Reaper Man

trousers?”
    “What?”
    “Any trousers in the house?”
    “Well, I suppose I’ve got some that belonged to the late Mr. Cake, but why—”
    “Sorry,” said Windle. “My mind was wandering. Don’t know what I’m saying, half the time.”
    “Ah,” said Reg, brightly, “I see . What you’re saying is that when he—”
    Doreen nudged him viciously.
    “Oh,” said Reg. “Sorry. Don’t mind me. I’d forget my own head if it wasn’t sewn on.”
    Windle leaned back, and shut his eyes. He could hear the occasional scrap of conversation. He could hear Arthur Winkings asking the Archchancellor who did his decorating, and where the University got its vegetables. He heard the Bursar moaning about the cost of exterminating all the cursewords, which had somehow survived the recent changes and had taken up residence in the darkness of the roof. He could even, if he strained his perfect hearing, hear the whoops of Schleppel in the distant cellars.
    They didn’t need him. At last. The world didn’t need Windle Poons.
    He got up quietly and lurched to the door.
    “I’m just going out,” he said. “I may be some time.”
    Ridcully gave him a half-hearted nod, and concentrated on what Arthur had to say about how the Great Hall could be entirely transformed with some pine-effect wallpaper.
    Windle shut the door behind him and leaned against the thick, cool wall.
    Oh, yes. There was one other thing.
    “Are you there, One-Man-Bucket?” he said softly. how did you know?
    “You’re generally around.”
    heh heh, you’ve caused some real trouble there! you know what’s going to happen next full moon?
    “Yes, I do. And I think, somehow, that they do too.”
    but he’ll become a wolfman.
    “Yes. And she’ll become a wolfwoman.”
    all right, but what kind of relationship can people have one week in four?
    “Maybe at least as good a chance of happiness as most people get. Life isn’t perfect, One-Man-Bucket.”
    you’re telling me?
    “Now, can I ask you a personal question?” said Windle. “I mean I’ve just got to know…”
    huh.
    “After all, you’ve got the astral plane to yourself again.”
    oh, all right.
    “Why are you called One—”
    is that all? I thought you could work that one out, a clever man like you. in my tribe we’re traditionally named after the first thing the mother sees when she looks out of the teepee after the birth. it’s short for One-Man-Pouring-a-Bucket-of-Water-over-Two-Dogs.
    “That’s pretty unfortunate,” said Windle.
    it’s not too bad, said One-Man-Bucket. it was my twin brother you had to feel sorry for. she looked out ten seconds before me to give him his name.
    Windle Poons thought about it.
    “Don’t tell me, let me guess,” he said. “Two-Dogs-Fighting?”
    Two-Dogs-Fighting? Two-Dogs Fighting? said One-Man-Bucket. wow, he’d have given his right arm to be called Two-Dogs -Fighting.

    It was later that the story of Windle Poons really came to an end, if “story” means all that he did and caused and set in motion. In the Ramtop village where they dance the real Morris dance, for example, they believe that no one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away—until the clock he wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone’s life, they say, is only the core of their actual existence.
    As he walked through the foggy city to an appointment he had been awaiting ever since he was born, Windle felt that he could predict that final end.
    It would be in a few weeks’ time, when the moon was full again. A sort of codicil or addendum to the life of Windle Poons—born in the year of the Significant Triangle in the Century of the Three Lice (he’d always preferred the old calendar with its ancient names to all this new-fangled numbering they did today) and died in the year of the Notional Serpent in the Century of the Fruitbat, more or less.
    There’d be two figures running across the high moorland under the moon. Not entirely wolves, not entirely human. With any luck, they’d have best of both worlds. Not just feeling…but knowing.
    Always best to have both worlds.

    Death sat in his chair in his dark study, his hands steepled in front of his face.
    Occasionally he’d swivel the chair backward and forward.
    Albert brought him in a cup of tea and exited with diplomatic soundlessness.
    There was one lifetimer left on Death’s desk. He stared