Reaper Man

‘But he didn’t turn up for Windle,’ the Dean pointed out.

‘It goes on all the time,’ said Ridcully, ignoring him. ‘All sorts of things die all the time. Even vegetables.’

‘But I don’t think Death ever came for a potato,’ said the Dean doubtfully.

‘Death comes for everything,’ said the Archchancellor, firmly.

The wizards nodded sagely.

After a while the Senior Wrangler said, ‘Do you know, I read the other day that every atom in your body is changed every seven years? New ones keep getting attached and old ones keep on dropping off. It goes on all the time. Marvellous, really.’

The Senior Wrangler could do to a conversation what it takes quite thick treacle to do to the pedals of a precision watch.

‘Yes? What happens to the old ones?’ said Ridcully, interested despite himself.

‘Dunno. They just float around in the air, I suppose, until they get attached to someone else.’

The Archchancellor looked affronted.

‘What, even wizards?’

‘Oh, yes. Everyone. It’s part of the miracle of existence.’

‘Is it? Sounds like bad hygiene to me,’ said the Archchancellor. ‘I suppose there’s no way of stopping it?’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said the Senior Wrangler, doubtfully. ‘I don’t think you’re supposed to stop miracles of existence.’

‘But that means everythin’ is made up of everythin’ else,’ said Ridcully.

‘Yes. Isn’t it amazing?’

‘It’s disgusting, is what it is,’ said Ridcully, shortly.

‘Anyway, the point I’m making … the point I’m making …’ He paused, trying to remember. ‘You can’t just abolish death, that’s the point. Death can’t die. That’s like asking a scorpion to sting itself.’

‘As a matter of fact,’ said the Senior Wrangler, always ready with a handy fact, ‘you can get a scorpion to—’

‘Shut up,’ said the Archchancellor.

‘But we can’t have an undead wizard wandering around,’ said the Dean. ‘There’s no telling what he might take it into his head to do. We’ve got to … put a stop to him. For his own good.’

‘That’s right,’ said Ridcully. ‘For his own good. Shouldn’t be too hard. There must be dozens of ways to deal with an undead.’

‘Garlic,’ said the Senior Wrangler flatly. ‘Undead don’t like garlic.’

‘Don’t blame them. Can’t stand the stuff,’ said the Dean.

‘Undead! Undead!’ said the Bursar, pointing an accusing finger. They ignored him.

‘Yes, and then there’s sacred items,’ said the Senior Wrangler. ‘Your basic undead crumbles into dust as soon as look at ’em. And they don’t like daylight. And if the worst comes to the worst, you bury them at a crossroads. That’s surefire, that is. And you stick a stake in them to make sure they don’t get up again.’

‘With garlic on it,’ said the Bursar.

‘Well, yes. I suppose you could put garlic on it,’ the Senior Wrangler conceded, reluctantly.

‘I don’t think you should put garlic on a good steak,’ said the Dean. ‘Just a little oil and seasoning.’

‘Red pepper is nice,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, happily.

‘Shut up,’ said the Archchancellor.

Plop.

The cupboard door’s hinges finally gave way, spilling its contents into the room.

Sergeant Colon of the Ankh-Morpork City Guard was on duty. He was guarding the Brass Bridge, the main link between Ankh and Morpork. From theft.

When it came to crime prevention, Sergeant Colon found it safest to think big.

There was a school of thought that believed the best way to get recognised as a keen guardian of the law in Ankh-Morpork would be to patrol the streets and alleys, bribe informants, follow suspects and so on.

Sergeant Colon played truant from this particular school. Not, he would hasten to say, because trying to keep down crime in Ankh-Morpork was like trying to keep down salt in the sea and the only recognition any keen guardian of the law was likely to get was the sort that goes, ‘Hey, that body in the gutter, isn’t that old Sergeant Colon?’ but because the modern, go-ahead, intelligent law officer ought to be always one jump ahead of the contemporary criminal. One day someone was bound to try to steal the Brass Bridge, and then they’d find Sergeant Colon right there waiting for them.

In the meantime, it offered a quiet place out of the wind where he could have a relaxing smoke and probably not see anything that would upset him.

He leaned with his elbows on the parapet, wondering vaguely about Life.

A figure stumbled out of the mist. Sergeant Colon recognised the familiar pointy hat of a wizard.

‘Good evening, officer,’ its wearer croaked.

‘Morning, y’honour.’

‘Would you be kind enough to help me up on to the parapet, officer?’

Sergeant Colon hesitated. But the chap was a wizard. A man could get into serious trouble not helping wizards.

‘Trying out some new magic, y’honour?’ he said, brightly, helping the skinny but surprisingly heavy body up on to the crumbling stonework.

‘No.’

Windle Poons stepped off the bridge. There was a squelch.[4]

Sergeant Colon looked down as the waters of the Ankh closed again, slowly.

Those wizards. Always up to something.