“That’s silly. Why should he take anything? What would he want to take?”
IT IS VERY IMPORTANT. AND NOW I MUST LEAVE YOU.
“Where are you going?”
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.
“She just looks as if she’s sleeping,” she said helplessly. “What’s wrong with her?”
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 hadn’t 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 half-crouch, holding a curved blade in front of him.
“It’s me!”
He relaxed, or at least moved into a different level of tension.
“What the hell are you doing?”
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.
“At one o’clock in the morning?”
He looked at it blankly.
IT’S JUST AS BLUNT AT NIGHT, MISS FLITWORTH.
Then he slammed it down on the anvil.
AND I CAN’T SHARPEN IT ENOUGH!
“I think perhaps the heat has got to you,” she said, and reached out and took his arm.
“Besides, it looks sharp enough to—” 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 didn’t 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 wasn’t even in the top ten Worst Things she had seen.
“So it is you,” she said.
MISS FLITWORTH, I—
“I always knew you would come one day.”
I THINK PERHAPS THAT—
“You know, I spent most of my life waiting for a knight on a white charger.” Miss Flitworth grinned. “The joke’s on me, eh?”
Bill Door sat down on the anvil.
“The apothecary came,” she said. “He said he couldn’t do anything. He said she was fine. We just couldn’t wake her up. And, you know, it took us ages to get her hand open. She had it closed so tightly.”
I SAID NOTHING WAS TO BE TAKEN!
“It’s all right. It’s all right. We left her holding it.”
GOOD.
“What was it?”
MY TIME.
“Sorry?”
MY TIME. THE TIME OF MY LIFE.
“It looks like an eggtimer for very expensive eggs.”
Bill Door looked surprised. YES. IN A WAY. I HAVE GIVEN HER SOME OF MY TIME. “How come you need time?”
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.
“But you can’t—”
I CAN. IT’S HARD TO EXPLAIN.
“Move up.”
WHAT?
“I said move up. I want to sit down.”
Bill Door made space on the anvil. Miss Flitworth sat down.
“So you’re going to die,” she said.
YES.
“And you don’t want to.”
No.
“Why not?”
He looked at her as if she was mad.
BECAUSE THEN THERE WILL BE NOTHING. BECAUSE I WON’T EXIST.
“Is that what happens for humans, too?”
I DON’T THINK SO. IT’S DIFFERENT FOR YOU. YOU HAVE IT ALL BETTER ORGANIZED.
They both sat watching the fading glow of the coals in the forge.
“So what were you working on the scythe blade for?” said Miss Flitworth.
I THOUGHT PERHAPS I COULD…FIGHT BACK…
“Has it ever worked? With you, I mean.”
NOT USUALLY. SOMETIMES PEOPLE CHALLENGE ME TO A GAME. FOR THEIR LIVES, YOU KNOW.
“Do they ever win?”
NO. LAST YEAR SOMEONE GOT THREE STREETS AND ALL THE UTILITIES.
“What? What sort of game is that?”
I DON’T RECALL. “EXCLUSION POSSESSION,” I THINK. I WAS THE BOOT.
“Just a moment,” said Miss Flitworth. “If you’re you, who will be coming for you?”
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.
“But…correct me if I’m wrong, but…”
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.
Miss Flitworth stared at the light as if fascinated.
“Exactly how terrible?”
HOW TERRIBLE CAN YOU IMAGINE?
“Oh.”
EXACTLY AS TERRIBLE AS THAT.
The blade tilted this way and that.
“And for the child, too,” said Miss Flitworth.
YES.
“I don’t reckon I owe you any favors, Mr. Door. I don’t reckon anyone in the whole world owes you any favors.”
YOU MAY BE RIGHT.
“Mind you, life’s got one or two things to answer for too. Fair’s fair.”
I CANNOT SAY.
Miss Flitworth gave him another long, appraising look.
“There’s a pretty good grindstone in the corner,” she said.
I’VE USED IT.
“And there’s an oilstone in the cupboard.”
I’VE USED THAT, TOO.
She thought she could hear a sound as the blade moved. A sort of faint whine of tensed air.
“And it’s still not sharp enough?”
Bill Door sighed. IT MAY NEVER BE SHARP ENOUGH.
“Come on, man. No sense in giving in,” said Miss Flitworth. “Where there’s life, eh?”
WHERE THERE’S LIFE EH WHAT?
“There’s hope?”
IS THERE?
“Right enough.”
Bill Door ran a bony finger along the edge.
HOPE?
“Got anything else left to try?”
Bill shook his head. He’d tried a number of emotions, but this was a new one.
COULD YOU FETCH ME A STEEL?
It was an hour later.
Miss Flitworth sorted through her rag-bag.
“What next?” she said.
WHAT HAVE WE HAD SO FAR?
“Let’s see…hessian, calico, linen…how about satin? Here’s a piece.”
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?
“Silk,” she said softly. “Finest white silk. The real stuff. Never worn.”
She sat back and stared at it.
After a while he took it tactfully from her fingers.
THANK YOU.
“Well now,” she said, waking up. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
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.
“Sharpened on silk,” said Miss Flitworth. “Who’d believe it?
”
AND STILL BLUNT.
Bill Door looked around the dark forge, and then darted into a corner.
“What have you found?”
COBWEB.
There was a long thin whine, like the torturing of ants.
“Any good?”
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.
“How sharp can a blade get, for goodness’ sake?”
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.
“Floo-a-cockle-dod!”
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 onto 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 they surf 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 he’d 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.
Miss Flitworth stuck her hands on her hips. “Oh, come on,” she said.
