Reaper Man

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 . He’d completely missed it, too—
    “Cock…cock-a…er…”
    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.
    W HAT FOR ARE YOU MAKING THE NOISE , M ISS F LITWORTH ?
    She spun around, ladle half-raised.
    “Good grief, you must walk like a cat!” she said.
    I MUST ?
    “I meant I didn’t hear you.” She stood back and looked him up and down.
    “There’s still something about you I can’t put my finger on, Bill Door,” she said. “Wish I knew what it was.”
    The seven-foot skeleton regarded her stoically. He felt there was nothing he could say.
    “What do you want for breakfast?” said the old woman. “Not that it’ll make any difference, ’cos it’s porridge.”
    Later she thought: he must have eaten it, because the bowl is empty. Why can’t I remember?
    And then there was the matter of the scythe. He looked at it as if he’d never seen one before. She pointed out the grass nail and the handles. He looked at them politely.
    H OW DO YOU SHARPEN IT , M ISS F LITWORTH ?
    “It’s sharp enough, for goodness sake.”
    H OW DO YOU SHARPEN IT MORE ?
    “You can’t. Sharp’s sharp. You can’t get sharper than that.”
    He’d 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 wouldn’t even have thought that it was technically possible.
    Eventually she said: “It’s good. You’ve got the swing and everything.”
    T HANK YOU , M ISS F LITWORTH .
    “But why one blade of grass at a time?”
    Bill Door regarded the neat row of stalks for some while.
    T HERE IS ANOTHER WAY ?
    “You can do lots in one go, you know.”
    N O . N O . O NE BLADE AT A TIME . O NE TIME , ONE BLADE .
    “You won’t cut many that way,” said Miss Flitworth.
    E VERY LAST ONE , M ISS F LITWORTH .
    “Yes?”
    T RUST ME ON THIS .
    Miss Flitworth left him to it and went back to the farmhouse. 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. He’s got a Past. He’s one of them Men of Mystery, I expect. Perhaps he did a robbery and is Lying Low.
    He’s cut a whole row already. One at a time, but somehow faster than a man cutting swathe by swathe…
    Miss Flitworth’s only reading matter was the Farmer’s 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 “June 15, Year of the Impromptu Stoat: On this Day 150 yrs. since, a Man killed by Freak shower of Goulash in Quirm” or “14 die at hands of Chume, the Notorious Herring Thrower.”
    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 she’d 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 , M ISS F LITWORTH .
    “Go and feed the pig, then. She’s called Nancy.”
    N ANCY , said Bill, turning the word around in his mouth as though he was trying to see it from all sides.
    “After my mother.”
    I WILL GO AND FEED THE PIG N ANCY , M ISS F LITWORTH .
    It seemed to Miss Flitworth that mere seconds went by.
    I HAVE FINISHED , M ISS F LITWORTH .
    She squinted at him. Then,