Reaper Man

"I meant I didn't hear you. " She stood back and looked him up and down.

"There's still something about you I can't put my finger on, Bill Door," she said. ‘Wish I knew what it was."

The seven-foot skeleton regarded her stoically. He felt there was nothing he could say.

"What do you want for breakfast?" said the old woman. "Not that it'll make any difference, ‘cos it's porridge."

Later she thought: he must have eaten it, because the bowl is empty. Why can't I remember?

And then there was the matter of the scythe. He looked at it as if he'd never seen one before. She pointed out the grass nail and the handles. He looked at them politely.

HOW DO YOU SHARPEN IT, MISS FLITWORTH?

"It's sharp enough, for goodness sake."

HOW DO YOU SHARPEN IT MORE?

"You can't. Sharp's sharp. You can't get sharper than that."

He'd swished it aimlessly, and made a disappointed hissing noise.

And there was the grass, too.

The hay meadow was high on the hill behind the farm, overlooking the cornfield. She watched him for a while.

It was the most interesting technique she had ever witnessed. She wouldn't even have thought that it was technically possible.

Eventually she said: "It's good. You've got the swing and everything."

THANK YOU, MISS FLITWORTH.

"But why one blade of grass at a time?"

Bill Door regarded the neat row of stalks for some while.

THERE IS ANOTHER WAY?

"You can do lots in one go, you know."

NO. NO. ONE BLADE AT A TIME. ONE TIME, ONE BLADE.

"You won't cut many that way," said Miss Flitworth.

EVERY LAST ONE, MISS FLITWORTH.

"Yes?"

TRUST ME ON THIS.

Miss Flitworth left him to it and went back to the farm-house. She stood at the kitchen window and watched the distant dark figure for a while, as it moved over the hillside.

I wonder what he did? she thought. He's got a Past. He's one of them Men of Mystery, I expect. Perhaps he did a robbery and is Lying Low.

He's cut a whole row already. One at a time, but somehow faster than a man cutting swathe by swathe...

Miss Flitworth's only reading matter was the Farmer's Almanac and Seed Catalogue, which could last a whole year in the privy if no-one was ill. In addition to sober information about phases of the moon and seed sowings it took a certain grisly relish in recounting the various mass murders, vicious robberies and natural disasters that befell mankind, on the lines of ‘June 15, Year of the Impromptu Stoat: On this Day 150 yrs. since, a Man killed by Freak shower of Goulish in Quirm' or ‘14 die at hands of Chume, the Notorious Herring Thrower."

The important thing about all these was that they happened a long way away, possibly by some kind of divine intervention. The only things that usually happened locally were the occasional theft of a chicken, and the occasional wandering troll. Of course, there were also robbers and bandits in the hills but they got on well with the actual residents and were essential to the local economy. Even so, she felt she'd certainly feel safer with someone else about the place.

The dark figure on the hillside was well into the second row. Behind it, the cut grass withered in the sun.

I HAVE FINISHED, MISS FLITWORTH.

"Go and feed the pig, then. She's called Nancy."

NANCY, said Bill, turning the word around in his mouth as though he was trying to see it from all sides.

"After my mother."

I WILL GO AND FEED THE PIG NANCY, MISS FLITWORTH.

It seemed to Miss Flitworth that mere seconds went by.

I HAVE FINISHED, MISS FLITWORTH.

She squinted at him. Then, slowly and deliberately, she wiped her hands on a cloth, stepped out into the yard and headed for the pigsty.

Nancy was eyeball-deep in the swill trough.

Miss Flitworth wondered exactly what comment she should make. Finally she said, "Very good. Very good. You, you, you certainly work... fast."

MISS FLITWORTH, WHY DOES NOT THE COCKEREL CROW PROPERLY?

"Oh, that's just Cyril. He hasn't got a very good memory. Ridiculous, isn't it? I wish he'd get it right."

Bill Door found a piece of chalk in the farm's old smithy, located a piece of board among the debris, and wrote very carefully for some time. Then he wedged the board in front of the henhouse and pointed Cyril towards it.

THIS YOU WILL READ he said.

Cyril peered myopically at the ‘Cock-A-Doodle-Doo' in heavy gothic script. Somewhere in his tiny mad chicken mind a very distinct and chilly understanding formed that he'd better learn to read very, very quickly.

Bill Door sat back among the hay and thought about the day. It seemed to have been quite a full one. He'd cut hay and fed animals and mended a window. He'd found some old overalls hanging in the barn. They seemed far more appropriate for a Bill Door than a robe woven of absolute darkness, so he'd put them on. And Miss Flitworth had given him a broad-brimmed straw hat.

And he'd ventured the half-mile walk into the town. It wasn't even a one horse town. If anyone had a horse, they'd have eaten it. The residents appeared to make a living by stealing one another's washing.