Reaper Man

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 Goulash 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.

There was a town square, which was ridiculous. It was really only an enlarged crossroads, with a clock tower. And there was a tavern. He’d gone inside.

After the initial pause while everyone’s mind had refocused to allow him room, they’d been cautiously hospitable; news travels even faster on a vine with few grapes.

‘You’d be the new man up at Miss Flitworth’s,’ said the barman. ‘A Mr Door, I did hear.’

CALL ME BILL.

‘Ah? Used to be a tidy old farm, once upon a time. We never thought the old girl’d stay on.’

‘Ah,’ agreed a couple of old men by the fireplace.

AH.

‘New to these parts, then?’ said the barman.

The sudden silence of the other men in the bar was like a black hole.

NOT PRECISELY.

‘Been here before, have you?’

JUST PASSING THROUGH.

‘They say old Miss Flitworth’s a loony,’ said one of the figures on the benches around the smoke-blackened walls.

‘But sharp as a knife, mind,’ said another hunched drinker.

‘Oh, yes. She’s sharp all right. But still a loony.’

‘And they say she’s got boxes full of treasure in that old parlour of hers.’

‘She’m tight with money, I know that.’

‘That proves it. Rich folk are always tight with money.’

‘All right. Sharp and rich. But still a loony.’

‘You can’t be loony and rich. You’ve got to be eccentric if you’re rich.’

The silence returned and hovered. Bill Door sought desperately for something to say. He had never been very good at small talk. He’d never had much occasion to use it.

What did people say at times like this? Ah. Yes.

I WILL BUY EVERYONE A DRINK, he announced.