair temporarily falls out. Itās bloody embarrassing.ā

ĪBut I thought at the full moon your basic werewolf always -ā

ĪLupineās problem,ā said Doreen, Īis that he approaches it from ze ozzer way, you see.ā

ĪIām technically a wolf,ā said Lupine.āRidiculous, really. Every full moon I turn into a wolfman. The rest of the time I Īm just a . . . wolf.ā

108

ĪGood grief,ā said Windle.āThat must be a terrible problem.ā

ĪThe trousers are the worst part, Ī said Lupine.

ĪEr . . . they are?ā

ĪOh, yeah. See, itās all right for human werewolves. They just keep their own clothes on. I mean, they might get a bit ripped, but at least theyāve got them handy on, right? Whereas if I see the full moon, next minute Iām walking and talking and Iām definitely in big trouble on account of being very deficient in the trousery vicinity. So I have to keep a pair stashed somewhere. Mr Shoe -ā

Ī- call me Reg -ā

Ī- lets me keep a pair where he works.ā

ĪI work at the mortuary on Elm Street,ā said Mr Shoe.āIām not ashamed. Itās worth it to save a brother or sister.ā

ĪSorry?ā said Windle.āSave?ā

ĪItās me that pins the card on the bottom of the lid,ā said Mr Shoe. ĪYou never know. It has to be worth a try.ā

ĪDoes it often work?ā said Windle. He looked around the room. His tone must have suggested that it was a reasonably large room, and had only eight people in it; nine if you included the voice from under the chair, which presumably belonged to a person.

Doreen and Arthur exchanged glances.

ĪIt vorked for Artore, Ī said Doreen.

ĪExcuse me,ā said Windle, ĪI couldnāt help wondering . . . are you two . . . er . . . vampires, by any chance?ā

ĪĪSāright,ā said Arthur.āMoreās the pity.ā

ĪHah! You should not valk like zat,ā said Doreen haughtily. ĪYou should be prout of your noble lineage.ā

ĪProut?ā said Arthur.

ĪDid you get bitten by a bat or something?ā said Windle quickly, anxious not to be the cause of any family friction.

109

ĪNo, Ī said Arthur, Īby a lawyer. I got this letter, see? With a posh blob of wax on it and everything. Blahblah-blah . . . great-great-uncle . . . blahblahblah . . . only surviving relative . . . blahblahblah . . . may we be the first to offer our heartiest . . . blahblahblah. One minute Iām Arthur Winkings, a coming man in the wholesale fruit and vegetable business, next minute I find Iām Arthur, Count Notfaroutoe, owner of fifty acres of cliff face a goatād fall off of and a castle that even the cockroaches have abandoned and an invitation from the burgomaster to drop in down at the village one day and discuss three hundred years of back taxes.ā

ĪI hate lawyers, Ī said the voice from under the chair. It had a sad, hollow sound. Windle tried to move his legs a little closer to his own chair.

ĪIt voss quite a good castle, Ī said Doreen.

ĪA bloody heap of mouldering stone is what it was,ā said Arthur.

ĪIt had nice views.ā

ĪYeah, through every wall, Ī said Arthur, dropping a portcullis into that avenue of conversation.āI should have known even before we went to look at it. So I turned the carriage around, right? I thought, well, thatās four days wasted, right in the middle of our busy season. I donāt think any more about it. Next thing, I wake up in the dark, Iām in a box, I finally find these matches, I light one, thereās this card six inches from my nose. It said - Ī

Ī ćYou Donāt Have to Take this Lying Downä,ā said Mr Shoe proudly.āThat was one of my first ones.ā

ĪIt vasnāt my fault,ā said Doreen, stiffly.āYou had been Iyink rigid for tree dace.ā

ĪIt gave the priest a shock, I can tell you,ā said Arthur.

ĪHuh! Priests!ā said Mr Shoe.āTheyāre all the same. Always telling you that you Īre going to live again after youāre dead, but you just try it and see the look on their faces!ā

ĪDonāt like priests, either, Ī said the voice from under

110

the chair. Windle wondered if anyone else was hearing it.

ĪI wonāt forget the look on the Reverend Welegareās face in a hurry, Ī said Arthur gloomily.āIāve been going to that temple for thirty years. I was respected in the community. Now if I even think of setting foot in a religious establishment I get a pain all down my leg.ā

ĪYes, but there was no need for him to say what he said when you pushed the lid off,ā said Doreen. ĪAnd him a priest, too. They shouldnāt know those kind of words.ā

ĪI enjoyed that temple,ā said Arthur, wistfully. ĪIt was something to do on a Wednesday.ā

It dawned on Windle Poons that Doreen had miraculously acquired the ability to use her double-yous.

ĪAnd youāre a vampire too, Mrs Win . . . I do beg your pardon . . . Countess Notfaroutoe?ā he enquired politely.

The Countess smiled. ĪMy vord, yes, Ī she said.

ĪBy marriage,ā said Arthur.

ĪCan you do that? I thought you had to be bitten,ā said Windle.

The voice under the chair sniggered.

ĪI donāt see why I should have to go around biting my wife after thirty years of marriage, and thatās flat,ā said the Count.

ĪEvery voman should share her husbandās hobbies,ā said Doreen.āIt iss vot keeps a marriage intervesting.ā

ĪWho wants an interesting marriage? I never said I wanted an interesting marriage. Thatās whatās wrong with people today, expecting things like marriage to be interesting. And itās not a hobby, anyway,ā moaned Arthur. ĪThis vampiringās not all itās cracked up to be, you know. Canāt go out in daylight, canāt eat garlic, canāt have a decent shave -ā

ĪWhy canāt you have a -ā Windle began.

ĪCanāt use a mirror,ā said Arthur.āI thought the

111

turning-into-a-bat bit would be interesting, but the owls round here are murder. And as for the . . . you know . . . with the blood . . . well . . .ā His voice trailed off.

ĪArtoreās never been very good at meetink people,ā said Doreen.

ĪAnd the worst part is having to wear evening dress the whole time,ā said Arthur. He gave Doreen a side-ways glance.āI Īm sure itās not really compulsory.ā

ĪIt iss very important to maintain standerts,ā said Doreen. Doreen, in addition to her here-one-minute-and-gone-the-next vampire accent, had decided to complement Arthurās evening dress with what she considered appropriate for a female vampire: figure-hugging black dress, long dark hair cut into a widowās peak, and very pallid makeup. Nature had designed her to be small and plump with frizzy hair and a hearty complexion. There were definite signs of conflict.

ĪI should have stayed in that coffin,ā said Arthur.

ĪOh, no, Ī said Mr Shoe.āThatās taking the easy way out. The movement needs people like you, Arthur. We had to set an example. Remember our motto.ā

ĪWhich motto is that, Reg?ā said Lupine wearily. ĪWe have so many.ā

ĪUndead yes - unperson no!ā Reg said.

ĪYou see, he means well,ā said Lupine, after the meeting had broken up.

He and Windle were walking back through the grey dawn. The Notfaroutoes had left earlier to be back home before daylight heaped even more troubles on Arthur, and Mr Shoe had gone off, he said, to address a meeting.

ĪHe goes down to the cemetery behind the Temple of Small Gods and shouts,ā Lupine explained. ĪHe calls it consciousness raising but I donāt reckon heās on to much of a certainty.ā

ĪWho was it under the chair?ā said Windle.

112

ĪThat was Schleppel,ā said Lupine.āWe think heās a bogeyman.ā

ĪAre bogeymen undead?ā

ĪHe won Īt say.ā

ĪYouāve never seen him? I thought bogeymen hid under things and, er, behind things and sort of leapt out at people.ā

ĪHeās all right on the hiding. I donāt think he likes the leaping out, Ī said Lupine.

Windle thought about this. An agoraphobic bogey-man seemed to complete the full set.

ĪFancy that, Ī he said, vaguely.

ĪWe only go along to the club to keep Reg happy,ā said Lupine.āDoreen said itād break his heart if we stopped. You know the worst bit?ā

ĪGo on, Ī said Windle.

ĪSometimes he brings a guitar along and makes us sing songs like ćStreets of Ankh-Morporkä and ćWe Shall Overcomeä. * Itās terrible.ā

ĪCanāt sing, eh?ā said Windle.

ĪSing? Never mind sing. Have you ever seen a zombie try to play a guitar? Itās helping him find his fingers afterwards thatās so embarrassing.ā Lupine sighed. ĪBy the way, Sister Drull is a ghoul. If she offers you any of her meat patties, donāt accept.ā

Windle remembered a vague, shy old lady in a shapeless grey dress.

ĪOh, dear,ā he said.āYou mean she makes them out of human flesh?ā

ĪWhat? Oh. No. She just canāt cook very well.ā

ĪOh.ā

ĪAnd Brother Ixolite is probably the only banshee in

________________________________________________________________

* A song which, in various languages, is common on every known world in the multiverse. It is always sung by the same people, viz., the people who, when they grow up, will be the people who the next generation sing ćWe Shall Overcomeä at.

113

the world with a speech impediment, so instead of sitting on roofs and screaming when people are about to die he just writes them a note and slips it under the door-ā

Windle recalled a long, sad face.ā He gave me one, too.ā

ĪWe try to encourage him,ā said Lupine.āHeās very self-conscious.ā

His arm shot out and flung Windle against a wall.

ĪQuiet!ā

ĪWhat?ā

Lupineās ears swivelled. His nostrils flared.

Motioning Windle to remain where he was, the wereman slunk silently along the alley until he reached its junction with another, even smaller and nastier one. He paused for a moment, and then thrust a hairy hand around the corner.

There was a yelp. Lupineās hand came back holding a struggling mop. Huge hairy muscles moved under Lupineās torn shirt as the man was hoisted up to fang level.

ĪYou were waiting to attack us, werenāt you,ā said Lupine.

ĪWho, me -?ā

ĪI could smell you, Ī said Lupine, evenly.

ĪI never -ā

Lupine sighed. ĪWolves donāt do this sort of thing, you know, Ī he said.

The man dangled.

ĪHey, is that a fact, Ī he said.

ĪItās all head-on combat, fang against fang, claw against claw,ā said Lupine.āYou donāt find wolves lurking behind rocks ready to mug a passing badger.ā

ĪGet away?ā

ĪWould you like me to tear your throat out?ā

The man stared eye to yellow eye. He estimated his chances against a seven-foot man with teeth like that.

ĪDo I get a choice?ā he said.

114

ĪMy friend here,ā said Lupine, indicating Windle, Īis a zombie -ā

ĪWell, I don Īt know about actual zombie, I think you have to eat some sort of fish and root to be a zom -ā

Ī- and you know what zombies do to people, donāt you?ā

The man tried to nod, even though Lupineās fist was right under his neck.

ĪYeggg, Ī he managed.

ĪNow, heās going to take a very good look at you, and if he ever sees you again -ā

ĪI say, hang on,ā murmured Windle.

Ī- heāll come after you. Wonāt you, Windle?ā

ĪEh? Oh, yes. Thatās right. Like a shot, Ī said Windle, unhappily. ĪNow run along, thereās a good chap. OK?ā

ĪOggAy,ā said the prospective mugger. He was thinking: ĪIs eyes! Ike imlets!ā

Lupine let go. The man hit the cobbles, gave Windle one last terrified glance, and ran for it.

ĪEr, what do zombies do to people?ā said Windle. ĪI suppose Iād better know.ā

ĪThey tear them apart like a sheet of dry paper, Ī said Lupine.

ĪOh? Right,ā said Windle. They strolled on in silence.

Windle was thinking: why me? Hundreds of people must die in this city every day. I bet they donāt have this trouble. They just shut their eyes and wake up being born as someone else, or in some sort of heaven or, I suppose, possibly some sort of hell. Or they go and feast with the gods in their hall, which has never seemed a particularly great idea - gods are all right in their way, but not the kind of people a decent man would want to have a meal with. The Yen buddhists think you just become very rich. Some of the Klatchian religions say you go to a lovely garden full of young women, which doesnāt sound very religious to me . . .

Windle found himself wondering how you applied for Klatchian nationality after death.

115

And at that moment the cobblestones came up to meet him.

This is usually a poetic way of saying that someone fell flat on their face. In this case, the cobblestones really came up to meet him. They fountained up, circled silently in the air above the alley for a moment, and then dropped like stones.

Windle stared at them. So did Lupine.

ĪThatās something you donāt often see,ā said the wereman, after a while.āI donāt think Iāve ever seen stones flying before.ā

ĪOr dropping like stones,ā said Windle. He nudged one with the toe of his boot. It seemed perfectly happy with the role gravity had chosen for it.

ĪYouāre a wizard -ā

ĪWere a wizard,ā said Windle.

ĪYou were a wizard. What caused all that?ā

ĪI think it is probably an inexplicable phenomenon,ā said Windle. ĪThereās a lot of them about, for some reason. I wish I knew why.ā

He prodded a stone again. It showed no inclination to move.

ĪIād better be getting along,ā said Lupine.

ĪWhatās it like, being a wereman?ā said Windle.

Lupine shrugged. ĪLonely,ā he said.

ĪHmm?ā

ĪYou donāt fit in, you see. When Iām a wolf I remember what itās like to be a man, and vice versa. Like . . . I mean . . . sometimes . . . sometimes, right, when Iām wolf-shaped, I run up into the hills . . . in the winter, you know, when thereās a crescent moon in the sky and a crust on the snow and the hills go on for ever . . . and the other wolves, well, they feel what itās like, of course, but they donāt know like I do. To feel and know at the same time. No-one else knows what thatās like. No-one else in the whole world could know what thatās like. Thatās the bad part. Knowing thereās no-one else . . .ā

116

Windle became aware of teetering on the edge of a pit of sorrows. He never knew what to say in moments like this.

Lupine brightened up. ĪCome to that . . . whatās it like, being a zombie?ā

ĪItās OK. Itās not too bad.ā

Lupine nodded.

ĪSee you around,ā he said, and strode off.

The streets were beginning to fill up as the population of Ankh-Morpork began its informal shift change between the night people and the day people.

All of them avoided Windle. People didnāt bump into a zombie if they could help it.

He reached the University gates. which were now open, and made his way to his bedroom.

Heād need money, if he was moving out. Heād saved quite a lot over the years. Had he made a will? Heād been fairly confused the past ten years or so. He might have made one. Had he been confused enough to leave all his money to himself? He hoped so. Thereād been practically no known cases of anyone successfully challenging their own will -

He levered up the floorboard by the end of his bed, and lifted out a bag of coins. He remembered heād been saving up for his old age.

There was his diary. It was a five-year diary, he recalled, so in a technical sense Windle had wasted about - he did a quick calculation - yes, about three-fifths of his money.

Or more, when you came to think about it. After all, there wasnāt much on the pages. Windle hadnāt done anything worth writing down for years, or at least anything heād been able to remember by the evening.

There were just phases of the moon, lists of religious festivals, and the occasional sweet stuck to a page.

There was something else down there under the floor, too. He fumbled around in the dusty space and found a couple of smooth spheres. He pulled them out

117

and stared at them, mystified. He shook them, and watched the tiny snowfalls. He read the writing, noting how it wasnāt so much writing as a drawing of writing. He reached down and picked up the third object; it was a little bent metal wheel. Just one little metal wheel. And, beside it, a broken sphere.

Windle stared at them.

Of course, he had been a bit non-compos mentis in his last thirty years or so, and maybe heād worn his underwear outside his clothes and dribbled a bit, but . . . heād collected souvenirs? And little wheels?

There was a cough behind him.

Windle dropped the mysterious objects back into the hole and looked around. The room was empty, but there seemed to be a shadow behind the open door.

ĪHallo?ā he said.

A deep, rumbling, but very diffident voice said,

ĪSāonly me, Mr Poons.ā

Windle wrinkled his forehead with the effort of recollection.

ĪSchleppel?ā he said.

ĪThatās right.ā

ĪThe bogeyman?ā

ĪThatās right?ā

ĪBehind my door?ā

ĪThatās right.ā

ĪWhy?ā

Ī Itās a friendly door.ā

Windle walked over to the door and gingerly shut it.

There was nothing behind it but old plaster, although he did fancy that he felt an air movement.

ĪIām under the bed now, Mr Poons,ā said Schleppelās voice from, yes, under the bed. ĪYou donāt mind, do you?ā

ĪWell, no. I suppose not. But shouldnāt you be in a closet somewhere? Thatās where bogeymen used to hide when I was a lad.ā

ĪA good closet is hard to find, Mr Poons.ā

118

Windle sighed.āAll right. The underside of the bedās yours. Make yourself at home, or whatever.ā

ĪIād prefer going back to lurking behind the door, Mr Poons, if itās all the same to you.ā

ĪOh, all right.ā

ĪDo you mind shutting your eyes a moment?ā

Windle obediently shut his eyes.

There was another movement of air.

ĪYou can look now, Mr Poons.ā

Windle opened his eyes.

ĪGosh,ā said Schleppelās voice, Īyouāve even got a coat hook and everything behind here.ā

Windle watched the brass knobs on the end of his bedstead unscrew themselves.

A tremor shook the floor.

ĪWhatās going on, Schleppel?ā he said.

ĪBuild up of life force, Mr Poons.ā

ĪYou mean you-now?ā

ĪOh, yes. Hey, wow, thereās a lock and a handle and a brass finger plate and everything behind here -ā

ĪWhat do you mean, a build up of life force?ā

Ī- and the hinges, thereās a really good rising butts here, never had a door with -ā

ĪSchleppel!ā

ĪJust life force, Mr Poons. You know. Itās a kind of force what you get in things that are alive? I thought you wizards knew about this sort of thing.ā

Windle Poons opened his mouth to say something like ĪOf course we do,ā before proceeding diplomatically to find out what the hell the bogeyman was talking about, and then remembered that he didnāt have to act like that now. Thatās what he would have done if he was alive, but despite what Reg Shoe proclaimed, it was quite hard to be proud when you were dead. A bit stiff, perhaps, but not proud.

ĪNever heard of it,ā he said.āWhatās it building up for?ā

119

ĪDonāt know. Very unseasonal. It ought to be dying down around now,ā said Schleppel.

The floor shook again. Then the loose floorboard that had concealed Windleās little fortune creaked, and started to put out shoots.

ĪWhat do you mean, unseasonal?ā he said.

ĪYou get a lot of it in the spring,ā said the voice from behind the door. ĪShoving the daffodils up out of the ground and that kind of stuff.ā

ĪNever heard of it, Ī said Windle, fascinated.

ĪI thought you wizards knew everything about everything.ā

Windle looked at his wizarding hat. Burial and tunnelling had not been kind to it, but after more than a century of wear it hadnāt been the height of haute couture to start with.

ĪThereās always something new to learn, Ī he said.

It was another day. Cyril the cockerel stirred on his perch.

The chalked words glowed in the half light.

He concentrated.

He took a deep breath.

ĪDock-a-loodle-fod!ā

Now that the memory problem was solved, there was only the dyslexia to worry about.

Up in the high fields the wind was strong and the sun was close and strong. Bill Door strode back and forth through the stricken grass of the hillside like a shuttle across a green weave.

He wondered if heād ever felt wind and sunlight before.

Yes, heād felt them, he must have done. But heād never experienced them like this; the way wind pushed at you, the way the sun made you hot. The way you could feel Time passing.

Carrying you with it.

There was a timid knocking at the barn door.

120

YES?

ĪCome on down here, Bill Door.ā

He climbed down in the darkness and opened the door cautiously.

Miss FIitworth was shielding a candle with one hand.

ĪUm.ā she said.

I AM SORRY?

ĪYou can come into the house, if you like. For the evening. Not for the night, of course. I mean, I donāt like to think of you all alone out here of an evening, when Iāve got a fire and everything.ā

Bill Door was no good at reading faces. It was a skill heād never needed. He stared at Miss Flitworthās frozen, worried, pleading smile like a baboon looking for meaning in the Rosetta Stone.

I THANK YOU, he said.

She scuttled off.

When he arrived at the house she wasnāt in the kitchen.

He followed a rustling, scraping noise out into a narrow hallway and through a low doorway. Miss Flitworth was down on her hands and knees in the little room beyond, feverishly lighting the fire.

She looked up, flustered, when he rapped politely on the open door.

ĪHardly worth putting a match to it for one,ā she mumbled, by way of embarrassed explanation.āSit down. Iāll make us some tea.ā

Bill Door folded himself into one of the narrow chairs by the fire, and looked around the room.

It was an unusual room. Whatever its functions were, being lived in wasnāt apparently one of them. Whereas the kitchen was a sort of roofed over outside space and the hub of the farmās activities, this room resembled nothing so much as a mausoleum.

Contrary to general belief, Bill Door wasnāt very familiar with funereal decor. Deaths didnāt normally take place in tombs, except in rare and unfortunate cases. The open air,

121

the bottoms of rivers, halfway down sharks, any amount of bedrooms, yes - tombs, no.

His business was the separation of the wheatgerm of the soul from the chaff of the mortal body, and that was usually concluded long before any of the rites associated with, when you got right down to it, a reverential form of garbage disposal.

But this room looked like the tombs of those kings who wanted to take it all with them.

Bill Door sat with his hands on his knees, looking around.

First, there were the ornaments. More teapots than one might think possible. China dogs with staring eyes. Strange cake stands. Miscellaneous statues and painted plates with cheery little messages on them: A Present from Quirm, Long Life and Happiness. They covered every flat surface in a state of total democracy, so that a rather valuable antique silver candlestick was next to a bright coloured china dog with a bone in its mouth and an expression of culpable idiocy.

Pictures hid the walls. Most of them were painted in shades of mud and showed depressed cattle standing on wet moorland in a fog.

In fact the ornaments almost concealed the furniture, but this was no loss. Apart from two chairs groaning under the weight of accumulated antimacassars, the rest of the furniture seemed to have no use whatsoever apart from supporting ornaments. There were spindly tables everywhere. The floor was layered in rag rugs. Someone had really liked making rag rugs. And, above all, and around all, and permeating all, was the smell.

It smelled of long, dull afternoons.

On a cloth-draped sideboard were two small wooden chests flanking a larger one. They must be the famous boxes full of treasure, he thought.

He became aware of ticking.

There was a clock on the wall. Someone had once had what they must have thought was the jolly idea of making

122

a clock like an owl. When the pendulum swung, the owlās eyes went backwards and forwards in what the seriously starved of entertainment probably imagined was a humorous way. After a while. your own eyes started to oscillate in sympathy.

Miss Flitworth bustled in with a loaded tray. There was a blur of activity as she performed the alchemical ceremony of making tea, buttering scones, arranging biscuits, hooking sugar tongs on the basin . . .

She sat back. Then, as if she had been in a state of repose for twenty minutes, she trilled slightly breathlessly: ĪWell . . . isnāt this nice.ā

YES, MISS FLITWORTH.

ĪDonāt often have occasion to open up the parlour these days.ā

NO.

ĪNot since I lost my dad.ā

For a moment Bill Door wondered if sheād lost the late Mr Flitworth in the parlour. Perhaps heād taken a wrong turning among the ornaments. Then he recalled the funny little ways humans put things.

AH.

ĪHe used to sit in that very chair, reading the almanac.ā

Bill Door searched his memory.

A TALL MAN, he ventured. WITH A MOUSTACHE? MISSING THE TIP OF THE LITTLE FINGER ON HIS LEFT HAND?

Miss Flitworth stared at him over the top of her cup.

ĪYou knew him?ā she said.

I THINK I MET HIM ONCE.

ĪHe never mentioned you,ā said Miss FIitworth archly. ĪNot by name. Not as Bill Door.ā

I DONāT THINK HE WOULD HAVE MENTIONED ME, said Bill Door slowly.

ĪItās all right,ā said Miss Flitworth.āI know all about it. Dad used to do a bit of smuggling, too. Well, this isnāt a big farm. Itās not what youād call a living. He always said a body has to do what it can. I expect you were in his line of

123

business. Iāve been watching you. That was your business, right enough.ā

Bill Door thought deeply.

GENERAL TRANSPORTATION, he said.

ĪThat sounds like it, yes. Have you got any family, Bill?ā

A DAUGHTER.

ĪThatās nice.ā

IāM AFRAID WEāVE LOST TOUCH.

ĪThatās a shame,ā said Miss Flitworth, and sounded as though she meant it. ĪWe used to have some good times here in the old days. That was when my young man was alive, of course.ā

YOU HAVE A SON? said Bill, who was losing track.

She gave him a sharp look.

ĪI invite you to think hard about the word ćMissä,ā she said.āWe takes things like that seriously in these parts.ā

MY APOLOGIES.

ĪNo, Rufus was his name. He was a smuggler, like dad. Not as good. though. I got to admit that. He was more artistic. He used to give me all sorts of things from foreign parts, you know. Bits of jewelry and suchlike. And we used to go dancing. He had very good calves, I remember. I like to see good legs on a man.ā

She stared at the fire for a while.

ĪSee . . . he never come back one day. Just before we were going to be wed. Dad said he never should have tried to run the mountains that close to winter, but I know he wanted to do it soās he could bring me a proper present. And he wanted to make some money and impress dad, because dad was against -ā

She picked up the poker and gave the fire a more ferocious jab than it deserved.

ĪAnyway, some folk said he ran away to Farferee or Ankh-Morpork or somewhere, but I know he wouldnāt have done something like that.ā

The penetrating look she gave Bill Door nailed him to the chair.

ĪWhat do you think, Bill Door?ā she said sharply.

124

He felt quite proud of himself for spotting the question within the question.

MISS FLITWORTH, THE MOUNTAINS CAN BE VERY TREACHEROUS IN THE WINTER.

She looked relieved. ĪThatās what Iāve always said,ā she said.āAnd do you know what, Bill Door? Do you know what I thought?ā

NO, MISS FLITWORTH.

ĪIt was the day before we were going to be wed, like I said. And then one of his pack ponies came back by itself and then the men went and found the avalanche . . . and you know what I thought? I thought, thatās ridiculous. Thatās stupid. Terrible, isnāt it? Oh, I thought other things afterwards, naturally, but the first thing was that the world shouldnāt act as if it was some kind of book. Isnāt that a terrible thing to have thought?ā

I MYSELF HAVE NEVER TRUSTED DRAMA, MISS FLITWORTH.

She wasnāt really listening.

ĪAnd I thought, what life expects me to do now is moon around the place in the wedding dress for years and go completely doodly. Thatās what it wants me to do. Hah! Oh, yes! So I put the dress in the ragtag and we still invited everyone to the wedding breakfast, because itās a crime to let good food go to waste.ā

She attacked the fire again, and then gave him another megawatt stare.

ĪI think itās always very important to see whatās really real and what isnāt, donāt you?ā

MISS FLITWORTH?

ĪYes?ā

DO YOU MIND IF I STOP THE CLOCK?

She glanced up at the boggle-eyed owl.

ĪWhat? Oh. Why?ā

I AM AFRAID IT GETS ON MY NERVES.

ĪItās not very loud, is it?ā

Bill Door wanted to say that every tick was like the hammering of iron clubs on bronze pillars.

HāS JUST RATHER ANNOYING, MISS FLITWORTH.

125

ĪWell, stop it if you want to, Iām sure. I only keep it wound up for the company.ā

Bill Door got up thankfully, stepped gingerly through the forest of ornaments, and grabbed the pinecone shaped pendulum. The wooden owl glared at him and the ticking stopped. at least in the realm of common sound. He was aware that, elsewhere, the pounding of Time continued none the less. How could people endure it? They allowed Time in their houses, as though it was a fiend.

He sat down again .

Miss Flitworth had started to knit, ferociously.

The fire rustled in the grate.

Bill Door leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling.

ĪYour horse enjoying himself?ā

PARDON?

ĪYour horse. He seems to be enjoying himself in the meadow,ā prompted Miss Flitworth.

OH. YES.

ĪRunning around as if heās never seen grass before.ā

HE LIKES GRASS.

ĪAnd you like animals. I can tell.ā

Bill Door nodded. His reserves of small talk, never very liquid, had dried up.

He sat silently for the next couple of hours, hands gripping the arms of the chair, until Miss Flitworth announced that she was going to bed. Then he went back to the barn, and slept.

Bill Door hadnāt been aware of it coming. But there it was, a grey figure floating in the darkness of the barn.

Somehow it had got hold of the golden timer.

It told him, Bill Door, there has 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.

The figure faded.

Bill Door nodded. Of course there had been a mistake.

126

Anyone could see there had been a mistake. Heād known all along it had been a mistake.

He tossed the overalls in a corner and took up the robe of absolute blackness.

Well, it had been an experience. And, he had to admit, one that he didnāt want to relive. He felt as though a huge weight had been removed.

Was that what it was really like to be alive? The feeling of darkness dragging you forward?

How could they live with it? And yet they did, and even seemed to find enjoyment in it, when surely the only sensible course would be to despair. Amazing. To feel you were a tiny living thing, sandwiched between two cliffs of darkness. How could they stand to be alive?

Obviously it was something you had to be born to.

Death saddled his horse and rode out and up over the fields. The corn rippled far below, like the sea. Miss Flitworth would have to find someone else to help her gather in the harvest.

That was odd. There was a feeling there. Regret? Was that it? But it was Bill Doorās feeling, and Bill Door was . . . dead. Had never lived. He was his old self again, safe where there were no feelings and no regrets.

Never any regrets.

And now he was in his study, and that was odd, because he couldnāt quite remember how heād got there. One minute on horseback, the next in the study, with its ledgers and timers and instruments.

And it was bigger than he remembered. The walls lurked on the edge of sight.

That was Bill Doorās doing. Of course it would seem big to Bill Door. and there was probably just a bit of him still hanging on. The thing to do was keep busy. Throw himself into his work.

There were already some lifetimers on his desk. He didnāt remember putting them there, but that didnāt matter, the important thing was to ?get? on with the job . . .

He picked up the nearest one, and read the name.

127

ĪLod-a-foodle-wok!ā

Miss Flitworth sat up in bed. On the edge of dreams sheād heard another noise, which must have woken the cockerel.

She fiddled with a match until she got a candle alight, and then felt under the bed and her fingers found the hilt of a cutlass that had been much employed by the late Mr Flitworth during his business trips across the mountains.

She hurried down the creaking stairs and out into the chill of the dawn.

She hesitated at the barn door, and then pulled it open just enough to slip inside.

ĪMr Door?ā

There was a rustle in the hay, and then an alert silence.

MISS FLITWORTH?

ĪDid you call out? Iām sure I heard someone shout my name.ā

There was another rustle, and Bill Doorās head appeared over the edge of the loft.

MISS FLITWORTH.

ĪYes. Who did you expect? Are you all right?ā

ER. YES. YES, I BELIEVE SO.

ĪYou sure youāre all right? You woke up Cyril.ā

YES. YES. IT WAS JUST A - I THOUGHT THAT - YES.

She blew out the candle. There was already enough pre-dawn light to see by.

ĪWell, if youāre sure . . . Now Iām up I may as well put the porridge on.ā

Bill Door lay back on the hay until he felt he could trust his legs to carry him, and then climbed down and tottered across the yard to the farmhouse.

He said nothing while she ladled porridge into a bowl in front of him. and drowned it with cream. Finally, he couldnāt contain himself any longer. He didnāt know how to ask the

questions, but he really needed the answers.

MISS FLITWORTH?

ĪYes?ā

WHAT IS IT . . . IN THE NIGHT . . . WHEN YOU SEE THINGS,

128

BUT THEY ARE NOT THE REAL THINGS?

She stood, porridge pot in one hand and ladle in the other.

ĪYou mean dreaming?ā she said.

IS THAT WHAT DREAMING IS?

ĪDonāt you dream? I thought everyone dreamed.ā

ABOUT THINGS THAT ARE GOING TO HAPPEN?

ĪThatās premonitions, that is. Iāve never believed in Īem myself. Youāre not telling me you donāt know what dreams are?ā

NO. NO. OF COURSE NOT.

ĪWhatās worrying you, Bill?ā

I SUDDENLY KNOW THAT WE ARE GOING TO DIE.

She watched him thoughtfully.

