Reaper Man

small children in slightly similar circumstances. He resorted to reason.
    L OOK , he said, IF I WAS REALLY A SKELETON , LITTLE GIRL , I’ M SURE THESE OLD GENTLEMEN HERE WOULD HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY ABOUT IT .
    She regarded the old men at the other end of the bench.
    “They’re nearly skelingtons anyway,” she said. “I shouldn’t think they’d want to see another one.”
    He gave in.
    I HAVE TO ADMIT THAT YOU ARE RIGHT ON THAT POINT .
    “Why don’t you fall to bits?”
    I DON’T KNOW . I NEVER HAVE .
    “I’ve seen skelingtons of birds and things and they all fall to bits.”
    P ERHAPS IT IS BECAUSE THEY ARE WHAT SOMETHING WAS , WHEREAS THIS IS WHAT I AM .
    “The apothecary who does medicine over in Chambly’s got a skelington on a hook with all wire to hold the bones together,” said the child, with the air of one imparting information gained after diligent research.
    I DON’T HAVE WIRES .
    “There’s a difference between alive skelingtons and dead ones?”
    Y ES .
    “It’s a dead skelington he’s got then, is it?”
    Y ES .
    “What was inside someone?”
    Y ES .
    “Ur. Yuk.”
    The child stared distantly at the landscape for a while and then said, “I’ve got new socks.”
    Y ES ?
    “You can look, if you like.”
    A grubby foot was extended for inspection.
    W ELL , WELL . F ANCY THAT . N EW SOCKS .
    “My mum knitted them out of sheep.”
    M Y WORD .
    The horizon was given another inspection.
    “D’you know,” she said, “d’you know…it’s Friday.”
    Y ES .
    “I found a spoon.”
    Bill Door found he was waiting expectantly. He was not familiar with people who had an attention span of less than three seconds.
    “You work along of Miss Flitworth’s?”
    Y ES .
    “My dad says you’ve got your feet properly under the table there.”
    Bill Door couldn’t think of an answer to this because he didn’t know what it meant. It was one of those many flat statements humans made that were really just a disguise for something more subtle, which was often conveyed merely by the tone of voice or a look in the eyes, neither of which was being done by the child.
    “My dad says she said she’s got boxes of treasure.”
    H AS SHE ?
    “I’ve got tuppence.”
    M Y GOODNESS .
    “Sal!”
    They both looked up as Mrs. Lifton appeared on the doorstep.
    “Bedtime for you. Stop worrying Mr. Door.”
    O H , I ASSURE YOU SHE IS NOT —
    “Say goodnight, now.”
    “How do skelingtons go to sleep? They can’t close their eyes because—”
    He heard their voices, muffled, inside the inn.
    “You mustn’t call Mr. Door that just because…he’s…very…he’s very thin…”
    “It’s all right. He’s not the dead sort.”
    Mrs. Lifton’s voice had the familiar worried tones of someone who can’t bring themselves to believe the evidence of their own eyes. “Perhaps he’s just been very ill.”
    “I should think he’s just about been as ill as he can be ever.”
    Bill Door walked back home thoughtfully.
    There was a light on in the farmhouse kitchen, but he went straight to the barn, climbed the ladder to the hayloft, and lay down.
    He could put off dreaming, but he couldn’t escape remembering.
    He stared at the darkness.
    After a while he was aware of the pattering of feet. He turned.
    A stream of pale rat-shaped ghosts skipped along the roof beam above his head, fading as they ran so that soon there was nothing but the sound of the scampering.
    They were followed by a…shape.
    It was about six inches high. It wore a black robe. It held a small scythe in one skeletal paw. A bone-white nose with brittle gray whiskers protruded from the shadowy hood.
    Bill Door reached out and picked it up. It didn’t resist, but stood on the palm of his hand and eyed him as one professional to another.
    Bill Door said: A ND YOU ARE —?
    The Death of Rats nodded.
    S QUEAK .
    I REMEMBER , said Bill Door, WHEN YOU WERE A PART OF ME .
    The Death of Rats squeaked again.
    Bill Door fumbled in the pockets of his overall. He’d put some of his lunch in there. Ah, yes.
    I EXPECT , he said, THAT YOU COULD MURDER A PIECE OF CHEESE ?
    The Death of Rats took it graciously.
    Bill Door remembered visiting an old man once—only once—who had spent almost his entire life locked in a cell in a tower for some alleged crime or other, and had tamed little birds for company during his life sentence. They crapped on his bedding and ate his food, but he tolerated them and smiled at their flight in and out of the high