And then he paused. There was something he had to know. Bill Door had been curious about things, and he could remember everything about being Bill Door. He could look at emotions laid out like trapped butterflies, pinned on cork, under glass.
Bill Door was dead, or at least had ceased his brief existence. But – what was it? – someone’s actual life was only the core of their real existence? Bill Door had gone, but he had left echoes. The memory of Bill Door was owed something.
_______________________________________________________________
* The most enthusiastic of these was the small but persistent and incredibly successful Casanunder the Dwarf, a name mentioned with respect and awe wherever stepladder owners are gathered together.
Death had always wondered why people put flowers on graves. It made no sense to him. The dead had gone beyond the scent of roses, after all. But now … it wasn’t that he felt he understood, but at least he felt that there was something there capable of understanding.
In the curtained blackness of Miss Flitworth’s parlour a darker shape moved through the darkness, heading towards the three chests on the dresser.
Death opened one of the smaller ones. It was full of gold coins. They had an untouched look about them. He tried the other small chest. It was also full of gold.
He’d expected something more from Miss Flitworth, although probably not even Bill Door would have known what.
He tried the large chest.
There was a layer of tissue paper. Under the paper, some white silky thing, some sort of a veil, now yellowed and brittle with age. He gave it an uncomprehending stare
and laid it aside. There were some white shoes. Quite impractical for farm wear, he felt. No wonder they’d been packed away.
There was more paper; a bundle of letters tied together.
He put them on top of the veil. There was never anything to be gained from observing what humans said to one another – language was just there to hide their thoughts.
And then there was, right at the bottom, a smaller box.
He pulled it out and turned it over and over in his hands.
Then he unclicked the little latch and lifted the lid.
Clockwork whirred.
The tune wasn’t particularly good. Death had heard all the music that had ever been written, and almost all of it had been better than this tune. It had a plinkety plonkety quality. a tinny little one-two-three rhythm.
In the musical box, over the busily spinning gears, two wooden dancers jerked around in a parody of a waltz.
Death watched them until the clockwork ran down.
Then he read the inscription.
It had been a present.
Beside him, the lifetimer poured its grains into the bottom bulb. He ignored it.
When the clockwork ran down, he wound it up again.
Two figures, spinning through time. And when the music stopped, all you needed was to turn the key.
When it ran down again, he sat in the silence and the dark, and reached a decision.
There were only seconds left. Seconds had meant a lot to Bill Door, because he’d had a limited supply. They meant nothing at all to Death, who’d never had any.
He left the sleeping house, mounted up, and rode away.
The journey took an instant that would have taken mere light three hundred million years, but Death travels inside that space where Time has no meaning. Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it.
There was company on the ride – galaxies, stars, ribbons of shining matter, streaming and eventually spiralling towards the distant goal.
Death on his pale horse moved down the darkness like a bubble on a river.
And every river flows somewhere.
And then, below, a plain. Distance was as meaningless here as time. but there was a sense of hugeness. The plain could have been a mile away, or a million miles; it was marked by long valleys or rills which flowed away to either side as he got closer.
And landed.
He dismounted, and stood in the silence. Then he went down on one knee.
Change the perspective. The furrowed landscape falls away into immense distances, curves at the edges, becomes a fingertip.
Azrael raised his finger to a face that filled the sky, lit by the faint glow of dying galaxies.
There are a billion Deaths, but they are all aspects of
the one Death: Azrael, the Great Attractor, the Death of Universes, the beginning and end of time.
Most of the universe is made up of dark matter, and only Azrael knows who it is.
Eyes so big that a supernova would be a mere suggestion of a gleam on the iris turned slowly and focused on the tiny figure on the immense whorled plains of his fingertips. Beside Azrael the big Clock hung in the centre of the entire web of the dimensions, and ticked onward. Stars glittered in Azrael’s eyes.
The Death of the Discworld stood up.
LORD, I ASK FOR –
Three of the servants of oblivion slid into existence alongside him.
One said, Do not listen. He stands accused of meddling.
One said, And morticide.
One said, And pride. And living with intent to survive.
One said, And ?~ding? with chaos against good order.
Azrael raised an eyebrow.
The servants drifted away from Death, expectantly.
LORD, WE KNOW THERE IS NO GOOD ORDER EXCEPT THAT WHICH WE CREATE …
Azrael’s expression did not change.
THERE IS NO HOPE BUT US. THERE IS NO MERCY BUT US. THERE IS NO JUSTICE. THERE IS JUST US.
The dark, sad face filled the sky.
ALL THINGS THAT ARE. ARE OURS. BUT WE MUST CARE. FOR IF WE DO NOT CARE, WE DO NOT EXIST. IF WE DO NOT EXIST, THEN THERE IS NOTHING BUT BLIND OBLIVION. AND EVEN OBLIVION MUST END SOME DAY. LORD, WILL YOU GRANT ME JUST A LITTLE TIME? FOR THE PROPER BALANCE OF THINGS. TO RETURN WHAT WAS GIVEN. FOR THE SAKE OF PRISONERS AND THE FLIGHT OF BIRDS.
Death took a step backwards.
It was impossible to read expression in Azrael’s features.
Death glanced sideways at the servants.
LORD, WHAT CAN THE HARVEST HOPE FOR, IF NOT FOR THE CARE OF THE REAPER MAN?
He waited.
LORD? said Death.
In the time it took to answer, several galaxies unfolded, whirled around Azrael like paper streamers, impacted, and were gone.
Then Azrael said:
T
l C) I
And another finger reached out across the darkness towards the Clock.
There were faint screams of rage from the servants, and then screams of realisation, and then three brief, blue flames.
All other clocks, even the handless clock of Death, were reflections of the Clock. Exactly reflections of the Clock; they told the universe what the time was, but the Clock told Time what time is. It was the mainspring from which all time poured.
And the design d the Clock was this: that the biggest hand only went around once.
The second hand whirred along a circular path that even light would take days to travel, forever chased by the minutes, hours, days, months, years, centuries and ages.
But the Universe hand went around once.
At least, until someone wound up the clockwork.
And Death returned home with a handful of Time.
A shop bell jangled.
Druto Pole, florist, looked over a spray of floribunda Mrs Shooer. Someone was standing among the vases of flowers. They looked slightly indistinct; in fact. even afterwards, Druto was never sure who had been in his shop and how his words had actually sounded.
He oiled forward, rubbing his hands.
‘How may I hel -‘
FLOWERS.
Druto hesitated only for a moment.
‘And the, er, destination for these -‘
A LADY.
‘And do you have any pref -‘
‘Ah? Are you sure that lilies are -?’
I LIKE LILIES.
‘Um … it’s just that lilies are a little bit sombre -‘
I LIKE SOMB –
The figure hesitated.
WHAT DO YOU RECOMMEND?
Druto slipped smoothly into gear.‘Roses are always very well received,’ he said. ‘Or orchids. Many gentlemen these days tell me that ladies find a single specimen orchid more acceptable than a bunch of roses -‘
GIVE ME LOTS.
‘Would that be orchids or roses?’
BOTH.
Druto’s fingers twined sinuously, like eels in grease.
‘And I wonder if I could interest you in these marvellous sprays of Neroousa GIoriosa -‘
LOTS OF THEM.
‘And if Sir’s budget would stretch, may I suggest a single specimen of the extremely rare -‘
YES.
‘And possibly -‘
YES. EVERYTHING. WITH A RIBBON.
When the shop bell had jangled the purchaser out, Druto looked at the coins in his hand. Many of them were
corroded, all of them were strange, and one or two were golden.
‘Um,’ he said. ‘That will do nicely …’