She paused.
He waved the blade again.
Down in the yard, Cyril stretched his bald neck for another go. Bill Door grinned, and swung the blade toward the sound.
Then he lowered the blade.
THAT’S 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 faint haze over the cornfields.
It looked like a pale gray 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.
“I saw it,” said Miss Flintworth.
THAT WASN’T IT. THAT WAS THEM.
“Them who?”
THEY’RE LIKE—Bill Door waved a hand vaguely—SERVANTS. WATCHERS. AUDITORS. INSPECTORS.
Miss Flitworth’s eyes narrowed.
“Inspectors? You mean like the Revenoo?” she said.
I SUPPOSE SO—
Miss Flitworth’s face lit up.
“Why didn’t you say?”
I’M SORRY?
“My 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 didn’t happen to you every year. We had to go out of the room when he really got started about the Revenoo. Nasty creatures. Always poking around asking what you’ve got hidden under the woodpile and behind the secret panels in the cellar and other stuff which is no concern whatsoever of anyone.”
She sniffed.
Bill Door was impressed. Miss Flitworth could actually give the word “revenue,” which had two vowels and one diphthong, all the peremptoriness of the word “scum.”
“You should have said that they were after you right from the start,” said Miss Flitworth. “The Revenoo aren’t popular in these parts, you know. In my father’s day, any Revenooer came around here prying around by himself, we used to tie weights to their feet and heave ’em into the pond.”
BUT THE POND IS ONLY A FEW INCHES DEEP, MISS FLITWORTH.
“Yeah, but it was fun watching ’em find out. You should have said. Everyone thought you were to do with taxes.”
NO. NOT TAXES.
“Well, well. I didn’t know there was a Revenoo Up There, too.”
YES. IN A WAY.
She sidled closer.
“When will he come?”
TONIGHT. I CANNOT BE EXACT. TWO PEOPLE ARE LIVING ON THE SAME TIMER. IT MAKES THINGS UNCERTAIN.
“I didn’t know people could give people some of their life.”
IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME.
“And you’re sure about tonight?”
YES.
“And that blade will work, will it?”
I DON’T KNOW. IT’S A MILLION TO ONE CHANCE.
“Oh.” She seemed to be considering something. “So you’ve got the rest of the day free, then?”
YES?”
“Then you can start getting the harvest in.”
WHAT?
“It’ll keep you busy. Keep your mind off things. Besides, I’m paying you sixpence a week. And sixpence is sixpence.”
Mrs. Cake’s house was also in Elm Street. Windle knocked on the door.
After a while a muffled voice called out, “Is there anybody there?”
“Knock once for yes,” Schleppel volunteered.
Windle levered open the letter-box.
“Excuse me? Mrs. Cake?”
The door opened.
Mrs. Cake wasn’t 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.
“I don’t think you could be Mrs. Cake,” said Windle.
“You want mother,” said the tall girl. “Mother! There’s a gentleman!”
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.
“What d’yew want?” said Mrs. Cake.
Windle took a step backward. Unlike her daughter, Mrs. Cake was quite short, and almost perfectly circular. And still unlike her daughter, whose whole 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 hat-pins; Carmen Miranda could have worn that hat to the funeral of a continent. Mrs. Cake traveled underneath it as the basket travels under a balloon. People often found themselves talking to her hat.
“Mrs. Cake?” said Windle, fascinated.
“Oim down ’ere,” said a reproachful voice.
Windle lowered his gaze.
“That’s ’oo I am,” said Mrs. Cake.
“Am I addressing Mrs. Cake?” said Windle.
“Yes, oi know,” said Mrs. Cake.
“My name’s Windle Poons.”
“Oi knew that, too.”
“I’m a wizard, you see—”
“All right, but see you wipes your feet.”
“May I come in?”
Windle Poons paused. He replayed the last few lines of conversation in the clicking control room of his brain. And then he smiled.
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Cake.
“Are you by any chance a natural clairvoyant?”
“About ten seconds usually, Mr. Poons.”
Windle hesitated.
“You gotta ask the question,” said Mrs. Cake quickly. “I gets a migraine if people goes and viciously not asks questions after I’ve already foreseen ’em and answered ’em.”
“How far into the future can you see, Mrs. Cake?”
She nodded.
“Roight, then,” she said, apparently mollified, and led the way through the hall into a tiny sitting room. “And the bogey can come in, only he’s got to leave ’is door outside and go in the cellar. I don’t hold with bogeys wanderin’ around the house.”
“Gosh, it’s ages since I’ve been in a proper cellar,” said Schleppel.
“It’s got spiders in it,” said Mrs. Cake.
“Wow!”
“And you’d like a cup of tea,” said Mrs. Cake to Windle. Someone else might have said “I expect you’d like a cup of tea,” or “Do you want a cup of tea?” But this was a statement.
“Yes, please,” said Windle. “I’d love a cup of tea.”
“You shouldn’t,” said Mrs. Cake. “That stuff rots your teeth.”
Windle worked this one out.
“Two sugars, please,” he said.
“It’s all right.”
“This is a nice place you have here, Mrs. Cake,” said Windle, his mind racing. Mrs. Cake’s habit of answering questions while they were still forming in your mind taxed the most active brain.
“He’s been dead for ten years,” she said.
“Er,” said Windle, but the question was already there in his larynx, “I trust Mr. Cake is in good health?”
“It’s okay. Oi speaks to him occasional,” said Mrs. Cake.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Windle.
“All right, if it makes you feel any better.”
“Um, Mrs. Cake? I’m finding it a little confusing. Could you…switch off…your precognition…?”