Reaper Man

started about the Revenoo. Nasty creatures. Always poking around asking what you’ve got hidden under the woodpile and behind the secret panels in the cellar and other stuff which is no concern whatsoever of anyone.”
    She sniffed.
    Bill Door was impressed. Miss Flitworth could actually give the word “revenue,” which had two vowels and one diphthong, all the peremptoriness of the word “scum.”
    “You should have said that they were after you right from the start,” said Miss Flitworth. “The Revenoo aren’t popular in these parts, you know. In my father’s day, any Revenooer came around here prying around by himself, we used to tie weights to their feet and heave ’em into the pond.”
    B UT THE POND IS ONLY A FEW INCHES DEEP , M ISS F LITWORTH .
    “Yeah, but it was fun watching ’em find out. You should have said. Everyone thought you were to do with taxes.”
    N O . N OT TAXES .
    “Well, well. I didn’t know there was a Revenoo Up There, too.”
    Y ES . I N A WAY .
    She sidled closer.
    “When will he come?”
    T ONIGHT . I CANNOT BE EXACT . T WO PEOPLE ARE LIVING ON THE SAME TIMER . I T MAKES THINGS UNCERTAIN .
    “I didn’t know people could give people some of their life.”
    I T HAPPENS ALL THE TIME .
    “And you’re sure about tonight?”
    Y ES .
    “And that blade will work, will it?”
    I DON’T KNOW . I T’S A MILLION TO ONE CHANCE .
    “Oh.” She seemed to be considering something. “So you’ve got the rest of the day free, then?”
    Y ES ?”
    “Then you can start getting the harvest in.”
    W HAT ?
    “It’ll keep you busy. Keep your mind off things. Besides, I’m paying you sixpence a week. And sixpence is sixpence.”

    Mrs. Cake’s house was also in Elm Street. Windle knocked on the door.
    After a while a muffled voice called out, “Is there anybody there?”
    “Knock once for yes,” Schleppel volunteered.
    Windle levered open the letter-box.
    “Excuse me? Mrs. Cake?”
    The door opened.
    Mrs. Cake wasn’t what Windle had expected. She was big, but not in the sense of being fat. She was just built to a scale slightly larger than normal; the sort of person who goes through life crouching slightly and looking apologetic in case they inadvertently loom. And she had magnificent hair. It crowned her head and flowed out behind her like a cloak. She also had slightly pointed ears and teeth which, while white and quite beautiful, caught the light in a disturbing way. Windle was amazed at the speed at which his heightened zombie senses reached a conclusion. He looked down.
    Lupine was sitting bolt upright, too excited even to wag his tail.
    “I don’t think you could be Mrs. Cake,” said Windle.
    “You want mother,” said the tall girl. “Mother! There’s a gentleman!”
    A distant muttering became a closer muttering, and then Mrs. Cake appeared around the side of her daughter like a small moon emerging from planetary shadow.
    “What d’yew want?” said Mrs. Cake.
    Windle took a step backward. Unlike her daughter, Mrs. Cake was quite short, and almost perfectly circular. And still unlike her daughter, whose whole stance was dedicated to making herself look small, she loomed tremendously. This was largely because of her hat, which he later learned she wore at all times with the dedication of a wizard. It was huge and black and had things on it, like bird wings and wax cherries and hat-pins; Carmen Miranda could have worn that hat to the funeral of a continent. Mrs. Cake traveled underneath it as the basket travels under a balloon. People often found themselves talking to her hat.
    “Mrs. Cake?” said Windle, fascinated.
    “Oim down ’ere,” said a reproachful voice.
    Windle lowered his gaze.
    “That’s ’oo I am,” said Mrs. Cake.
    “Am I addressing Mrs. Cake?” said Windle.
    “Yes, oi know,” said Mrs. Cake.
    “My name’s Windle Poons.”
    “Oi knew that, too.”
    “I’m a wizard, you see—”
    “All right, but see you wipes your feet.”
    “May I come in?”
    Windle Poons paused. He replayed the last few lines of conversation in the clicking control room of his brain. And then he smiled.
    “That’s right,” said Mrs. Cake.
    “Are you by any chance a natural clairvoyant?”
    “About ten seconds usually, Mr. Poons.”
    Windle hesitated.
    “You gotta ask the question,” said Mrs. Cake quickly. “I gets a migraine if people goes and viciously not asks questions after I’ve already foreseen ’em and answered ’em.”
    “How far into the