ĪWell, so does everyone,ā she said.āAnd thatās what youāve been dreaming about, is it? Everyone feels like this sometimes. I wouldnāt worry about it, if I was you. The best thing to do is keep busy and act cheerful, I always say.ā

BUT WE WILL COME TO AN END!

ĪOh, I donāt know about that,ā said Miss Flitworth.āIt all depends on what kind of life youāve led. I suppose.ā

IāM SORRY?

ĪAre you a religious man?ā

YOU MEAN THAT WHAT HAPPENS TO YOU WHEN YOU DIE IS WHAT YOU BELIEVE WILL HAPPEN?

ĪIt would be nice if that was the case, wouldnāt it?ā she said brightly.

BUT, YOU SEE, I KNOW WHAT I BELIEVE. I BELIEVE . . . NOTHING.

ĪWe are gloomy this morning, arenāt we?ā said Miss Flitworth.āBest thing you could do right now is finish off that porridge. Itās good for you. They say it builds healthy bones.ā

Bill Door looked down at the bowl.

CAN I HAVE SOME MORE?

Bill Door spent the morning chopping wood. It was pleasantly monotonous. Get tired. That was important. He must have slept before last night, but he must have been so tired that he didnāt

129

dream. And he was determined not to dream again. The axe rose and fell on the logs like clockwork.

No! Not like clockwork!

Miss Flitworth had several pots on the stove when he came in.

IT SMELLS GOOD, Bill volunteered. He reached for a wobbling pot lid. Miss Flitworth spun around.

ĪDonāt touch it! You donāt want that stuff! Itās for the rats.ā

DO RATS NOT FEED THEMSELVES?

ĪYou bet they do. Thatās why weāre going to give them a little extra something before the harvest. A few dollops of this around the holes and - no more rats.ā

It took a little while for Bill Door to put two and two together, but when this took place it was like megaliths mating.

THAT IS POISON?

ĪEssence of spikkle, mixed with oatmeal. Never fails.ā

AND THEY DIE?

ĪInstantly. Straight over and legs in the air. Weāre having bread and cheese,ā she added. ĪI aināt doing big cooking twice in one day, and weāre having chicken tonight. Talking of chicken, in fact . . . come on . . .ā

She took a cleaver off the rack and went out into the yard. Cyril the cockerel eyed her suspiciously from the top of the midden. His harem of fat and rather elderly hens, who had been scratching up the dust, bounded unsteadily towards Miss Flitworth in the broken-knicker-elastic run of hens everywhere. She reached down quickly and picked one up.

It regarded Bill Door with bright, stupid eyes.

ĪDo you know how to pluck a chicken?ā said Miss Flitworth.

Bill looked from her to the hen.

BUT WE FEED THEM, he said helplessly.

ĪThatās right. And then they feed us. This oneās been off lay for months. Thatās how it goes in the chicken world. Mr Flitworth used to wring their necks but I never got the knack of that; the cleaverās messy and they run around a

130

bit afterwards, but theyāre dead all right, and they know it.ā

Bill Door considered his options. The chicken had focused one beady eye on him. Chickens are a lot more stupid than humans, and donāt 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.

Heād never killed. Heād 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.

ĪWell done.ā she said, and went back to the kitchen.

Bill Door felt Cyrilās 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.

A lot of rats died.

Down in the runs under the barn - in the deepest one, one tunnelled long ago by long-forgotten ancestral rodents - something appeared in the darkness.

It seemed to have difficulty deciding what shape it was going to be.

It began as a lump of highly-suspicious cheese. This didnāt seem to work.

Then it tried something that looked very much like a small, hungry terrier. This was also rejected.

For a moment it was a steel-jawed trap. This was clearly unsuitable.

It cast around for fresh ideas and much to its surprise one arrived smoothly, as if travelling from no distance at all. Not so much a shape as a memory of a shape.

131

It tried it and found that, while totally wrong for the job, in some deeply satisfying way it was the only shape it could possibly be.

It went to work.

That evening the men were practising archery on the green. Bill Door had carefully ensured a local reputation as the worst bowman in the entire history of toxophily; it had never occurred to anyone that putting arrows through the hats of bystanders behind him must logically take a lot more skill than merely sending them through a quite large target a mere fifty yards away.

It was amazing how many friends you could make by being bad at things. provided you were bad enough to be funny.

So he was allowed to sit on a bench outside the inn, with the old men.

Next door, ?s~uks? poured from the chimney of the village smithy and spiralled up into the dusk. There was a ferocious hammering from behind its closed doors. Bill Door wondered why the smithy was always shut. Most smiths worked with their doors open, so that their forge became an unofficial village meeting room. This one was keen on his work -

ĪHallo, skelington.ā

He swivelled round.

The small child of the house was watching him with the most penetrating gaze he had ever seen.

ĪYou are a skelington, arenāt you,ā she said. Īl can tell, because of the bones.ā

YOU ARE MISTAKEN, SMALL CHILD.

ĪYou are. People turn into skelingtons when theyāre dead. Theyāre not supposed to walk around afterwards.ā

HA. HA. HA. WILL YOU HARK AT THE CHILD.

ĪWhy are you walking around, then?ā

Bill Door looked at the old men. They appeared engrossed in the sport.

IāLL TELL YOU WHAT, he said desperately, IF YOU WILL

132

GO AWAY, I WILL GIVE YOU A HALF-PENNY.

ĪIāve got a skelington mask for when we go trickle-treating on Soul Cake Night,ā she said.āItās made of paper. You get given sweets.ā

Bill Door made the mistake millions of people had tried before with small children in slightly similar circumstances.

He resorted to reason.

LOOK, he said, IF I WAS REALLY A SKELETON, LITTLE GIRL, IāM SURE THESE OLD GENTLEMEN HERE WOULD HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY ABOUT IT.

She regarded the old men at the other end of the bench.

ĪTheyāre nearly skelingtons anyway,ā she said. Īl shouldnāt think theyād want to see another one.ā

He gave in.

I HAVE TO ADMIT THAT YOU ARE RIGHT ON THAT POINT.

ĪWhy donāt you fall to bits?ā

I DONāT KNOW. I NEVER HAVE.

ĪIāve seen skelingtons of birds and things and they all fall to bits.ā

PERHAPS IT IS BECAUSE THEY ARE WHAT SOMETHING WAS. WHEREAS THIS ?IS? WHAT I AM.

ĪThe apothecary who does medicine over in Chamblyās got a skelington on a hook with all wire to hold the bones together,ā said the child, with the air of one imparting information gained after diligent research.

I DONāT HAVE WIRES.

ĪThereās a difference between alive skelingtons and dead ones?ā

YES.

ĪItās a dead skelington heās got then, is it?ā

YES.

ĪWhat was inside someone?ā

YES.

ĪUr. Yuk.ā

The child stared distantly at the landscape for a while and then said, ĪIāve got new socks.ā

YES?

ĪYou can look, if you like.ā

133

A grubby foot was extended for inspection.

WELL, WELL. FANCY THAT. NEW SOCKS.

ĪMy mum knitted them out of sheep.ā

MY WORD.

The horizon was given another inspection.

ĪDāyou know,ā she said, Īdāyou know . . . itās Friday.ā

YES.

ĪI found a spoon.ā

Bill Door found he was waiting expectantly. He was not familiar with people who had an attention span of less than three seconds.

ĪYou work along of Miss Flitworthās?ā

YES.

ĪMy dad says youāve got your feet properly under the table there.ā

Bill Door couldnāt think of an answer to this because he didnāt know what it meant. It was one of those many flat statements humans made that were really just a disguise for something more subtle. which was often conveyed merely by the tone of voice or a look in the eyes, neither of which was being done by the child.

ĪMy dad says she said sheās got boxes of treasure.ā

HAS SHE?

ĪIāve got tuppence.ā

MY GOODNESS.

ĪSal!ā

They both looked up as Mrs Lifton appeared on the doorstep.

ĪBedtime for you. Stop worrying Mr Door.ā

OH, I ASSURE YOU SHE IS NOT -

ĪSay goodnight, now.ā

ĪHow do skelingtons go to sleep? They canāt close their eyes because -ā

He heard their voices, muffled. inside the inn.

ĪYou mustnāt call Mr Door that just because . . . heās . . . very . . . heās very thin . . .ā

ĪItās all right. Heās not the dead sort.ā

Mrs Liftonās voice had the familiar worried tones of

134

someone who canāt bring themselves to believe the evidence of their own eyes.āPerhaps heās just been very ĪI should think heās just about been as ill as he can be ever.ā

Bill Door walked back home thoughtfully.

There was a light on in the farmhouse kitchen, but he went straight to the barn, climbed the ladder to the hay-loft, and lay down.

He could put off dreaming, but he couldnāt escape remembering.

He stared at the darkness.

After a while he was aware of the pattering of feet. He turned.

A stream of pale rat-shaped ghosts skipped along the roof beam above his head, fading as they ran so that soon there was nothing but the sound of the scampering.

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 grey whiskers protruded from the shadowy hood.

Bill Door reached out and picked it up. It didnāt 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.

I REMEMBER, said Bill Door, WHEN YOU WERE A PART OF ME.

The Death of Rats squeaked again.

Bill Door fumbled in the pockets of his overall. Heād put some of his lunch in there. Ah, yes.

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

The Death of Rats took it graciously.

Bill Door remembered visiting an old man once - only once - who had spent almost his entire life locked in a cell in a tower for some alleged crime or other, and had tamed

135

little birds for company during his life sentence. They crapped on his bedding and ate his food, but he tolerated them and smiled at their flight in and out of the high barred

windows. Death had wondered, at the time, why anyone would do something like that.

I WONāT DELAY YOU, he said. I EXPECT YOUāVE GOT THINGS TO DO. RATS TO SEE. I KNOW HOW IT IS.

And now he understood.

He put the figure back on the beam, and lay down in the hay.

DROP IN ANY TIME YOUāRE PASSING.

Bill Door stared at the darkness again.

Sleep. He could feel her prowling around. Sleep, with a pocketful of dreams.

He lay in the darkness and fought back.

Miss Flitworthās shouting jolted him upright and, to his momentary relief still went on.

The barn door slammed open.

ĪBill! Come down quick!ā

He swung his legs on to the ladder.

WHAT IS HAPPENING. MISS FLITWORTH?

ĪSomethingās on fire!ā

They ran across the yard and out on to the road. The sky over the village was red.

ĪCome on!ā

BUT IT IS NOT OUR FIRE.

ĪItās going to be everyoneās! It spreads like crazy on thatch!ā

They reached the apology for a town square. The inn was already well alight, the thatch roaring starwards in a million twisting sparks.

ĪLook at everyone standing around,ā snarled Miss Flitworth.āThereās the pump, buckets are everywhere, why donāt people think?ā

There was a scuffle a little way away as a couple of his customers tried to stop Lifton from running into the building. He was screaming at them.

136

ĪThe girlās still in there,ā said Miss Flitworth. ĪIs that what he said?ā

YES.

Flames curtained every upper window.

ĪThereās got to be some way,ā said Miss Flitworth. ĪMaybe we could find a ladder -ā

WE SHOULD NOT.

ĪWhat? Weāve got to try. We canāt leave people in there!ā

YOU DONāT UNDERSTAND, said Bill Door. TO TINKER WITH THE FATE OF ONE INDIVIDUAL COULD DESTROY THE WHOLE WORLD.

Miss FIitworth looked at him as if he had gone mad.

ĪWhat kind of garbage is that?ā

I MEAN THAT THERE IS A TIME FOR EVERYONE TO DIE.

She stared. Then she drew her hand back. and gave him a ringing slap across the face.

He was harder than sheād expected. She yelped and sucked at her knuckles.

ĪYou leave my farm tonight, Mr Bill Door,ā she growled. ĪUnderstand?ā Then she turned on her heel and ran towards the pump.

Some of the men had brought long hooks to drag the burning thatch off the roof. Miss Flitworth organised a team to get a ladder up to one of the bedroom windows but, by the time a man was persuaded to climb it behind the steaming protection of a damp blanket, the top of the ladder was already smouldering.

Bill Door watched the flames.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the golden timer. The firelight glowed redly on the glass. He put it away again.

Part of the roof fell in.

SQUEAK.

Bill Door looked down. A small robed figure marched between his legs and strutted into the flaming doorway.

Someone was yelling something about barrels of brandy.

Bill Door reached back into his pocket and took out the

137

timer again. Its hissing drowned out the roar of the flames.

The future flowed into the past, and there was a lot more past than there was future, but he was struck by the fact that what it flowed through all the time was now.

He replaced it carefully.

Death knew that to tinker with the fate of one individual could destroy the whole world. He knew this. The knowledge was built into him.

To Bill Door, he realised, it was so much horse elbows.

OH, DAMN, he said. And walked into the fire.

ĪUm. Itās me, Librarian,ā said Windle, trying to shout through the keyhole.āWindle Poons.ā

He tried hammering some more.

ĪWhy wonāt he answer?ā

ĪDonāt know, Ī said a voice behind him.

ĪSchleppel?ā

ĪYes, Mr Poons.ā

ĪWhy are you behind me?ā

ĪIāve got to be behind something, Mr Poons. Thatās what being a bogeyman is all about.ā

ĪLibrarian?ā said Windle, hammering some more.

ĪOook.ā

ĪWhy wonāt you let me in?ā

ĪOook.ā

ĪBut I need to look something up.ā

ĪOook oook!ā

ĪWell, yes. I am. Whatās that got to do with it?ā

ĪOook!ā

ĪThatās - thatās unfair!ā

ĪWhatās he saying, Mr Poons?ā

ĪHe wonāt let me in because Iām dead!ā

ĪThatās typical. Thatās the sort of thing Reg Shoe is always going on about, you know.ā

ĪIs there anyone else that knows about life force?ā

ĪThereās always Mrs Cake, I suppose. But sheās a bit weird.ā

138

ĪWhoās Mrs Cake?ā Then Windle realised what Schleppel had just said. ĪAnyway, youāre a bogeyman.ā

ĪYou never heard of Mrs Cake?ā

ĪNo.ā

ĪI donāt suppose sheās interested in magic . . . Anyway, Mr Shoe says we shouldnāt talk to her. She exploits dead people, he says.ā

ĪHow?ā

ĪSheās a medium. Well, more a small.ā

ĪReally? All right, letās go and see her. And . . . Schleppel?ā

ĪYes?ā

ĪItās creepy, feeling you standing behind me the whole time.ā

ĪI get very upset if Iām not behind something, Mr Poons.ā

ĪCanāt you lurk behind something else?ā

ĪWhat do you suggest, Mr Poons?ā

Windle thought about it.āYes, it might work,ā he said quietly, Īif I can find a screwdriver.ā

Modo the gardener was on his knees mulching the dahlias when he heard a rhythmic scraping and thumping behind him, such as might be made by someone trying to move a heavy object.

He turned his head.

Ī ĪEvening, Mr Poons. Still dead, I see.ā

ćEvening, Modo. Youāve got the place looking very nice.ā

ĪThereās someone moving a door along behind you,ā Mr Poons.ā

ĪYes, I know.ā

The door edged cautiously along the path. As it passed Modo it pivoted awkwardly, as if whoever was carrying it was trying to keep as much behind it as possible.

ĪItās a kind of security door, Ī said Windle.

He paused. There was something wrong. He

139

couldnāt quite be certain what it was, but there was suddenly a lot of wrongness about, like hearing one note out of tune in an orchestra. He audited the view in front of him.

ĪWhatās that youāre putting the weeds into?ā he said.

Modo glanced at the thing beside him.

ĪGood, isnāt it?ā he said.āI found it by the compost heaps. My wheelbarrowād broke, and I looked up, and there -ā

ĪIāve never seen anything like it before,ā said Windle.āWhoād want to make a big basket out of wire? And those wheels donāt look big enough.ā

ĪBut it pushes along well by the handle, Ī said Modo. ĪIām amazed that anyone would want to throw it away. Why would anyone want to throw away something like this, Mr Poons?ā

Windle stared at the trolley. He couldnāt escape the feeling that it was watching him.

He heard himself say, ĪMaybe it got there by itself.ā

ĪThatās right, Mr Poons! It wanted a bit of peace, I expect!ā said Modo.āYou are a one!ā

ĪYes,ā said Windle, unhappily.āIt rather looks that way.ā

He stepped out into the city, aware of the scraping and thumping of the door behind him.

If someone had told me a month ago, he thought, that a few days after I died Iād be walking along the road followed by a bashful bogeyman hiding behind a door . . . why, Iād have laughed at them.

No, I wouldnāt. Iād have said Īeh?ā and Īwhat?ā and Īspeak up!ā and wouldnāt have understood anyway.

Beside him, someone barked.

A dog was watching him. It was a very large dog. In fact, the only reason it could be called a dog and not a wolf was that everyone knew you didnāt get wolves in cities.

It winked. Windle thought: no full moon last night.

140

ĪLupine?ā he ventured.

The dog nodded.

ĪCan you talk?ā

The dog shook its head.

ĪSo what do you do now?ā

Lupine shrugged.

ĪWant to come with me?ā

There was another shrug that almost vocalised the thought: why not? What else have I got to do?

If someone had told me a month ago, Windle thought, that a few days after I died Iād be walking along the road followed by a bashful bogeyman hiding

behind a door and accompanied by a kind of negative version of a werewolf . . . why, I probably would have laughed at them. After theyād repeated themselves a few times, of course. In a loud voice.

The Death of Rats ?rabhnded? up the last of his clients, many of whom had been in the thatch, and led the way through the flames towards wherever it was that good rats went.

He was surprised to pass a burning figure forcing its way through the incandescent mess of collapsed beams and crumbling floorboards. As it mounted the blazing stairs it removed something from the disintegrating remains of its clothing and held it carefully in its teeth.

The Death of Rats did not wait to see what happened next. While it was, in some respects, as ancient as the first proto-rat, it was also less than a day old and still feeling its way as a Death, and it was possibly aware that a deep, thumping noise that was making the building shake was the sound of brandy starting to boil in its barrels.

The thing about boiling brandy is that it doesnāt boil for long.

The fireball dropped bits of the inn half a mile away. White-hot flames erupted from the holes where the doors and windows had been. The walls exploded. Burning rafters

141

whirred overhead. Some buried themselves in neighbouring roofs, starting more fires.

What was left was just an eye-watering glow.

And then little pools of shadow. within the glow.

They moved and ran together and formed the shape of a tall figure striding forward, carrying something in front of it.

It passed through the blistered crowd and trudged up the cool dark road towards the farm. The people picked themselves up and followed it, moving through the dusk like the tail of a dark comet.

Bill Door climbed the stairs to Miss Flitworthās bedroom and laid the child on the bed.

SHE SAID THERE WAS AN APOTHECARY SOMEWHERE NEAR HERE.

Miss FIitworth pushed her way through the crowd at the top of the stairs.

ĪThereās one in Chambly,ā she said.āBut thereās a witch over Lancrew~.ā

NO WITCHES. NO MAGIC. SEND FOR HIM. AND EVERYONE ELSE, GO AWAY.

It wasnāt a suggestion. It wasnāt even a command. It was simply an irrefutable statement.

Miss Flitworth waved her skinny arms at the people.

ĪCome on, itās all over! Shoo! Youāre all in my bedroom! Go on, get out!ā

ĪHowād he do it?ā said someone at the back of the crowd. ĪNo-one could have got out of there alive! We saw it all blow up!ā

Bill Door turned around slowly.

WE HID. he said, IN THE CELLAR.

ĪThere! See?ā said Miss Flitworth. ĪIn the cellar. Makes sense.ā

ĪBut the inn hasnāt got -ā the doubter began, and stopped. Bill Door was glaring at him.

ĪIn the cellar,ā he corrected himself. ĪYeah. Right. Clever.ā

ĪVery clever,ā said Miss Flitworth. ĪNow get along with the lot of you.ā

142

He heard her shoo them down the stairs and back into the night. The door slammed. He didnāt hear her come back up the stairs with a bowl of cold water and a flannel.

Miss Flitworth could walk lightly, too, when she had a mind to.

She came in and shut the door behind her.

ĪHer parentsāll want to see her,ā she said.āHer mumās in a faint and Big Henry from the mill knocked her dad out when he tried to run into the flames, but theyāll be here directly.ā

She bent down and ran the flannel over the girlās forehead.

ĪWhere was she?ā

SHE WAS HIDING IN A CUPBOARD.

ĪFrom a fire?ā

Bill Door shrugged.

ĪIām amazed you could find anyone in all that heat and smoke,ā she said.

I SUPPOSE YOU WOULD CALL IT A KNACK.

ĪAnd not a mark on her.ā

Bill Door ignored the question in her voice.

DID YOU SEND SOMEONE FOR THE APOTHECARY?

ĪYes.ā

HE MUST NOT TAKE ANYTHING AWAY.

ĪWhat do you mean?ā

STAY HERE WHEN HE COMES. YOU MUST NOT TAKE ANYTHING OUT OF THIS ROOM.

ĪThatās silly. Why should he take anything? What would he want to take?ā

ITāS VERY IMPORTANT. AND NOW I MUST LEAVE YOU.

ĪWhere are you going?ā

TO THE BARN. THERE ARE THINGS I MUST DO. THERE MAY NOT BE MUCH TIME NOW.

Miss Flitworth stared at the small figure on the bed. She felt far out of her depth, and all she could do was tread water.

ĪShe just looks as if sheās sleeping,ā she said helplessly. ĪWhatās wrong with her?ā

143

Bill Door paused at the top of the stairs.

SHE IS LIVING ON BORROWED TIME, he said.

There was an old forge behind the barn. It hadnāt been used for years. But now red and yellow light spilled out into the yard, pulsing like a heart.

And like a heart, there was a regular thumping. With every crash the light flared blue.

Miss Flitworth sidled through the open doorway. If she was the kind of person who would swear, she would have sworn that she made no noise that could possibly be heard above the crackle of the fire and the hammering, but Bill Door spun around in a halfcrouch, holding a curved blade in front of him.

ĪItās me!ā

He relaxed, or at least moved into a different level of tension.

ĪWhat the hellāre you doing?ā

He looked at the blade in his hands as if he was seeing it for the first time.

I THOUGHT I WOULD SHARPEN THIS SCYTHE, MISS FLITWORTH.

ĪAt one oāclock in the morning?ā

He looked at it blankly.

ITāS JUST AS BLUNT AT NIGHT, MISS FLITWORTH.

Then he slammed it down on the anvil.

AND I CANāT SHARPEN IT ENOUGH!

ĪI think perhaps the heat has got to you,ā she said, and reached out and took his arm.

ĪBesides, it looks sharp enough to -ā she began, and paused. Her fingers moved on the bone of his arm. They pulled away for a moment, and then closed again.

Bill Door shivered.

Miss Flitworth didnāt hesitate for long. In seventy-five years she had dealt with wars, famine, innumerable sick animals. a couple of epidemics and thousands of tiny, everyday tragedies. A depressed skeleton wasnāt even in the top ten Worst Things she had seen.

144

ĪSo it is you,ā she said.

MISS FLITWORTH, I -

ĪI always knew you would come one day.ā

I THINK PERHAPS THAT -

ĪYou know, I spent most of my life waiting for a knight on a white charger.ā Miss Flitworth grinned.āThe jokeās on me, eh?ā

Bill Door sat down on the anvil.

ĪThe apothecary came.ā she said.āHe said he couldnāt do anything. He said she was fine. We just couldnāt wake her up. And. you know, it took us ages to get her hand open. She had it closed so tightly.ā

I SAID NOTHING WAS TO BE TAKEN!

ĪItās all right. Itās all right. We left her holding it.ā

GOOD.

ĪWhat was it?ā

MY TIME.

ĪSorry?ā

MY TIME. THE TIME OF MY LIFE.

ĪIt looks like an eggtimer for very expensive eggs.ā

Bill Door looked surprised. YES. IN A WAY. I HAVE GIVEN HER SOME OF MY TIME.

ĪHow come you need time?ā

EVERY LIVING THING NEEDS TIME. AND WHEN IT RUNS OUT, THEY DIE. WHEN IT RUNS OUT, SHE WILL DIE. AND I WILL DIE, TOO. IN A FEW HOURS.

ĪBut you canāt -ā

I CAN. ITāS HARD TO EXPLAIN.

ĪMove up.ā

WHAT?

ĪI said move up. I want to sit down.ā

Bill Door made space on the anvil. Miss Flitworth sat down.

ĪSo youāre going to die,ā she said.

YES.

ĪAnd you donāt want to.ā

NO.

ĪWhy not?ā

145

He looked at her as if she was mad.

BECAUSE THEN THERE WILL BE NOTHING. BECAUSE I WONāT EXIST.

ĪIs that what happens for humans, too?ā

I DONāT THINK SO. ITāS DIFFERENT FOR YOU. YOU HAVE IT ALL BETTER ORGANISED.

They both sat watching the fading glow of the coals in the forge.

ĪSo what were you working on the scythe blade for?ā said Miss Flitworth.

I THOUGHT PERHAPS I COULD . . . FIGHT BACK . . .

ĪHas it ever worked? With you, I mean.ā

NOT USUALLY. SOMETIMES PEOPLE CHALLENGE ME TO A GAME. FOR THEIR LIVES, YOU KNOW.

ĪDo they ever win?ā

NO. LAST YEAR SOMEONE GOT THREE STREETS AND ALL THE UTILITIES.

ĪWhat? What sort of game is that?ā

I DONāT RECALL.āEXCLUSIVE POSSESSIONā, I THINK. I WAS THE BOOT.

ĪJust a moment.ā said Miss Flitworth. If youāre you, who will be coming for you?ā

DEATH. LAST NIGHT THIS WAS PUSHED UNDER THE DOOR.

Death opened his hand to reveal a small grubby piece of paper, on which Miss Flitworth could read. with some difficulty, the word: OOoooEEEeeOOOoooEEeeeOOOoooEEeee.

I HAVE RECEIVED THE BADLY-WRITTEN NOTE OF THE BANSHEE.

Miss Flitworth looked at him with her head on one side.

ĪBut . . . correct me if Iām wrong, but . . .ā

THE NEW DEATH.

Bill Door picked up the blade.

HE WILL BE TERRIBLE.

The blade twisted in his hands. Blue light flickered along its edge.

I WILL BE THE FIRST.

146

Miss Flitworth stared at the light as if fascinated.

ĪExactly how terrible?ā

HOW TERRIBLE CAN YOU IMAGINE?

ĪOh.ā

EXACTLY AS TERRIBLE AS THAT.

The blade tilted this way and that.

ĪAnd for the child, too,ā said Miss Flitworth.

YES.

ĪI donāt reckon I owe you any favours, Mr Door. I donāt reckon anyone in the whole world owes you any favours.ā

YOU MAY BE RIGHT.

ĪMind you, lifeās got one or two things to answer for too. Fairās fair.ā

I CANāT SAY.

Miss FIitworth gave him another long, appraising look.

ĪThereās a pretty good grindstone in the corner,ā she said.

IāVE USED IT.

ĪAnd thereās an oilstone in the cupboard.ā

IāVE USED THAT, TOO.

She thought she could hear a sound as the blade moved. A sort of faint whine of tensed air.

ĪAnd itās still not sharp enough?ā

Bill Door sighed. IT MAY NEVER BE SHARP ENOUGH.

ĪCome on, man. No sense in giving in,ā said Miss Flitworth.āWhere thereās life, eh?ā

WHERE THEREāS LIFE EH WHAT?

ĪThereās hope?ā

IS THERE?

ĪRight enough.ā

Bill Door ran a bony finger along the edge.

HOPE?

ĪGot anything else left to try?ā

Bill shook his head. Heād tried a number of emotions. but this was a new one.

COULD YOU FETCH ME A STEEL?

It was an hour later.

147

Miss Flitworth sorted through her rag-bag.

ĪWhat next?ā she said.

WHAT HAVE WE HAD SO FAR?

ĪLetās see . . . hessian, calico, linen . . . how about satin? Hereās a piece.ā

Bill Door took the rag and wiped it gently along the blade.

Miss Flitworth reached the bottom of the bag, and pulled out a swatch of white cloth.

YES?

ĪSilk,ā she said softly. ĪFinest white silk. The real stuff. Never worn.ā

She sat back and stared at it.

After a while he took it tactfully from her fingers.

THANK YOU.

ĪWell now,ā she said, waking up. ĪThatās it, isnāt it?ā

When he turned the blade, it made a noise like whommmm. The fires of the forge were barely alive now, but the blade glowed with razor light.

ĪSharpened on silk,ā said Miss Flitworth. ĪWhoād believe it?ā

AND STILL BLUNT.

Bill Door looked around the dark forge, and then darted into a corner.

ĪWhat have you found?ā

COBWEB.

There was a long thin whine, like the torturing of ants.

ĪAny good?ā

STILL TOO BLUNT.

She watched Bill Door stride out of the forge, and scuttled after him. He went and stood in the middle of the yard, holding the scythe blade edge-on to the faint, dawn breeze.

It hummed.

ĪHow sharp can a blade get, for goodnessā sake?ā

IT CAN GET SHARPER THAN THIS.

Down in his henhouse, Cyril the cockerel awoke and stared blearily at the treacherous letters chalked on the board. He took a deep breath.

148

ĪFloo-acockle-dod!ā

Bill Door glanced at the rimward horizon and then, speculatively, at the little hill behind the house.

He jerked forward, legs clicking over the ground.

The new daylight sloshed on to the world. Discworld light is old, slow and heavy; it roared across the landscape like a cavalry charge. The occasional valley slowed it for a moment and. here and there, a mountain range banked it up until it poured over the top and down the far slope.

It moved across a sea, surged up the beach and accelerated over the plains, driven by the lash of the sun.

On the fabled hidden continent of Xxxx, somewhere near the rim, there is a lost colony of wizards who wear corks around their pointy hats and live on nothing but prawns. There, the light is still wild and fresh as it rolls in from space, and the~~urf on the boiling interface between night and day.

If one of them had been carried thousands of miles inland on the dawn. he might have seen, as the light thundered over the high plains, a stick figure toiling up a low hill in the path of the morning.

It reached the top a moment before the light arrived, took a breath, and then spun around in a crouch, grinning.

It held a long blade upright between extended arms.

Light struck . . . split . . . slid . . .

Not that the wizard would have paid much attention, because heād be too busy worrying about the five-thousand-mile walk back home.

Miss Flitworth panted up as the new day streamed past.

Bill Door was absolutely still, only the blade moving between his fingers as he angled it against the light. Finally he seemed satisfied.

He turned around and swished it experimentally through the air.

149

Miss Flitworth stuck her hands on her hips.āOh, come on,ā she said,

ĪNo-one can ) ) 9ny- ) )on day )

) sharpen ) ) thing)

She paused.

He waved the blade again.

ĪGo / )ief.ā

) od gr)

Down in the yard. Cyril stretched his bald neck for another 90~ Bill Door grinned, and sivung the blade towards the sound.

ĪSudl )oodle-riod!ā

)-a~n)

Then he lowered the blade.

THATāS SHARP.

His grin faded, or at least faded as much as it was able to.

Miss Flitworth turned, following the line of his gaze until it intersected a ?kint? haze over the cornfields.

It looked like a pale grey robe, empty but still somehow maintaining the shape of its wearer, as if a garment on a washing line was catching the breeze.

It wavered for a moment, and then vanished.

ĪI saw it,ā said Miss Flitworth.

THAT WASNāT IT. THAT WAS THEM.

ĪThem who?ā

THEYāRE LIKE - Bill Door waved a hand vaguely - SERVANTS. WATCHERS. AUDITORS. INSPECTORS.

Miss Flitworthās eyes narrowed.

ĪInspectors? You mean like the Revenoo?ā she said.

I SUPPOSE SO-

Miss Flitworthās face lit up.

ĪWhy didnāt you say?ā

IāM SORRY?

ĪMy father always made me promise never to help the Revenoo. Even just thinking about the Revenoo, he said, made him want to go and have a lie down. He said that there was death and taxes, and taxes was worse, because at least death didnāt happen to you every year. We had to

150

go out of the room when he really got started about the Revenoo. Nasty creatures. Always poking around asking what youāve got hidden under the woodpile and behind the secret panels in the cellar and other stuff which is no concern whatsoever of anyone.ā

She sniffed.

