Mort

The cottage roof had been built with wide eaves, to shed snow and cover the logpile. No dweller in the high Ramtops would dream of starting a winter without a logpile on three sides of the house. But there wasn’t a logpile here, even though spring was still a long way off.

There was, however, a bundle of hay in a net by the door. It had a note attached, written in big, slightly shaky capitals: FOR THEE HORS.

It would have worried Mort if he’d let it. Someone was expecting him. He’d learned in recent days, though, that rather than drown in uncertainty it was best to surf right over the top of it. Anyway, Binky wasn’t worried by moral scruples and bit straight in.

It did leave the problem of whether to knock. Somehow, it didn’t seem appropriate. Supposing no-one answered, or told him to go away?

So he lifted the thumb latch and pushed at the door. It swung inwards quite easily, without a creak.

There was a low-ceilinged kitchen, its beams at trepanning height for Mort. The light from the solitary candle glinted off crockery on a long dresser and flagstones that had been scrubbed and polished into iridescence. The fire in the cave-like inglenook didn’t add much light, because it was no more than a heap of white ash under the remains of a log. Mort knew, without being told, that it was the last log.

An elderly lady was sitting at the kitchen table, writing furiously with her hooked nose only a few inches from the paper. A grey cat curled on the table beside her blinked calmly at Mort.

The scythe bumped off a beam. The woman looked up.

“Be with you in a minute,” she said. She frowned at the paper. “I haven’t put in the bit about being of sound mind and body yet, lot of foolishness anyway, no-one sound in mind and body would be dead. Would you like a drink?”

“Pardon?” said Mort. He recalled himself, and repeated “PARDON?”

“If you drink, that is. It’s raspberry port. On the dresser. You might as well finish the bottle.”

Mort eyed the dresser suspiciously. He felt he’d rather lost the initiative. He pulled out the hourglass and glared at it. There was a little heap of sand left.

“There’s still a few minutes yet,” said the witch, without looking up.

“How, I mean, HOW DO YOU KNOW?”

She ignored him, and dried the ink in front of the candle, sealed the letter with a drip of wax, and tucked it under the candlestick. Then she picked up the cat.

“Granny Beedle will be around directly tomorrow to tidy up and you’re to go with her, understand? And see she lets Gammer Nutley have the pink marble washstand, she’s had her eye on it for years.”

The cat yawped knowingly.

“I haven’t, that is, I HAVEN’T GOT ALL NIGHT, YOU KNOW,” said Mort reproachfully.

“You have, I haven’t, and there’s no need to shout,” said the witch. She slid off her stall and then Mort saw how bent she was, like a bow. With some difficulty she unhooked a tall pointed hat from its nail on the wall, skewered it into place on her white hair with a battery of hatpins, and grasped two walking sticks.

She tottered across the floor towards Mort, and looked up at him with eyes as small and bright as blackcurrants.

“Will I need my shawl? Shall I need a shawl, d’you think? No, I suppose not. I imagine it’s quite warm where I’m going.” She peered closely at Mort, and frowned.

“You’re rather younger than I imagined,” she said. Mort said nothing. Then Goodie Hamstring said, quietly, “You know, I don’t think you’re who I was expecting at all.”

Mort cleared his throat.

“Who were you expecting, precisely?” he said.

“Death,” said the witch, simply. “It’s part of the arrangement, you see. One gets to know the time of one’s death in advance, and one is guaranteed—personal attention.”

“I’m it,” said Mort.

“It?”

“The personal attention. He sent me. I work for him. No-one else would have me.” Mort paused. This was all wrong. He’d be sent home again in disgrace. His first bit of responsibility, and he’d ruined it. He could already hear people laughing at him.

The wail started in the depths of his embarrassment and blared out like a foghorn. “Only this is my first real job and it’s all gone wrong!”

The scythe fell to the floor with a clatter, slicing a piece off the table leg and cutting a flagstone in half.

Goodie watched him for some time, with her head on one side. Then she said, “I see. What is your name, young man?”

“Mort,” sniffed Mort. “Short for Mortimer.”

“Well, Mort, I expect you’ve got an hourglass somewhere about your person,”

Mort nodded vaguely. He reached down to his belt and produced the glass. The witch inspected it critically.

“Still a minute or so,” she said. “We don’t have much time to lose. Just give me a moment to lock up.”

“But you don’t understand!” Mort wailed. “I’ll mess it all up! I’ve never done this before!”

She patted his hand. “Neither have I,” she said. “We can learn together. Now pick up the scythe and try to act your age, there’s a good boy.”