Reaper Man

Ridcully.
    Colon’s eyes swiveled to an open coffin by the side of the road. Windle Poons gave him a little wave.
    “But…he’s not dead…is he?” he said, his forehead wrinkling as he tried to get ahead of the situation.
    “Appearances can be deceptive,” said the Archchancellor.
    “But he just waved to me,” said the sergeant, desperately. “So?”
    “Well, it’s not normal for—”
    “It’s all right, sergeant,” said Windle.
    Sergeant Colon sidled closer to the coffin.
    “Didn’t I see you throw yourself into the river last night?” he said, out of the corner of his mouth.
    “Yes. You were very helpful,” said Windle.
    “And then you threw yourself sort of out again,” said the sergeant.
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “But you were down there for ages.”
    “Well, it was very dark, you see. I couldn’t find the steps.”
    Sergeant Colon had to concede the logic of this.
    “Well, I suppose you must be dead, then,” he said. “No one could stay down there who wasn’t dead.”
    “This is it,” Windle agreed.
    “Only why are you waving and talking?” said Colon.
    The Senior Wrangler poked his head out of the hole.
    “It’s not unknown for a dead body to move and make noises after death, Sergeant,” he volunteered. “It’s all down to involuntary muscular spasms.”
    “Actually, Senior Wrangler is right,” said Windle Poons. “I read that somewhere.”
    “Oh.” Sergeant Colon looked around. “Right,” he said, uncertainly. “Well…fair enough, I suppose…”
    “Okay, we’re done,” said the Archchancellor, scrambling out of the hole, “it’s deep enough. Come on, Windle, down you go.”
    “I really am very touched, you know,” 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.
    “Everyone’s going to so much trouble—”
    “Yes, right,” said Ridcully, looking around. “Now—who’s got the stake?”
    Everyone looked at the Bursar.
    The Bursar looked unhappy.
    He fumbled in a bag.
    “I couldn’t get any,” he said.
    The Archchancellor put his hand over his eyes.
    “All right,” he said quietly. “You know, I’m not surprised? Not surprised at all. What did you get? Lamb chops? A nice piece of pork?”
    “Celery,” said the Bursar.
    “It’s his nerves,” said the Dean, quickly.
    “Celery,” said the Archchancellor, his self-control rigid enough to bend horsehoes around. “Right.”
    The Bursar handed him a soggy green bundle. Ridcully took it.
    “Now, Windle,” he said, “I’d like you to imagine that what I have in my hand—”
    “It’s quite all right,” said Windle.
    “I’m not actually sure I can hammer—”
    “I don’t mind, I assure you,” said Windle.
    “You don’t?”
    “The principle is sound,” said Windle. “If you just hand me the celery but think hammering a stake, that’s probably sufficient.”
    “That’s very decent of you,” said Ridcully. “That shows a very proper spirit.”
    “Esprit de corpse,” said the Senior Wrangler.
    Ridcully glared at him, and thrust the celery dramatically toward Windle.
    “Take that!” he said.
    “Thank you,” said Windle.
    “And now let’s put the lid on and go and have some lunch,” said Ridcully. “Don’t worry, Windle. It’s bound to work. Today is the last day of the rest of your life.”
    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.
    “Can you keep it down?” he demanded. “There’s people down here trying to be dead!”
    He heard the voices stop. There was the sound of feet hurrying away.
    Windle lay there for some time. He didn’t 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 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 he’d smoke a quiet cigar to pass the