Bill Door was impressed. Miss Flitworth could actually give the word ćrevenueä, which had two vowels and one diphthong, all the peremptoriness of the word ćscumä.

ĪYou should have said that they were after you right from the start.ā said Miss Flitworth.āThe Revenoo arenāt popular in these parts, you know. In my fatherās day, any Revenooer came around here prying around by himself, we used to tie weights to their feet and heave Īem into the pond.ā

BUT THE POND IS ONLY A FEW INCHES DEEP, MISS FLITWORTH.

ĪYeah, but it was fun watching Īem find out. You should have said. Everyone thought you were to do with taxes.ā

NO. NOT TAXES.

ĪWell, well. I didnāt know there was a Revenoo Up There, too.ā

YES. IN A WAY.

She sidled closer.

ĪWhen will he come?ā

TONIGHT. I CANNOT BE EXACT. TWO PEOPLE ARE LIVING ON THE SAME TIMER. IT MAKES THINGS UNCERTAIN.

ĪI didnāt know people could give people some of their life.ā

IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME.

ĪAre youāre sure about tonight?ā

YES.

ĪAnd that blade will work, will it?ā

I DONāT KNOW. ITāS A MILLION TO ONE CHANCE.

ĪOh.ā She seemed to be considering something.āSo youāve got the rest of the day free, then?ā

YES?

ĪThen you can start getting the harvest in.ā

151

WHAT?

Itāll keep you busy. Keep your mind off things. Besides, Iām paying you sixpence a week. And sixpence is sixpence.ā

Mrs Cakeās house was also in Elm Street. Windle knocked on the door.

After a while a muffled voice called out, ĪIs there anybody there?ā

ĪKnock once for yes,ā Schleppel volunteered.

Windle levered open the letter-box.

ĪExcuse me? Mrs Cake?ā

The door opened.

Mrs Cake wasnāt what Windle had expected. She was big, but not in the sense of being fat. She was just built to a scale slightly larger than normal; the sort of person who goes through life crouching slightly and looking apologetic in case they inadvertently loom.

And she had magnificent hair. It crowned her head and flowed out behind her like a cloak. She also had slightly pointed ears and teeth which, while white and quite beautiful, caught the light in a disturbing way. Windle was amazed at the speed at which his heightened zombie senses reached a conclusion. He looked down.

Lupine was sitting bolt upright, too excited even to wag his tail.

ĪI donāt think you could be Mrs Cake,ā said Windle.

ĪYou want mother,ā said the tall girl. ĪMother! Thereās a gentleman!ā

A distant muttering became a closer muttering, and then Mrs Cake appeared around the side of her daughter like a small moon emerging from planetary shadow.

ĪWhat dāyew want?ā said Mrs Cake.

Windle took a step backwards. Unlike her daughter, Mrs Cake was quite short, and almost perfectly circular. And still unlike her daughter, whose whole

152

stance was dedicated to making herself look small, she loomed tremendously. This was largely because of her hat, which he later learned she wore at all times with the dedication of a wizard. It was huge and black and had things on it, like bird wings and wax cherries and hatpins; Carmen Miranda could have worn that hat to the funeral of a continent. Mrs Cake travelled underneath it as the basket travels under a balloon.

People often found themselves talking to her hat.

ĪMrs Cake?ā said Windle, fascinated.

ĪOim down Īere,ā said a reproachful voice.

Windle lowered his gaze.

ĪThatās Īoo I am, Ī said Mrs Cake.

ĪAm I addressing Mrs Cake?ā said Windle.

ĪYes, oi, know,ā said Mrs Cake.

ĪMy nameās Windle Poons.ā

ĪOi knew that, too.ā

ĪIām a wizard, yoysee -ā

ĪAll right, but see you wipes your feet.ā

ĪMay I come in?ā

Windle Poons paused. He replayed the last few lines of conversation in the clicking control room of his brain. And then he smiled.

ĪThatās right, Ī said Mrs Cake.

ĪAre you by any chance a natural clairvoyant?ā

ĪAbout ten seconds usually, Mr Poons.ā

Windle hesitated.

ĪYou gotta ask the question,ā said Mrs Cake quickly.

ĪI gets a migraine if people goes and viciously not asks questions after Iāve already foreseen Īem and answered Īem.ā

ĪHow far into the future can you see, Mrs Cake?ā

She nodded.

ĪRoight, then,ā she said, apparently mollified, and led the way through the hall into a tiny sitting-room.

ĪAnd the bogey can come in, only heās got to leave Īis door outside and go in the cellar. I donāt hold with bogeys wanderinā around the house.ā

153

ĪGosh, itās ages since Iāve been in a proper cellar,ā said Schleppel.

ĪItās got spiders in it,ā said Mrs Cake.

ĪWow!ā

ĪAnd youād like a cup of tea,ā said Mrs Cake to Windle. Someone else might have said ĪI expect youād like a cup of teaā, or ĪDo you want a cup of tea?ā But this was a statement.

ĪYes, please, Ī said Windle. ĪI Īd love a cup of tea.ā

ĪYou shouldnāt,ā said Mrs Cake.āThat stuff rots your teeth.ā

Windle worked this one out.

ĪTwo sugars, please,ā he said.

Ī Itās all right.ā

ĪThis is a nice place you have here, Mrs Cake,ā said Windle, his mind racing. Mrs Cakeās habit of answering questions while they were still forming in your mind taxed the most active brain.

ĪHeās been dead for ten years,ā she said.

ĪEr,ā said Windle, but the question was already there in his larynx, ĪI trust Mr Cake is in good health?ā

ĪItās OK. Oi speaks to him occasional,ā said Mrs Cake.

ĪIām sorry to hear that,ā said Windle.

ĪAll right, if it makes you feel any better.ā

ĪUm, Mrs Cake? Iām finding it a little confusing. Could you . . . switch off . . . your precognition . . . ?ā

She nodded.

ĪSorry. Oi gets into the habit of leavinā it on,ā she said, Īwhat with there only beinā me anā Ludmilla and One-Man-Bucket. Heās a ghost,ā she added.āOi knew you was goinā to ask that.ā

ĪYes, I had heard that mediums have native spirit guides,ā said Windle.

Ī ĪIm ĪE Īs not a guide, Īeās a sort of odd-job ghost,ā said Mrs Cake.āI donāt hold with all that stuff with cards and trumpets and Oo-jar boards, mind you. Anā I think ectoplasmās disgustinā. Oi wonāt have it in the

154

Īouse. Oi wonāt. You canāt get it out of the carpets, you know. Not even with vinegar.ā

ĪMy word, Ī said Windle Poons.

ĪOr wailinā. I donāt hold with it. Or messinā around with the supernatural. Itās unnatural, the supernatural. I wonāt have it.ā

ĪUm,ā said Windle cautiously.āThere are those who might think that being a medium is a bit . . . you know . . . supernatural?ā

ĪWhat? What? Nothing supernatural about dead people. Load of nonsense. Everyone dies sooner or later.ā

ĪI do hope so, Mrs Cake.ā

ĪSo what is it youād be wanting, Mr Poons? Iām not precognitinā, so you have to tell me.ā

ĪI want to know whatās happening, Mrs Cake.ā

There was a muted thump from under their feet and the faint, happy sound of Schleppel.

ĪOh, wow! Rats, too!ā

ĪI went up and tried to tell you wizards,ā said Mrs Cake, primly.āAnā no-one listened. I knew they werenāt going to, but I Īad to try, otherwise I wouldnāt Īave known.ā

ĪWho did you speak to?ā

ĪThe big one with the red dress and a moustache like heās trying to swallow a cat.ā

ĪAh. The Archchancellor, Ī said Windle, positively.

ĪAnd there was a huge fat one. Walks like a duck.ā

ĪHe does, doesnāt he? That was the Dean,ā said Windle.

ĪThey called me their good woman, Ī said Mrs Cake.

ĪThey told me to be about my business. Donāt see why I should go around helpinā wizards who call me a good woman when I was only trying to help.ā

ĪIām afraid wizards donāt often listen,ā said Windle. ĪI never listened for one hundred and thirty years.ā

ĪWhy not?ā

ĪIn case I heard what rubbish I was saying, I

155

expect. Whatās happening, Mrs Cake? You can tell me. I may be a wizard, but I Īm a dead one.ā

ĪSchleppel told me it was all due to life force.ā

ĪItās buildinā up, see?ā

ĪWhat does that mean?ā

ĪThereās moreāf it than there should be. You getā - she waved her hands vaguely - Īwhen things are like in a scales only not the same on both sides . . .ā

ĪImbalance?ā

Mrs Cake, who looked as though she was reading a distant script, nodded.

ĪOne of them things, yeah . . . see, sometimes it just happens a little bit, and you get ghosts, because the life is not in the body any more but it hasnāt gone . . . and you get less of it in the winter, because it sort of drains away, and it comes back in the spring . . . and some things concentrate it . . .ā

Modo the University gardener hummed a little tune as he wheeled the strange trolley into his private little area between the Library and the High Energy Magic * building, with a load of weeds bound for composthood.

_______________________________________________________________

* The only building on the campus less than a thousand years old. The senior wizards have never bothered much about what the younger, skinnier and more bespectacled wizards get up to in there, treating their endless requests for funding for thaumic particle accelerators and radiation shielding as one treats pleas for more pocket money, and listening with amusement to their breathless accounts of the search for the elementary particles of magic itself. This may one day turn out to be a major error on the part of the senior wizards, especially if they do let the younger wizards build whatever that blasted thing is they keep wanting to build in the squash court. The senior wizards know that the proper purpose of magic is to form a social pyramid with the wizards on top of it,

156

There seemed to be a lot of excitement around at the moment. It was certainly interesting, working with all these wizards.

Teamwork, thatās what it was. They looked after the cosmic balance, the universal harmonies and the dimensional equilibriums, and he saw to it that the aphids stayed off the roses.

There was a metallic tinkle. He peered over the top of the heap of weeds.

ĪAnother one?ā

A gleaming metal wire basket on little wheels sat on the path.

Maybe the wizards had bought it for him? The first one was quite useful, although it was a little bit hard to steer; the little wheels seemed to want to go in different directions. There was probably a knack.

Well, this one would be handy for carrying seed trays in. He pushed the second trolley aside and heard, behind him, a sound which, if it had to be written down, and if he could write, he would probably have written down as: glop.

He turned around, saw the biggest of the compost heaps pulsating in the dark, and said, ĪLook what I brought you for your tea!ā

And then he saw that it was moving.

ĪSome places, too . . .ā said Mrs Cake.

ĪBut why should it build up?ā said Windle.

_______________________________________________________________________

eating big dinners, but in fact the HEM building has helped provide one of the rarest foods in the universe - antipasta. Ordinary pasta is prepared some hours before being eaten. Antipasta is created some hours after the meal, whereupon it then exists backwards in time, and if properly prepared should arrive on the taste buds at exactly the same moment, thus creating a true taste explosion. It costs five thousand dollars a forkful, or a little more if you include the cost of cleaning the tomato sauce off the walls afterwards.

157

ĪItās like a thunderstorm, see? You know how you get that prickly feelinā before a storm? Thatās whatās happening now.ā

ĪYes, but why, Mrs Cake?ā

ĪWell . . . One-Man-Bucket says nothingās dying.ā

ĪWhat?ā

ĪDaft, isnāt it? He says lots of lives are ending, but not going away. Theyāre just staying here.ā

ĪWhat, like ghosts?ā

ĪNot just ghosts. Just - itās like puddles. When you get a lot of puddles, itās like the sea. Anyway, you only get ghosts from things like people. You donāt get ghosts of cabbages.ā

Windle Poons sat back in his chair. He had a vision of a vast pool of life, a lake being fed by a million short-lived tributaries as living things came to the end of their span. And life force was leaking out as the pressure built up. Leaking out wherever it could.

ĪDo you think I could have a word with One -ā he began, and then stopped.

He got up and lurched over to Mrs Cakeās mantel-piece.

ĪHow long have you had this, Mrs Cake?ā he demanded, picking up a familiar glassy object.

ĪThat? Bought it yesterday. Pretty, aināt it?ā

Windle shook the globe. It was almost identical to the ones under his floorboards. Snowflakes whirled up and settled on an exquisite model of Unseen University.

It reminded him strongly of something. Well, the building obviously reminded him of the University, but the shape of the whole thing, there was a hint of, it made him think of . . .

. . . breakfast?

ĪWhy is it happening?ā he said, half to himself.

ĪThese damn things are turning up everywhere.ā

The wizards ran down the corridor.

158

ĪHow can you kill ghosts?ā

ĪHow should I know? The question doesnāt usually arise!ā

ĪYou exorcise them, I think.ā

ĪWhat? Jumpinā up and down, runninā on the spot, that kind of thing?ā

The Dean had been ready for this.āItās spelled with an ćOä, Archchancellor. I donāt think one is expected to subject them to, er, physical exertion.ā

ĪShould think not, man. We donāt want a lot of healthy ghosts buzzinā around.ā

There was a blood-curdling scream. It echoed around the dark pillars and arches, and was suddenly cut off.

The Archchancellor stopped abruptly. The wizards cannoned into him.

ĪSounded like a blood-curdlinā scream, Ī he said.āFollow me!ā

He ran around the corner.

There was a metallic crash, and a lot of swearing.

Something small and striped red and yellow, with tiny dripping fangs and three pairs of wings, flew around the corner and shot over the Deanās head making a noise like a miniature buzzsaw.

ĪAnyone know what that was?ā said the Bursar, faintly. The thing orbited the wizards and then disappeared into the darkness of the roof. ĪAnd I wish he wouldnāt swear so.ā

ĪCome on,ā said the Dean. ĪWeād better see whatās happened to him.ā

ĪMust we?ā said the Senior Wrangler.

They peered around the corner. The Archchancellor was sitting up, rubbing his ankle.

ĪWhat idiot left this here?ā he said.

ĪLeft what?ā said the Dean.

ĪThis blasted wire baskety wheely thing,ā said the Archchancellor. Beside him, a tiny purple spider-like creature materialised out of the air and scuttled

159

towards a crevice. The wizards didnāt notice it.

ĪWhat wire baskety wheely thing?ā said the wizards, in unison.

Ridcully looked around him.

ĪI could have sworn -ā he began.

There was another scream.

Ridcully scrambled to his feet.

ĪCome on, you fellows!ā he said, limping heroically onwards.

ĪWhy does everyone run towards a blood-curdling scream?ā mumbled the Senior Wrangler.āItās contrary to all sense.ā

They trotted out through the cloisters and into the quadrangle.

A rounded, dark shape was squatting in the middle of the ancient lawn. Steam was coming out of it in little, noisome wisps.

ĪWhat is it?ā

ĪIt canāt be a compost heap in the middle of the lawn, can it?ā

ĪModo will be very upset.ā

The Dean peered closer.āEr . . . especially because, I do believe, thatās his feet poking out from under it . . .ā

The heap swivelled towards the wizards and made a glop, glop noise.

Then it moved.

ĪRight, then,ā said Ridcully, rubbing his hands together hopefully, Īwhich of you fellows has got a spell about them at the moment?ā

The wizards patted their pockets in an embarrassed fashion.

ĪThen I shall attract its attention while the Bursar and the Dean try to pull Modo out,ā said Ridcully.

ĪOh, good, Ī said the Dean faintly.

ĪHow can you attract a compost heapās attention?ā said the Senior Wrangler.āI shouldnāt think itās even got one.ā

160

Ridcully removed his hat and stepped gingerly forward.

ĪLoad of rubbish !ā he roared.

The Senior Wrangler groaned and put his hand over his eyes.

Ridcully flapped his hat in front of the heap.

ĪBiodegradable garbage!ā

ĪPoor green trash?ā said the Lecturer in Recent Runes helpfully.

ĪThatās the ticket,ā said the Archchancellor.āTry to infuriate the bugger.ā (Behind him, a slightly different variety of mad waspy creature popped out of the air and buzzed away.)

The heap lunged at the hat.

ĪMidden!ā said Ridcully.

ĪOh, I say,ā said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, shocked.

The Dean and the Bursar crept forward, grabbed a gardenerās foot each, and pulled. Modo slid out of the heap.

ĪIt Īs eaten through his clothes !ā said the Dean.

ĪBut is he all right?ā

ĪHeās still breathing,ā said the Bursar.

ĪAnd if heās lucky, heās lost his sense of smell, Ī said the Dean.

The heap snapped at Ridcullyās hat. There was a glop. The point of the hat had vanished.

ĪHey, there was still almost half a bottle in there!ā Ridcully roared. The Senior Wrangler grabbed his arm.

Ī Come on, Archchancellor !ā

The heap swivelled and lunged towards the Bursar.

The wizards backed away.

Ī It canāt be intelligent, can it?ā said the Bursar.

ĪAll itās doing is moving around slowly and eating things, Ī said the Dean.

ĪPut a pointy hat on it and itād be a faculty member,ā said the Archchancellor.

The heap came after them.

161

ĪI wouldnāt call that moving slowly,ā said the Dean.

They looked expectantly at the Archchancellor.

ĪRun!ā

Portly though most of the faculty were, they hit a fair turn of speed up the cloisters, fought one another through the door, slammed it behind them and leaned on it. Very soon afterwards, there was a damp, heavy thud on the far side.

ĪWeāre well out of that,ā said the Bursar.

The Dean looked down.

ĪI think itās coming through the door, Archchancellor,ā he said, in a tiny voice.

ĪDonāt be daft, man, weāre all leaninā on it.ā

ĪI didnāt mean through, I mean . . . through . . .ā

The Archchancellor sniffed.

ĪWhatās burninā?ā

ĪYour boots, Archchancellor,ā said the Dean.

Ridcully looked down. A greenish-yellow puddle was spreading under the door. The wood was charring, the flagstones were hissing, and the leather soles of his boots were definitely in trouble. He could feel himself getting lower.

He fumbled with the laces, and then took a standing jump on to a dry flagstone.

ĪBursar!ā

ĪYes, Archchancellor?ā

ĪGive me your boots!ā

ĪWhat?ā

ĪDammit, man, I command you to give me your blasted boots!ā

This time, a long creature with four pairs of wings, two at each end, and three eyes, popped into existence over Ridcullyās head and dropped on to his hat.

ĪBut -ā

ĪI am your Archchancellor!ā

ĪYes, but -ā

ĪI think the hinges are going,ā said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

162

Ridcully looked around desperately.

ĪWeāll regroup in the Great Hall,ā he said.āWeāll . . . strategically withdraw to previously prepared positions.ā

ĪWho prepared them?ā said the Dean.

ĪWeāll prepare them when we get there,ā said the Archchancellor through gritted teeth.āBursar! Your boots! Now!ā

They reached the double doors of the Great Hall just as the door behind them half-collapsed, half-dissolved. The Great Hallās doors were much sturdier.

Bolts and bars were dragged into place.

ĪClear the tables and pile them up in front of the door,ā snapped Ridcully

ĪBut it eats through wood, Ī said the Dean.

There was a moan from the small body of Modo, which had been propped against a chair. He opened his eyes.

ĪQuick!ā said Ridcully. ĪHow can we kill a compost heap?ā

ĪUm. I donāt think you can, Mr Ridcully, sir,ā said the gardener.

ĪHow about fire? I could probably manage a small fireball, Ī said the Dean.

ĪIt wouldnāt work. Too soggy,ā said Ridcully.

ĪItās right outside! Itās eating away at the door! Itās eating away at the door,ā sang the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

The wizards backed further away down the length of the hall.

ĪI hope it doesnāt eat too much wood,ā said the dazed Modo, radiating genuine concern.āTheyāre a devil, excuse my Klatchian, if you get too much carbon in

them. Itās far too heating.ā

ĪYou know, this is exactly the right time for a lecture on the dynamics of compost making, Modo, Ī said the Dean.

Dwarfs do not know the meaning of the word ćironyä.

163

ĪWell, all right. Ahem. The correct balance of materials, correctly layered according to -ā

ĪThere goes the door,ā said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, lumbering towards the rest of them.

The mound of furniture started to move forward.

The Archchancellor stared desperately around the hall, at a loss. Then his eyes were drawn to a familiar, heavy bottle on one of the sideboards.

ĪCarbon,ā he said. ĪThatās like charcoal, isnāt it?ā

ĪHow should I know? Iām not an alchemist,ā sniffed the Dean.

The compost heap emerged from the debris. Steam poured off it.

The Archchancellor looked longingly at the bottle of Wow-Wow Sauce. He uncorked it. He took a deep sniff.

ĪThe cooks here just canāt make it properly, you know,ā he said. Itāll be weeks before I can get any more from home.ā

He tossed the bottle towards the advancing heap.

It vanished into the seething mass.

ĪStinging nettles are always useful,ā said Modo, behind him. ĪThey add iron. And comfrey, well, you can never get enough comfrey. For the minerals, you know. Myself, Iāve always reckoned that a small quantity of wild yarrow -ā

The wizards peered over the top of an overturned table.

The heap had stopped moving.

ĪIs it just me, or is it getting bigger?ā said the Senior Wrangler.

ĪAnd looking happier,ā said the Dean.

ĪIt smells awful,ā said the Bursar.

ĪOh, well. And that was nearly a full bottle of sauce, too,ā said the Archchancellor sadly. ĪIād hardly opened ?it?.ā

ĪNatureās a wonderful thing, when you come to think

164

about it,ā said the Senior Wrangler. ĪYou donāt all have to glare at me like that, you know. I was only passing a remark.ā

ĪThere are times when -ā Ridcully began, and then the compost heap exploded.

It wasnāt a bang or a boom. It was the dampest, most corpulent eruption in the history of terminal flatulence. Dark red flame, fringed with black, roared up to the ceiling. Pieces of heap rocketed across the hall and slapped wetly into the walls.

The wizards peered out from their barricade, which was now thick with tea-leaves.

A cabbage stalk dropped softly on to the Deanās head.

He looked at a small, bubbling patch on the flagstones.

His face split slowly into a grin.

ĪWow,ā he said.

The other wizards unfolded themselves. Adrenaline backwash worked its seductive spell. They grinned, too, and started playfully punching one another on the shoulder.

ĪEat hot sauce!ā roared the Archchancellor. ĪUp against the hedge, fermented rubbish!ā

ĪCan we kick ass, or can we kick ass?ā burbled the Dean happily.

ĪYou mean canāt the second time, not can. And Iām not sure that a compost heap can be said to have an -ā the Senior Wrangler began, but the tide of excitement was flowing against him.

ĪThatās one heap that wonāt mess with wizards again,ā said the Dean, who was getting carried away.

ĪWeāre keen and mean and -ā

ĪThereās three more of them out there, Modo says,ā said the Bursar.

They fell silent.

ĪWe could go and pick up our staffs, couldnāt we?ā said the Dean.

165

The Archchancellor prodded a piece of exploded heap with the toe of his boot.

ĪDead things coming alive,ā he murmured.āI donāt like that. Whatās next? Walking statues?ā

The wizards looked up at the statues of dead Archchancellors that lined the Great Hall and, indeed, most of the corridors of the University. The University had been in existence for thousands of years and the average Archchancellor remained in office for about eleven months, so there were plenty of statues.

ĪYou know, I really wish you hadnāt said that, Ī said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

ĪIt was just a thought,ā said Ridcully.āCome on, letās have a look at the rest of those heaps.ā

ĪYeah!ā said the Dean, now in the grip of a wild, unwizardly machismo.āWeāre mean! Yeah! Are we mean?ā

The Archchancellor raised his eyebrows, and then turned to the rest of the wizards.

ĪAre we mean?ā he said.

ĪEr. Iām feeling reasonably mean,ā said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

ĪIām definitely very mean, I think,ā said the Bursar.

ĪItās having no boots that does it,ā he added.

ĪIāll be mean if everyone else is,ā said the Senior Wrangler.

The Archchancellor turned back to the Dean.

ĪYes,ā he said, Īit appears that we are all mean.ā

ĪYo!ā said the Dean.

ĪYo what?ā said Ridcully.

ĪItās not a yo what, itās just a yo,ā said the Senior Wrangler, behind him.āItās a general street greeting and affirmative with convivial military ingroup and masculine bonding-ritual overtones.ā

ĪWhat? What? Like ćjolly goodä?ā said Ridcully.

ĪI suppose so,ā said the Senior Wrangler, reluctantly.

Ridcully was pleased. Ankh-Morpork had never offered very good prospects for hunting. Heād never

166

thought it was possible to have so much fun in his own university.

ĪRight, Ī he said. ĪLetās get those heaps !ā

ĪYo!ā

ĪYo!ā

ĪYo!ā

ĪYo-yo.ā

Ridcully sighed. ĪBursar?ā

ĪYes, Archchancellor?ā

ĪJust try to understand, all right?ā

Clouds piled up over the mountains. Bill Door strode up and down the first field, using one of the ordinary farm scythes; the sharpest one had been temporarily stored at the back of the barn, in case it was blunted by air convection. Some of Miss Flitworthās tenants followed behind him, binding the sheaves and stacking them. Miss Flitworth had never employed more than one man full time, Bill Door learned; she bought in other help as she needed it, to save pennies.

ĪNever seen a man cut corn with a scythe before,ā said one of them.āItās a sickle job.ā

They stopped for lunch. and ate it under the hedge.

Bill Door had never paid a great deal of attention to the names and faces of people, beyond that necessary for business. Corn stretched over the hillside; it was made up of individual stalks. and to the eye of one stalk another stalk might be quite an impressive stalk, with a dozen amusing and distinctive little mannerisms that set it apart from all other stalks. But to the reaper man, all stalks start off as . . . just stalks.

Now he was beginning to recognise the little differences.

There was William Spigot and Gabby Wheels and Duke Bottomley. All old men, as far as Bill Door could judge, with skins like leather. There were young men and women in the village, but at a certain age they seemed to flip straight over to being old, without passing through any intermediate stage. And then they stayed old for a long time. Miss Flitworth had said that before they could start a graveyard in

167

these parts theyād had to hit someone over the head with the shovel.

William Spigot was the one that sang when he worked, breaking into that long nasal whine which meant that folk song was about to be perpetrated. Gabby Wheels never said anything; this, Spigot had said. was why he had been called Gabby. Bill Door had failed to understand the logic of this, although it seemed transparent to the others.

And Duke Bottomley had been named by parents with upwardly-mobile if rather simplistic ideas about class structure; his brothers were Squire, Earl and King.

Now they sat in a row under the hedge, putting off the moment when theyād need to start work again. A glugging noise came from the end of the row.

ĪItās not been a bad old summer, then,ā said Spigot. ĪAnd good harvest weather for a change.ā

ĪAh . . . many a slip Ītwixt dress and drawers,ā said Duke.āLast night I saw a spider spinninā its web backwards. Thatās a sure sign thereās going to be a dretful storm.ā

ĪDonāt see how spiders know things like that.ā

Gabby Wheels passed a big earthenware jug to Bill Door. Something sloshed.

WHAT IS THIS?

ĪApple juice,ā said Spigot. The others laughed.

AH, said Bill Door. STRONG DISTILLED SPIRITS, GIVEN HUMOROUSLY TO THE UNSUSPECTING NEWCOMER, THUS TO AFFORD SIMPLE AMUSEMENT WHEN HE BECOMES INADVERTENTLY INEBRIATED.

ĪCor,ā said Spigot. Bill Door took a long swig.

ĪAnd I saw swallows flying low,ā said Duke.āAnd partridges are heading for the woods. And thereās a lot of big snails about. And -ā

ĪI donāt reckon any of them buggers knows the first thing about meteorology,ā said Spigot. Īl reckon you goes around telling Īem. Eh, lads? Big storm cominā, Mr Spider, so get on and do somethinā folklorish.ā

Bill Door took another drink.

168

WHAT IS THE NAME OF THE BLACKSMITH IN THE VILLAGE?

Spigot nodded. ĪThatās Ned Simnel, down by the green. Oācourse, heās real busy about now, what with the harvest and all.ā

I HAVE SOME WORK FOR HIM.

Bill Door got up and strode away towards the gate.

He stopped. YES?

ĪYou can leave the brandy behind, then.ā

The village forge was dark and stifling in the heat. But Bill Door had very good eyesight.

Something moved among a complicated heap of metal. It turned out to be the lower half of a man. His upper body was somewhere in the machinery, from which came the occasional grunt.

A hand shot out as Bill Door approached.

ĪRight. Give me three-eighths Gripley.ā

Bill looked around. A variety of tools were strewn around the forge.āCome on, come on,ā said a voice from somewhere in the machine.

Bill Door selected a piece of shaped metal at random, and placed it in the hand. It was drawn inside. There was metallic noise, and a grunt.

ĪI said a Gripley. This isnāt aā - there was the scringeing noise of a piece of metal giving way - Īmy thumb, my thumb, you made meā - there was a clang - Īaargh. That was my head. Now look what youāve made me do. And the ratchet springās snapped off the trunnion armature again, do you realise?ā

NO. I AM SORRY.

There was a pause.

ĪIs that you, young Egbert?ā

NO. IT IS ME, OLD BILL DOOR.

There was a series of thumps and twanging noises as the top half of the human extricated itself from the machinery, and turned out to belong to a young man with black curly hair, a black face, black shirt, and black apron. He wiped a

169

cloth across his face, leaving a pink smear, and blinked the sweat out of his eyes.

ĪWhoāre you?ā

GOOD OLD BILL DOOR? WORKING FOR MISS FLITWORTH?

ĪOh, yes. The man in the fire? Hero of the hour, I heard. Put it there.ā

He extended a black hand. Bill Door looked at it blankly.

I AM SORRY. I STILL DO NOT KNOW WHAT A THREE-EIGHTHS GRIPLEY IS.

ĪI mean your hand, Mr Door.ā

Bill Door hesitated, and then put his hand in the young manās palm. The oil-rimmed eyes glazed for a moment. as the brain overruled the sense of touch, and then the smith smiled.

ĪThe nameās Simnel. What do you think, eh?ā

ITāS A GOOD NAME.

ĪNo, I mean the machine. Pretty ingenious, eh?ā

Bill Door ?regiy~,ded? it with polite incomprehension. It looked, at first sight, like a portable windmill that had been attacked by an enormous insect, and at second sight like a touring torture chamber for an Inquisition that wanted to get out and about a bit and enjoy the fresh air. Mysterious jointed arms stuck out at various angles. There were belts, and long springs. The whole thing was mounted on spiked metal wheels.

ĪOf course, youāre not seeing it at its best when itās standing still,ā said Simnel.āIt needs a horse to pull it. At the moment, anyway. Iāve got one or two rather radical ideas in that direction.ā he added dreamily.

ITāS A DEVICE OF SOME SORT?

Simnel looked mildly affronted.

ĪI prefer the term machine,ā he said.āIt will revolutionise farming methods, and drag them kicking and screaming into the Century of the Fruitbat. My folk have had this forge for three hundred years, but Ned Simnel doesnāt intend to spend the rest of his life nailing bits of bent metal on to horses, I call tell you.ā

Bill looked at him blankly. Then he bent down and

170

glanced under the machine. A dozen sickles were bolted to a big horizontal wheel. Ingenious linkages took power from the wheels, via a selection of pulleys, to a whirligig arrangement of metal arms.

He began to experience a horrible feeling about the thing in front of him, but he asked anyway.

ĪWell, the heart of it all is this cam shaft,ā said Simnel, gratified at the interest. ĪThe power comes up via the pulley here, and the cams move the swaging arms - thatās these things - and the combing gate, which is operated by the reciprocating mechanism, comes down just as the gripping shutter drops in this slot here, and of course at the same time the two brass balls go round and round and the flatting sheets carry off the straw while the grain drops with the aid of gravity down the riffling screw and into the hopper. Simple.ā

AND THE THREE-EIGHTHS GRIPLEY?

ĪGood job you reminded me.ā Simnel fished around among the debris on the floor, picked up a small knurled object, and screwed it on to a protruding piece of the mechanism.āVery important job. It stops the elliptical cam gradually sliding up the beam shaft and catching on the flange rebate, with disastrous results as you can no doubt imagine.ā

Simnel stood back and wiped his hands on a cloth, making them slightly more oily.

