Reaper Man

the moment when they’d need to start work again. A glugging noise came from the end of the row.
    “It’s not been a bad old summer, then,” said Spigot. “And good harvest weather for a change.”
    “Ah…many a slip ’twixt dress and drawers,” said Duke. “Last night I saw a spider spinnin’ its web backward. That’s a sure sign there’s going to be a dretful storm.”
    “Don’t see how spiders know things like that.”
    Gabby Wheels passed a big earthenware jug to Bill Door. Something sloshed.
    W HAT IS THIS ?
    “Apple juice,” said Spigot. The others laughed.
    A H , said Bill Door. S TRONG DISTILLED SPIRITS , GIVEN HUMOROUSLY TO THE UNSUSPECTING NEWCOMER , THUS TO AFFORD SIMPLE AMUSEMENT WHEN HE BECOMES INADVERTENTLY INEBRIATED .
    “Cor,” said Spigot. Bill Door took a long swig.
    “And I saw swallows flying low,” said Duke. “And partridges are heading for the woods. And there’s a lot of big snails about. And—”
    “I don’t reckon any of them buggers knows the first thing about meteorology,” said Spigot. “I reckon you goes around tellin ’em. Eh, lads? Big storm comin’, Mr. Spider, so get on and do somethin’ folklorish.”
    Bill Door took another drink.
    W HAT IS THE NAME OF THE BLACKSMITH IN THE VILLAGE ?
    Spigot nodded. “That’s Ned Simnel, down by the green. O’course, he’s real busy about now, what with the harvest and all.”
    I HAVE SOME WORK FOR HIM .
    Bill Door got up and strode away toward the gate.
    “Bill?”
    He stopped. “Y ES ?
    “You can leave the brandy behind, then.”

    The village forge was dark and stifling in the heat. But Bill Door had very good eyesight.
    Something moved among a complicated heap of metal. It turned out to be the lower half of a man. His upper body was somewhere in the machinery, from which came the occasional grunt.
    A hand shot out as Bill Door approached.
    “Right. Give me a three-eighths Gripley.”
    Bill looked around. A variety of tools were strewn around the forge.
    “Come on, come on ,” said a voice from somewhere in the machine.
    Bill Door selected a piece of shaped metal at random, and placed it in the hand. It was drawn inside. There was metallic noise, and a grunt.
    “I said a Gripley . This isn’t a”—there was the scringeing noise of a piece of metal giving way—“my thumb , my thumb , you made me”—there was a clang—“aargh. That was my head . Now look what you’ve made me do. And the ratchet spring’s snapped off the trunnion armature again, do you realize?”
    N O . I AM SORRY .
    There was a pause.
    “Is that you, young Egbert?”
    N O . I T IS ME , OLD B ILL D OOR .
    There was a series of thumps and twanging noises as the top half of the human extricated itself from the machinery, and turned out to belong to a young man with black curly hair, a black face, black shirt, and black apron. He wiped a cloth across his face, leaving a pink smear, and blinked the sweat out of his eyes.
    “Who’re you?”
    G OOD OLD B ILL D OOR ? W ORKING FOR M ISS F LITWORTH ?
    “Oh, yes. The man in the fire? Hero of the hour, I heard. Put it there.”
    He extended a black hand. Bill Door looked at it blankly.
    I AM SORRY . I STILL DO NOT KNOW WHAT A THREE-EIGHTHS G RIPLEY IS .
    “I mean your hand, Mr. Door.”
    Bill Door hesitated, and then put his hand in the young man’s palm. The oil-rimmed eyes glazed for a moment, as the brain overruled the sense of touch, and then the smith smiled.
    “The name’s Simnel. What do you think, eh?”
    I T’S A GOOD NAME .
    “No, I mean the machine. Pretty ingenious, eh?”
    Bill Door regarded it with polite incomprehension. It looked, at first sight, like a portable windmill that had been attacked by an enormous insect, and at second sight like a touring torture chamber for an Inquisition that wanted to get out and about a bit and enjoy the fresh air. Mysterious jointed arms stuck out at various angles. There were belts, and long springs. The whole thing was mounted on spiked metal wheels.
    “Of course, you’re not seeing it at its best when it’s standing still,” said Simnel. “It needs a horse to pull it. At the moment, anyway. I’ve got one or two rather radical ideas in that direction,” he added dreamily.
    I T IS A DEVICE OF SOME SORT ?
    Simnel looked mildly affronted.
    “I prefer the term machine,” he said. “It will revolutionize farming methods, and drag them kicking and screaming into the Century of the Fruitbat. My folk have had this forge for