Reaper Man

Thousands of years before, Albert had opted to serve Death rather than die. He wasn't exactly immortal. Real time was forbidden in Death's realm. There was only the ever-changing now, but it went on for a very long time. He had less than two months of real time left; he hoarded his days like bars of gold.

"I, er... " he began. "That is -"

YOU FEAR TO DIE?

"It's not that I don't want... I mean, I've always... it's just that life is a habit that's hard to break..."

Death watched him curiously, as one might watch a beetle that had landed on its back and couldn't turn over.

Finally Albert lapsed into silence.

I UNDERSTAND, said Death, unhooking Binky's bridle.

"But you don't seem worried! You're really going to die?"

YES. IT WILL BE A GREAT ADVENTURE.

"It will? You're not afraid?"

I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO BE AFRAID.

"I could show you, if you like," Albert ventured.

NO. I SHOULD LIKE TO LEARN BY MYSELF. I SHALL HAVE

EXPERIENCES. AT LAST.

"Master... if you go, will there be -?"

A NEW DEATH WILL ARISE FROM THE MINDS OF THE LIVING, ALBERT.

"Oh. " Albert looked relieved. "You don't happen to know what he'll be like, do you?"

NO.

"Perhaps I'd better, you know, clean the place up a bit, get an inventory prepared, that sort of thing?"

GOOD IDEA, said Death, as kindly as possible. WHEN I SEE THE NEW DEATH, I SHALL HEARTILY RECOMMEND YOU.

"Oh. You'll see him, then?"

OH. YES. AND I MUST LEAVE NOW.

"What. so soon?"

CERTAINLY. MUSTN'T WASTE TIME!

Death adjusted the saddle, and then turned and held the tiny hour-glass proudly in front of Albert's hooked nose.

SEE! I HAVE TIME. AT LAST, I HAVE TIME

Albert backed away nervously.

"And now that you have it, what are you going to do with it?" he said.

Death mounted his horse.

I AM GOING TO SPEND IT.

The party was in full swing. The banner with the legend ‘Goodebye Windle 130 Gloriouse Years' was dripping a bit in the heat. Things were getting to the point where there was nothing to drink but the punch and nothing to eat but the strange yellow dip with the highly suspicious tortillas and nobody minded. The wizards chatted with the forced jolliness of people who see one another all day and are now seeing one another all evening.

In the middle of it all Windle Poons sat with a huge glass of rum and a funny hat on his head. He was almost in tears.

"A genuine Going-Away party!" he kept muttering. "Haven't had one of them since old "Scratcher"

He Went Away, " the capital letters fell into place easily, "back in, mm, the Year of the Intimidating, mm, Porpoise. Thought everyone had forgotten about ‘em."

"The Librarian looked up the details for us, " said the Bursar, indicating a large orangutan who was trying to blow into a party squeaker. "He also made the banana dip. I hope someone eats it soon."

He leaned down.

"Can I help you to some more potato salad?" he said, in the loud deliberate voice used for talking to imbeciles and old people.

Windle cupped a trembling hand to his ear.

"What? What?"

"More! Salad! Windle?"

"No, thank you."

"Another sausage, then?"

"What?"

"Sausage!"

"They give me terrible gas all night," said Windle.

He considered this for a moment, and then took five.

"Er," shouted the Bursar, "do you happen to know what time -?"

"Eh?"

"What! Time?"

"Half past nine," said Windle, promptly if indistinctly.

"Well, that's nice, " said the Bursar. "It gives you the rest of the evening, er, free."

Windle rummaged in the dreadful recesses of his wheelchair, a graveyard for old cushions, dog-eared books and ancient, half-sucked sweets. He flourished a small green-covered book and pushed it into the Bursar's hands.

The Bursar turned it over. Scrawled on the cover were the words: Windle Poons Hys Dyary. A piece of bacon rind marked today's date.

Under Things to Do, a crabbed hand had written: Die.

The Bursar couldn't stop himself from turning the page.

Yes. Under tomorrow's date, Things to Do: Get Born.

His gaze slid sideways to a small table at the side of the room. Despite the fact that the room was quite crowded, there was an area of clear floor around the table, as if it had some kind of personal space that no-one was about to invade.

There had been special instructions in the Going Away ceremony concerning the table. It had to have a black cloth, with a few magic sigils embroidered on it.

It had a plate, containing a selection of the better canaps. It had a glass of wine. After considerable discussion among the wizards, a funny paper hat had been added as well.

They all had an expectant look.

The Bursar took out his watch and flicked open the cover.

It was one of the new-fangled pocket watches, with hands. They pointed to a quarter past nine. He shook it. A small hatch opened under the 12 and a very small demon poked its head out and said, "Knock it off, guv'nor, I'm pedalling as fast as I can."

He closed the watch again and looked around desperately. No-one else seemed anxious to come too near Windle Poons. The Bursar felt it was up to him to make polite conversation. He surveyed possible topics. They all presented problems.