ĪIām calling it the Combination Harvester,ā he said.

Bill Door felt very old. In fact he was very old. But heād never felt it as much as this. Somewhere in the shadow of his soul he felt he knew, without the blacksmith explaining, what it was that the Combination Harvester was supposed to do.

OH.

ĪWeāre going to give it a trial run this afternoon up in old Peedburyās big field. It looks very promising, I must say. What youāre looking at now, Mr Door, is the future.ā

YES.

171

Bill Door ran his hand over the framework.

AND THE HARVEST ITSELF?

ĪHmm? What about it?ā

WHAT WILL IT THINK OF IT? WILL IT KNOW?

Simnel wrinkled his nose.āKnow? Know? It wonāt know anything. Cornās corn.ā

AND SIXPENCE IS SIXPENCE.

ĪExactly.ā Simnel hesitated.āWhat was it you were wanting?ā

The tall figure ran a disconsolate finger over the oily mechanism.

ĪMr Door?ā

PARDON? OH. YES. I HAD SOMETHING FOR YOU TO DO -

He strode out of the forge and returned almost immediately with something wrapped in silk. He unwrapped it carefully.

Heād made a new handle for the blade - not a straight one, such as ?these? used in the mountains, but the heavy doublecurved handle of the plains.

ĪYou want it beaten out? A new grass nail? Metalwork replacing?ā

Bill Door shook his head.

I WANT IT KILLED.

ĪKilled?ā

YES. TOTALLY. EVERY BIT DESTROYED. SO THAT IT IS ABSOLUTELY DEAD.

ĪNice scythe,ā said Simnel. ĪSeems a shame. Youāve kept a good edge on it -ā

DONāT TOUCH IT!

Simnel sucked his finger.

ĪFunny,ā he said, ĪI could have sworn I didnāt touch it. My hand was inches away. Well, itās sharp, anyway.ā

He swished it through the air.

ĪYes. Pretty sharp

He paused, stuck his little finger in his ear and swivelled it around a bit.

172

ĪYou sure you know what you want?ā he said.

Bill Door solemnly repeated his request. down ???

Simnel shrugged.āWell, I suppose I could melt it and burn the handle,ā he said.

YES.

ĪWell, OK. Itās your scythe. And youāre basically right, of course. This is old technology now. Redundant.ā

I FEAR YOU MAY BE RIGHT.

Simnel jerked a grimy thumb towards the Combination Harvester. Bill Door knew it was made only of metal and canvas, and therefore couldnāt possibly lurk. But it was lurking. Moreover, it was doing so with a chilling, metallic smugness.

ĪYou could get Miss Flitworth to buy you one of these, Mr Door. Itād be just the job for a one-man farm like that. I can see you now, up there, up in the breeze, with the belts clacking away and the sparge arms oscillating -ā

NO.

ĪGo on. She could afford it. They say sheās got boxes full of treasure from the old days.ā

NO!

ĪEr -ā Simnel hesitated. The last ĪNoā contained a threat more certain than the creak of thin ice on a deep river. It said that going any further could be the most foolhardy thing Simnel would ever do.

ĪIām sure you know your own mind best,ā he mumbled.

YES.

ĪThen itāll just be, oh, call it a farthing for the scythe,ā Simnel gabbled. ĪSorry about that. but itāll use a lot of coals, you see, and those dwarfs keep winding up the price of -ā

HERE. IT MUST BE DONE BY TONIGHT.

Simnel didnāt argue. Arguing would mean that Bill Door remained in the forge, and he was getting quite anxious that this should not be so.

ĪFine, fine.ā

YOU UNDERSTAND?

ĪRight. Right.ā

173

FAREWELL, said Bill Door solemnly, and left.

Simnel shut the doors after him, and leaned against them. Whew. Nice man. of course, everyone was talking about him, it was just that after a couple of minutes in his presence you got a pins-and-needles sensation that someone was walking over your grave and it hadnāt even been dug yet.

He wandered across the oily floor, filled the tea kettle and wedged it on a corner of the forge. He picked up a spanner to do some final adjustments to the Combination Harvester, and spotted the scythe leaning against the wall.

He tiptoed towards it, and realised that tiptoeing was an amazingly stupid thing to do. It wasnāt alive. It couldnāt hear. It just looked sharp.

He raised the spanner, and felt guilty about it. By Mr Door had said - well, Mr Door had said something very odd, using the wrong sort of words to use in talking about a mere implement. But he could hardly object to this.

Simnel brought the spanner down hard.

There was no resistance. He would have sworn, again, that the spanner sheared in two, as though it was made of bread, several inches from the edge of the blade.

He wondered if something could be so sharp that it began to possess, not just a sharp edge, but the very essence of sharpness itself, a field of absolute sharpness that actually extended beyond the last atoms of metal.

ĪBloody hell Ī

And then he remembered that this was sloppy and superstitious thinking for a man who knew how to bevel a three eighths Gripley. You knew where you were with a reciprocating linkage. It either worked or it didnāt. It certainly didnāt present you with mysteries.

He looked proudly at the Combination Harvester. Of course, you needed a horse to pull it. That spoiled things a bit. Horses belonged to Yesterday; Tomorrow belonged to the Combination Harvester and its descendants, which would make the world a cleaner and better place. It was

174

just a matter of taking the horse out of the equation. Heād tried clockwork. and that wasnāt powerful enough. Maybe if he tried winding a -

Behind him, the kettle boiled over and put the fire out.

Simnel fought his way through the steam. That was the bloody trouble, every time. Whenever someone was trying to do a bit of sensible thinking, there was always some pointless distraction.

Mrs Cake drew the curtains.

ĪWho exactly is One-Man-Bucket?ā said Windle.

She lit a couple of candles and sat down.

Ī Īe belonged to one of them heathen Howondaland tribes,ā she said shortly.

ĪVery strange name, One-Man-Bucket,ā said Windle.

ĪItās not Īis full name.ā said Mrs Cake darkly. ĪNow, weāve got to Īold Īands.ā She looked at him speculatively.āWe need someone else.ā

ĪI could call Schleppel,ā said Windle.

ĪI aināt Īaving no bogey under my table trying to look up me drawers,ā said Mrs Cake. ĪLudmilla!ā she shouted. After a moment or two the bead curtain leading into the kitchen was swept aside and the young woman who had originally opened the door to Windle came in.

ĪYes mother?ā

ĪSit down, girl. We need another one for the seancing.ā

ĪYes, mother.ā

The girl smiled at Windle.

ĪThis is Ludmilla,ā said Mrs Cake shortly.

ĪCharmed, Iām sure,ā said Windle. Ludmilla gave him the bright, crystalline smile perfected by people who had long ago learned not to let their feelings show.

ĪWe have already met,ā said Windle. It must be at least a day since full moon, he thought. All the signs are nearly gone. Nearly. Well, well, well . . .

175

ĪSheās my shame,ā said Mrs Cake.

ĪMother, you do go on,ā said Ludmilla, without rancour.

ĪJoin hands, Ī said Mrs Cake.

They sat in the semi-darkness. Then Windle felt Mrs Cakeās hand being pulled away.

ĪOi forgot about the glass,ā she said.

ĪI thought, Mrs Cake, that you didnāt hold with ouija boards and that sort of -ā Windle began.

There was a glugging noise from the sideboard. Mrs Cake put a full glass on the tablecloth and sat down again.

ĪOi donāt,ā she said.

Silence descended again. Windle cleared his throat nervously.

Eventually Mrs Cake said, ĪAll right, One-Man-Bucket, oi knows youāre there.ā

The glass moved. The amber liquid inside sloshed gently.

A bodiless voice quavered, greetings, pale face, from the happy hunting ground -

ĪYou stop that,ā said Mrs Cake. ĪEveryone knows you got run over by a cart in Treacle Street because you was drunk, One-Man-Bucket.ā

sānot my fault. not my fault. is it my fault my great-grandad moved here? by rights I should have been mauled to death by a mountain lion or a giant mammoth or something. I bin denied my deathright.

ĪMr Poons here wants to ask you a question, One-Man-Bucket,ā said Mrs Cake.

she is happy here and waiting for you to join her, said One-Man-Bucket.

ĪWho is?ā said Windle.

This seemed to fox One-Man-Bucket. It was a line, that generally satisfied without further explanation.

who would you like? he asked cautiously. can I have that ?cerink? now?

176

ĪNot yet, One-Man-Bucket,ā said Mrs Cake.

well, I need it. itās bloody crowded in here.

ĪWhat?ā said Windle quickly. ĪWith ghosts, you mean?ā

thereās hundreds of Īem, said the voice of One-Man-Bucket.

Windle was disappointed.

ĪOnly hundreds?ā he said.āThat doesnāt sound a lot.ā

ĪNot many people become ghosts,ā said Mrs Cake. ĪTo be a ghost, you got to have, like, serious unfinished business, or a terrible revenge to take, or a cosmic purpose in which you are just a pawn.ā

or a cruel thirst, said One-Man-Bucket.

ĪWill you hark at him,ā said Mrs Cake.

I wanted to stay in the spirit world. or even wire and beer. hngh. hngh. hngh.

ĪSo what happens to the life force if things stop living?ā said Windle. ĪIs that whatās causing all this trouble?ā

ĪYou tell the man,ā said Mrs Cake, when One-Man-Bucket seemed reluctant to answer.

what trouble you talking about?

ĪThings unscrewing. Clothes running around by themselves. Everyone feeling more alive. That sort of thing.ā

that? thatās nothilng. see, the life force leaks back where it can. you donāt need to worry about that.

Windle put his hand over the glass.

ĪBut thereās something I should be worrying about, isnāt there,ā he said flatly. ĪItās to do with the little glass souvenirs.ā

donāt like to say.

ĪDo tell him.ā

It was Ludmillaās voice - deep but, somehow, attractive. Lupine was watching her intently.

Windle smiled. That was one of the advantages about being dead. You spotted things the living ignored.

177

One-Man-Bucket sounded shrill and petulant.

whatās he going to do if I tell him, then? I could get into heap big trouble for that sort of thing.

ĪWell, can you tell me if I guess right?ā said Windle.

ye-ess. maybe.

ĪYou donāt have to say anythinā,ā said Mrs Cake. ĪJust knock twice for yes and once for no, like in the old days.ā

oh, all right.

ĪGo on, Mr Poons,ā said Ludmilla. She had the kind of voice Windle wanted to stroke.

He cleared his throat.

ĪI think,ā he began, Īthat is, I think theyāre some sort of eggs. I thought . . . why breakfast? and then I thought ...eggs...ā

Knock.

ĪOh. Well, perhaps it was a rather silly idea . . .ā

sorry, was it once for yes or twice for yes ?

Ī Īvoice !ā snapped the medium.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

ĪAh,ā breathed Windle. ĪAnd they hatch into something with wheels on?ā

twice for yes, was it?

ĪRoight!ā

KNOCK. KNOCK.

ĪI thought so. I thought so ! I found one under my floor that tried to hatch where there wasnāt enough room!ā crowed Windle. Then he frowned.

ĪBut hatch into what?ā

Mustrum Ridcully trotted into his study and took his wizardās staff from its rack over the fireplace. He licked his finger and gingerly touched the top of the staff.

There was a small octarine spark and a smell of greasy tin.

He headed back for the door.

Then he turned around slowly, because his brain had just had time to analyse the studyās cluttered contents and spot the oddity.

178

ĪWhat the hellās that doinā there?ā he said.

He prodded it with the tip of the staff. It gave a jingling noise and rolled a little way.

It looked vaguely, but not very much, like the sort of thing the maids trundled around loaded with mops and fresh linen and whatever it was maids pushed around. Ridcully made a mental note to take it up with the housekeeper. Then he forgot about it.

ĪDamn wire wheely things are gettinā everywhere,ā he muttered.

Upon the word ćdamnä, something like a large blue-bottle with cat-sized dentures flopped out of the air, fluttered madly as it took stock of its surroundings, and then flew after the unheeding Archchancellor.

The words of wizards have power. And swearwords have power. And with life force practically crystallising out of the air, it had to find outlets wherever it could.

cities. said One-Man-Bucket. I think theyāre city eggs.

The senior wizards gathered again in the Great Hall.

Even the Senior Wrangler was feeling a certain excitement. It was considered bad form to use magic against fellow wizards, and using it against civilians was unsporting. It did you good to have a really righteous zap occasionally.

The Archchancellor looked them over.

ĪDean, why have you got stripes all over your face?ā he enquired.

ĪCamouflage, Archchancellor.ā

ĪCamouflage, eh?ā

ĪYo, Archchancellor.ā

ĪOh, well. So long as you feel happy in yourself, thatās what matters.ā

They crept out towards the patch of ground that had been Modoās little territory. At least, most of

179

them crept. The Dean advanced in a series of spinning leaps, occasionally flattening himself against the wall, and saying ĪHut! Hut! Hut!ā under his breath.

He was absolutely crestfallen when the other heaps turned out to be still where Modo had built them. The gardener, who had tagged along behind and had twice nearly been flattened by the Dean, fussed around them for a while.

ĪTheyāre just lying low,ā said the Dean. ĪI say we blow up the godsdamn -ā

ĪTheyāre not even warm yet,ā said Modo.āThat one must have been the oldest.ā

ĪYou mean we havenāt got anything to fight?ā said the Archchancellor.

The ground shook underfoot. And then there was a faint jangling noise, from the direction of the cloisters.

Ridcully frowned.

ĪSomeone Īs pushing those damn wire baskety things around again,ā he said. ĪThere was one in my study tonight.ā

ĪHuh,ā said the Senior Wrangler.āThere was one in my bedroom. I opened the wardrobe and there it was.ā

ĪIn your wardrobe? Whatād you put it in there for?ā said Ridcully.

ĪI didnāt. I told you. It was probably the students. Itās their kind of humour. One of them put a hairbrush in my bed once.ā

ĪI fell over one earlier,ā said the Archchancellor, Īand then when I looked round for it, someone had taken it away.ā

The jingling noise got closer.

ĪRight, Mr So-called Clever Dick Young-fella-me-lad,ā said Ridcully, tapping his staff once or twice on his palm in a meaningful way.

The wizards backed up against the wall.

The phantom trolley pusher was almost on them.

180

Ridcully snarled, and leapt out of hiding.

ĪAha, my fine young - bloody hellfire!ā

ĪDonāt be pullinā moi leg,ā said Mrs Cake.āCities aināt alive. I know people says they are, but they donāt mean really.ā

Windle Poons turned one of the snowballs around in his hand.

ĪIt must be laying thousands of them,ā he said.āBut they wouldnāt all survive, of course. Otherwise weād be up to here in cities, yes?ā

ĪYou telling us that these little balls hatch out into huge places?ā said Ludmilla.

not straight away. thereās the mobile stage first.

ĪSomething with wheels on,ā said Windle.

thatās right. i can see you know already.

ĪI think I knew,ā said Windle Poons, Ībut I didnāt understand. And what happens after the mobile stage?ā

ĪDonāt know.ā

Windle stood up.

ĪThen itās time to find out, Ī he said.

He glanced at Ludmilla and Lupine. Ah. Yes. And why not? If you can help somebody as you pass this way, Windle thought, then your living, or whatever, shall not be in vain.

He let himself fall into a stoop and let a little crackle enter his voice.

ĪBut I Īm rather unsteady on my legs these days,ā he quavered. ĪIt would really be a great favour if someone could help me along. Could you see me as far as the University, young lady?ā

ĪLudmilla doesnāt go out much these days because her health -ā Mrs Cake began briskly.

ĪIs absolutely fine,ā said Ludmilla. ĪMother, you know itās been a whole day since full moo -ā

ĪLudmilla!ā

ĪWell, it has.ā

181

ĪItās not safe for a young woman to walk the streets these days,ā said Mrs Cake.

ĪBut Mr Poonsā wonderful dog would frighten away the most dangerous criminal,ā said Ludmilla.

On cue, Lupine barked helpfully and begged. Mrs Cake regarded him critically.

ĪHeās certainly a very obedient animal,ā she said, reluctantly.

ĪThatās settled, then,ā said Ludmilla. ĪIāll fetch my shawl.ā

Lupine rolled over. Windle nudged him with a foot.

ĪBe good, Ī he said.

There was a meaningful cough from One-Man-Bucket.

ĪAll right, all right,ā said Mrs Cake. She took a bundle of matches from the dresser, lit one absent-mindedly with her fingernail, and dropped it into the whisky glass. It burned with a blue flame, and somewhere in the spirit world the spectre of a stiff double lasted just long enough.

As Windle Poons left the house, he thought he could hear a ghostly voice raised in song.

The trolley stopped. It swivelled from side to side, as if observing the wizards. Then it did a fast three-point turn and trundled off at high speed.

ĪGet it!ā bellowed the Archchancellor.

He aimed his staff and got off a fireball which turned a small area of cobblestones into something yellow and bubbly. The speeding trolley rocked wildly but kept going, with one wheel rattling and squeaking.

ĪItās from the Dungeon Dimensions!ā said the Dean.

ĪCream the basket!ā

The Archchancellor laid a steadying hand on his shoulder.āDonāt be daft. Dungeon Things have a lot more tentacles and things. They donāt look made.ā

They turned at the sound of another trolley. It rattled unconcernedly down a side passage, stopped when

182

it saw or otherwise perceived the wizards, and did a creditable impression of a trolley that had just been left there by someone.

The Bursar crept up to it.

ĪItās no use you looking like that,ā he said. ĪWe know you can move.ā

ĪWe all seed you,ā said the Dean.

The trolley maintained a low profile.

ĪIt canāt be thinking,ā said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.āThereās no room for a brain.ā

ĪWho says itās thinking?ā said the Archchancellor. ĪAll it does is move. Who needs brains for that? Prawns move.ā

He ran his fingers over the metalwork.

ĪActually, prawns are quite intell -ā the Senior Wrangler began.

ĪShut up,ā said Ridcully. ĪHmm. Is this made, though?ā

ĪItās wire,ā said the Senior Wrangler. ĪWireās something that you have to make. And thereās wheels. Hardly anything naturalās got wheels.ā

ĪItās just that up close, it looks -ā

Ī- all one thing, Ī said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, who had knelt down painfully to inspect it the better.

ĪLike one unit. Made all in one lump. Like a machine thatās been grown. But thatās ridiculous.ā

ĪMaybe. Isnāt there a sort of cuckoo in the Ramtops that builds clocks to nest in?ā said the Bursar.

ĪYes, but thatās just courtship ritual,ā said the Lecturer in Recent Runes airily. ĪBesides, they keep lousy time.ā

The trolley leapt for a gap in the wizards and would have made it except that the gap was occupied by the Bursar, who gave a scream and pitched forward into the basket. The trolley didnāt stop but rattled onwards, towards the gates.

The Dean raised his staff. The Archchancellor grabbed it.

183

ĪYou might hit the Bursar,ā he said.

ĪJust one small fireball?ā

ĪItās tempting, but no. Come on. After it.ā

ĪYo!ā

ĪIf you like.ā

The wizards lumbered in pursuit. Behind them, as yet unnoticed, a whole flock of the Archchancellorās swearwords fluttered and buzzed. And Windle Poons was leading a small deputation to the Library.

The Librarian of Unseen University knuckled his way hurriedly across the floor as the door shook to a thunderous knocking.

ĪI know youāre in there,ā came the voice of Windle Poons.āYou must let us in. Itās vitally important.ā

ĪOook.ā

ĪYou wonāt open the doors?ā

ĪOook!ā

ĪThen you leave me no choice . . .ā

Ancient blocks of masonry moved aside slowly.

Mortar crumbled. Then part of the wall fell in, leaving Windle Poons standing in a Windle Poons-shaped hole. He coughed on the dust.

ĪI hate having to do that,ā he said. ĪI canāt help feeling itās pandering to popular prejudice.ā

The Librarian landed on his shoulders. To the orangutanās surprise, this made very little difference.

A 300-pound orangutan usually had a noticeable effect on a personās rate of progress, but Windle wore him like a collar.

ĪI think we need Ancient History,ā he said. ĪI wonder, could you stop trying to twist my head off?ā

The Librarian looked around wildly. It was a technique that normally never failed.

Then his nostrils flared.

The Librarian hadnāt always been an ape. A magical library is a dangerous place to work, and heād been turned into an orangutan as a result of a magical

184

explosion. Heād been a quite inoffensive human, although by now so many people had come to terms with his new shape that few people remembered it.

But with the change had come the key to a whole bundle of senses and racial memories. And one of the deepest, most fundamental, most borne-in-the-bone of all of them was to do with shapes. It went back to the dawn of sapience. Shapes with muzzles, teeth and four legs were, in the evolving simian mind, definitely filed under Bad News.

A very large wolf had padded through the hole in the wall, followed by an attractive young woman. The Librarianās signal input was temporarily fused.

ĪAlso,ā said Windle, Īit is just possible that I could knot your arms behind you.ā

ĪEeek!ā

ĪHeās not an ordinary wolf. Youād better believe it.ā

ĪOook?ā

Windle lowered his voice. ĪAnd she might not technically be a woman,ā he added.

The Librarian looked at Ludmilla. His nostrils flared again. His brow wrinkled.

ĪOook ?ā

ĪAll right, I may have put that rather clumsily. Do let go, thereās a good fellow.ā

The Librarian released his grip very cautiously and sank to the floor, keeping Windle between himself and Lupine.

Windle brushed mortar fragments off the remains of his robe.

ĪWe need to find out,ā he said, Īabout the lives of cities. Specifically, I need to know -ā

There was a faint j angling noise.

A wire basket rolled nonchalantly around the massive stack of the nearest bookcase. It was full of books. It stopped as soon as it realised that it had been seen and contrived to look as though it had never moved at all.

185

ĪThe mobile stage,ā breathed Windle Poons.

The wire basket tried to inch backwards without appearing to move. Lupine growled.

ĪIs that what One-Man-Bucket was talking about?ā said Ludmilla. The trolley vanished. The Librarian grunted, and went after it.

ĪOh, yes. Something that would make itself useful,ā said Windle, suddenly almost maniacally cheerful. ĪThatās how itād work. First, something that youād want to keep, and put away somewhere. Thousands wouldnāt get the right conditions, but that wouldnāt matter, because there would be thousands. And then the next stage would be something that would be handy, and get everywhere, and no-one would ever think it had got there by itself. But itās all happening at the wrong time!ā

ĪBut how can a city be alive? Itās only made up of dead parts !ā said Ludmilla.

ĪSoāre people. Take it from me. I know. But you are right, I think. This shouldnāt be happening. Itās all this extra life force. Itās . . . itās tipping the balance. Itās turning something that isnāt really real into a reality. And itās happening too early, and itās happening too

ĪOh, the poor thing! Look at him!ā

Ludmilla rushed across the floor and knelt down by the stricken wolf.

ĪIt went right over his paws, look!ā

ĪAnd heās probably lost a couple of teeth,ā said Windle. He helped the Librarian up. There was a red glow in the apeās eyes. It had tried to steal his books.

This was probably the best proof any wizard could require that the trolleys were brainless.

He reached down and wrenched the wheels off the trolley.

ĪOle,ā said Windle.

ĪOook?ā

ĪNo, Not ćwith milkä,ā said Windle.

Lupine was having his head cradled in Ludmillaās lap. He had lost a tooth, and his fur was a mess. He opened one eye and fixed Windle with a conspiratorial yellow stare while ?ubis? ears were stroked. Thereās a lucky dog, thought Windle, whoās going to push his luck and hold up a paw and whine.

ĪRight,ā said Windle. ĪNow, Librarian . . . you were about to help us, I think.ā

ĪPoor brave dog,ā said Ludmilla.

Lupine raised a paw pathetically, and whined.

Burdened by the screaming form of the Bursar, the other wire basket couldnāt get up to the speed of its departed comrade. One wheel also trailed uselessly. It canted recklessly from side to side and nearly fell over as it shot through the gates, moving sideways.

ĪI can see it clear! I can see it clear!ā screamed the Dean.

ĪDonāt! You might hit the Bursar!ā bellowed Ridcully. ĪYou might damage University property!ā

But the Dean couldnāt hear for the roar of unaccustomed testosterone. A searing green fireball struck the skewing trolley. The air was filled with flying wheels.

187

Ridcully took a deep breath.

ĪYou stupid !ā he screamed.

The word he uttered was unfamiliar to those wizards who had not had his robust country upbringing and knew nothing of the finer points of animal husbandry. But it plopped into existence a few inches from his face; it was fat, round, black and glossy, with horrible eyebrows. It blew him an insectile raspberry and flew up to join the little swarm of curses.

ĪWhat the hell was that?ā

A smaller thing flashed into existence by his ear.

Ridcully snatched at his hat.

ĪDamn!ā - the swarm increased by one - ĪSomething just bit me!ā

A squadron of newly-hatched Blasteds made a valiant bid for freedom. He swatted at them ineffectually.

ĪGet away, you b -ā he began.

ĪDonāt say it!ā said the Senior Wrangler.āShut up!ā

People never told the Archchancellor to shut up. Shutting up was something that happened to other people. He shut up out of shock.

ĪI mean, every time you swear it comes alive,ā said the Senior Wrangler hurriedly. ĪGhastly little winged things pop out of the air.ā

ĪBloody hellfire!ā said the Archchancellor.

Pop. Pop.

The Bursar crawled dazed out of the tangled wreckage of the wire trolley. He found his pointy hat, dusted it off, tried it on, frowned, and took a wheel out of it. His colleagues didnāt seem to be paying him much attention.

He heard the Archchancellor say, ĪBut Iāve always done it! Nothing wrong with a good swear, it keeps the blood flowing. Watch out, Dean, one of the bug -ā

ĪCanāt you say something else?ā shouted the Senior Wrangler, above the buzz and whine of the swarm.

ĪLike what?ā

ĪLike...oh...like...darn.ā

188

ĪDarn?ā

ĪYes, or maybe poot.ā

ĪWhat? You want me to say poot?ā

The Bursar crept up to the group. Arguing over petty details at times of dimensional emergency was a familiar wizardly trait.

ĪMrs Whitlow the housekeeper always says ćSugar !ä Ī when she drops something,ā he volunteered.

The Archchancellor turned on him.

ĪShe may say sugar,ā he growled, Ībut what she means, is shi-ā

The wizards ducked. Ridcully managed to stop himself.

ĪOh, darn,ā he said miserably. The swearwords settled amiably on his hat.

ĪThey like you,ā said the Dean.

ĪYouāre their daddy,ā said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

Ridcully scowled.āYou b- boys can stop being silly at your Archchancellorās expense and da-jolly well find out whatās going on,ā he said.

The wizards looked expectantly at the air. Nothing appeared.

ĪYouāre doing fine,ā said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.āKeep it up.ā

ĪDarn darn darn,ā said the Archchancellor.āSugar sugar sugar. Pooty pootity poot.ā He shook his head.

ĪItās no good, it doesnāt relieve my feelings one bit.ā

ĪItās cleared the air, at any rate,ā said the Bursar.

They noticed his presence for the first time.

They looked at the remains of the trolley.

ĪThings zooming around,ā said Ridcully.āThings coming alive.ā

They looked up at a suddenly familiar squeaking noise. Two more wheeled baskets rattled across the square outside the gates. One was full of fruit. The other was half full of fruit and half full of small screaming child.

189

The wizards watched open-mouthed. A stream of people were galloping after the trolleys. Slightly in the lead, elbows scything through the air, a desperate and determined woman pounded past the University gates.

The Archchancellor grabbed a heavy-set man who was lumbering along gamely at the back of the crowd.

ĪWhat happened?ā

ĪI was just loading some peaches into that basket thing when it upped and ran away on me!ā

ĪWhat about the child?ā

ĪSearch me. This woman had one of the baskets and she bought some peaches off of me anā then -ā

They all turned. A basket rattled out of the mouth of an alleyway, saw them, turned smartly and shot off across the square.

ĪBut why?ā said Ridcully.

ĪTheyāre so handy to put things in, right?ā said the man.āI got to get them peaches. You know how they bruise.ā

ĪAnd theyāre all going in the same direction,ā said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.āAnyone else notice that?ā

ĪAfter them!ā screamed the Dean. The other wizards, too bewildered to argue, lumbered after him.

ĪNo -ā Ridcully began, and realised that it was hopeless. And he was losing the initiative. He carefully formulated the most genteel battle cry in the history of bowdlerism.

ĪDarn them to Heck!ā he yelled, and ran after the Dean.

Bill Door worked through the long heavy afternoon. at the head of a trail of binders and stackers.

Until there was a shout, and the men ran towards the hedge.

?lago? Peedburyās big field was right on the other side. His

190

farmhands were wheeling the Combination Harvester through the gate.

Bill joined the others leaning over the hedge. The distant figure of Simnel could be seen, giving instructions. A frightened horse was backed into the shafts. The blacksmith climbed into the little metal seat in the middle of the machinery and took up the reins.

The horse walked forward. The sparge arms unfolded.

The canvas sheets started to revolve, and probably the riffling screw was turning, but that didnāt matter because something somewhere went Īclonkā and everything stopped.

From the crowd at the hedge there were shouts of ĪGet out and milk it!ā, ĪWe had one but the end fell off!ā, ĪTuppence more and up goes the donkey!ā and other time-honoured witticisms.

Simnel got down, held a whispered conversation with Peedbury and his men, and then disappeared into the machinery for a moment.

ĪItāll never fly!ā

ĪVeal will be cheap tomorrow!ā

This time the Combination Harvester got several feet before one of the rotating sheets split and folded up.

By now some of the older men at the hedge were doubled up with laughter.

ĪAny old iron, sixpence a load!ā

ĪFetch the other one, this oneās broke!ā

Simnel got down again. Distant catcalls drifted towards him as he untied the sheet and replaced it with a new one; he ignored them.

Without moving his gaze from the scene in the opposite field, Bill Door pulled a sharpening stone out of his pocket and began to hone his scythe, slowly and deliberately.

Apart from the distant clink of the blacksmithās tools, the schip-schip of stone on metal was the only sound in the heavy air.

Simnel climbed back into the Harvester and nodded to the man leading the horse.

191

ĪHere we go again!ā

ĪAny more for the Skylark?ā

ĪPut a sock in it . . .ā

The cries trailed off.

Half a dozen pairs of eyes followed the Combination Harvester up the field, stared while it was turned around on the headland, watched it come back again.

It clicked past, reciprocating and oscillating.

At the bottom of the field it turned around neatly.

It whirred by again.

After a while one of the watchers said, gloomily, ĪItāll never catch on, you mark my words.ā

ĪRight enough. Whoās going to want a gadget like that?ā said another.

ĪSure and itās only like a big clock. Canāt do anything more than go up and down a field -ā

Ī- very fast -ā

Ī- cutting the corn like that and stripping the grain off -ā

Īltās done three rows already.ā

ĪBugger me!ā

ĪYou canāt hardly see the bits move! What do you think of that, Bill? Bill?ā

They looked around.

He was halfway up his second row, but accelerating.

Miss Flitworth opened the door a fraction.

ĪYes?ā she said, suspiciously.

ĪItās Bill Door, Miss FIitworth. Weāve brought him home.ā

She opened the door wider.

ĪWhat happened to him?ā

The two men shuffled in awkwardly, trying to support a figure a foot taller than they were. It raised its head and squinted muzzily at Miss Flitworth.

??? Duke Bottomley.

ĪHeās a devil for working,ā said Willi~ ???

ĪDonāt know what come over him,ā saidām Spigot. ĪYouāre getting your moneyās worth out of him all right, Miss Flitworth.ā

ĪItāll be the first time, then, in these parts,ā she said sourly.

192

ĪUp and down the field like a madman, trying to better ?that? contraption of Ned Simnelās. Took four of us to do the ~inding. He nearly beat it, too.ā

ĪPut him down on the sofa.ā

ĪWe tole him he was doing too much in all that sun -ā

Duke craned his neck to see around the kitchen, just in case jewels and treasure were hanging out of the dresser drawers.

Miss FIitworth eclipsed his view.

