Thief of Time

Apocalypse? The actual end of the actual whole world?”
    No, said the Auditor.
    Y ES, said Death. I T IS.
    “Great!” said the figure
    What? said the Auditor.
    W HAT? said Death.
    The figure looked embarrassed.
    “Well, not great, obviously. Obviously not great, as such. But it’s what I’m here for. It’s what I’m for, really.” It held up a book. “Er…I’ve got the place marked ready. Wow! It’s been, you know, so long…”
    Death glanced at the book. The cover and all the pages were made of iron. Realization dawned.
    Y OU ARE THE A NGEL CLOTHED ALL IN WHITE OF THE I RON B OOK FROM THE PROPHECIES OF T OBRUN, AM I CORRECT?
    “That’s right!” The pages clanged as the angel hurriedly thumbed through them. “And it’s clothéd, by the way, if you don’t mind. Clo-the ddd . Just a detail, I know, but I like to get it right.”
    What is happening here? the Auditor growled.
    I DON’T KNOW HOW TO TELL YOU THIS , said Death, ignoring the interruption, BUT YOU ARE NOT OFFICIAL.
    The pages stopped clanking.
    “What do you mean?” said the angel suspiciously.
    T HE B OOK OF T OBRUN HAS NOT BEEN CONSIDERED OFFICIAL CHURCH DOGMA FOR A HUNDRED YEARS . T HE PROPHET B RUTHA REVEALED THAT THE WHOLE CHAPTER WAS A METAPHOR FOR A POWER STRUGGLE WITHIN THE EARLY CHURCH . I T IS NOT INCLUDED IN THE R EVISED V ERSION OF THE B OOK OF O M, AS DETERMINED BY THE C ONVOCATION OF E E.
    “Not at all?”
    I’ M SORRY.
    “I’ve been thrown out? Just like the damn rabbits and the big syrupy things?”
    Y ES.
    “Even the bit where I blow the trumpet?”
    O H, YES.
    “You’re sure?”
    A LWAYS.
    “But you are Death and this is the Apocalypse, right?” said the angel, looking wretched. “So therefore—”
    U NFORTUNATELY, HOWEVER, YOU ARE NO LONGER A FORMAL PART OF THE PROCEEDINGS.
    Out of the corner of his mind, Death was observing the Auditor. Auditors always listened when people spoke. The more people spoke, the closer to consensus every decision came, and the less responsibility anyone had. But the Auditor was showing signs of impatience and annoyance…
    Emotions. And emotions made you alive . Death knew how to deal with the living.
    The angel looked around at the universe.
    “Then what am I supposed to do ?” he wailed. “This is what I’ve been waiting for! For thousands of years!” He stared at the iron book. “Thousands of dull, boring, wasted years…” he mumbled.
    Have you quite finished? said the Auditor.
    “One big scene. That’s all I had. That was my purpose. You wait, you practice—and then you’re just edited out because brimstone is no longer a fashionable color?” Anger was infusing the bitterness in the angel’s voice. “No one told me, of course…”
    He glared at the rusted pages.
    “It ought to be Pestilence next,” he muttered.
    “Am I late, then?” said a voice in the night.
    A horse walked forward. It gleamed unhealthily, like a gangrenous wound just before the barber-surgeon would be called in with his hacksaw for a quick trim.
    I THOUGHT YOU WEREN’T COMING, said Death.
    “I didn’t want to,” Pestilence oozed, “but humans do get such interesting diseases. I’d rather like to see how weasles turn out, too.” One crusted eye winked at Death.
    “You mean measles?” said the angel.
    “Weasles, I’m afraid,” said Pestilence. “People are getting really careless with this bioartificing. We’re talking boils that really bite .”
    Two of you will not suffice! snarled the Auditor in their heads.
    A horse walked out of the darkness. Some toast racks had more flesh.
    “I’ve been thinking,” said a voice. “Maybe there are things worth putting up a fight for.”
    “And they are—?” said Pestilence, looking around.
    “Salad-cream sandwiches. You just can’t beat them. That tang of permitted emulsifiers? Marvelous.”
    “Hah! You’re Famine, then?” said the Angel of the Iron Book. It fumbled with the heavy pages again.
    What, what, what is this nonsense of “salad cream”? * shouted the Auditor.
    A NGER , thought Death. A POWERFUL EMOTION .
    “Do I like salad cream?” said a voice in the dark. A second, female voice replied:
    “No, dear, it gives you hives.”
    The horse of War was huge and red and the heads of dead warriors hung from the saddle horn. And Mrs. War was hanging on to War, grimly.
    “All four. Bingo!” said the Angel of the Book. “So much for the Convocation of Ee!”
    War had a woolly scarf around his neck. He looked