‘Pog-a-grodle-fig!’
Miss Flitworth sat in her kitchen.
Outside, she could hear the despondent clanking as Ned Simnel and his apprentice picked up the tangled remains of the Combination Harvester. A handful of other people were theoretically helping, but were really taking the opportunity to have a good look around. She’d made a tray of tea, and left them to it.
Now she sat with her chin in her hands, staring at nothing.
There was a knock at the open door. Spigot poked his red face into the room.
‘Please, Miss Flitworth -‘
‘Hmm?’
‘Please, Miss Flitworth, there’s a skeleton of a horse walking around in the barn! It’s eating hay!’
‘How?’
‘And it’s all falling through!’
‘Really? We’ll keep it, then. At least it’ll be cheap to feed.’
Spigot hung around for a while, twisting his hat in his hands.
‘You all right. Miss Flitworth?’
‘You all right, Mr Poons?’
Windle stared at nothing.
‘Windle?’ said Reg Shoe.
‘Hmm?’
‘The Archchancellor just asked if you wanted a drink.’
‘He’d like a glass of distilled water,’ said Mrs Cake.
‘What, just water?’ said Ridcully.
‘That’s what he wants,’ said Mrs Cake.
‘I’d Like a glass of distilled water, please,’ said Windle.
Mrs Cake looked smug. At least, as much of her as was visible looked smug, which was that part between the Hat and her handbag, which was a sort of
counterpart of the hat and so big that when she sat clasping it on her lap she had to reach up to hold the handles. When she’d heard that her daughter had been invited to the University she’d come too. Mrs Cake always assumed that an invitation to Ludmilla was an invitation to Ludmilla’s mother as well.
Mothers like her exist everywhere, and apparently nothing can be done about them.
The Fresh Starters were being entertained by the wizards, and trying to look as though they were enjoying it. It was one of those problematical occasions with long silences, sporadic coughs, and people saying isolated things like, ‘Well, isn’t this nice.’
‘You looked a bit lost there, Windle, for a moment,’ said Ridcully.
‘I’m just a bit tired, Archchancellor.’
‘I thought you zombies never slept.’
‘I’m still tired,’ said Windle.
‘You ‘re sure you wouldn’t like us to have another go with the burial and everything? We could do it properly this time.’
‘Thank you all the same, but no. I’m just not cut out for the undead life, I think.’ Windle looked at Reg Shoe. ‘Sorry about that. I don’t know how you manage it.’ He grinned apologetically.
‘You’ve got every right to be alive or dead, just as you choose,’ said Reg severely.
‘One-Man-Bucket says people are dying properly again,’ said Mrs Cake. ‘So you could probably get an appointment.’
Windle looked around.
‘She’s taken your dog for a walk,’ said Mrs Cake.
‘Where’s Ludmilla?’ he said.
Windle smiled awkwardly. Mrs Cake’s premonitions could be very wearing.
‘It’d be nice to know that Lupine was being looked after if I … went,’ he said. ‘I wonder, could you take him in?’
‘Well …’ said Mrs Cake uncertainly.
‘But he’s -‘ Reg Shoe began, and then saw Windle’s expression.
‘I must admit it’d be a relief to have a dog around the place,’ said Mrs Cake. ‘I’m always worrying about Ludmilla. There’s a lot of strange people around.’
‘But your dau -‘ Reg began again.
‘Shut up, Reg,’ said Doreen.
‘That’s all settled, then,’ said Windle.‘And have you got any trousers?’
‘What?’
‘Any trousers in the house?’
‘Well, I suppose I’ve got some that belonged to the late Mr Cake, but why -‘
‘Sorry,’ said Windle. ‘My mind was wandering. Don’t know what I ‘m saying, half the time.’
‘Ah,’ said Reg, brightly, ‘I see. What you’re saying is that when he -‘
Doreen nudged him viciously.
‘Oh,’ said Reg. ‘Sorry. Don’t mind me. I’d forget my own head if it wasn’t sewn on.’