ĪIām sure you did. Thank you. Now I expect youāll be wanting to be off home.ā

Īlf thereās anything we can do -ā

ĪI know where you live. And you aināt paid no rent there for five years, too. Goodbye. Mr Spigot.ā

She ushered them to the door and shut it in their faces, then she turned around.

ĪWhat the hell have you been doing, Mr So-Called Bill ?

I AM TIRED AND IT WONāT STOP.

Bill Door clutched at his skull.

ALSO SPIGOT GAVE ME A HUMOROUS APPLE JUICE FERMENTED DRINK BECAUSE OF THE HEAT AND NOW I FEEL ILL.

ĪI aināt surprised. He makes it up in the woods. Apples isnāt the half of it.ā

I HAVE NEVER FELT ILL BEFORE. OR TIRED.

Īltās all part of being alive.ā

AND HOW DO HUMANS STAND IT?

ĪWell, fermented apple juice can help.ā

Bill Door sat staring gloomily at the floor.

BUT WE FINISHED THE FIELD, he said, with a hint of triumph. ALL STACKED IN STOOKS, OR POSSIBLY THE OTHER-WAY AROUND.

He clutched at his skull again.

AARCH.

Miss Flitworth disappeared into the scullery. There was the creaking of a pump. She returned with a damp flannel and a glass of water.

THEREāS A NEWT IN IT!

193

ĪShows itās fresh,ā said Miss Flitworth,* fishing the amphibian out and releasing it on the flagstones, where it scuttled away into a crack.

Bill Door tried to stand up.

NOW I ALMOST KNOW WHY SOME PEOPLE WISH TO DIE. he said. I HAD HEARD OF PAIN AND MISERY BUT I HAD NOT HITHERTO FULLY UNDERSTOOD WHAT THEY MEANT.

Miss Flitworth peered through the dusty window. The clouds that had been piling up all afternoon towered over the hills, grey with a menacing hint of yellow. The heat pressed down like a vice.

ĪThereās a big storm coming.ā

WILL IT SPOIL MY HARVEST?

ĪNo. Itāll dry out after.ā

HOW IS THE CHILD?

Bill Door unfolded his palm. Miss Flitworth raised her eyebrows. The golden glass was there, the top bulb almost empty. But it simmered in and out of vision.

ĪHow come youāve got it? Itās upstairs! She was holding it like,ā - she floundered - Īlike someone holds something very tightly.ā

SHE STILL IS. BUT IT IS ALSO HERE. OR ANYWHERE. IT IS ONLY A METAPHOR. AFTER ALL.

ĪWhat sheās holding looks real enough.ā

JUST BECAUSE SOMETHING IS A METAPHOR DOESNāT MEAN IT CANāT BE REAL.

Miss Flitworth was aware of a faint echo in the voice, as though the words were being spoken by two people almost, but not quite, in sync.

ĪHow long have you got?ā

A MATTER OF HOURS.

ĪAnd the scythe?ā

I GAVE THE BLACKSMITH STRICT INSTRUCTIONS.

________________________________________________________________

* People have believed for hundreds of years that newts in a well mean that the waterās fresh and drinkable, and in all that time never asked themselves whether the newts got out to go to the lavatory.

194

She frowned. ĪIām not saying young Simnelās a bad lad, but are you sure heāll do it? Itās asking a lot of a man like him to destroy something like that.ā

I HAD NO CHOICE. THE LITTLE FURNACE HERE ISNāT GOOD ?TOUGH?.

ĪItās a wicked sharp scythe.ā

I FEAR IT MAY NOT BE SHARP ENOUGH.

ĪAnd no-one ever tried this on you?ā

THERE IS A SAYING: YOU CANāT TAKE IT WITH YOU?

ĪYes.ā

HOW MANY PEOPLE HAVE SERIOUSLY BELIEVED IT?

ĪI remember reading once,ā said Miss Flitworth.āabout these heathen kings in the desert somewhere who build huge pyramids and put all sorts of stuff in them. Even boats. ?~en? gels in transparent trousers and a couple of saucepan lids. You canāt tell me thatās right.ā

IāVE NEVER BEEN VERY SURE ABOUT WHAT IS RIGHT, said Bill Door. I AM NOT SURE ?WHERE? IS SUCH A THING AS RIGHT. OR WRONG. JUST PLACES TO STAND.

ĪNo, rightās right and wrongās wrong,ā said Miss FIitworth. ĪI was brought up to tell the difference.ā

BY A CONTRABANDISTOR.

ĪA what?ā

A MOVER OF CONTRABAND.

ĪThereās nothing wrong with smuggling!ā

I MERELY POINT OUT THAT SOME PEOPLE THINK OTHERWISE.

ĪThey donāt count!ā

BUT -

Lightning struck, somewhere on the hill. The thunder-clap rocked the house; a few bricks from the chimney rattled into the grate. Then the windows shook to a fierce ?~unding?.

Bill Door strode across the room and threw open the door.

Hailstones the size of hensā eggs bounced off the doorstep and into the kitchen.

OH. DRAMA.

ĪOh. hell!ā

Miss Flitworth ducked under his arm.

195

ĪAnd whereās the wind come from?ā

THE SKY? said Bill Door, surprised at the sudden excitement.

ĪCome on!ā She whirled back into the kitchen and scrabbled on the dresser for a candle lantern and some matches.

BUT YOU SAID IT WOULD DRY.

ĪIn a normal storm, yes. In this lot? Itās going to be ruined! Weāll find it spread all over the hill in the morning!ā

She fumbled the candle alight and ran back again.

Bill Door looked out into the storm. Straws whirred past, tumbling on the gale.

RUINED? MY HARVEST? He straightened up. BUGGER THAT.

The hail rumbled on the roof of the smithy.

Ned Simnel pumped the furnace bellows until the heart of the coals was white with the merest hint of yellow.

It had been a good day. The Combination Harvester had worked better than heād dared to hope; old Peedbury had insisted on keeping it to do another field tomorrow, so it had been left out with a tarpaulin over it, securely tied down. Tomorrow he could teach one of the men to use it, and start work on a new improved model. Success was assured. The future definitely lay ahead.

Then there was the matter of the scythe. He went to the wall where it had been hung. A bit of a mystery, that. Here was the most superb instrument of its kind heād ever seen. You couldnāt even blunt it. Its sharpness extended well beyond its actual edge. And yet he was supposed to destroy it. Where was the sense in that? Ned Simnel was a great believer in sense, of a certain specialised kind.

Maybe Bill Door just wanted to be rid of it. and that was understandable, because even now when it hung innocuously enough from the wall it seemed to radiate sharpness. There was a faint violet corona around the blade, caused by the draughts in the room driving luckless air molecules to their severed death.

Ned Simnel picked it up with great care.

196

Weird fellow, Bill Door. Heād said he wanted to be sure it was absolutely dead. As if you could kill a thing.

Anyway, how could anyone destroy it? Oh, the handle would burn and the metal would calcine and, if he worked hard enough, eventually thereād be nothing more than a little heap of dust and ashes. That was what the customer wanted.

On the other hand, presumably you could destroy it just by taking the blade off the handle . . . After all, it wouldnāt be a scythe if you did that. Itād just be, well . . . bits. Certainly, you could make a scythe out of them, but you could probably do that with the dust and ashes if you knew how to do it.

Ned Simnel was quite pleased with this line of argument.

And, after all. Bill Door hadnāt even asked for proof that the thing had been. er, killed.

He took sight carefully and then used the scythe to chop the end off the anvil. Uncanny. Total sharpness.

He gave in. It was unfair. You couldnāt ask someone like him to destroy something like this. It was a work of art.

It was better than that. It was a work of craft.

He walked across the room to a stack of timber and thrust the scythe well out of the way behind the heap. There was a brief, punctured squeak.

Anyway, it would be all right. Heād give Bill his farthing back in the morning.

The Death of Rats materialised behind the heap in the forge, and trudged to the sad little heap of fur that had been a rat that got in the way of the scythe.

Its ghost was standing beside it, looking apprehensive. It didnāt seem very pleased to see him.

ĪSqueak? Squeak?ā

SQUEAK. the Death of Rats explained.

ĪSqueak?ā

SQUEAK, the Death of Rats confirmed.

Ī[Preen whiskers] [twitch nose]?ā

The Death of Rats shook its head.

197

SQUEAK.

The rat was crestfallen. The Death of Rats laid a bony but not entirely unkind paw on its shoulder.

Squeak.

Tile rat nodded sadly. It had been a good life in the forge. Nedās housekeeping was almost non-existent, and he was probably the world champion absent-minded-leaver of unfinished sandwiches. It shrugged, and trooped after the small robed figure. It wasnāt as if it had any choice.

People were streaming through the streets. Most of them were chasing trolleys. Most of the trolleys were full of whatever people had found a trolley useful to carry - firewood, children, shopping.

And they were no longer dodging, but moving blindly, all in the same direction.

You could stop a trolley by turning it over, when its wheels spun madly and uselessly. The wizards saw a number of enthusiastic individuals trying to smash them, but the trolleys were practically indestructible - they bent but didnāt break, and if they had even one wheel left theyād make a valiant attempt to keep going.

ĪLook at that one!ā said the Archchancellor. ĪItās got my laundry in it! My actual laundry! Darn that for a lark!ā

He pushed his way through the crowds and rammed his staff into the trolleyās wheels, toppling it over.

ĪWe canāt get a clear shot at anything with all these civilians around,ā complained the Dean.

ĪThereās hundreds of trolleys!ā said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. ĪItās just like vermine! * Get away from me, you - you basket!ā

________________________________________________________________

* 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 donāt breed, and over the

198

He flailed at an importunate trolley with his staff.

The tide of wheeled baskets was flowing out of the city. The struggling humans gradually dropped out or fell under the wobbling wheels. Only the wizards stayed in the flowing tide, shouting at one another and attacking the silvery swarm with their staves. It wasnāt that magic didnāt work. It worked quite well.

A good zap could turn a trolley into a thousand intricate little wire puzzles. But what good did that do? A moment later two others would trundle over their stricken sibling.

Around the Dean trolleys were being splashed into metal droplets.

ĪHeās really getting the hang of it, isnāt he?ā said the Senior Wrangler, as he and the Bursar levered yet another basket on to its back.

ĪHeās certainly saying Yo a lot, Ī said the Bursar.

The Dean himself didnāt know when heād been happier. For sixty years heād been obeying all the self-regulating rules of wizardry, and suddenly he was having the time of his life. Heād never realised that, deep down inside, what he really wanted to do was make things go splat.

Fire leapt from the tip of his staff. Handles and bits of wire and pathetically spinning wheels tinkled down around him. And what made it even better was that there was no end to the targets. A second wave of trolleys, crammed into a tighter space, was trying to advance over the tops of those still in actual contact with the ground. It wasnāt working, but they were trying anyway. And trying desperately, because a

________________________________________________________________________

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 anotherās gaze for a while, and then leave early to get home before the rush.

199

third wave was already crunching and smashing its way over the top of them. Except that you couldnāt use the word ćtryingä. It suggested some sort of conscious effort, some sort of possibility that there might also be a state of Īnot tryingā. Something about the relentless movement, the way they crushed one another in their surge, suggested that the wire baskets had as much choice in the matter as water has about flowing downhill.

ĪYo!ā shouted the Dean. Raw magic smacked into the grinding tangle of metal. It rained wheels.

ĪEat hot thaumaturgy, you m-,ā the Dean began.

ĪDonāt swear! Donāt swear!ā shouted Ridcully above the noise. He tried to swat a Silly Bugger that was orbiting his hat.āThereās no telling what it might turn into!ā

ĪBother!ā screamed the Dean.

ĪItās no good. We might as well be trying to hold back the sea,ā said the Senior Wrangler. ĪI vote we head back to the University and pick up some really tough spells.ā

ĪGood idea,ā said Ridcully. He looked up at the advancing wall of twisted wire. ĪAny idea how?ā he said.

ĪYo! Scallywags!ā said the Dean. He aimed his staff again. It made a sad little noise that, if it was written down, could only be spelled pfffft. A feeble spark fell off the end and on to the cobbles.

Windle Poons slammed another book shut. The Librarian winced.

ĪNothing! Volcanoes, tidal waves, wrath of gods, meddling wizards . . . I donāt want to know how other cities have been killed, I want to know how they ended . . .ā

The Librarian stacked another pile of books on the reading desk. Another plus about being dead, Windle was finding, was an ability with languages. He could

200

see the sense in the words without knowing the actual meaning. Being dead wasnāt like falling asleep after all. It was like waking up.

He glanced across the Library to where Lupine was having his paw bandaged.

ĪLibrarian?ā he said softly.

ĪOook?ā

ĪYouāve changed species in your time . . . what would you do if, for the sake of argument, you found a couple of people who . . . well, suppose there was a wolf that changed into a wolfman at the full moon, and a woman that changed into a wolfwoman at the full moon . . . you know, approaching the same shape but from opposite directions? And theyād met. What do you tell them? Do you let them sort it out for themselves?ā

ĪOook, Ī said the Librarian, instantly.

ĪItās tempting.ā

ĪOook.ā

ĪMrs Cake wouldnāt like it, though.ā

ĪEeek oook.ā

ĪYouāre right. You could have put it a little less coarsely, but youāre right. Everyone has to sort things out for themselves.ā

He sighed, and turned the page. His eyes widened.

ĪThe city of Kahn Li,ā he said. ĪEver heard of it? Whatās this book? ćStripfettleās Believe-It-Or-Not Grimoire.ä Says here . . . ćlittle carts . . . none knew from where they came . . . of such great use, men were employed to herd them and bring them into the city . . . of a sudden, like unto a rush of creatures . . . men followed them and behold, there was a new city outside the walls, a city as of merchantsā booths wherein the carts ranä . . .ā

He turned the page.

ĪIt seems to say . . .ā

I still havenāt understood it properly, he told himself. One-Man-Bucket thinks weāre talking

201

about the breeding of cities. But that doesnāt feel right.

A city is alive. Supposing you were a great slow giant, like a Counting Pine, and looked down at a city?

Youād see buildings grow; youād see attackers driven off; youād see fires put out. Youād see the city was alive but you wouldnāt see people, because theyād move too fast. The life of a city, the thing that drives it, isnāt some sort of mysterious force. The life of a city is people.

He turned the pages absently, not really looking . . .

So we have the cities - big, sedentary creatures, growing from one spot and hardly moving at all for thousands of years. They breed by sending out people to colonise new land. They themselves just lie there. Theyāre alive, but only in the same way that a jelly fish is alive. Or a fairly bright vegetable. After all, we call Ankh-Morpork the Big Wahooni . . .

And where you get big slow living things, you get small fast things that eat them . . .

Windle Poons felt the brain cells firing. Connections were made. Thought gushed along new channels. Had he ever really thought properly when he was alive? He doubted it. Heād just been a lot of complicated reactions attached to a lot of nerve endings, with everything from idle rumination about the next meal to random, distracting memories getting between him and real thought.

Itād grow inside the city, where itās warm and protected. And then itād break out, outside the city, and build . . . something, not a real city, a false city . . . that pulls the people, the life, out of the host . . .

The word weāre looking for here is predator.

The Dean stared at his staff in disbelief. He gave it a shake, and aimed it again.

This time the sound would be spelled pfwt.

He looked up. A curling wave of trolleys, rooftop high, was poised to fall on him.

202

ĪOh . . . shucks,ā he said, and folded his arms over his head.

Someone grabbed the back of his robe and pulled him away as the trolleys crashed down.

ĪCome on,ā said Ridcully. ĪIf we run we can keep ahead of Īem.ā

ĪIām out of magic! Iām out of magic!ā moaned the Dean.

ĪYouāll be out of a lot more if you donāt hurry, Ī said the Archchancellor.

Trying to keep together, bumping into one another, the wizards staggered ahead of the trolleys. Streams of them were surging out of the city and across the fields.

ĪKnow what this reminds me of?ā said Ridcully, as they fought their way through.

ĪDo tell, Ī muttered the Senior Wrangler.

ĪSalmon run, Ī said the Archchancellor.

ĪWhat?ā

ĪNot in the Ankh, of course,ā said Ridcully.āI donāt reckon a salmon could get upstream in our river - Ī

ĪUnless it walked,ā said the Senior Wrangler.

Ī- but Iāve seen Īem thick as milk in some rivers,ā said Ridcully. ĪFightin Ī to get ahead. The whole river just a mass of silver.ā

ĪFine, fine,ā said the Senior Wrangler. ĪWhatād they do that for?ā

ĪWell . . . itās all to do with breeding.ā

ĪDisgusting. And to think we have to drink water,ā said the Senior Wrangler.

ĪRight, weāre in the open now, this is where we out-flank Īem,ā said Ridcully. ĪWeāll just aim for a clear space and - Ī

ĪI donāt think so,ā said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

Every direction was filled with an advancing, grinding, fighting wall of trolleys.

ĪTheyāre coming to get us ! Theyāre coming to get us !ā wailed the Bursar. The Dean snatched his staff.

ĪHey, thatās mine!ā

203

The Dean pushed him away and blew off the wheels of a leading trolley.

ĪThatās my staff!ā

The wizards stood back to back in a narrowing ring of metal.

ĪTheyāre not right for this city, Ī said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

ĪI know what you mean, Ī said Ridcully. ĪAlien.ā

ĪI suppose no-oneās got a flying spell on them today?ā the Senior Wrangler enquired.

The Dean took aim again and melted a basket.

ĪThatās my staff youāre using, you know.ā

ĪShut up, Bursar,ā said the Archchancellor. ĪAnd, Dean, youāre getting nowhere picking them off one by one like that. OK, lads? We want to do them all as much damage as possible. Remember - wild, uncontrolled bursts . . .ā

The trolleys advanced.

Ow. Ow.

Miss Flitworth staggered through the wet, rattling gloom. Hailstones crunched underfoot. Thunder cannonaded around the sky.

ĪThey sting, donāt they,ā she said.

THEY ECHO.

Bill Door fielded a stook as it was blown past, and stacked it with the others. Miss Flitworth scuttled past him, bent double under a load of corn.* The two of them worked steadily, crisscrossing the field in the teeth of the storm to snatch up the harvest before the wind and hail stole it away. Lightning flickered around the sky. It wasnāt a normal storm. It was war.

_______________________________________________________________

* The ability of skinny old ladies to carry huge loads is phenomenal. Studies have shown that an ant can carry one hundred times its own weight, but there is no known limit to the lifting power of the average tiny eighty-year-old Spanish peasant grandmother.

204

ĪItās going to pour with rain in a minute.ā screamed Miss Flitworth, above the noise. ĪWeāll never get it down to the barn! Go and fetch a tarpaulin or something! Thatāll do for tonight!ā

Bill Door nodded, and ran through the squelching darkness towards the farm buildings. Lightning was striking so many times around the fields that the air itself was sizzling, and a corona danced along the top of the hedge.

And there was Death.

He saw it looming ahead of him, a crouched skeletal shape poised to spring, its robe flapping and rattling behind it in the wind.

Tightness gripped him, trying to force him to run while at the same time rooting him to the spot. It invaded his mind and froze there, blocking all thought save for the innermost, tiny voice which said, quite calmly: SO THlS IS TERROR.

Then Death vanished as the lightning glow faded, reappeared as a ?fres~~~rc? was struck on the next hill.

Then the quiet, internal voice added: BUT WHY DOESNāT IT MOVE?

Bill Door let himself inch forward slightly. There was no response from the hunched thing.

Then it dawned on him that the thing on the other side of the hedge was only a robed assemblage of ribs and femurs and vertebrae if viewed from one point of view but, if looked at slightly differently, was equally just a complexity of sparging arms and reciprocating levers that had been covered by a tarpaulin which was now blowing off.

The Combination Harvester was in front of him.

Bill Door grinned horribly. Un-Bill Door thoughts rose up in his mind. He stepped forward.

The wall of trolleys surrounded the wizards.

The last flare from a staff melted a hole, which was instantly filled up by more trolleys.

Ridcully turned to his fellow wizards. They were red in the face, their robes were torn, and several over-

205

enthusiastic shots had resulted in singed beards and burnt hats.

ĪHasnāt anyone got any more spells on them?ā he said.

They thought feverishly.

ĪI think I can remember one,ā said the Bursar hesitantly.

ĪGo on, man. Anythingās worth trying at a time like this.ā

The Bursar stretched out a hand. He shut his eyes. He muttered a few syllables under his breath.

There was a brief flicker of octarine light and -

ĪOh, Ī said the Archchancellor. ĪAnd thatās all of it?ā

Ī ćEringyasā Surprising Bouquetä,ā said the Bursar, bright eyed and twitching. ĪI donāt know why, but itās one Iāve always been able to do. Just a knack, I suppose.ā

Ridcully eyed the huge bunch of flowers now gripped in the Bursarās fist.

ĪBut not, I venture to point out, entirely useful at this time,ā he added.

The Bursar looked at the approaching walls and his smile faded.

ĪI suppose not,ā he said.

ĪAnyone else got any ideas?ā said Ridcully.

There was no reply.

ĪNice roses, though,ā said the Dean.

ĪThat was quick,ā said Miss Flitworth, when Bill Door arrived at the pile of stooks dragging a tarpaulin behind him.

YES, WASNāT IT, he mumbled noncommittally, as she helped him drag it over the stack and weigh it down with stones. The wind caught at it and tried to drag it out of his hands; it might as well have tried to blow a mountain over.

Rain swept over the fields, among shreds of mist that shimmered with blue electric energies.

206

ĪNever known a night like it,ā Miss Flitworth said.

There was another crack of thunder. Sheet lightning fluttered around the horizon.

Miss Flitworth clutched Bill Doorās arm.

ĪIsnāt that . . . a figure on the hill?ā she said. ĪThought I saw a...shape.ā

NO, ITāS MERELY A MECHANICAL CONTRIVANCE.

There was another flash.

ĪOn a horse?ā said Miss Flitworth.

A third sheet seared across the sky. And this time there was no doubt about it. There was a mounted figure on the nearest hilltop. Hooded. Holding a scythe as proudly as a lance.

POSING. Bill Door turned towards Miss Flitworth. POSING. I NEVER DID ANYTHING LIKE THAT. WHY DO ANYTHING LIKE THAT? WHAT PURPOSE DOES IT SERVE?

He opened his palm. The gold timer appeared.

ĪHow much longer have you got?ā

PERHAPS AN HOUR. PERHAPS MINUTES.

ĪCome on, then!ā

Bill Door remained where he was, looking at the timer.

ĪI said, come on!ā

IT WONāT WORK. I WAS WRONG TO THINK THAT IT WOULD. BUT IT WONāT. THERE ARE SOME THINGS THAT YOU CANNOT ESCAPE. YOU CANNOT LIVE FOR EVER.

ĪWhy not?ā

Bill Door looked shocked. WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

ĪWhy canāt you live for ever?ā

I DONāT KNOW. COSMIC WISDOM?

ĪWhat does cosmic wisdom know about it? Now, will you come on?ā

The figure on the hill hadnāt moved.

The rain had turned the dust into a fine mud. They slithered down the slope and hurried across the yard and into the house.

I SHOULD HAVE PREPARED MORE. I HAD PLANS -

ĪBut there was the harvest.ā

YES.

207

ĪIs there any way we can barricade the doors or something?ā

DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOUāRE SAYING?

ĪWell, think of something! Didnāt anything ever work against you?ā

NO, said Bill Door. with a tiny touch of pride.

Miss Flitworth peered out of the window, and then flung herself dramatically against the wall on one side of it.

ĪHeās gone!ā

IT, said Bill Door. IT WONāT BE A HE YET.

ĪItās gone. It could be anywhere.ā

IT CAN COME THROUGH THE WALL.

She darted forward, and then glared at him.

VERY WELL. FETCH THE CHILD. I THINK WE SHOULD LEAVE HERE. A thought struck him. He brightened up a little bit.

WE DO HAVE SOME TIME. WHAT IS THE HOUR?

ĪI donāt know. You go around stopping the clocks the whole time.ā

BUT IT IS NOT YET MIDNIGHT?

ĪI shouldnāt think itās more than a quarter past eleven.ā

THEN WE HAVE THREE-QUARTERS OF AN HOUR.

ĪHow can you be sure?ā

BECAUSE OF DRAMA, MISS FLITWORTH. THE KIND OF DEATH WHO POSES AGAINST THE SKYLINE AND GETS LIT UP BY LIGHTNING FLASHES, said Bill Door, disapprovingly, DOESNāT TURN UP AT FIVE. AND-TWENTY PAST ELEVEN IF HE CAN POSSIBLY TURN UP AT MIDNIGHT.

She nodded, white-faced, and disappeared upstairs. After a minute or two she returned, with Sal wrapped up in a blanket.

ĪStill fast asleep,ā she said.

THATāS NOT SLEEP.

The rain had stopped, but the storm still marched around the hills. The air sizzled, still seemed oven-hot.

Bill Door led the way past the henhouse, where Cyril and his elderly harem were crouched back in the darkness, all trying to occupy the same few inches of perch.

208

There was a pale green glow hovering around the farmhouse chimney.

ĪWe call that Mother Careyās Fire,ā said Miss Flitworth. ĪItās an omen.ā

AN OMEN OF WHAT?

ĪWhat? Oh, donāt ask me. Just an omen, I suppose. Just basic omenery. Where are we going?ā

INTO THE TOWN.

ĪTo be near the scythe?ā

YES.

He disappeared into the barn. After a while he came out leading Binky, saddled and harnessed. He mounted up, then leaned down and pulled both her and the sleeping child on to the horse in front of him.

IF IāM WRONG, he added, THIS HORSE WILL TAKE YOU WHEREVER YOU WANT TO GO.

ĪI shanāt want to go anywhere except back home!ā

WHEREVER.

Binky broke into a trot as they turned on to the road to the town. Wind blew the leaves off the trees, which tumbled past them and on up the road. The occasional flash of lightning still hissed across the sky.

Miss Flitworth looked at the hill beyond the farm.

I KNOW.

Ī- itās there again -ā

I KNOW.

ĪWhy isnāt it chasing us?ā

WEāRE SAFE UNTIL THE SAND RUNS OUT.

ĪAnd you die when the sand runs out?ā

NO. WHEN THE SAND RUNS OUT IS WHEN I SHOULD DIE. I WILL BE IN THE SPACE BETWEEN LIFE AND AFTERLIFE.

ĪBill, it looked as though the thing it was riding . . . I thought it was a proper horse, just very skinny, but . . .ā

ITāS A SKELETAL STEED. IMPRESSIVE BUT IMPRACTICAL. I HAD ONE ONCE BUT THE HEAD FELL OFF.

ĪA bit like flogging a dead horse, I should think.ā

HA. HA. MOST AMUSING, MISS FLITWORTH.

209

ĪI think that at a time like this you can stop calling me Miss Flitworth,ā said Miss Flitworth.

RENATA?

She looked startled. ĪHow did you know my name? Oh. Youāve probably seen it written down, right?ā

ENGRAVED.

ĪOn one of them hourglasses?ā

YES.

ĪWith all them sands of time pouring through?ā

YES.

ĪEveryoneās got one?ā

YES.

ĪSo you know how long Iāve -ā

YES.

ĪIt must be very odd, knowing . . . the kind of things you know . . .ā

DO NOT ASK ME.

ĪThatās not fair, you know. If we knew when we were going to die, people would live better lives.ā

IF PEOPLE KNEW WHEN THEY WERE GOING TO DIE, I THINK THEY PROBABLY WOULDNāT LIVE AT ALL.

ĪOh, very gnomic. And what do you know about it, Bill Door?ā

EVERYTHING.

Binky trotted up one of the townās meagre handful of streets and over the cobbles of the square. There was no-one else around. In cities like Ankh-Morpork midnight was just late evening, because there was no civic night at all, just evenings fading into dawns. But here people regulated their lives by things like sunsets and mispronounced cockcrows. Midnight meant what it said.

Even with the storm stalking the hills, the square itself was hushed. The ticking of the clock in its tower, unnoticeable at midday, now seemed to echo off the buildings.

As they approached, something whirred deep in its cogwheeled innards. The minute hand moved with a clonk, and shuddered to a halt on the 9. A trapdoor opened in the clock face and two little mechanical figures whirred

210

out self-importantly and tapped a small bell with great apparent effort.

Ting-ting-ling.

The figures lined up and wobbled back into the clock.

ĪTheyāve been there ever since I was a girl. Mr Simnelās great-great-grandad made them,ā said Miss Flitworth. Īl always wondered what they did between chimes, you know. I thought they had a little house in there, or something.ā

I DONāT THINK SO. THEYāRE JUST A THING. THEYāRE NOT ALIVE.

ĪHmm. Well, theyāve been there for hundreds of years. Maybe life is something you sort of acquire?ā

YES.

They waited in silence, except for the occasional thud as the minute hand climbed the night.

ĪItās been quite nice having you around the place, Bill Door.ā

He didnāt reply.

ĪHelping me with the harvest and everything.ā

IT WAS . . . INTERESTING.

ĪIt was wrong of me to delay you, just for a lot of corn.ā

NO. THE HARVEST IS IMPORTANT.

Bill Door unfolded his palm. The timer appeared.

ĪI still canāt work out how you do that.ā

IT IS NOT DIFFICULT.

The hiss of the sand grew until it filled the square.

ĪHave you got any last words?ā

YES. I DONāT WANT TO GO.

ĪWell. Succinct, anyway.ā

Bill Door was amazed to find she was trying to hold his hand.

Above him. the hands of midnight came together. There was a whirring from the clock. The door opened. The automata marched out. They clicked to a halt on either side of the hour bell, bowed to one another, and raised their hammers.

Dong.

211

And then there was the sound of a horse trotting.

Miss Flitworth found the edge of her vision filling with purple and blue blotches, like the flashes of after-image with no image to come after.

If she jerked her head quickly and peered out of the tail of her eye, she could see small greyclad shapes hovering around the walls.

The Revenooers, she thought. Theyāve come to make sure it all happens.

ĪBill?ā she said.

He closed his palm over the gold timer.

NOW IT STARTS.

The hoofbeats grew louder, and echoed off the buildings behind them.

REMEMBER: YOU ARE IN NO DANGER.

Bill Door stepped back into the gloom.

Then he reappeared momentarily.

PROBABLY, he added, and retreated into the darkness.

Miss Flitworth sat down on the steps of the clock, cradling the body of the girl across her knees.

ĪBill?ā she ventured.

A mounted figure rode into the square.

It was, indeed. on a skeletal horse. Blue flame crackled over the creatureās bones as it trotted forward; Miss Flitworth found herself wondering whether it was a real skeleton, animated in some way, something that had once been the inside of a horse, or a skeletal creature in its own right. It was a ridiculous chain of thought to follow, but it was better than dwelling on the ghastly reality that was approaching.

Did it get rubbed down, or just given a good polish?

Its rider dismounted. It was much taller than Bill Door had been, but the darkness of its robe hid any details; It held something that wasnāt exactly a scythe but which might have had a scythe in its ancestry. in the same way that even the most cunningly-fashioned surgical implement has a stick somewhere in its past. It was a long way from any implement that ever touched a straw.

The figure stalked towards Miss Flitworth, scythe

212

over its shoulder, and stopped.

Where is He?

ĪDonāt know who youāre talking about,ā said Miss Flitworth. ĪAnd if I was you, young man, Iād feed my horse.ā

The figure appeared to have trouble digesting this information, but finally it seemed to reach a conclusion. It unshipped the scythe and looked down at the child.

I will find Him, it said. But first -

It stiffened.

A voice behind it said:

DROP THE SCYTHE. AND TURN AROUND SLOWLY.

Something within the city, Windle thought. Cities grow up full of people, but theyāre also full of commerce and shops and religions and . . .

This is stupid, he told himself. Theyāre just things. Theyāre not alive.

Maybe life is something you acquire.

Parasites and predators, but not like the sort affecting animals and vegetables. They were some kind of big, slower, metaphorical lifeform, living off cities.

But they incubate in the cities, like those, what are they? those icky newman wasp things. He could remember now, just as he could remember everything, reading as a student about creatures that laid their eggs inside other creatures. For months after heād refused omelettes and caviar, just in case.

And the eggs would . . . look like the city, in a way, so that citizens would carry them home. Like cuckoo eggs.

