Mort

other sound made on the Disc. In order to recognize the sound of the Words, they had to learn to recognize all the other noises. This called for a certain talent, and a novice was only accepted for training if he could distinguish by sound alone, at a distance of a thousand yards, which side a dropped coin landed. He wasn’t actually accepted into the order until he could tell what color it was.
    And although the Holy Listeners were so remote, many people took the extremely long and dangerous path to their temple, traveling through frozen, troll-haunted lands, fording swift icy rivers, climbing forbidding mountains, trekking across inhospitable tundra, in order to climb the narrow stairway that led into the hidden valley and seek with an open heart the secrets of being.
    And the monks would cry unto them, “Keep the bloody noise down!”
    Binky came through the mountain tops like a white blur, touching down in the snowy emptiness of a courtyard made spectral by the disco light from the sky. Mort leapt from his back and ran through the silent cloisters to the room where the 88th abbot lay dying, surrounded by his devout followers.
    Mort’s footsteps boomed as he hurried across the intricate mosaic floor. The monks themselves wore woolen overshoes.
    He reached the bed and waited for a moment, leaning on the scythe, until he could get his breath back.
    The abbot, who was small and totally bald and had more wrinkles than a sackful of prunes, opened his eyes.
    “You’re late,” he whispered, and died.
    Mort swallowed, fought for breath, and brought the scythe around in a slow arc. Nevertheless, it was accurate enough; the abbot sat up, leaving His corpse behind.
    “Not a moment too soon,” he said, in a voice only Mort could hear. “You had me worried for a moment there.”
    “Okay?” said Mort. “Only I’ve got to rush—”
    The abbot swung himself off the bed and walked towards Mort through the ranks of his bereaved followers.
    “Don’t rush off,” he said. “I always look forward to these talks. What’s happened to the usual fellow?”
    “Usual fellow?” said Mort, bewildered.
    “Tall chap. Black cloak. Doesn’t get enough to eat, by the look of him,” said the abbot.
    “ Usual fellow? You mean Death ?” said Mort.
    “That’s him,” said the abbot, cheerfully. Mort’s mouth hung open.
    “Die a lot, do you?” he managed.
    “A fair bit. A fair bit. Of course,” said the abbot, “once you get the hang of it, it’s only a matter of practice.”
    “It is?”
    “We must be off,” said the abbot. Mort’s mouth snapped shut.
    “That’s what I’ve been trying to say,” he said.
    “So if you could just drop me off down in the valley,” the little monk continued placidly. He swept past Mort and headed for the courtyard. Mort stared at the floor for a moment, and then ran after him in a way which he knew to be extremely unprofessional and undignified.
    “Now look—” he began.
    “The other one had a horse called Binky, I remember,” said the abbot pleasantly. “Did you buy the round off him?”
    “The round?” said Mort, now completely lost.
    “Or whatever. Forgive me,” said the abbot, “I don’t really know how these things are organized, lad.”
    “Mort,” said Mort, absently. “And I think you’re supposed to come back with me, sir. If you don’t mind,” he added, in what he hoped was a firm and authoritative manner. The monk turned and smiled pleasantly at him.
    “I wish I could,” he said. “Perhaps one day. Now, if you could give me a lift as far as the nearest village, I imagine I’m being conceived about now.”
    “Conceived? But you’ve just died!” said Mort.
    “Yes, but, you see, I have what you might call a season ticket,” the abbot explained.
    Light dawned on Mort, but very slowly.
    “Oh,” he said, “I’ve read about this. Reincarnation, yes?”
    “That’s the word. Fifty-three times so far. Or fifty-four.”
    Binky looked up as they approached and gave a short neigh of recognition when the abbot patted his nose. Mort mounted up and helped the abbot up behind him.
    “It must be very interesting,” he said, as Binky climbed away from the temple. On the absolute scale of small talk this comment must rate minus quite a lot, but Mort couldn’t think of anything better.
    “No, it mustn’t,” said the abbot. “You think it must be because you believe I can remember all my lives, but of course I can’t. Not while I’m alive,