Reaper Man

Well…good night, then.”
    “Goodbye.”
    Sergeant Colon hesitated for a moment, and then shrugged and strolled on.
    As he wandered away, the shadow behind him moved and grinned.
    W INDLE P OONS ?
    Windle didn’t look around.
    “Yes?”
    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.
    “Ah,” said Windle. “I suppose you’ll want to be getting along?”
    N O RUSH .
    “I thought you were always so punctual.”
    I N 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.
    “You know,” said Windle, “it’s a wonderful afterlife. Where were you?”
    I WAS BUSY .
    Windle wasn’t really listening. “I’ve met people I never even knew existed. I’ve done all sorts of things. I’ve really got to know who Windle Poons is .”
    W HO IS HE , THEN ?
    “Windle Poons.”
    I CAN SEE WHERE THAT MUST HAVE COME AS A SHOCK .
    “Well, yes.”
    A LL THESE YEARS AND YOU NEVER SUSPECTED .
    Windle Poons did know exactly what irony meant, and he could spot sarcasm too.
    “It’s all very well for you,” he mumbled.
    P ERHAPS .
    Windle looked down at the river again.
    “It’s been great,” he said. “After all this time. Being needed is important.”
    Y ES . B UT WHY ?
    Windle looked surprised.
    “I don’t know. How should I know? Because we’re all in this together, I suppose. Because we don’t leave our people in there. Because you’re a long time dead. Because anything is better than being alone. Because humans are human.”
    A ND SIXPENCE IS SIXPENCE . B UT CORN IS NOT JUST CORN .
    “It isn’t?”
    N O .
    Windle leaned back. The stone of the bridge was still warm from the day’s heat.
    To his surprise, Death leaned back as well.
    B ECAUSE YOU’RE ALL YOU’VE GOT , said Death.
    “What? Oh. Yes. That as well. It’s a great big cold universe out there.”
    Y OU’D BE AMAZED .
    “One lifetime just isn’t enough.”
    O H , I DON’T KNOW .
    “Hmm?”
    W INDLE P OONS ?
    “Yes?”
    T HAT WAS YOUR LIFE .
    And, with great relief, and general optimism, and a 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 onto 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.
    “What are you doing, master?” he said.
    R EMEMBERING .
    “Ah?”
    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. “Golden,” said Albert. “That’s nice. I’ve always thought we could do with a bit more color around here.”
    Death shook his head. It wasn’t quite right yet. Then he realized 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.
    A LBERT ?
    “Yes, master?”
    H AVE YOU NOT GOT SOMETHING TO DO ? S OME LITTLE JOB ?
    “I don’t think so,” said Albert.
    A WAY FROM HERE , IS WHAT I MEAN .
    “Ah. What you mean is, you want to be alone,” said Albert.
    I AM ALWAYS ALONE . B UT JUST NOW I WANT TO BE ALONE BY MYSELF .
    “Right. I’ll just go and, uh, do some little jobs back at the