I wonder how many cities died in the past? Ringed by parasites, like a coral reef surrounded by starfish.

Theyād just become empty, theyād lose whatever spirit they had.

He stood up.

ĪWhereās everyone gone, Librarian?ā

ĪOook oook.ā

ĪJust like them. Iād have done that. Rush off without thinking. May the gods bless them and help them, if

213

they can find the time from their eternal family squabbles.ā

And then he thought: well, what now? Iāve thought, and what am I going to do? Rush off, of course. But slowly.

The centre of the heap of trolleys was no longer visible. Something was going on. A pale blue glow hung over the huge pyramid of twisted metal, and there were occasional flashes of lightning deep within the pile. Trolleys slammed into it like asteroids accreting around the core of a new planet, but a few arrivals did something else. They headed for tunnels that had opened within the structure, and disappeared into the glittering core.

Then there was a movement at the tip of the mountain and something thrust its way up through the broken metal. Et, was a glistening spike, supporting a globe about two metres across. It did nothing very much for a minute or two and then, as the breeze dried it out, it split and crumbled.

White objects cascaded out, were caught by the wind, and fountained over Ankh-Morpork and the watching crowds.

One of them zig-zagged gently down across the rooftops and landed at the feet of Windle Poons as he lurched outside the Library.

It was still damp, and there was writing on it. At least, an attempt at writing. It looked like the strange organic inscription of the snowflake balls - words created by something that was not at all at home with words:

So\le S~l~ I I solre !~~

d b,

S~Q~--%S to/70rro~*-,

214

Windle reached the University gateway. People were streaming past.

Windle knew his fellow citizens. Theyād go to look at anything. They were suckers for anything written down with more than one exclamation mark after it.

He felt someone looking at him, and turned. A trolley was watching from an alleyway; it backed up and whizzed away.

ĪWhatās happening, Mr Poons?ā said Ludmilla.

There was something unreal about the expression of the passers-by. They wore an expression of unbudgeable anticipation.

You didnāt have to be a wizard to know that something was wrong. And Windleās senses were whining like a dynamo.

Lupine leapt at a drifting sheet of paper and brought it to him.

~\M,..i\09 recloctio~s ir)~l

J ~ooo,

Windle shook his head sadly. Five exclamation marks, the sure sign of an insane mind.

And then he heard the music.

Lupine sat back on his haunches and howled.

In the cellar under Mrs Cakeās house, Schleppel the bogeyman paused halfway through his third rat and listened.

Then he finished his meal and reached for his door.

Count Arthur Winkings Notfaroutoe was working on the crypt.

Personally, he could have lived, or re-lived, or un-lived, or whatever it was he was supposed to be doing, without a crypt. But you had to have a crypt. Doreen

215

had been very definite about the crypt. It gave the place ton, she said. You had to have a crypt anal a vault, otherwise the rest of vampire society would look down their teeth at you.

They never told you about that sort of thing when you started vampiring. They never told you to build your own crypt out of some cheap two-by-four from Challry the Trollās Wholesale Building Supplies. It wasnāt something that happened to most vampires, Arthur reflected. Not your proper vampires. Your actual Count Jugular, for example. No, a toff like himād have someone for it. When the villagers came to burn the place down, you wouldnāt catch the Count his own self whipping down to the gate to drop the draw-bridge. Oh, no. Heād just say, ĪIgorā - as it might be - ĪIgor, just svort it out, chop chopā.

Huh. Well, theyād had an advert in Mr Keebleās job shop for months now. Bed, three meals a day, and hump provided if necessary. Not so much as an enquiry. And people said there was all this unemployment around. It made you livid.

He picked up another piece of wood and measured it, grimacing as he unfolded the ruler.

Arthurās back ached from digging the moat. And that was another thing your posh vampire didnāt have to worry about. The moat came with the job, style of thing. And it went all the way round, because other vampires didnāt have the street out in front of them and old Mrs Pivey complaining on one side and a family of trolls Doreen wasnāt speaking to on the other and therefore they didnāt end up with a moat that just went across the back yard. Arthur kept falling in it.

And then there was the biting the necks of young women. Or rather, there wasnāt. Arthur was always prepared to see the other personās point of view, but he felt certain that young women came into the vampiring somewhere, whatever Doreen said. In

216

diaphanous pegnoyers. Arthur wasnāt quite certain what a diaphanous pegnoyer was, but heād read about them and he definitely felt that heād like to see one before he died . . . or whatever . . .

And other vampires didnāt suddenly find their wives talking with Vs instead of Ws. The reason being, your natural vampire talked like that anyway.

Arthur sighed.

It was no life, or half-life or after-life or whatever it was, being a lower-middle-class wholesale fruit and vegetable merchant with an upper-class condition.

And then the music filtered in through the hole in the wall that heād knocked out to put in the barred window.

ĪOw,ā he said, and clutched at his jaw. ĪDoreen?ā

Reg Shoe thumped his portable podium.

Ī- and, let me see, we shall not lie back and let the grass grow over our heads,ā he bellowed.āSo what is your seven-point plan for Equal Opportunities with the living, I hear you cry?ā

The wind blew the dried grasses in the cemetery.

The only creature apparently paying any attention to Reg was a solitary raven.

Reg Shoe shrugged and lowered his voice. ĪYou might at least make some effort,ā he said, to the next world at large.āHereās me wearing my fingers to the boneā - he flexed his hands to demonstrate - Īand do I hear a word of thanks?ā

He paused, just in case.

The raven, which was one of the extra large, fat ones that infested the rooftops of the University, put its head on one side and gave Reg Shoe a thoughtful look.

ĪYou know,ā said Reg, Īsometimes I just feel like giving up -ā

The raven cleared its throat.

Reg Shoe spun around.

ĪYou say one word, Ī he said, Ījust one bloody word . . .ā

217

And then he heard the music.

Ludmilla risked removing her hands from her ears.

ĪItās horrible! What is it, Mr Poons?ā

Windle tried to pull the remains of his hat over his ears.

ĪDonāt know,ā he said. ĪIt could be music. If youād never heard music before.ā

There werenāt notes. There were strung-together noises that might have been intended to be notes, put together as one might draw a map of a country that one had never seen.

Hnyip. Ynyip. Hulyomp.

ĪItās coming from outside the city,ā said Ludmilla. ĪWhere all the people . . . are . . . going . . . They canāt like it, can they?ā

ĪI canāt imagine why they should,ā said Windle.

ĪItās just that, . . you remember the trouble with the rats last year? That man who said he had a pipe that played music only rats could hear?ā

ĪYes, but that wasnāt really true, it was all a fraud, it was just the Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents -ā

ĪBut supposing it could have been true?ā

Windle shook his head.

ĪMusic to attract humans? Is that what youāre getting at? But that canāt be true. Itās not attracting us. Quite the reverse, I assure you.ā

ĪYes, but youāre not human . . . exactly,ā said Ludmilla.āAnd -ā She stopped, and went red in the face.

Windle patted her on the shoulder.

ĪGood point. Good point,ā was all he could think of to say.

ĪYou know, donāt you,ā she said, without looking up.

ĪYes. I donāt think itās anything to be ashamed of, if thatās any help.ā

218

Mother said it would be dreadful if anyone ever found out!ā

ĪThat probably depends on who it is,ā said Windle, glancing at Lupine.

ĪWhy is your dog staring at me like that?ā said Ludmilla.

ĪHeās very intelligent,ā said Windle.

Windle felt in his pocket, tipped out a couple of handfuls of soil, and unearthed his diary. Twenty days to next full moon. Still, itād be something to look forward to.

The metal debris of the heap started to collapse. Trolleys whirred around it, and a large crowd of Ankh-Morporkās citizens were standing in a big circle, trying to peer inside. The unmusical music filled the ???

ĪThereās Mr Dibbler,ā said Ludmilla, as they pushed their way through the unresisting people.

ĪWhatās he selling this time?ā

ĪI donāt think heās trying to sell anything, Mr Poons.ā

ĪItās that bad? Then weāre probably in lots of trouble.ā

Blue light shone out from one of the holes in the heap. Bits of broken trolley tinkled to the ground like metal leaves.

Windle bent down stiffly and picked up a pointy hat. It was battered and had been run over by a lot of trolleys, but it was still recognisable as something that by rights should be on someoneās head.

ĪThereās wizards in there,ā he said.

Silver light glittered off the metal. It moved like oil.

Windle reached out and a fat spark jumped across and grounded itself on his fingers.

ĪHmm,ā he said. ĪLot of potential, too -ā

Then he heard the cry of the vampires.

ĪCoo-ee, Mr Poons!ā

219

He turned. The Notfaroutoes were bearing down on him.

ĪWe - I mean, Ve vould have been here sooner, only -ā

Ī- I couldnāt find the blasted collar stud,ā muttered Arthur, looking hot and flustered. He was wearing a collapsible opera hat, which was fine on the collapsible part but regrettably lacking in hatness, so that Arthur appeared to be looking at the world from under a concertina.

ĪOh, hallo,ā said Windle. There was something dreadfully fascinating about the Winkingsā dedication to accurate vampirism.

ĪUnt who iss the yunk laty?ā said Doreen, beaming at Ludmilla.

ĪPardon?ā said Windle.

ĪVot?ā

ĪDoreen - I mean, the Countess asked who she is,ā Arthur supplied, wearily.

ĪI understood what I said,ā snapped Doreen, in the more normal tones of one bon and brought up in Ankh-Morpork rather than some tran-sylvanian fastness.āHonestly, if I left it to you, weād have no standards at all -ā

ĪMy nameās Ludmilla, Ī said Ludmilla.

ĪCharmed,ā said the Countess Notfaroutoe graciously, extending a hand that would have been thin and pale if it had not been pink and stubby. ĪAlvays nice to meet fresh blood. If you ever fancy a dog biscuit when youāre out and about, our door iss alwace open.ā

Ludmilla turned to Windle Poons.

ĪItās not written on my forehead, is it?ā she said.

ĪThese are a special kind of people.ā said Windle gently.

ĪI should think so,ā said Ludmilla, levelly. ĪI hardly know anyone who wears an opera cloak the whole time.ā

220

ĪYouāve got to have the cloak,ā said Count Arthur. ĪFor the wings, you see. Like -ā

He spread the cloak dramatically. There was a brief, implosive noise, and a small fat bat hung in the air. It looked down, gave an angry squeak, and nosedived on to the soil. Doreen picked it up by its feet and dusted it off.

ĪItās having to sleep with the window open all night that I object to,ā she said vaguely. ĪI wish theyād stop that music! I Īm getting a headache.ā

There was another whoomph. Arthur reappeared upside down and landed on his head.

ĪItās the drop, you see,ā said Doreen. ĪItās like a run-up, sort of thing. If he doesnāt get at least a onestorey start he canāt get up a proper airspeed.ā

ĪI canāt get a proper airspeed,ā said Arthur, struggling to his feet.

ĪExcuse me, Ī said Windle, ĪThe music doesnāt affect you?ā

ĪIt puts my teeth on edge is what it does,ā said Arthur.āWhich is not a good thing for a vampire, I probāly donāt have to tell you.ā

ĪMr Poons thinks it does something to people, Ī said Ludmilla.

ĪSets everyoneās teeth on edge?ā said Arthur.

Windle looked at the crowd. No-one was taking any notice of the Fresh Starters.

ĪThey look as though theyāre waiting for something,ā said Doreen. ĪVaiting, I mean.ā

ĪItās scary, Ī said Ludmilla.

ĪNothing wrong with scary,ā said Doreen.āWeāre scary.ā

ĪMr Poons wants to go inside the heap,ā said Ludmilla.

ĪGood idea. Get them to turn that damn music off,ā said Arthur.

ĪBut you could get killed!ā said Ludmilla.

221

Windle clapped his hands together, and rubbed them thoughtfully.

ĪAh,ā he said, Īthatās where weāre ahead of the game.ā

He walked into the glow.

Heād never seen such bright light. It seemed to emanate from everywhere, hunting down every last shadow and eradicating it ruthlessly. It was much brighter than daylight without being anything like it - there was a blue edge to it that cut vision like a knife.

ĪYou all right, Count?ā he said.

ĪFine, fine,ā said Arthur.

Lupine growled.

Ludmilla pulled at a tangle of metal.

ĪThereās something under this, you know. It looks like . . . marble. Orange-coloured marble.ā She ran her hand over it. ĪBut warm. Marble shouldnāt be warm, should it?ā

ĪIt canāt be marble. There canāt be this much marble in the whole world . . . vorld, Ī said Doreen. ĪWe tried to get marble for the vault,ā she tasted the sound of the word and nodded to herself, Īthe vault, yes. Those dwarfs should be shot, the prices they charge. Itās a disgrace.ā

ĪI donāt think dwarfs built this,ā said Windle. He knelt down awkwardly to examine the floor.

ĪI shouldnāt think so, the lazy little buggers. They wanted nearly seventy dollars to do our vault. Didnāt they, Arthur?ā

ĪNearly seventy dollars,ā said Arthur.

ĪI donāt think anyone built it,ā said Windle quietly.

Cracks. There should be cracks, he thought. Edges and things, where one slab joins another. It shouldnāt be all one piece. And slightly sticky.

ĪSo Arthur did it himself.ā

ĪI did it myself.ā

Ah. Here was an edge. Well, not exactly an edge.

222

The marble became clear, like a window, looking into another brightly lit space. There were things in there, indistinct and melted-looking, but no way in to them.

The chatter of the Winkings flowed over him as he crepe forward.

Ī- more of a vaultette, really. But he got a dungeon in, even if you have to go out into the hall to shut the door properly -ā

Gentility meant all sorts of things, Windle thought.

To some people it was not being a vampire. To others it was a matched set of flying plaster bats on the wall.

He ran his fingers over the clear substance. The world here was all rectangles. There were corners, and the corridor was lined on both sides with the clear panels. And the non-music played all the time.

It couldnāt be alive, could it? Life was . . . more rounded.

ĪWhat do you think, Lupine?ā he said.

Lupine barked.

ĪHmm. Not a lot of help.ā

Ludmilla knelt down and put her hand on Windleās shoulder.

ĪWhat did you mean, no-one built it?ā she said.

Windle scratched his head.

ĪIām not sure . . . but I think maybe it was . . . secreted.ā

ĪSecreted? From what? By what?ā

They looked up. A trolley whirred out of the mouth of a side corridor and skidded away down another on the opposite side of the passage.

ĪThem?ā said Ludmilla.

ĪI shouldnāt think so. I think theyāre more like servants. Like ants. Bees in a hive, maybe.ā

ĪWhatās the honey?ā

ĪNot sure. But itās not ripe yet. I donāt think things are quite finished. No-one touch anything.ā

They walked onward. The passage opened up into a wide, bright, domed area. Stairways led up and down

223

to different floors, and there was a fountain and a grove of potted plants that looked too healthy to be real.

ĪIsnāt it nice?ā said Doreen.

ĪYou keep thinking there should be people,ā said Ludmilla. ĪLots of people.ā

ĪThere should at least be wizards,ā muttered Windle Poons. ĪHalf a dozen wizards donāt just disappear.ā

The five of them moved closer. Passages the size of the one theyād just walked down could have accommodated a couple of elephants walking abreast.

ĪDo you think it might be a good idea to go back outside?ā said Doreen.

ĪWhat good would that do?ā said Windle.

ĪWell, itād get us out of here.ā

Windle turned, counting. Five of the passages radiated equidistantly-out of the domed area.

ĪAnd presumably itās the same above and below, Ī he said aloud.

ĪItās very clean here, Ī Doreen said nervously. ĪIsnāt it clean, Arthur?ā

ĪItās very clean.ā

ĪWhatās that noise?ā said Ludmilla.

ĪWhat noise?ā

ĪThat noise. Like someone sucking something.ā

Arthur looked around with a certain amount of interest.

ĪItās not me.ā

ĪItās the stairs,ā said Windle.

ĪDonāt be silly, Mr Poons. Stairs donāt suck.ā

Windle looked down.

ĪThese do.ā

They were black, like a sloping river. As the dark substance flowed out from under the floor it humped itself into something resembling steps, which travelled up the slope until they disappeared under the floor again, somewhere above. When the steps emerged they made a slow, rhythmic shlup-shlup noise, like someone investigating a particularly annoying dental cavity.

224

ĪDo you know,ā said Ludmilla, Īthatās quite possibly the most unpleasant thing Iāve ever seen?ā

ĪIāve seen worse,ā said Windle. ĪBut itās pretty bad.

Shall we go up or down?ā

ĪYou want to stand on them?ā

ĪNo. But the wizards arenāt on this floor and itās that or slide down the handrail. Have you looked closely at the handrail?ā

They looked at the handrail.

ĪI think,ā said Doreen nervously, Īthat down is more us.ā

They went down in silence. Arthur fell over at the point where the travelling stairs were sucked into the floor again.

ĪI had this horrible feeling it was going to drag me under,ā he said apologetically, and then looked around him.

ĪItās big,ā he concluded.āRoomy. I could do wonders down here with some stone-effect wallpaper.ā

Ludmilla wandered over to the nearest wall.

ĪYou know,ā she said, Īthereās more glass than Iāve seen before, but these clear bits look a bit like shops. Does that make sense? A great big shop full of shops?ā

ĪAnd not ripe yet,ā said Windle.

ĪSorry?ā

ĪJust thinking aloud. Can you see what the merchandise is?ā

Ludmilla shaded her eyes.

ĪIt just looks like a lot of colour and glitter.ā

ĪLet me know if you see a wizard.ā

Someone screamed.

ĪOr hear one, for example,ā Windle added. Lupine bounded off down a passageway. Windle lurched swiftly after him.

Someone was on their back, trying desperately to fight off a couple of the trolleys. They were bigger than the ones Windle had seen before, with a golden sheen to them.

225

ĪHey!ā he yelled.

They stopped trying to gore the prone figure and three-point-turned towards him.

ĪOh, Ī he said, as they got up speed.

The first one dodged Lupineās jaws and butted Windle full in the knees, knocking him over. As the second passed over him he reached up wildly, grabbed randomly at the metal, and pulled hard. A wheel spun off and the trolley cartwheeled into the wall.

He scrambled up in time to see Arthur hanging grimly on to the handle of the other trolley as the two of them whirred around in a mad centrifugal waltz.

ĪLet go! Let go!ā Doreen screamed.

ĪI canāt! I canāt!ā

ĪWell, do something!ā

There was a pop of inrushing air. The trolley was suddenly not straining against the weight of a middle-aged wholesale, fruit and vegetable entrepreneur but only against a small terrified bat. It rocketed into a marble pillar, bounced off, hit a wall and landed on its back, wheels spinning.

ĪThe wheels!ā shouted Ludmilla.āPull the wheels off!ā

ĪIāll do that,ā said Windle.āYou help Reg.ā

ĪIs that Reg down there?ā said Doreen.

Windle jerked his thumb towards the distant wall. The words ćBetter late than nevä ended in a desperate streak of paint.

ĪShow him a wall and a paint pot and he doesnāt know what world heās in,ā said Doreen.

ĪHeās only got a choice of two,ā said Windle, throwing the trolley wheels across the floor. ĪLupine, keep a look-out in case thereās any more.ā

The wheels had been sharp, like ice skates. He was definitely feeling tattered around the legs. Now, how did healing go?

Reg Shoe was helped into a sitting position.

ĪWhatās happening?ā he said.āNo-one else was

226

coming in, and I came down here to see where the music was coming from, and the next thing, thereās these wheels -ā

Count Arthur returned to his approximately human form, looked around proudly, realised that no-one was paying him any attention, and sagged.

ĪThey looked a lot tougher than the others,ā said Ludmilla.āBigger and nastier and covered in sharp edges.ā

ĪSoldiers,ā said Windle. ĪWeāve seen the workers. And now thereās soldiers. Just like ants.ā

ĪI had an ant farm when I was a lad,ā said Arthur, who had hit the floor rather heavily and was having temporary trouble with the nature of reality.

ĪHang on,ā said Ludmilla. ĪI know about ants. We have ants in the back yard. If you have workers and soldiers, then you must also have a -ā

ĪI know. I know,ā said Windle.

Ī- mind you, they called it a farm, I never saw them doing any farming -ā

Ludmilla leaned against the wall.

ĪItāll be somewhere close,ā she said.

ĪI think so, Ī said Windle.

ĪWhat does it look like, do you think?ā

Ī- what you do is, you get two bits of glass and some ants -ā

ĪI donāt know. How should I know? But the wizards will be somewhere near it.ā

ĪI donāt see vy youāre bothering about them,ā said Doreen. ĪThey buried you alive just because you vere dead.ā

Windle looked up at the sound of wheels. A dozen warrior baskets turned the corner and pulled up in formation.

ĪThey thought they were doing it for the best,ā said Windle.āPeople often do. Itās amazing, the things that seem a good idea at the time.ā

227

The new Death straightened up.

Or?

AH.

ER.

Bill Door stepped back, turned round, and ran for it.

It was, as he was wonderfully well placed to know, merely putting off the inevitable. But wasnāt that what living was all about?

No-one had ever run away from him after they were dead. Many had tried it before they were dead, often with great ingenuity. But the normal reaction of a spirit, suddenly pitched from one world into the next, was to hang around hopefully. Why run, after all? It wasnāt as if you knew where you were running to.

The ghost Bill Door knew where he was running to.

Ned Simnelās smithy was locked up for the night, although this did not present a problem. Not alive and not dead, the spirit Bill Door dived through the wall.

The fire was a barely-visible glow, settling in the forge.

The smithy was full of warm darkness.

What it didnāt contain was the ghost of a scythe.

Bill Door looked around desperately.

SQUEAK?

There was a small. dark-robed figure sitting on a beam above him. It gestured frantically towards the corner.

He saw a dark handle sticking out from the load of timber. He tried to pull at it with fingers now as substantial as a shadow.

HE SAID HE WOULD DESTROY IT FOR ME!

The Death of Rats shrugged sympathetically.

The new Death stepped through the wall, scythe held in both hands.

It advanced on Bill Door.

There was a rustling. The grey robes were pouring into the smithy.

Bill Door grinned in terror.

The new Death stopped, posing dramatically in the glow from the forge.

228

It swung.

It almost lost its balance.

You Īre not supposed to duck!

Bill Door dived through the wall again and pounded across the square. skull down, spectral feet making no noise on the cobbles. He reached the little group by the clock.

ON THE HORSE! GO!

ĪWhatās happening? Whatās happening!ā

IT HASNāT WORKED!

Miss Flitworth gave him a panicky look but put the unconscious child on Binkyās back and climbed up after her. Then Bill Door brought his hand down hard on the horseās flank. There at least there was contact - Binky existed in all worlds.

Go!

He didnāt look around but darted on up the road towards the farm.

A weapon!

Something he could hold!

The only weapon in the undead world was in the hands of the new Death.

As Bill Door ran he was aware of a faint, higher-pitched clicking noise. He looked down. The Death of Rats was keeping pace with him.

It gave him an encouraging squeak.

He skidded through the farm gate and flung himself against the wall.

There was the distant rumble of the storm. Apart from that, silence.

He relaxed slightly, and crept cautiously along the wall towards the back of the farmhouse.

He caught a glimpse of something metallic. Leaning against the wall there. where the men from the village had left it when they brought him back, was his scythe; not the one heād carefully prepared. but the one heād used for the harvest. What edge it had had been achieved only by the whetstone and the caress of the stalks, but it was a familiar

229

shape and he made a tentative grab at it. His hand passed right through.

The further you run, the closer you get.

The new Death stepped unhurriedly out of the shadows.

You should know that, it added.

Bill Door straightened up.

We will enjoy this.

ENJOY?

The new Death advanced. Bill Door backed away.

Yes. The lacking of one Death is the same as achieving the end of a billion lesser lives.

LESSER LIVES? THIS IS NOT A GAME!

The new Death hesitated. What is a game?

Bill Door felt the tiny flicker of hope.

I COULD SHOW YOU -

The end of the scythe handle caught him under the chin and knocked him against the wall, where he slid to the ground.

We ?deed? a Crick. We do not listen. The reaper does not listen to the harvest.

Bill Door tried to get up.

The scythe handle struck him again.

We will not make the same mistakes.

Bill Door looked up. The new Death was holding the golden timer; the top bulb was empty. Around both of them the landscape shifted, reddened, began to take on the unreal appearance of reality seen from the other side . . .

You Īre out of Time, Mr Bill Door.

The new Death raised his cowl.

There was no face there. There was not even a skull.

Smoke curled formlessly between the robe and a golden crown.

Bill Door raised himself on his elbows.

A CROWN? His voice shook with rage. I NEVER WORE A CROWN!

You never wanted to rule.

The Death swung the scythe back.

230

And then it dawned on the old Death and the new Death that the hissing of passing time had not, in fact, stopped.

The new Death hesitated, and took out the golden glass.

It shook it.

Bill Door looked into the empty face under the crown. There was an expression of puzzlement there, even with no features actually to wear it; the expression hung in the air all by itself.

He saw the crown turn.

Miss Flitworth stood with her hands held a foot apart and her eyes closed. Between her hands, in the air in front of her hovered the faint outline of a lifetimer, its sand pouring away in a torrent.

The Deaths could just make out, on the glass. the spidery name: Renata Flitworth.

The new Deathās featureless expression became one of terminal puzzlement. It turned to Bill Door.

For YOU?

But Bill Door was already rising and unfolding like the wrath of kings. He reached behind him, growling, living on loaned time, and his hands closed around the harvest scythe.

The crowned Death saw it coming and raised its own weapon but there was very possibly nothing in the world that would stop the worn blade as it snarled through the air, rage arid vengeance giving it an edge beyond any definition of sharpness. It passed through the metal without slowing.

NO CROWN, said Bill Door, looking directly into the smoke. NO CROWN. ONLY THE HARVEST.

The robe folded up around his blade. There was a thin wail, rising beyond the peak of hearing. A black column, like the negative of lightning, flashed up from the ground and disappeared into the clouds.

Death waited for a moment, and then gingerly gave the robe a prod with his foot. The crown, bent slightly out of shape, rolled out of it a little way before evaporating.

OH, he said, dismissively. DRAMA.

231

He walked over to Miss Flitworth and gently pressed her hands together. The image of the lifetimer disappeared.

The blue-and-violet fog on the edge of sight faded as solid reality flowed back.

Down in the town, the clock finished striking midnight.

The old woman was shivering. Death snapped his fingers in front of her eyes.

MISS FLITWORTH? RENATA?

ĪI - I didnāt know what to do and you said it wasnāt difficult and -ā

Death walked into the barn. When he came out, he was wearing his black robe.

She was still standing there.

ĪI didnāt know what to do,ā she repeated, possibly not to him.āWhat happened? Is it all over?ā

Death looked around. The grey shapes were pouring into the yard. POSSIBLY NOT, he said.

More trolleys appeared behind the row of soldiers. They looked like the small silvery workers with the occasional pale golden gleam of a warrior.

ĪWe should retreat back to the stairs,ā said Doreen.

ĪI think thatās where they want us to go,ā said Windle.

ĪThen thatās fine by me. Anyway, I vouldnāt think those wheels could manage steps, could they?ā

ĪAnd you canāt exactly fight to the death,ā said Ludmilla. Lupine was keeping close to her, yellow eyes fixed on the slowly advancing wheels.

ĪChance would be a fine thing,ā said Windle. They reached the moving stairs. He looked up. Trolleys clustered around the top of the upward stair, but the way to the floor below looked clear.

ĪPerhaps we could find another way up?ā said Ludmilla hopefully.

They shuffled on to the moving stair. Behind them, the trolleys moved in to block their return.

The wizards were on the floor below. They were

232

standing so still among the potted plants and fountains that Windle passed them at first, assuming that they were some sort of statue or piece of esoteric furniture.

The Archchancellor had a false red nose and was holding some balloons. Beside him, the Bursar was juggling coloured balls, but like a machine, his eyes staring blankly at nothing.

The Senior Wrangler was standing a little way off, wearing a pair of sandwich boards. The writing on them hadnāt fully ripened yet, but Windle would have bet his afterlife that it would eventually say something like SALE ! ! ! !

The other wizards were clustered together like dolls whose clockwork hadnāt been wound up. Each one had a large oblong badge on his robe. The familiar organic-looking writing was growing into a word that looked like:

I K Y

although why it was doing so was a complete mystery. The wizards certainly didnāt look very secure.

Windle snapped his fingers in front of the Deanās pale eyes. There was no response.

ĪHeās not dead,ā said Reg.

ĪJust resting,ā said Windle. ĪSwitched off.ā

Reg gave the Dean a push. The wizard tottered forward, and then staggered to a precarious, swaying halt.

ĪWell, weāll never get them out,ā said Arthur. ĪNot like that. Canāt you wake them up?ā

ĪLight a feather under their nose,ā Doreen volunteered.

ĪI donāt think that will work, Ī said Windle. He based the statement on the fact that Reg Shoe was very

233

nearly under their noses, and anyone whose nasal equipment failed to register Mr Shoe would certainly not react to a mere burning feather. Or a heavy weight dropped from a great height, if it came to that.

ĪMr Poons,ā said Ludmilla.

ĪI used to know a golem looked like him,ā said Reg Shoe. ĪJust like him. Great big chap, made out of clay. Thatās what your typical golem basically is. You just have to write a special holy word on Īem to start Īem up.ā

ĪWhat, like ćsecurityä?ā

ĪCould be.ā

Windle peered at the Dean. ĪNo,ā he said at last, Īno-oneās got that much clay.ā He looked around them. ĪWe ought to find out where that blasted musicās coming from.ā

ĪWhere the musicians are hidden, you mean?ā

ĪI donāt think there are musicians.ā

ĪYouāve got to have musicians, brother,ā said Reg. ĪThatās why itās called music.ā

ĪFirstly, this isnāt like any music Iāve ever heard, and secondly I always thought youāve got to have oil lamps or candles to make light and there arenāt any and thereās still light shining everywhere,ā said Windle.

ĪMr Poons?ā said Ludmilla again, prodding him.

ĪYes?ā

ĪHere come some trolleys again.ā

They were blocking all five passages leading off the central space.

ĪThereās no stairs down,ā said Windle.

ĪMaybe itās - sheās - in one of the glassy bits,ā said Ludmilla. ĪThe shops?ā

ĪI donāt think so. They donāt look finished. Anyway, that feels wrong - Ī

Lupine growled. Spikes glistened on the leading trolleys, but they werenāt rushing to attack.

ĪThey must have seen what we did to the others,ā said Arthur.

234

ĪYes. But how could they? That was upstairs,ā said Windle.

ĪWell, maybe they talk to each other.ā

ĪHow can they talk? How can they think? There canāt be any brains in a lot of wire, Ī said Ludmilla.

ĪAnts and bees donāt think, if it comes to that,ā said Windle.āTheyāre just controlled -ā

He looked upwards.

They looked upwards.

ĪItās coming from somewhere in the ceiling, Ī he said. ĪWeāve got to find it right now!ā

ĪThereās just panels of light,ā said Ludmilla.

ĪSomething else! Look for something it could be coming from!ā

ĪItās coming from everywhere!ā

ĪWhatever youāre thinking of doing,ā said Doreen, picking up a potted plant and holding it like a club, ĪI hope you do it fast.ā

ĪWhatās that round black thing up there?ā said Arthur.

ĪWhere?ā

ĪThere.ā Arthur pointed.

ĪOK, Reg and me will help you up, come on -ā

ĪMe? But I canāt stand heights!ā

ĪI thought you could turn into a bat?ā

ĪYeah, but a very nervous one!ā

ĪStop complaining. Right - one foot here, now your hand here, now put your foot on Regās shoulder -ā

ĪAnd donāt go through,ā said Reg.

ĪI donāt like this!ā Arthur moaned, as they hoisted him up.

Doreen stopped glaring at the creeping trolleys.

ĪArtor! Nobblyesse obligay!ā

ĪWhat? Is that some sort of vampire code?ā Reg whispered.

ĪIt means something like: a countās gotta do what a countās gotta do,ā said Windle.

