Someone pulled the covers off a lantern. Someone else pushed a drink into his groping hand.
‘Surprise!’
In the hall of the house of Death is a clock with a pendulum like a blade but with no hands, because in the house of Death there is no time but the present. (There was. of course. a present before the present now, but that was also the present. It was just an older one.)
The pendulum is a blade that would have made Edgar Allan Poe give it all up and start again as a stand-up comedian on the scampi-in-a-casket circuit. It swings with a faint whum-whum noise, gently slicing thin rashers of interval from the bacon of eternity.
Death stalked past the clock and into the sombre gloom of his study. Albert, his servant, was waiting for him with the towel and dusters.
‘Good morning, master.’
Death sat down silently in his big chair. Albert draped the towel over the angular shoulders.
‘Another nice day,’ he said, conversationally.
Death said nothing.
Albert flapped the polishing cloth and pulled back Death’s cowl.
ALBERT.
Death pulled out the tiny golden timer.
DO YOU SEE THIS?
‘Yes, sir. Very nice. Never seen one like that before. Whose is it?’
MINE.
Albert’s eyes swivelled sideways. On one corner of Death’s desk was a large timer in a black frame. It contained no sand.
‘I thought that one was yours, sir?’ he said.
IT WAS. NOW THIS IS. A RETIREMENT PRESENT. FROM AZRAEL HIMSELF.
Albert peered at the thing in Death’s hand.
‘But … the sand, sir. It’s pouring.’
QUITE SO.
‘But that means … I mean … ?’
IT MEANS THAT ONE DAY THE SAND WILL ALL BE POURED, ALBERT.
‘I know that, sir, but … you … I thought Time was something that happened to other people, sir. Doesn’t it? Not to you, sir.’ By the end of the sentence Albert’s voice was beseeching.
Death pulled off the towel and stood up.
COME WITH ME.
‘But you’re Death, master,’ said Albert, running crab-legged after the tall figure as it led the way out into the hall and down the passage to the stable.
‘This isn’t some sort of joke, is it?’ he added hopefully.
I AM NOT KNOWN FOR MY SENSE OF FUN.
‘Well, of course not, no offense meant. But listen, you can’t die. because you’re Death, you’d have to happen to yourself, it’d be like that snake that eats its own tail -‘
NEVERTHELESS, I AM GOING TO DIE. THERE IS NO APPEAL.
‘But what will happen to me?’ Albert said. Terror glittered
on his words like flakes of metal on the edge of a knife.
THERE WILL BE A NEW DEATH.
Albert drew himself up.
‘I really don’t think I could serve a new master,’ he said.
THEN GO BACK INTO THE WORLD. I WILL GIVE YOU MONEY. YOU HAVE BEEN A GOOD SERVANT, ALBERT.
‘But if I go back -‘
YES, said Death. YOU WILL DIE.
In the warm, horsey gloom of the stable, Death’s pale horse looked up from its oats and gave a little whinny of greeting. The horse’s name was Binky. He was a real horse. Death had tried fiery steeds and skeletal horses in the past, and found them impractical, especially the fiery ones, which tended to set light to their own bedding and stand in the middle of it looking embarrassed.
Death took the saddle down from its hook and glanced at Albert, who was suffering a crisis of conscience.
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 hourglass 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 ?canal’s?. 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 ???
It was one of the ?new-fanged? 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.