Reaper Man

LITWORTH .
    “It was the day before we were going to be wed, like I said. And then one of his pack ponies came back by itself and then the men went and found the avalanche…and you know what I thought? I thought, that’s ridiculous. That’s stupid . Terrible, isn’t it? Oh, I thought other things afterward, naturally, but the first thing was that the world shouldn’t act as if it was some kind of book. Isn’t that a terrible thing to have thought?”
    I MYSELF HAVE NEVER TRUSTED DRAMA , M ISS F LITWORTH .
    She wasn’t really listening.
    “And I thought, what life expects me to do now is moon around the place in the wedding dress for years and go completely doolally. That’s what it wants me to do. Hah! Oh, yes! So I put the dress in the ragbag and we still invited everyone to the wedding breakfast, because it’s a crime to let good food go to waste.”
    She attacked the fire again, and then gave him another megawatt stare.
    “I think it’s always very important to see what’s really real and what isn’t, don’t you?”
    M ISS F LITWORTH ?
    “Yes?”
    D O YOU MIND IF I STOP THE CLOCK ?
    She glanced up at the boggle-eyed owl.
    “What? Oh. Why?”
    I AM AFRAID IT GETS ON MY NERVES .
    “It’s not very loud, is it?”
    Bill Door wanted to say that every tick was like the hammering of iron clubs on bronze pillars.
    I T’S JUST RATHER ANNOYING , M ISS F LITWORTH .
    “Well, stop it if you want to, I’m sure. I only keep it wound up for the company.”
    Bill Door got up thankfully, stepped gingerly through the forest of ornaments, and grabbed the pine-cone shaped pendulum. The wooden owl glared at him and the ticking stopped, at least in the realm of common sound. He was aware that, elsewhere, the pounding of Time continued none the less. How could people endure it? They allowed Time in their houses, as though it was a friend .
    He sat down again.
    Miss Flitworth had started to knit, ferociously.
    The fire rustled in the grate.
    Bill Door leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling.
    “Your horse enjoying himself?”
    P ARDON ?
    “Your horse. He seems to be enjoying himself in the meadow,” prompted Miss Flitworth.
    O H . YES .
    “Running around as if he’s never seen grass before.”
    H E LIKES GRASS .
    “And you like animals. I can tell.”
    Bill Door nodded. His reserves of small talk, never very liquid, had dried up.
    He sat silently for the next couple of hours, hands gripping the arms of the chair, until Miss Flitworth announced that she was going to bed. Then he went back to the barn, and slept.

    Bill Door hadn’t been aware of it coming. But there it was, a gray figure floating in the darkness of the barn.
    Somehow it had got hold of the golden timer.
    It told him, Bill Door, there had been a mistake.
    The glass shattered. Fine golden seconds glittered in the air, for a moment, and then settled.
    It told him, Return. You have work to do. There has been a mistake .
    The figure faded.
    Bill Door nodded. Of course there had been a mistake. Anyone could see there had been a mistake. He’d known all along it had been a mistake.
    He tossed the overalls in a corner and took up the robe of absolute blackness.
    Well, it had been an experience. And, he had to admit, one that he didn’t want to relive. He felt as though a huge weight had been removed.
    Was that what it was really like to be alive? The feeling of darkness dragging you forward?
    How could they live with it? And yet they did, and even seemed to find enjoyment in it, when surely the only sensible course would be to despair. Amazing. To feel you were a tiny living thing, sandwiched between two cliffs of darkness. How could they stand to be alive?
    Obviously it was something you had to be born to.
    Death saddled his horse and rode out and up over the fields. The corn rippled far below, like the sea. Miss Flitworth would have to find someone else to help her gather in the harvest.
    That was odd. There was a feeling there. Regret? Was that it? But it was Bill Door’s feeling, and Bill Door was…dead. Had never lived. He was his old self again, safe where there were no feelings and no regrets.
    Never any regrets.
    And now he was in his study, and that was odd, because he couldn’t quite remember how he’d got there. One minute on horseback, the next in the study, with its ledgers and timers and instruments.
    And it was bigger than he remembered. The walls lurked on the edge of sight.
    That was Bill Door’s doing. Of course it