ĪCount!ā snarled Arthur, swaying dangerously. ĪI

235

never should have listened to that lawyer! I should have known nothing good ever comes in a long brown envelope! And I canāt reach the bloody thing anyway!ā

ĪCan Īt you jump?ā said Windle.

ĪCanāt you drop dead?ā

ĪNo.ā

ĪAnd Iām not jumping!ā

ĪFly, then. Turn into a bat and fly.ā

ĪI canāt get the airspeed!ā

ĪYou could throw him up,ā said Ludmilla. ĪYou know, like a paper dart.ā

ĪBlow that! Iām a count!ā

ĪYou just said you didnāt want to be,ā said Windle mildly.

ĪOn the ground I donāt want to be, but when it comes to being chucked around like a frisbee -ā

ĪArthur! Do what Mr Poons says!ā

ĪI donāt see way -ā

ĪArthur!ā

Arthur as a bat was surprisingly heavy. Windle held him by the ears like a misshapen bowling ball and tried to take aim.

ĪRemember - Iām an endangered species!ā the Count squeaked, as Windle brought his arm back.

It was an accurate throw. Arthur fluttered to the disc in the ceiling and gripped it in his claws.

ĪCan you move it?ā

ĪNo!ā

ĪThen hang on tight and change back.ā

ĪNo!ā

ĪWeāll catch you.ā

ĪNo!ā

ĪArthur!ā screamed Doreen, prodding an advancing trolley with her makeshift club.

ĪOh, all right.ā

There was a momentary vision of Arthur Winkings clinging desperately to the ceiling, and then he dropped on Windle and Reg, the disc clasped to his chest.

236

The music stopped abruptly. Pink tubing poured out of the ravaged hole above them and coiled upon Arthur, making him look like a very cheap plate of spaghetti and meatballs. The fountains seemed to operate in reverse for a moment, and then dried up.

The trolleys halted. The ones at the back ran into the ones at the front, and there was a chorus of pathetic clanking noises.

Tubing still poured out of the hole. Windle picked up a bit. It was an unpleasant pink, and sticky.

ĪWhat do you think it is?ā said Ludmilla.

ĪI think,ā said Windle, Īthat weād better get out of here now.ā

The floor trembled. Steam gushed from the fountain.

ĪIf not sooner,ā Windle added.

There was a ?graah? from the Archchancellor. The Dean slumped forward. The other wizards remained upright, but only just.

ĪTheyāre coming out of it,ā said Ludmilla. ĪBut I donāt think theyāll manage the stairs.ā

ĪI donāt think anyone should even think about trying to manage the stairs,ā said Windle. ĪLook at them.ā

The moving stairs werenāt. The black steps glistened in the shadowless light.

ĪI see what you mean,ā said Ludmilla. ĪI Īd rather try and walk on quicksand.ā

ĪItād probably be safer,ā said Windle.

ĪMaybe thereās a ramp? There must be some way for the trolleys to get around.ā

ĪGood idea.ā

Ludmilla eyed the trolleys. They were milling around aimlessly.āI think I might have an even better one . . .ā she said, and grabbed a passing handle.

The trolley fought for a moment and then, lacking any contrary instructions, settled down docilely.

237

ĪThe ones that can walkāll walk, and the ones that canāt walkāll get pushed. Come on, grandad.ā This was to the Bursar, who was persuaded to flop across the trolley. He said Īyoā, faintly, and shut his eyes again.

The Dean was manhandled on top of him.ā

ĪAnd now where?ā said Doreen.

A couple of floor tiles buckled upwards. A heavy grey vapour started to pour out.

ĪIt must be somewhere at the end of a passage,ā said Ludmilla. ĪCome on.ā

Arthur looked down at the mists coiling around his feet.

ĪI wonder how you can do that?ā he said. ĪItās amazingly difficult to get stuff that does that. We tried it, you know, to make our crypt more . . . more cryptic, but it just smokes up the place and sets fire to the curtains -ā

ĪCome on, Artor. We are going.ā

ĪYou donāt think weāve done too much damage, do you? Perhaps we should leave a note -ā

ĪYeah, I could write something on the wall if you like,ā said Reg.

He picked up a struggling worker trolley by its handle and, with some satisfaction, smashed it against a pillar until its wheels dropped off.

Windle watched the Fresh Start Club head up the nearest passage, pushing a bargain assortment of wizardry.

ĪWell, well, well,ā he said.āAs simple as that. Thatās all we had to do. Hardly any drama at all.ā

He went to move forward, and stopped.

Pink tubes were forcing their way through the floor and were already coiled tightly around his legs. More floor tiles leapt into the air. The stairways shattered, revealing the dark, serrated and above all

ĪIt is traditional, when loading wire trolleys, to put the most fragile items at the bottom.

238

living tissue that had powered them. The walls pulsed and caved inwards, the marble cracking to reveal purple and pinkness underneath.

Of course, thought a tiny calm part of Windleās mind, none of this is really real. Buildings arenāt really alive. Itās all just a metaphor, only at the moment metaphors are like candles in a firework factory.

That being said, what sort of creature is the Queen? Like a queen bee, except sheās also the hive. Like a caddis fly, which builds, if Iām not mistaken, a shell out of bits of stone and things, to camouflage itself. Or like a nautilus, which adds on to its shell as it gets bigger. And very much, to judge by the way the floors are ripping up, like a very angry starfish.

I wonder how cities would defend themselves against this sort of thing? Creatures generally evolve some sort of defence against predators. Poisons and stings and spikes and things.

Here and now, thatās probably me. Spiky old Windle Poons.

At least I can try to see to it that the others get out all right. Letās make my presence felt . . .

He reached down, grabbed a double handful of pulsating tubes, and heaved.

The Queenās screech of rage was heard all the way to the University.

The storm clouds sped towards the hill. They piled up in a towering mass, very fast. Lightning flashed, somewhere in the core.

THEREāS TOO MUCH LIFE AROUND, said Death. NOT THAT IāM ONE TO COMPLAIN. WHEREāS THE CHILD?

ĪI put her to bed. Sheās sleeping now. Just ordinary sleep.ā

Lightning struck on the hill, like a thunderbolt. It was followed by a clanking, grinding noise, somewhere in the middle distance.

Death sighed.

239

AH. MORE ?DIWMA?.

He walked around the barn, so that he could command a good view of the dark fields. Miss Flitworth followed very closely on his heels, using him as a shield against whatever terrors were out there.

A blue glow crackled behind a distant hedge. It was moving.

ĪWhat is it?ā

IT WAS THE COMBINATION HARVESTER.

ĪWas? What is it now?ā

Death glanced at the clustering watchers.

A POOR LOSER.

The Harvester tore across the soaking fields, cloth arms whirring, levers moving inside an electric blue nimbus. The shafts for the horse waved uselessly in the air.

ĪHow can it go without a horse? It had a horse yesterday!ā

IT DOESNāT NEED ONE.

He looked around at the grey watchers. There were ranks of them now.

ĪBinkyās still in the yard. Come on!ā

No.

The Combination Harvester accelerated towards them. The schip-schip of its blades became a whine.

ĪIs it angry because you stole its tarpaulin?ā

THATāS NOT ALL I STOLE.

Death grinned at the watchers. He picked up his scythe, turned it over in his hands and then, when he was sure their gaze was fixed upon it, let it fall to the ground.

Then he folded his arms.

Miss Flitworth dragged at him.

ĪWhat do you think youāre doing?ā

DRAMA.

The Harvester reached the gate into the yard and came through in a cloud of sawdust.

ĪAre you sure weāll be all right?ā

Death nodded.

ĪWell. Thatās all right then.ā

The Harvesterās wheels were a blur.

240

PROBABLY.

And then . . .

. . . something in the machinery went clonk.

Then the Harvester was still travelling, but in pieces. Sparks fountained up from its axles. A few spindles and arms managed to hold together, jerking madly as they spun away from the whirling, slowing confusion. The circle of blades tore free, smashed up through the machine, and skimmed away across the fields.

There was a jangle, a clatter, and then the last isolated boing, which is the audible equivalent of the famous pair of smoking boots.

And then there was silence.

Death reached down calmly and picked up a complicated-looking spindle as it pinwheeled towards his feet. It had been bent into a right-angle.

Miss Flitworth peered around him.

ĪWhat happened?ā

I THINK THE ELLIPTICAL CAM HAS GRADUALLY SLID UP THE BEAM SHAFT AND CAUGHT ON THE FLANGE REBATE. WITH DISASTROUS RESULTS.

Death stared defiantly at the grey watchers. One by one, they began to disappear.

He picked up the scythe.

AND NOW I MUST GO, he said.

Miss FIitworth looked horrified.āWhat? Just like that?ā

YES. EXACTLY LIKE THAT. I HAVE A LOT OF WORK TO DO.

ĪAnd I wonāt see you again? I mean -ā

OH. YES. SOON. He sought for the right words, and gave up. THATāS A PROMISE.

Death pulled up his robe and reached into the pocket of his Bill Door overall, which he was still wearing underneath.

WHEN MR SIMNEL COMES TO COLLECT THE BITS IN THE MORNING HE WILL PROBABLY BE LOOKING FOR THIS, he said, and dropped something small and bevelled into her hand.

ĪWhat is it?ā

A THREE-EIGHTHS GRIPLEY.

241

Death walked over to his horse, and then remembered something.

AND HE OWES ME A FARTHING, TOO.

Ridcully opened one eye. People were milling around. There were lights and excitement. Lots of people were talking at once.

He seemed to be sitting in a very uncomfortable pram, with some strange insects buzzing around him.

He could hear the Dean complaining, and there were groans that could only be coming from the Bursar, and the voice of a young woman. People were being ministered to, but no-one was paying him any attention. Well, if there was ministering going on, he was damn well going to get ministered to as well.

He coughed loudly.

ĪYou could try,ā he said, to the cruel world in general, Īforcing some brandy between mālips.ā

An apparition appeared above him holding a lamp over its head. It was a size five face in a size thirteen skin; it said ĪOook?ā in a concerned way.

ĪOh, itās you,ā said Ridcully. He tried to sit up quickly. just in case the Librarian tried the kiss of life.

Confused memories wobbled across his brain. He could remember a wall of clanking metal, and then pinkness, and then . . . music. Endless music, designed to turn the living brain to cream cheese.

He turned around. There was a building behind him, surrounded by crowds of people. It was squat and clung to the ground in a strangely animal way, as if it might be possible to lift up a wing of the building and hear the pop-pop-pop of suckers letting go.

Light streamed out of it, and steam curled out of its doors.

ĪRidcullyās woken up!ā

More faces appeared. Ridcully thought: itās not Soul Cake Night, so theyāre not wearing masks. Oh, blast.

242

Behind them he heard the Dean say, ĪI vote we work ?lp? Herpettyās Seismic Reorganiser and lob it through the door. No more problem.ā

ĪNo! Weāre too close to the city walls! We just need to drop Quondumās Attractive Point in the right place -ā

ĪOr Sumpjumperās Incendiary Surprise, perhaps?ā this was the Bursarās voice. ĪBurn it out, itās the best way -ā

ĪYeah? Yeah? And what do you know about military tactics? You canāt even say ćyoä properly!ā

Ridcully gripped the sides of the trolley.

ĪWould anyone mind tellinā me,ā he said, Īwhat the - what the heck is goinā on?ā

Ludmilla pushed her way through the members of the Fresh Start Club.

ĪYouāve got to stop them, Archchancellor!ā she said. ĪTheyāre talking about destroying the big shop!ā

More nasty recollections settled on Ridcullyās mind.

ĪGood idea,ā he said.

ĪBut Mr Poons is still in there!ā

Ridcully tried to focus on the glowing building.

ĪWhat, dead Windle Poons?ā

ĪArthur flew back when we realised he wasnāt with us and he said Windle was fighting something thatād come out of the walls! We saw lots of trolleys but they werenāt bothered about us! He let us get out!ā

ĪWhat, dead Windle Poons?ā

ĪYou canāt magic the place to bits with one of your wizards in there!ā

ĪWhat, dead Windle Poons?ā

ĪYes!ā

ĪBut heās dead,ā said Ridcully. ĪIsnāt he? He said he was.ā

ĪHa!ā said someone who had much less skin than Ridcully would have liked him to have. ĪThatās typical.

243

Thatās naked vitalism, that is. I bet theyād rescue someone in there if they happened to be alive.ā

ĪBut he wanted . . . he wasnāt keen on . . . he . . .ā Ridcully hazarded. A lot of this was beyond him, but to people like Ridcully this didnāt matter for very long. Ridcully was simple-minded. This doesnāt mean stupid. It just meant that he could only think properly about things if he cut away all the complicated bits around the edges.

He concentrated on the single main fact. Someone who was technically a wizard was in trouble. He could relate to that. It struck a chord. The whole dead-or-alive business could wait.

There was another minor point that nagged at him, though.

Ī. . . Arthur? . . . flew? . . .ā

ĪHallo.ā

Ridcully turned his head. He blinked slowly.

ĪNice teeth YOU got there,ā he said.

ĪThank you,ā said Arthur Winkings.

ĪAll your own, are they?ā

ĪOh, yes.ā

ĪAmazing. Of course, I expect you brush regularly.ā

ĪYes?ā

ĪHygienic. Thatās the important thing.ā

ĪSo what are you going to do?ā said Ludmilla.

ĪWell, weāll just go and fetch him out, Ī said Ridcully.

What was it about the girl? He felt a strange urge to pat her on the head.āWeāll get some magic and get him out. Yes. Dean !ā

ĪYo!ā

ĪWe Īre just going to go in there to get Windle out.ā

ĪYo!ā

ĪWhat?ā said the Senior Wrangler. ĪYou must be out of your mind!ā

Ridcully tried to look as dignified as possible, given his situation.

ĪRemember that I am your Archchancellor,ā he snapped.

244

ĪThen you must be out of your mind, Archchancellor!ā said the Senior Wrangler. He lowered his voice. ĪAnyway, heās an undead. I donāt see how you can save undeads. Itās a sort of contradiction in terms.ā

ĪA dichotomy, Ī said the Bursar helpfully.

ĪOh, I donāt think surgery is involved.ā

ĪAnyway, didnāt we bury him?ā said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

ĪAnd now we dig him up again,ā said the Archchancellor. ĪItās probably a miracle of existence.ā

ĪLike pickles,ā said the Bursar, happily.

Even the Fresh Starters went blank.

ĪThey do that in parts of Howondaland,ā said the Bursar.āThey make these big, big jars of special pickles and then they bury them in the ground for months to ferment and they get this lovely piquant -ā

ĪTell me,ā Ludmilla whispered to Ridcully, Īis this how wizards usually behave?ā

ĪThe Senior Wrangler is an amazingly fine example,ā said Ridcully. ĪGot the same urgent grasp of reality as a cardboard cut-out. Proud to have him on the team.ā He rubbed his hands together.āOK, lads. Volunteers?ā

ĪYo! Hut!ā said the Dean, who was in an entirely different world now.

ĪI would be remiss in my duty if I failed to help a brother,ā said Reg Shoe.

ĪOook.ā

ĪYou? We canāt take you,ā said the Dean, glaring at the Librarian. ĪYou don Īt know a thing about guerrilla warfare.ā

ĪOook!ā said the Librarian, and made a surprisingly comprehensive gesture to indicate that, on the other hand, what he didnāt know about orangutan warfare could be written on the very small pounded-up remains of, for example, the Dean.

245

ĪFour of us should be enough,ā said the Archchancellor.

ĪIāve never even heard him say ćYoä,ā muttered the Dean.

He removed his hat, something a wizard doesnāt ordinarily do unless heās about to pull something out of it, and handed it to the Bursar. Then he tore a thin strip off the bottom of his robe, held it dramatically in both hands, and tied it around his forehead.

ĪItās part of the ethos,ā he said, in answer to their penetratingly unspoken question. ĪThatās what the warriors on the Counter-weight Continent do before they go into battle. And you have to shout -ā He tried to remember some far-off reading.ā- er, bonsai. Yes. Bonsai!ā

ĪI thought that meant chopping bits off trees to make them small,ā said the Senior Wrangler.

The Dean hesitated. He wasnāt too sure himself, if it came to it. But a good wizard never let uncertainty stand in his way.

ĪNo, itās definitely got to be bonsai,ā he said. He considered it some more and then brightened up. ĪOn account of it all being part of bushido. Like . . . small trees. Bush-i-do. Yeah. Makes sense, when you think about it.ā

ĪBut you canāt shout ćbonsai!ä here,ā said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. ĪWeāve got a totally different cultural background. Itād be useless. No-one will know what you mean.ā

ĪIāll work on it,ā said the Dean.

He noticed Ludmilla standing with her mouth open.

ĪThis is wizard talk,ā he said.

ĪIt is, isnāt it,ā said Ludmilla. ĪI never would have guessed.ā

The Archchancellor had got out of the trolley and was wheeling it experimentally back and forth. It usually took quite a long time for a fresh idea to fully lodge in Ridcullyās mind, but he felt instinctively that

246

there were all sorts of uses for a wire basket on four wheels.

ĪAre we going or are we standinā around all night bandaginā our heads?ā he said.

ĪYo!ā snapped the Dean.

ĪYo?ā said Reg Shoe.

ĪOook!ā

ĪWas that a yo?ā said the Dean, suspiciously.

ĪOook.ā

ĪWell . . . all right, then.ā

Death sat on a mountaintop. It wasnāt particularly high, or bare, or sinister. No witches held naked sabbats on it; Discworld witches, on the whole, didnāt hold with taking off any more clothes than was absolutely necessary for the business in hand. No spectres haunted it. No naked little men sat on the summit dispensing wisdom, because the first thing the truly-wise man works out is that sitting around on mountaintops gives you not only haemorrhoids but frostbitten haemorrhoids.

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 wonāt do.

Death sat on the cairn and ran a stone down the blade of his scythe in long, deliberate strokes.

There was a movement of air. Three grey servants popped into existence.

One said, You think you have won?

One said, You think you have triumphed?

Death turned the stone in his hand, to get a fresh surface. and brought it slowly down the length of the blade.

One said, We will inform Azrael.

One said, You are only, after all, a little Death.

Death held the blade up to the moonlight, twisting it this way and that, noting the play of light on the tiny flecks of metal on its edge.

247

Then he stood up, in one quick movement. The servants backed away hurriedly.

He reached out with the speed of a snake and grasped a robe, pulling its empty hood level with his eye sockets.

DO YOU KNOW WHY THE PRISONER IN THE TOWER WATCHES THE FLIGHT OF BIRDS? he said.

It said, Take your hands off me . . . oops . . .

Blue flame flared for a moment.

Death lowered his hand and looked around at the other two.

One said, You havenāt heard the last of this.

They vanished.

Death brushed a speck of ash off his robe, and then planted his feet squarely on the mountaintop. He raised the scythe over his head in both hands, and summoned all the lesser Deaths that had arisen in his absence.

After a while they streamed up the mountain in a faint black wave.

They flowed together like dark mercury.

It went on for a long time and then stopped.

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 couldnāt be quite certain what it was.

He shrugged. Doubtless heād 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.

Windle Poons brought both feet down heavily on a tentacle snaking out from under the tiles, and lurched off through the steam. A slab of marble smashed down, showering him with fragments. Then he kicked the wall, savagely.

248

There was very probably no way out now, he realised, and even if there was he couldnāt find it. Anyway, he was already inside the thing. It was shaking its own walls down in an effort to get at him. At least he could give it a really bad case of indigestion.

He headed towards an orifice that had once been the entrance to a wide passage, and dived awkwardly through it just before it snapped shut. Silver fire crackled over the walls. There was so much life here it couldnāt be contained.

There were a few trolleys still here, skittering madly across the shaking floor, as lost as Windle.

He set off along another likely-looking corridor, although most corridors heād been down in the last one hundred and thirty years hadnāt pulsated and dripped so much.

Another tentacle thrust through the wall and tripped him up.

Of course, it couldnāt kill him. But it could make him bodiless. Like old One-Man-Bucket. A fate worse than death, probably.

He pulled himself up. The ceiling bounced down on him, flattening him against the floor.

He counted under his breath and scampered forward. Steam washed over him.

He slipped again, and thrust out his hands.

He could feel himself losing control. There were too many things to operate. Never mind the spleen, just keeping heart and lungs going was taking too much effort...

ĪTopiary !ā

ĪWhat the heck do you mean?ā

ĪTopiary! Get it? Yo!ā

ĪOook!ā

Windle looked up through foggy eyes.

Ah. Obviously he was losing control of his brain, too.

A trolley came sideways out of the steam with shadowy figures clinging on to its sides. One hairy arm and

249

one arm that was barely an arm any more reached down, picked him up bodily and dumped him into the basket. Four tiny wheels skidded on the floor, the trolley bounced off the wall, and then it righted itself and rattled away.

Windle was only vaguely aware of voices.

ĪOff you go, Dean. I know youāve been looking forward to it.ā That was the Archchancellor.

ĪYo!ā

ĪYouāll kill it totally? I donāt think we want it ending up at the Fresh Start Club. I donāt think itās a joiner.ā That was Reg Shoe.

ĪOook!ā That was the Librarian.

ĪDonāt you worry, Windle. The Dean is going to do something military, apparently, Ī said Ridcully.

ĪYo! Hut!ā

ĪOh, good grief.ā

Windle saw the Deanās hand float past with something glittering in it.

ĪWhat are you going to use?ā said Ridcully, as the trolley rocketed through the steam.āThe Seismic Reorganiser, the Attractive Point or the Incendiary Surprise?ā

ĪYo, Ī said the Dean, with satisfaction.

ĪWhat, all three at once?ā

ĪYo!ā

ĪThatās going a bit far, isnāt it? And incidentally, if you say ćyoä one more time, Dean, I will personally have you thrown out of the University, pursued to the rim of the world by the finest demons that thaumaturgy can conjure up, torn into extremely small pieces, minced, turned into a mixture reminiscent of steak tartare, and turned out into a dog bowl.ā

ĪY -ā The Dean caught Ridcullyās eye.āYes. Yes? Oh, go on, Archchancellor. Whatās the good of having mastery over cosmic balance and knowing the secrets of fate if you canāt blow something up? Please? Iāve got them all ready. You know how it upsets the

250

inventory if you donāt use them after youāve got them ready -ā

The trolley whirred up a trembling slope and cornered on two wheels.

ĪOh, all right, Ī said Ridcully. ĪIf it means that much to you.ā

ĪY - sorry.ā

The Dean started to mutter urgently under his breath, and then screamed.

ĪIāve gone blind!ā

ĪYour bonsai bandage has slipped over your eyes, Dean.ā Windle groaned.

ĪHow are you feeling, brother Poons?ā Reg Shoeās ravaged features occluded Windleās view.

ĪOh, you know, Ī said Windle. ĪCould be better, could be worse.ā

The trolley ricocheted off a wall and jerked away in another direction.

ĪHow are those spells coming along, Dean?ā said Ridcully, through gritted teeth.āIām having real difficulties controlling this thing.ā

The Dean muttered a few more words, and then waved his hands dramatically. Octarine flame spurted from his fingertips and earthed itself somewhere in the mists.

ĪYee-haw!ā he crowed.

ĪDean?ā

ĪYes, Archchancellor?ā

ĪThe comment I made recently about the Y-word . . .ā

ĪYes? Yes?ā

ĪYou can definitely include Yee-haw, too.ā

The Dean hung his head.

ĪOh. Yes. Archchancellor.ā

ĪAnd why hasnāt everythinā gone boom?ā

ĪI put a slight delay on it, Archchancellor. I thought perhaps we ought to get out before things happened.ā

ĪGood thinking, that man.ā

251

ĪSoon have you out, Windle,ā said Reg Shoe. ĪWe donāt leave our people in there. Isnāt this -ā

And then the floor erupted ahead of them.

And then, behind them.

The thing that arose from the shattered tiles was either formless or many forms at once. It writhed angrily, snapping its tubing at them.

The trolley skewed to a halt.

ĪGot any more magic, Dean?ā

ĪEr . . . no, Archchancellor.ā

ĪAnd the spells you just said will go off . . . ?ā

ĪAny second now, Archchancellor.ā

ĪSo . . . whateverās going to happen . . . is going to happen to us?ā

ĪYes, Archchancellor.ā

idcully patted Windle on the head.

ĪSorry about this,ā 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.

ĪWhat is it?ā said Reg.

Windle raised himself as far as he could.

ĪSchleppel!ā

ĪOh, come on,ā said Reg.

ĪItās Schleppel!ā shouted Windle. ĪSchleppel! Itās us! Can you help us out?ā

The door paused. Then it was flung aside.

Schleppel unfolded himself to his full height.

ĪHallo, Mr Poons. Hallo, Reg,ā he said.

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

ĪEr, Schleppel . . . er . . . could you clear the way for us?ā Windle quavered.

ĪNo problem, Mr Poons. Anything for a friend.ā

A hand the size of a wheelbarrow glided through the

252

steam and tore into the blockage, ripping it out with incredible ease.

ĪHey, look at me!ā said Schleppel. ĪYouāre right. A bogeyman needs a door like a fish needs a bicycle! Say it now and say it loud, Iām -ā

ĪAnd now could you get out of the way, please?ā

ĪSure. Sure. Wow!ā Schleppel took another swipe at the Queen.

The trolley shot forward.

ĪAnd youād better come with us!ā Windle shouted, as Schleppel disappeared in the mists.

ĪNo he shouldnāt,ā said the Archchancellor, as they sped along. ĪBelieve me. What was it?ā

ĪHeās a bogeyman,ā said Windle.

ĪI thought you only get them in closets and things?ā shouted Ridcully.

ĪHeās come out of the closet,ā said Reg Shoe proudly. ĪAnd heās found himself.ā

ĪJust so long as we can lose him.ā

ĪWe canāt just leave him -ā

ĪWe can! We can!ā snapped Ridcully.

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

ĪThe spells are starting to go off!ā shouted the Dean. ĪMove it!ā

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

ĪYo!ā bellowed Ridcully, as the crowd scattered ahead of them.

ĪDoes that mean I can say yo too?ā said the Dean.

ĪAll right. Just once. Everyone can say it just once.ā

ĪYo!ā

ĪYo!ā echoed Reg Shoe.

ĪOook!ā

ĪYo!ā said Windle Poons.

ĪYo!ā said Schleppel.

(Somewhere in the darkness, where the crowd was

253

thinnest, the gaunt shape of Mr Ixolite, the worldās last surviving banshee, sidled up to the shaking building and bashfully shoved a note under the door. It said: OOOOeeeOOOeeeOOOeee.)

The trolley ploughed to a very definitive stop. No-one turned around. Reg said, slowly: ĪYouāre behind us, right?ā.

ĪThatās right, Mr Shoe, Ī said Schleppel happily.

ĪShould we worry when heās in front of us?ā said Ridcully, ĪOr is it worse because we know heās behind us?ā

ĪHah! No more closets and cellars for this bogey,ā said Schleppel.

ĪThatās a shame, because weāve got some really big cellars at the University,ā said Windle Poons quickly.

Schleppel was silent for a while. Then he said, in an exploratory tone of voice, ĪHow big?ā

ĪHuge.ā

ĪYeah? With rats?ā

ĪRats arenāt the half of it. Thereās escaped demons and all sorts down there. Infested, they are.ā

ĪWhat are you doing?ā hissed Ridcully. ĪThatās our cellars youāre talking about!ā

ĪYouād prefer him under your bed, would you?ā murmured Windle. ĪOr walking around behind you?ā

Ridcully nodded briskly.

ĪWow, yes, those rats are getting really out of hand down there,ā he said loudly. ĪSome of them - oh, about two feet long, wouldnāt you say, Dean?ā

ĪThree feet, Ī said the Dean. ĪAt least.ā

ĪFat as butter, too,ā said Windle.

Schleppel gave this some thought. ĪWell, all right,ā he said reluctantly. ĪMaybe Iāll just wander in and have a look at them.ā

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

254

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 spiralled 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.

ĪItās not seeding, is it?ā 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:

C)OS ~Iā~ ~o~~o S\ae.

v

~3VQr~~hnia t7u~, O9 ,l

c/ J o

ĪNo, Ī said Windle. ĪProbably not.ā

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. *

_______________________________________________________________

* It is generally thought, on those worlds where the mall lifeform has seeded, that people take the wire baskets away and leave them in strange and isolated places, so that squads of young men have to be employed to gather them together and wheel them back. This is exactly the opposite of the truth. In reality the men are hunters. stalking their rattling prey across the landscape, trapping them, breaking their spirit, taming them and herding them to a life of slavery. Possibly.

255

ĪPog-a-grodle-fig!ā

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. Sheād 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.

ĪPlease, Miss Flitworth -ā

ĪHmm?ā

ĪPlease, Miss Flitworth, thereās a skeleton of a horse walking around in the barn! Itās eating hay!ā

ĪHow?ā

ĪAnd itās all falling through!ā

ĪReally? Weāll keep it, then. At least itāll be cheap to feed.ā

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

ĪYou all right. Miss Flitworth?ā

ĪYou all right, Mr Poons?ā

Windle stared at nothing.

ĪWindle?ā said Reg Shoe.

ĪHmm?ā

ĪThe Archchancellor just asked if you wanted a drink.ā

ĪHeād like a glass of distilled water,ā said Mrs Cake.

ĪWhat, just water?ā said Ridcully.

ĪThatās what he wants,ā said Mrs Cake.

ĪIād Like a glass of distilled water, please,ā 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

256

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 sheād heard that her daughter had been invited to the University sheād come too. Mrs Cake always assumed that an invitation to Ludmilla was an invitation to Ludmillaās 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, ĪWell, isnāt this nice.ā

ĪYou looked a bit lost there, Windle, for a moment,ā said Ridcully.

ĪIām just a bit tired, Archchancellor.ā

ĪI thought you zombies never slept.ā

ĪIām still tired,ā said Windle.

ĪYou Īre sure you wouldnāt like us to have another go with the burial and everything? We could do it properly this time.ā

ĪThank you all the same, but no. Iām just not cut out for the undead life, I think.ā Windle looked at Reg Shoe. ĪSorry about that. I donāt know how you manage it.ā He grinned apologetically.

ĪYouāve got every right to be alive or dead, just as you choose,ā said Reg severely.

ĪOne-Man-Bucket says people are dying properly again,ā said Mrs Cake. ĪSo you could probably get an appointment.ā

Windle looked around.

ĪSheās taken your dog for a walk,ā said Mrs Cake.

ĪWhereās Ludmilla?ā he said.

Windle smiled awkwardly. Mrs Cakeās premonitions could be very wearing.

ĪItād be nice to know that Lupine was being looked after if I . . . went,ā he said. ĪI wonder, could you take him in?ā

257

ĪWell . . .ā said Mrs Cake uncertainly.

ĪBut heās -ā Reg Shoe began, and then saw Windleās expression.

ĪI must admit itād be a relief to have a dog around the place,ā said Mrs Cake. ĪIām always worrying about Ludmilla. Thereās a lot of strange people around.ā

ĪBut your dau -ā Reg began again.

ĪShut up, Reg,ā said Doreen.

ĪThatās all settled, then,ā said Windle.āAnd have you got any trousers?ā

ĪWhat?ā

ĪAny trousers in the house?ā

ĪWell, I suppose Iāve got some that belonged to the late Mr Cake, but why -ā

ĪSorry,ā said Windle. ĪMy mind was wandering. Donāt know what I Īm saying, half the time.ā

ĪAh,ā said Reg, brightly, ĪI see. What youāre saying is that when he -ā

Doreen nudged him viciously.

ĪOh,ā said Reg. ĪSorry. Donāt mind me. Iād forget my own head if it wasnāt sewn on.ā

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 curse-words, 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 didnāt need him. At last. The world didnāt need Windle Poons.

He got up quietly and lurched to the door.

ĪIām just going out,ā he said. ĪI may be some time.ā

Ridcully gave him a half-hearted nod, and concentrated on what Arthur had to say about how the Great

258

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.

ĪAre you there, One-Man-Bucket?ā he said softly.

how did you know?

ĪYouāre generally around.ā

heh heh, youāve caused some real trouble there! you know whatās going to happen next full moon ?

