Reaper Man

Bill Door wanted to say that every tick was like the hammering of iron clubs on bronze pillars.

IT’S JUST RATHER ANNOYING, MISS FLITWORTH.

‘Well, stop it if you want to, I’m sure. I only keep it wound up for the company.’

Bill Door got up thankfully, stepped gingerly through the forest of ornaments, and grabbed the pine-cone shaped pendulum. The wooden owl glared at him and the ticking stopped, at least in the realm of common sound. He was aware that, elsewhere, the pounding of Time continued none the less. How could people endure it? They allowed Time in their houses, as though it was a friend.

He sat down again.

Miss Flitworth had started to knit, ferociously.

The fire rustled in the grate.

Bill Door leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling.

‘Your horse enjoying himself?’

PARDON?

‘Your horse. He seems to be enjoying himself in the meadow,’ prompted Miss Flitworth.

OH. YES.

‘Running around as if he’s never seen grass before.’

HE LIKES GRASS.

‘And you like animals. I can tell.’

Bill Door nodded. His reserves of small talk, never very liquid, had dried up.

He sat silently for the next couple of hours, hands gripping the arms of the chair, until Miss Flitworth announced that she was going to bed. Then he went back to the barn, and slept.

Bill Door hadn’t been aware of it coming. But there it was, a grey figure floating in the darkness of the barn.

Somehow it had got hold of the golden timer.

It told him, Bill Door, there has been a mistake.

The glass shattered. Fine golden seconds glittered in the air, for a moment, and then settled.

It told him, Return. You have work to do. There has been a mistake.

The figure faded.

Bill Door nodded. Of course there had been a mistake. Anyone could see there had been a mistake. He’d known all along it had been a mistake.

He tossed the overalls in a corner and took up the robe of absolute blackness.

Well, it had been an experience. And, he had to admit, one that he didn’t want to relive. He felt as though a huge weight had been removed.

Was that what it was really like to be alive? The feeling of darkness dragging you forward?

How could they live with it? And yet they did, and even seemed to find enjoyment in it, when surely the only sensible course would be to despair. Amazing. To feel you were a tiny living thing, sandwiched between two cliffs of darkness. How could they stand to be alive?

Obviously it was something you had to be born to.

Death saddled his horse and rode out and up over the fields. The corn rippled far below, like the sea. Miss Flitworth would have to find someone else to help her gather in the harvest.

That was odd. There was a feeling there. Regret? Was that it? But it was Bill Door’s feeling, and Bill Door was … dead. Had never lived. He was his old self again, safe where there were no feelings and no regrets.

Never any regrets.

And now he was in his study, and that was odd, because he couldn’t quite remember how he’d got there. One minute on horseback, the next in the study, with its ledgers and timers and instruments.

And it was bigger than he remembered. The walls lurked on the edge of sight.

That was Bill Door’s doing. Of course it would seem big to Bill Door, and there was probably just a bit of him still hanging on. The thing to do was keep busy. Throw himself into his work.

There were already some lifetimers on his desk. He didn’t remember putting them there, but that didn’t matter, the important thing was to get on with the job …

He picked up the nearest one, and read the name.

‘Lod-a-foodle-wok!’

Miss Flitworth sat up in bed. On the edge of dreams she’d heard another noise, which must have woken the cockerel.

She fiddled with a match until she got a candle alight, and then felt under the bed and her fingers found the hilt of a cutlass that had been much employed by the late Mr Flitworth during his business trips across the mountains.

She hurried down the creaking stairs and out into the chill of the dawn.

She hesitated at the barn door, and then pulled it open just enough to slip inside.

‘Mr Door?’

There was a rustle in the hay, and then an alert silence.

MISS FLITWORTH?

‘Did you call out? I’m sure I heard someone shout my name.’

There was another rustle, and Bill Door’s head appeared over the edge of the loft.

MISS FLITWORTH.

‘Yes. Who did you expect? Are you all right?’

ER. YES. YES, I BELIEVE SO.

‘You sure you’re all right? You woke up Cyril.’

YES. YES. IT WAS JUST A — I THOUGHT THAT — YES.

She blew out the candle. There was already enough pre-dawn light to see by.

‘Well, if you’re sure … Now I’m up I may as well put the porridge on.’

Bill Door lay back on the hay until he felt he could trust his legs to carry him, and then climbed down and tottered across the yard to the farmhouse.

He said nothing while she ladled porridge into a bowl in front of him, and drowned it with cream. Finally, he couldn’t contain himself any longer. He didn’t know how to ask the questions, but he really needed the answers.

MISS FLITWORTH?

‘Yes?’