Reaper Man

better that contraption of Ned Simnel’s. Took four of us to do the binding. He nearly beat it, too.”
    “Put him down on the sofa.”
    “He tole him he was doing too much in all that sun—” Duke craned his neck to see around the kitchen, just in case jewels and treasure were hanging out of the dresser drawers.
    Miss Flitworth eclipsed his view.
    “I’m sure you did. Thank you. Now I expect you’ll be wanting to be off home.”
    “If there’s anything we can do—”
    “I know where you live. And you ain’t paid no rent there for five years, too. Goodbye, Mr. Spigot.”
    She ushered them to the door and shut it in their faces. Then she turned around.
    “What the hell have you been doing, Mr. So-Called Bill Door?”
    I AM TIRED AND IT WON’T STOP .
    Bill Door clutched at his skull.
    A LSO S PIGOT GAVE ME A HUMOROUS APPLE JUICE FERMENTED DRINK BECAUSE OF THE HEAT AND NOW I FEEL ILL .
    “I ain’t surprised. He makes it up in the woods. Apples isn’t the half of it.”
    I HAVE NEVER FELT ILL BEFORE . O R TIRED .
    “It’s all part of being alive.”
    H OW DO HUMANS STAND IT ?
    “Well, fermented apple juice can help.”
    Bill Door sat staring gloomily at the floor.
    B UT WE FINISHED THE FIELD , he said, with a hint of triumph. A LL STACKED IN STOOKS , OR POSSIBLY THE OTHER WAY AROUND .
    He clutched at his skull again.
    A ARGH .
    Miss Flitworth disappeared into the scullery. There was the creaking of a pump. She returned with a damp flannel and a glass of water.
    T HERE’S A NEWT IN IT !
    “Shows it’s fresh,” said Miss Flitworth, * fishing the amphibian out and releasing it on the flagstones, where it scuttled away into a crack.
    Bill Door tried to stand up.
    N OW I ALMOST KNOW WHY SOME PEOPLE WISH TO DIE , he said. I HAD HEARD OF PAIN AND MISERY BUT I HAD NOT HITHERTO FULLY UNDERSTOOD WHAT THEY MEANT .
    Miss Flitworth peered through the dusty window. The clouds that had been piling up all afternoon towered over the hills, gray with a menacing hint of yellow. The heat pressed down like a vice.
    “There’s a big storm coming.”
    W ILL IT SPOIL MY HARVEST ?
    “No. It’ll dry out after.”
    H OW IS THE CHILD ?
    Bill Door unfolded his palm. Miss Flitworth raised her eyebrows. The golden glass was there, the top bulb almost empty. But it shimmered in and out of vision.
    “How come you’ve got it? It’s upstairs! She was holding it like,”—she floundered—“like someone holds something very tightly.”
    S HE STILL IS . B UT IT IS ALSO HERE . O R ANYWHERE . I T IS ONLY A METAPHOR , AFTER ALL .
    “What she’s holding looks real enough.”
    J UST BECAUSE SOMETHING IS A METAPHOR DOESN’T MEAN IT CAN’T BE REAL .
    Miss Flitworth was aware of a faint echo in the voice, as though the words were being spoken by two people almost, but not quite, in sync.
    “How long have you got?”
    A MATTER OF HOURS .
    “And the scythe?”
    I GAVE THE BLACKSMITH STRICT INSTRUCTIONS .
    She frowned. “I’m not saying young Simnel’s a bad lad, but are you sure he’ll do it? It’s asking a lot of a man like him to destroy something like that.”
    I HAD NO CHOICE . T HE LITTLE FURNACE HERE ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH .
    “It’s a wicked sharp scythe.”
    I FEAR IT MAY NOT BE SHARP ENOUGH .
    “And no one ever tried this on you ?”
    T HERE IS A SAYING : YOU CAN’T TAKE IT WITH YOU ?
    “Yes.”
    H OW MANY PEOPLE HAVE SERIOUSLY BELIEVED IT ?
    “I remember reading once,” said Miss Flitworth, “about these heathen kings in the desert somewhere who build huge pyramids and put all sorts of stuff in them. Even boats. Even gels in transparent trousers and a couple of saucepan lids. You can’t tell me that’s right.”
    I’ VE NEVER BEEN VERY SURE ABOUT WHAT IS RIGHT , said Bill Door. I AM NOT SURE THERE IS SUCH A THING AS RIGHT . O R WRONG . J UST PLACES TO STAND .
    “No, right’s right and wrong’s wrong,” said Miss Flitworth. “I was brought up to tell the difference.”
    B Y A CONTRABANDISTOR .
    “A what?”
    A MOVER OF CONTRABAND .
    “There’s nothing wrong with smuggling!”
    I MERELY POINT OUT THAT SOME PEOPLE THINK OTHERWISE .
    “They don’t count!”
    B UT —
    Lightning struck, somewhere on the hill. The thunderclap rocked the house; a few bricks from the chimney rattled into the grate. Then the windows shook to a fierce pounding.
    Bill Door strode across the room and threw open the door.
    Hailstones the size of hens’ eggs bounced off the doorstep and into the kitchen.
    O H . D RAMA