ĪYes, I do. And I think, somehow, that they do too.ā

but heāll become a wolfman.

ĪYes. And sheāll become a wolfwoman.ā

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

ĪMaybe at least as good a chance of happiness as most people get. Life isnāt perfect, One-Man-Bucket.ā

youāre telling me?

ĪNow, can I ask you a personal question?ā said Windle. ĪI mean Iāve just got to know . . .ā

huh.

ĪAfter all, youāve got the astral plane to yourself again.ā

oh, all right.

ĪWhy are you called One -ā

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

ĪThatās pretty unfortunate, Ī said Windle.

itās 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.

ĪDonāt tell me, let me guess,ā he said. ĪTwo-Dogs-Fighting?ā

259

Two-Dogs-Fighting a Two-Dogs-Fighting? said One-Man-Bucket. Wow, heād 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 ćstoryä 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 someoneās 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 Ī 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 (heād 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.

Thereād be two figures running across the high moorland under the moon. Not entirely wolves, not entirely human. With any luck, theyād 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 heād swivel the chair backwards and forwards.

Albert brought him in a cup of tea and exited with diplomatic soundlessness.

260

There was one lifetimer left on Deathās 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 deskās scarred woodwork. In front of him, stacked up with impromptu bookmarks in their pages, were the lives of some of the Discworldās great lovers.* Their fairly repetitive experiences hadnāt 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, towards 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? - someoneās 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.

_______________________________________________________________

* The most enthusiastic of these was the small but persistent and incredibly successful Casanunder the Dwarf, a name mentioned with respect and awe wherever stepladder owners are gathered together.

261

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 wasnāt that he felt he understood, but at least he felt that there was something there capable of understanding.

In the curtained blackness of Miss Flitworthās parlour a darker shape moved through the darkness, heading towards 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.

Heād 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 theyād 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 wasnāt 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.

262

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 heād had a limited supply. They meant nothing at all to Death, whoād 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.

There was company on the ride - galaxies, stars, ribbons of shining matter, streaming and eventually spiralling towards 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

263

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 centre of the entire web of the dimensions, and ticked onward. Stars glittered in Azraelās 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 ?~ding? 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 . . .

Azraelās 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 backwards.

It was impossible to read expression in Azraelās features.

Death glanced sideways at the servants.

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

264

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:

T

1

l~ ~C) I

And another finger reached out across the darkness towards the Clock.

There were faint screams of rage from the servants, and then screams of realisation, 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 d 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.

265

A shop bell jangled.

Druto Pole, florist, looked over a spray of floribunda Mrs Shooer. Someone was standing among the vases of flowers. They looked slightly indistinct; in fact. even afterwards, Druto was never sure who had been in his shop and how his words had actually sounded.

He oiled forward, rubbing his hands.

ĪHow may I hel -ā

FLOWERS.

Druto hesitated only for a moment.

ĪAnd the, er, destination for these -ā

A LADY.

ĪAnd do you have any pref -ā

ĪAh? Are you sure that lilies are -?ā

I LIKE LILIES.

ĪUm . . . itās just that lilies are a little bit sombre -ā

I LIKE SOMB -

The figure hesitated.

WHAT DO YOU RECOMMEND?

Druto slipped smoothly into gear.āRoses are always very well received,ā he said. ĪOr orchids. Many gentlemen these days tell me that ladies find a single specimen orchid more acceptable than a bunch of roses -ā

GIVE ME LOTS.

ĪWould that be orchids or roses?ā

BOTH.

Drutoās fingers twined sinuously, like eels in grease.

ĪAnd I wonder if I could interest you in these marvellous sprays of Neroousa GIoriosa -ā

LOTS OF THEM.

ĪAnd if Sirās budget would stretch, may I suggest a single specimen of the extremely rare -ā

YES.

ĪAnd possibly -ā

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

266

corroded, all of them were strange, and one or two were golden.

ĪUm,ā he said. ĪThat will do nicely . . .ā

He became aware of a soft pattering sound.

Around him, all over the shop, petals were falling like rain.

AND THESE?

ĪThatās our De Luxe assortment,ā said the lady in the chocolate shop. It was such a highclass 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-FLAVOURED? he added, his tone taking on a definite menace, or rather more menace than it had already.

ĪUm, no. Thatās our Supreme Assortment.ā

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. ĪOf course,ā she said, Īfor that very special occasion . . .ā

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, wouldnāt 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.

ĪDARK ENCHANTMENTS,ā he said. I ?WKEIT?.

ĪFor those intimate moments,ā said the lady.

The customer appeared to consider the relevance of this.

YES. THAT SEEMS APPROPRIATE.

267

The shopkeeper beamed.

ĪShall I wrap them up, then?ā

YES. WITH A RIBBON.

ĪAnd will there be anything else, sir?ā

The customer seemed to panic.

ELSE? SHOULD THERE BE ANYTHING ELSE? IS THERE SOMETHING ELSE? WHAT IS IT THAT SHOULD BE DONE?

ĪIām sorry, sir?ā

A PRESENT FOR A LADY.

The shopkeeper was left a little adrift by this sudden turning of the tide of conversation. She swam towards a reliable cliche.

ĪWell, they do say, donāt they, that diamonds are a girlās best friend?ā she said brightly.

DIAMONDS? OH. DIAMONDS. IS THAT SO?

They glittered like bits of starlight on a black velvet sky.

ĪThis one.ā said the merchant, Īis a particularly excellent stone, donāt you think? Note the fire, the exceptional -ā

HOW FRIENDLY IS IT?

The merchant hesitated. He knew about carats, about adamantine lustre, about ćwaterä and ćmakeä and ćfireä, but heād never before been called upon to judge gems in terms of general affability.

ĪQuite well-disposed?ā he hazarded.

NO.

The merchantās fingers seized on another splinter of frozen light.

ĪNow this,ā he said, confidence flowing back into his voice, Īis from the famous Shortshanks mine. May I draw your attention to the exquisite -ā

He felt the penetrating stare drill through the back of his head.

ĪBut not, I must admit, noted for its friendliness,ā 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.

268

ARE ANY OF THESE FRIENDLY? he said.

ĪSir, 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,ā 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?

ĪThe biggest? Thatās easy. Itās the Tear of Offler, itās 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.ā

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 wasnāt 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 thermometerā 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 didnāt look up.

ĪĪLost Jewelled Temple Roof Repair Fund! Only 6,000 gold pieces to go!! Please Give Generously!! Thank you!!!ā

269

ĪHeyup.ā he said. ĪAnother one for the big rolling ball, then.ā

There was a thump and a rumbling, grinding sound. And then a very final bang.

ĪNow,ā said the High Priest. ĪWhat was the stake?ā

ĪTwo pebbles,ā said the low priest.

ĪRight.ā The High Priest peered at his cards.āOK, Iāll see your two peb-ā

There was the faint sound of footsteps.

ĪChap with a whip got as far as the big sharp spikes last week,ā 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.

ĪRight,ā he said.āSee your two pebbles and raise you two pebbles.ā

The low priest threw down his cards.

ĪDouble Onionā he said.

The High Priest looked down suspiciously.

The low priest consulted a scrap of paper.

ĪThatās three hundred thousand, nine hundred and sixty-four pebbles you owe me,ā he said.

There was the sound of footsteps.

The priests exchanged glances.

ĪHavenāt had one for poisoned dart alley for quite some time,ā said the High Priest.

ĪFive says he makes it,ā said the low priest.

ĪYouāre on.ā

There was a faint clatter of metal points on stone.

ĪItās a shame to take your pebbles.ā

There were footsteps again.

ĪAll right, but thereās still the -ā a creak, a splash Ī - the crocodile tank.ā

There were footsteps.

ĪNo-oneās ever got past the dreaded guardian of the portals -ā

The priests looked into one anotherās horrified faces.

270

ĪHey,ā said the one who was not High. ĪYou donāt think it could be -ā

ĪHere? Oh, come on. Weāre in the middle of a godsdamn jungle.ā The High Priest tried to smile. ĪThereās no way it could be -ā

The footsteps got nearer.

The priests clutched at one another in terror.

ĪMrs Cake!ā

The doors exploded inwards. A dark wind drove into the room, blowing out the candles and scattering the cards like polka~~ of 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 wasnāt 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, ĪWell, look at it like this: apart from us, whoās going to know?ā

ĪYeah. Never thought of it like that. Hey, can I be High Priest tomorrow?ā

ĪItās not your turn until Thursday.ā

ĪOh. come on.ā

The High Priest shrugged, and removed his High Priesting hat.

ĪItās very depressing, this kind of thing,ā he said, glancing up at the ravaged statue. ĪSome people just donāt know how to behave in a house of religion.ā

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.

271

ĪBill Door? You gave me quite a start -ā

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.

ĪBill Door, what are you thinking of?ā

I HAVE COME TO TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ALL THIS.

ĪYou have? Where to?ā

Death hadnāt thought this far.

WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE?

ĪI aināt proposing to go anywhere tonight except to the dance,ā said Miss Flitworth firmly.

Death hadnāt planned for this, either.

WHAT IS THIS DANCE?

ĪHarvest dance. You know? Itās tradition. When the harvest is in. Itās a sort of celebration, and like a thanksgiving.ā

THANKSGIVING TO WHO?

ĪDunno. No-one in particular, I reckon. Just general thankfulness, I suppose.ā

I HAD PLANNED TO SHOW YOU MARVELS. FINE CITIES. ANYTHING YOU WANTED.

ĪAnything?ā

YES.

ĪThen weāre going to the dance, Bill Door. I always go every year. They rely on me. You know how it is.ā

YES. MISS FLITWORTH.

He reached out and took her hand.

ĪWhat, you mean now?ā she said, ĪIām not ready -ā

LOOK.

She looked down at what she was suddenly wearing.

ĪThatās not my dress. Itās got all glitter on it.ā

Death sighed. The great lovers of history had never encountered Miss Flitworth. Casanunder would have handed in his stepladder.

THEYāRE DIAMONDS. A KINGāS RANSOM IN DIAMONDS.

272

ĪWhich king?ā

ANY KING.

ĪCoo.ā

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 side-saddle behind Death, Miss Flitworth explored the rustling contents of the box of Dark Enchantments.

ĪHere,ā she said, Īsomeoneās had all the rum truffles.ā

There was another crackle of paper. ĪAnd from the bottom layer, too. I hate that, people starting the bottom layer before the top oneās been properly finished. And I can tell youāve been doing it because thereās a little map in the lid and by rights there should be rum truffles. Bill Door?ā

IāM SORRY, MISS FLITWORTH.

ĪThis big diamondās a bit heavy. Nice, though,ā she added, grudgingly.āWhereād you get it?ā

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

ĪAnd is it?ā

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

ĪInside every lump of coal thereās a diamond waiting to get out. right?ā

YES, MISS FLITWORTH.

There was no sound for a while, except the clipclop of Binkyās hoofs. Then Miss Flitworth said, archly:

ĪI do know whatās going on, you know. I saw how much sand there was. And so you thought ćSheās not a bad old stick, Iāll show her a good time for a few hours, and then when sheās not expecting it, itāll be time for the old cut-de-grassä, am I right?ā

Death said nothing.

ĪI am right, arenāt I?ā

I CANāT HIDE ANYTHING FROM YOU, MISS FLITWORTH.

ĪHuh. I suppose I should be flattered. Yes? I expect youāve got a lot of calls on your time.ā

MORE THAN YOU COULD POSSIBLY IMAGINE, MISS FLITWORTH.

273

ĪIn the circumstances, then, you might as well go back to calling me Renata again.ā

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.

ĪI always come along to the harvest dance,ā said Miss Flitworth, conversationally. ĪNot to dance, of course. I generally look after the food and so on.ā

WHY?

ĪWell. someoneās got to look after the food.ā

I MEANT WHY DONāT YOU DANCE?

Ī ĪCos Iām old, thatās why.ā

YOU ARE AS OLD AS YOU THINK YOU ARE.

ĪHuh! Yeah? Really? Thatās the kind of stupid thing people always say. They always say, My word, youāre looking well. They say, Thereās life in the old dog yet. Many a good ?tu~5e? played on an old fiddle. That kind of stuff. Itās all stupid. As if being old was some kind of thing you should be glad about! As if being philosophical about it will earn you marks! My head knows how to think young, but my knees arenāt that good at it. Or my back. Or my teeth. Try telling my knees theyāre as old as they think they are and see what good it does you. Or them.ā

IT MAY BE WORTH A TRY.

More figures moved in front of the firelight. Death could see striped poles strung with bunting.

ĪThe lads usually bring a couple of barn doors down here and nail Īem together for a proper floor,ā observed Miss Flitworth. ĪThen everyone can join in.ā

FOLK DANCING? said Death, wearily.

ĪNo. We have some pride, you know.ā

SORRY.

ĪHey, itās Bill Door, isnāt it?ā said a figure looming out of the dusk.

ĪItās good old Bill!ā

ĪHey, Bill!ā

Death looked at a circle of guileless faces.

274

HALLO. MY FRIENDS.

ĪWe heard youād gone away,ā said Duke Bottomley. He glanced at Miss Flitworth, as Death helped her down from the horse. His voice faltered a bit as he tried to analyse the situation.

ĪYouāre looking very . . . sparkly . . . tonight, Miss Flitworth,ā he finished, gallantly.

The air smelled of warm, damp grass. An amateur orchestra was still setting up under an awning.

There were trestle tables covered with the kind of food thatās normally associated with the word ćrepastä - pork pies like varnished military fortifications, vats of demonical pickled onions, jacket potatoes wallowing in a cholesterol ocean of melted butter. Some of the local elders had already established themselves on the benches provided, and were chewing stoically if toothlessly through the food with the air of people determined to sit there all night, if necessary.

ĪNice to see the old people enjoying themselves,ā said Miss Flitworth. Death looked at the eaters. Most of them were younger than Miss Flitworth.

There was a giggle from somewhere in the scented darkness beyond the firelight.

ĪAnd the young people,ā Miss Flitworth added, evenly. ĪWe used to have a saying about this time of year. Letās see . . . something like ćCorn be ripe, nuts be brown, petticoats up . . .ä something.ā She sighed. ĪDonāt time fly, eh?ā

YES.

ĪYou know, Bill Door, maybe you were right about the power of positive thinking. I feel a lot better tonight.ā

YES?

Miss Flitworth looked speculatively at the dance floor. ĪI used to be a great dancer when I was a gel. I could dance anyone off their feet. I could dance down the moon. I could dance the sun up.ā

She reached up and removed the bands that held her hair in its tight bun, and shook it out in a waterfall of white.

ĪI take it you do dance, Mr Bill Door?ā

FAMED FOR IT, MISS FLITWORTH.

275

Under the bandās awning, the lead fiddler nodded to his fellow musicians, stuck his fiddle under his chin, and pounded on the boards with his foot -

ĪHwun! Htwo! Hwun htwo three four . . .ā

Picture a landscape. with the orange light of a crescent moon drifting across it. And, down below, a circle of fire-light in the night.

There were the old favourites - the square dances, the reels, the whirling, intricate measures which, if the dancers had carried lights, would have traced out topological complexities beyond the reach of ordinary physics, and the sort of dances that lead perfectly sane people to shout out things like ĪDo-si~~o!ā and ĪOch-aye!ā without feeling massively ashamed for quite a long time.

When the casualties were cleared away the survivors went on to polka, mazurka, fox-trot, turkey-trot and trot a variety of other ?4Lds? and beasts, and then to those dances where people form an arch and other people dance down it, which are incidentally generally based on folk memories of executions, and other dances where people form a circle, which are generally based on folk memories of plagues.

Through it all two figures whirled as though there was no tomorrow.

The lead fiddler was dimly aware that, when he paused for breath, a spinning figure tapdanced a storm out of the ?mtICe? and a voice by his ear said:

YOU WILL CONTINUE, I PROMISE YOU.

When he flagged a second time a diamond as big as his fist landed on the boards in front of him. A smaller figure sashayed out of the dancers and said:

ĪIf you boys donāt go on playing, William Spigot. I will personally make sure your life becomes absolutely foul.ā

And it returned to the press of bodies.

The fiddler looked down at the diamond. It could have ransomed any five kings the world would care to name. He kicked it hurriedly behind him.

276

ĪMore power to your elbow, eh?ā said the drummer, grinning.

ĪShut up and play!ā

He was aware that tunes were turning up at the ends of his fingers that his brain had never known. The drummer and the piper felt it too. Music was pouring in from somewhere. They werenāt playing it. It was playing them.

IT IS TIME FOR A NEW DANCE TO BEGIN.

ĪDuurrrump-da-dum-dum,ā hummed the fiddler, the sweat running off his chin as he was caught up in a different tune.

The dancers milled around uncertainly, unsure about the steps. But one pair moved purposefully through them at a predatory crouch, arms clasped ahead of them like the bowsprit of a killer galleon. At the end of the floor they turned in a flurry of limbs that appeared to defy normal anatomy and began the angular advance back through the crowd.

ĪWhatās this one called?ā

TANGO.

ĪCan you get put in prison for it?ā

I DONāT BELIEVE SO.

ĪAmazing.ā

The music changed.

ĪI know this one! Itās the Quirmish bullfight dance! Oh-lay!ā

ĪWITH MILKā?

A high-speed fusillade of hollow snapping noises suddenly kept time with the music.

ĪWhoās playing the maracas?ā

Death grinned.

MARACAS? I DONāT NEED . . . MARACAS.

And then it was now.

The moon was a ghost of itself on one horizon. On the other there was already the distant glow of the advancing day.

They left the dance floor.

Whatever had been propelling the band through the

277

hours of the night drained slowly away. They looked at one another. Spigot the fiddler glanced down at the jewel.

It was still there.

The drummer tried to massage some life back into his wrists.

Spigot stared helplessly at the exhausted dancers.

ĪWell, then . . .ā he said, and raised the fiddle one more time.

Miss Flitworth and her companion listened from the mists that were threading around the field in the dawn light.

Death recognised the slow, insistent beat. It made him think of wooden figures, whirling through Time until the spring unwound.

I DONāT KNOW THAT ONE.

ĪItās the last waltz.ā

I SUSPECT THEREāS NO SUCH THING.

ĪYou know,ā said Miss Flitworth, ĪIāve been wondering all evening how itās going to happen. How youāre going to do it. I mean, people have to die of something, donāt they? I thought maybe it was going to be of exhaustion, but Iāve never felt better. Iāve had the time of my life and Iām not even out of breath. In fact itās been a real tonic, Bill Door. And I -ā

She stopped.

ĪIām not breathing, am I.ā It wasnāt a question. She held a hand in front of her face and huffed on it.

NO.

ĪI see. Iāve never enjoyed myself so much in all my life . . . ha! So . . . when -?ā

YOU KNOW WHEN YOU SAID THAT SEEING ME GAVE YOU QUITE A START?

ĪYes?ā

I GAVE YOU QUITE A STOP.

Miss Flitworth didnāt appear to hear him. She kept turning her hand backwards and forwards, as if sheād never seen it before.

ĪI see you made a few changes, Bill Door,ā she said.

278

NO. IT IS LIFE THAT MAKES MANY CHANGES.

ĪI mean that I appear to be younger.ā

THATāS WHAT I MEANT ALSO.

He snapped his fingers. Binky stopped his grazing by the hedge and trotted over.

ĪYou know,ā said Miss Flitworth, ĪIāve often thought . . . I often thought that everyone has their, you know, natural age. You see children of ten who act as though theyāre thirty-five. Some people are born middle-aged, even. Itād be nice to think Iāve been . . .ā she looked down at herself, Īoh, letās say eighteen . . . all my life. Inside.ā

Death said nothing. He helped her up on to the horse.

ĪWhen I see what life does to people, you know, you donāt seem so bad.ā she said nervously.

Death made a clicking noise with his teeth. Binky walked forward.

ĪYouāve never met Life, have you?ā

I CAN SAY IN ALL HONESTY THAT I HAVE NOT.

ĪProbably some great white crackling thing. Like an electric storm in trousers,ā said Miss Flitworth.

I THINK NOT.

Binky rose up into the morning sky.

ĪAnyway . . . death to all tyrants,ā said Miss FIitworth.

YES.

ĪWhere are we going?ā

Binky was galloping, but the landscape did not move.

ĪThatās a pretty good horse youāve got there,ā said Miss Flitworth. her voice shaking.

YES.

ĪBut what is he doing?ā

GETTING UP SPEED.

ĪBut weāre not going anywhere -ā

They vanished.

They reappeared.

The landscape was snow and green ice on broken mountains. These werenāt old mountains, worn down by

279

time and weather and full of gentle ski slopes, but young, sulky, adolescent mountains. They held secret ravines and merciless crevices. One yodel out of place would attract, not the jolly echo of a lonely goat herd, but fifty tons of express-delivery snow.

The horse landed on a snowbank that should not, by rights, have been able to support it.

Death dismounted and helped Miss Flitworth down.

They walked over the snow to a frozen muddy track that hugged the mountain side.

ĪWhy are we here?ā said the spirit of Miss Flitworth.

I DO NOT SPECULATE ON COSMIC MATTERS.

ĪI mean here on this mountain. Here on this geography,ā said Miss Flitworth patiently.

THAT IS NOT GEOGRAPHY.

ĪWhat is it, then?ā

HISTORY.

They rounded a bend in the track. There was a pony there, eating a bush, with a pack on its back. The track ended in a wall of suspiciously clean snow.

Death removed a lifetimer from the recesses of his robe.

Now, he said, and stepped into the snow.

She watched it for a moment, wondering if she could have done that too. Solidity was an awfully hard habit to give up.

And then she didnāt have to.

Someone came out.

Death adjusted Binkyās bridle, and mounted up. He paused for a moment to watch the two figures by the avalanche.

They had faded almost to invisibility, their voices no more than textured air.

ĪAll he said was ćWHEREVER YOU GO, YOU GO TOGETHER.ä I said where? He said he didnāt know. Whatās happened?ā

ĪRufus - youāre going to find this very hard to believe, my love -ā

ĪAnd who was that masked man?ā They both looked around.

280

There was no-one there.

In the village in the Ramtops where they understand what the Morris dance is all about, they dance it just once, at dawn, on the first day of spring. They donāt dance it after that, all through the summer. After all, what would be the point? What use would it be?

But on a certain day when the nights are drawing in, the dancers leave work early and take, from attics and cupboards, the other costume, the black one, and the other bells. And they go by separate ways to a valley among the leafless trees. They donāt speak. There is no music. Itās very hard to imagine what kind there could be.

The bells donāt ring. Theyāre made of octiron, a magic metal. But theyāre not, precisely, silent bells. Silence is merely the absence of noise. They make the opposite of noise, a sort of heavily textured silence.

And in the cold afternoon, as the light drains from the sky, among the frosty leaves and in the damp air, they dance the other Morris. Because of the balance of things.

Youāve got to dance both, they say. Otherwise you canāt dance either.

Windle Poons wandered across the Brass Bridge. It was the time in Ankh-Morporkās day when the night people were going to bed and the day people were waking up. For once, there werenāt many of either around.

Windle had felt moved to be here, at this place, on this night, now. It wasnāt exactly the feeling heād had when he knew he was going to die. It was more the feeling that a cogwheel gets inside a clock - things turn, the spring unwinds, and this is where youāve got to be . . .

He stopped, and leaned over. The dark water, or at least very ?n~nny? mud, sucked at the stone supports.

281

There was an old legend . . . what was it, now? If you threw a coin into the Ankh from the Brass Bridge youād be sure to return? Or was it if you just threw ?11~D? into the Ankh? Probably the former. Most of the citizens, if they dropped a coin into the river, would be sure to come back if only to look for the coin.

A figure loomed out of the mist. He tensed.

ĪMorning, Mr Poons.ā

Windle let himself relax.

ĪOh. Sergeant Colon? I thought you were someone else.ā

ĪJust me, your lordship,ā said the watchman cheerfully. ĪTurning up like a bad copper.ā

ĪI see the bridge has got through another night without being stolen, sergeant. Well done.ā

ĪYou canāt be too careful, I always say.ā

ĪIām sure we citizens can sleep safely in one anotherās beds knowing that no-one can make off with a five-thousand-ton bridge overnight, Ī said Windle.

Unlike Modo the dwarf, Sergeant Colon did know the meaning of the word Īironyā. He thought it meant ćsort of like ironä. He gave Windle a respectful grin.

ĪYou have to think quick to keep ahead of todayās international criminal, Mr Poons,ā he said.

ĪGood man. Er. You havenāt, er, seen anyone else around, have you?ā

ĪDead quiet tonight,ā said the sergeant. He remembered himself and added, ĪNo offence meant.ā

ĪOh.ā

ĪIāll be moving along, then,ā said the sergeant.

ĪFine. Fine.ā

ĪAre you all right, Mr Poons?ā

ĪFine. Fine.ā

ĪNot going to throw yourself in the river again?ā

ĪNo.ā

ĪSure?ā

ĪYes.ā

282

ĪOh. Well. Good night, then.ā He hesitated. ĪForget my own head next,ā he said. ĪChap over there asked me to give this to you.ā He held out a grubby envelope.

Windle peered into the mists.

ĪWhat chap?ā

ĪThat ch- oh, heās gone. Tall chap. Bit odd-looking.ā

Windle unfolded the scrap of paper, on which was written: OOoooEeeeOooEeeeOOOeee.

ĪAh,ā he said.

ĪBad news?ā said the sergeant.

ĪThat depends,ā said Windle, Īon your point of view.ā

ĪOh. Right. Fine. Well . . . good night, then.ā

ĪGoodbye.ā

Sergeant Colon hesitated for a moment, and then shrugged and strolled on.

As he wandered away, the shadow behind him moved and grinned.

WINDLE POONS?

Windle didnāt look around.

ĪYes?ā

Out of the corner of his eye Windle saw a pair of bony arms rest themselves on the parapet. There was the faint sound of a figure trying to make itself comfortable, and then a restful silence.

ĪAh,ā said Windle. ĪI suppose youāll want to be getting along?ā

NO RUSH.

ĪI thought you were always so punctual.ā

IN THE CIRCUMSTANCES, A FEW MINUTES MORE WILL NOT MAKE A LOT OF DIFFERENCE.

Windle nodded. They stood side by side in silence, while around them was the muted roar of the city.

ĪYou know,ā said Windle, Īitās a wonderful afterlife. Where were you?ā

I WAS BUSY.

Windle wasnāt really listening. ĪIāve met people I never even knew existed. Iāve done all sorts of things. Iāve really got to know who Windle Poons is.ā

283

WHO IS HE. THEN?

ĪWindle Poons.ā

I CAN SEE WHERE THAT MUST HAVE COME AS A SHOCK.

ĪWell, yes.ā

ALL THESE YEARS AND YOU NEVER SUSPECTED.

Windle Poons did know exactly what irony meant, and he could spot sarcasm too.

ĪItās all very well for you,ā he mumbled.

PERHAPS.

Windle looked down at the river again.

ĪItās been great,ā he said.āAfter all this time. Being needed is important.ā

YES. BUT WHY?

Windle looked surprised.

ĪI donāt know. How should I know? Because weāre all in this together, I suppose. Because we donāt leave our people in ?there?. Because youāre a long time dead. Because anything is better than being alone. Because humans are human.ā

AND SIXPENCE IS SIXPENCE. BUT CORN IS NOT JUST CORN.

ĪIt isnāt?ā

NO.

Windle leaned back. The stone of the bridge was still warm from the dayās heat.

To his surprise, Death leaned back as well.

BECAUSE YOUāRE ALL YOUāVE GOT, said Death.

ĪWhat? Oh. Yes. That as well. Itās a great big cold universe out there.ā

YOUāD BE AMAZED.

ĪOne lifetime just isnāt enough.ā

OH, I DONāT KNOW.

ĪHmm?ā

WINDLE POONS?

ĪYes?ā

THAT WAS YOUR LIFE.

And, with great relief, and general optimism, and a

284

feeling that on the whole everything could have been much worse, Windle Poons died.

Somewhere in the night, Reg Shoe looked both ways, took a furtive paintbrush and small pot of paint from inside his jacket, and painted on a handy wall: Inside Every Living Person is a Dead Person Waiting to Get Out...

And then it was all over. The end.

Death stood at the window of his dark study, looking out on to his garden. Nothing moved in that still domain. Dark lilies bloomed by the trout pool, where little plaster skeleton gnomes fished. There were distant mountains.

It was his own world. It appeared on no map.

But now, somehow, it lacked something.

Death selected a scythe from the rack in the huge hall. He strode past the huge clock without hands and went outside. He stalked through the black orchard, where Albert was busy about the beehives, and on until he climbed a small mound on the edge of the garden.

Beyond, to the mountains, was unformed land - it would bear weight, it had an existence of sorts, but there had never been any reason to define it further.

Until now, anyway.

Albert came up behind him, a few dark bees still buzzing around his head.

ĪWhat are you doing, master?ā he said.

REMEMBERING.

ĪAh?ā

I REMEMBER WHEN ALL THIS WAS STARS.

What was it? Oh, yes . . .

He snapped his fingers. Fields appeared, following the gentle curves of the land.

ĪGolden,ā said Albert. ĪThatās nice. Iāve always thought we could do with a bit more colour around here.ā

285

Death shook his head. It wasnāt quite right yet.

Then he realised what it was. The lifetimers, the great room filled with the roar of disappearing lives, was efficient and necessary; you needed something like that for good order. But . . .

He snapped his fingers again and a breeze sprang up. The cornfields moved, billow after billow unfolding across the slopes.

ALBERT?

ĪYes, master?ā

HAVE YOU NOT GOT SOMETHING TO DO? SOME LITTLE JOB?

ĪI donāt think so,ā said Albert.

AWAY FROM HERE, IS WHAT I MEAN.

ĪAh. What you mean is, you want to be alone,ā said Albert.

I AM ALWAYS ALONE. BUT JUST NOW I WANT TO BE ALONE BY MYSELF.

ĪRight. Iāll just go and, uh, do some little jobs back at the house, then,ā said Albert.

YOU DO THAT.

Death stood alone, watching the wheat dance in the wind. Of course, it was only a metaphor. People were more than corn. They whirled through tiny crowded lives, driven literally by clock work, filling their days from edge to edge with the sheer effort of living. And all lives were exactly the same length. Even the very long and very short ones. From the point of view of eternity, anyway.

Somewhere, the tiny voice of Bill Door said: from the point of view of the owner, longer ones are best.

SQUEAK.

Death looked down.

A small figure was standing by his feet.

He reached down and picked it up, held it up to an investigative eye socket.

I KNEW IāD MISSED SOMEONE.

286

The Death of Rats nodded.

SQUEAK?

Death shook his head.

NO, I CANāT LET YOU REMAIN, he said. ITāS NOT AS THOUGH IāM RUNNING A FRANCHISE OR SOMETHING.

SQUEAK?

ARE YOU THE ONLY ONE LEFT?

The Death of Rats opened a tiny skeletal hand. The tiny Death of Fleas stood up, looking embarrassed but hopeful.

NO. THIS SHALL NOT BE. I AM IMPLACABLE. I AM DEATH . . . ALONE.

He looked at the Death of Rats.

He remembered Azrael in his tower of loneliness.

ALONE . . .

The Death of Rats looked back at him.

SQUEAK?

Picture a tall, dark figure, surrounded by cornfields . . .

NO. YOU CANāT RIDE A CAT. WHO EVER HEARD OF THE DEATH OF RATS RIDING A CAT? THE DEATH OF RATS WOULD RIDE SOME KIND OF DOG.

Picture more fields, a great horizon-spanning network of fields, rolling in gentle waves . . .

DONāT ASK ME I DONāT KNOW. SOME KIND OF TERRIER, MAYBE.

. . . fields of corn, alive, whispering in the breeze . . .

RIGHT, AND THE DEATH OF FLEAS CAN RIDE IT TOO. THAT WAY YOU KILL TWO BIRDS WITH ONE STONE.

. . . awaiting the clockwork of the seasons.

METAPHORICALLY.

And at the end of all stories Azrael, who knew the secret, thought:

I REMEMBER WHEN ALL THIS WILL BE AGAIN.

THE END

287