Windle leaned back, and shut his eyes. He could hear the occasional scrap of conversation. He could hear Arthur Winkings asking the Archchancellor who did his decorating, and where the University got its vegetables. He heard the Bursar moaning about the cost of exterminating all the curse-words, which had somehow survived the recent changes and had taken up residence in the darkness of the roof. He could even, if he strained his perfect hearing, hear the whoops of Schleppel in the distant cellars.
They didn’t need him. At last. The world didn’t need Windle Poons.
He got up quietly and lurched to the door.
‘I’m just going out,’ he said. ‘I may be some time.’
Ridcully gave him a half-hearted nod, and concentrated on what Arthur had to say about how the Great
Hall could be entirely transformed with some pine-effect wallpaper.
Windle shut the door behind him and leaned against the thick, cool wall.
Oh, yes. There was one other thing.
‘Are you there, One-Man-Bucket?’ he said softly.
how did you know?
‘You’re generally around.’
heh heh, you’ve caused some real trouble there! you know what’s going to happen next full moon ?
‘Yes, I do. And I think, somehow, that they do too.’
but he’ll become a wolfman.
‘Yes. And she’ll become a wolfwoman.’
all Tight, but what kind of relationship can people have one week in four?
‘Maybe at least as good a chance of happiness as most people get. Life isn’t perfect, One-Man-Bucket.’
you’re telling me?
‘Now, can I ask you a personal question?’ said Windle. ‘I mean I’ve just got to know …’
huh.
‘After all, you’ve got the astral plane to yourself again.’
oh, all right.
‘Why are you called One -‘
is that all? I thought you could work that one out, a clever man like you. in my tribe we’re traditionally named after the First thing the mother sees when she looks out of the teepee after the birth. it’s short for One-Man-Pouring-a-Bucket-of- Water-over-Two-Dogs.
‘That’s pretty unfortunate, ‘ said Windle.
it’s not too bad, said One-Man-Bucket. it was my twin brother you had to feel sorry for. she looked out ten seconds before me to give him his name.
Windle Poons thought about it.
‘Don’t tell me, let me guess,’ he said. ‘Two-Dogs-Fighting?’
Two-Dogs-Fighting a Two-Dogs-Fighting? said One-Man-Bucket. Wow, he’d have given his right arm to be called Two-Dogs-Fighting.
It was later that the story of Windle Poons really came to an end, if “story” means all that he did and caused and set in motion. In the Ramtop village where they dance the real Morris dance, for example, they believe that no-one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away – until the clock he wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone’s life, they say, is only the core of their actual existence.
As he walked through the foggy city to an appointment he had been awaiting ever since he was born, Windle felt that he could predict that final end.
It would be in a few weeks ‘ time, when the moon was full again. A sort of codicil or addendum to the life of Windle Poons – born in the year of the Significant Triangle in the Century of the Three Lice (he’d always preferred the old calendar with its ancient names to all this new-fangled numbering they did today) and died in the year of the Notional Serpent in the Century of the Fruitbat, more or less.
There’d be two figures running across the high moorland under the moon. Not entirely wolves, not entirely human. With any luck, they’d have best of both worlds. Not just feeling … but knowing.
Always best to have both worlds.
Death sat in his chair in his dark study, his hands steepled in front of his face.
Occasionally he’d swivel the chair backwards and forwards.
Albert brought him in a cup of tea and exited with diplomatic soundlessness.
There was one lifetimer left on Death’s desk. He stared at it.
Swivel, swivel. Swivel, swivel.
In the hall outside, the great clock ticked on, killing time.
Death drummed his skeletal fingers on the desk’s scarred woodwork. In front of him, stacked up with impromptu bookmarks in their pages, were the lives of some of the Discworld’s great lovers.* Their fairly repetitive experiences hadn’t been any help at all.
He got up and stalked to a window and stared out at his dark domain, his hands clenching and unclenching behind his back.
Then he snatched up the lifetimer and strode out of the room.
Binky was waiting in the warm fug of the stables. Death saddled him quickly and led him out into the courtyard, and then rode up into the night, towards the distant glittering jewel of the Discworld.
He touched down silently in the farmyard, at sunset.
He drifted through a wall.
He reached the foot of the stairs.
He raised the hourglass and watched the draining of Time.