Mort - Terry Pratchett [12]
ENTER.
Death was standing behind a lectern, poring over a map. He looked at Mort as if he wasn’t entirely there.
YOU HAVEN’T HEARD OF THE BAY OF MANTE, HAVE YOU? he said.
“No, sir,” said Mort.
FAMOUS SHIPWRECK THERE.
“Was there?”
THERE WILL BE, said Death, IF I CAN FIND THE DAMN PLACE.
Mort walked around the lectern and peered at the map.
“You’re going to sink the ship?” he said.
Death looked horrified.
CERTAINLY NOT. THERE WILL BE A COMBINATION OF BAD SEAMANSHIP, SHALLOW WATER AND A CONTRARY WIND.
“That’s horrible,” said Mort. “Will there be many drowned?”
THAT’S UP TO FATE, said Death, turning to the bookcase behind him and pulling out a heavy gazetteer. THERE’S NOTHING I CAN DO ABOUT IT. WHAT IS THAT SMELL?
“Me,” said Mort, simply.
AH. THE STABLES. Death paused, his hand on the spine of the book. AND WHY DO YOU THINK I DIRECTED YOU TO THE STABLES? THINK CAREFULLY, NOW.
Mort hesitated. He had been thinking carefully, in between counting wheelbarrows. He’d wondered if it had been to coordinate his hand and eye, or teach him the habit of obedience, or bring home to him the importance, on the human scale, of small tasks, or make him realize that even great men must start at the bottom. None of these explanations seemed exactly right.
“I think…” he began.
YES?
“Well, I think it was because you were up to your knees in horseshit, to tell you the truth.”
Death looked at him for a long time. Mort shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.
ABSOLUTELY CORRECT, snapped Death. CLARITY OF THOUGHT. REALISTIC APPROACH. VERY IMPORTANT IN A JOB LIKE OURS.
“Yes, sir. Sir?”
HMM? Death was struggling with the index.
“People die all the time, sir, don’t they? Millions. You must be very busy. But—”
Death gave Mort the look he was coming to be familiar with. It started off as blank surprise, flickered briefly towards annoyance, called in for a drink at recognition and settled finally on vague forbearance.
BUT?
“I’d have thought you’d have been, well, out and about a bit more. You know. Stalking the streets. My granny’s almanack’s got a picture of you with a scythe and stuff.”
I SEE. I AM AFRAID IT IS HARD TO EXPLAIN UNLESS YOU KNOW ABOUT POINT INCARNATION AND NODE FOCUSING. I DON’T EXPECT YOU DO?
“I don’t think so.”
GENERALLY I’M ONLY EXPECTED TO MAKE AN ACTUAL APPEARANCE ON SPECIAL OCCASIONS.
“Like a king, I suppose,” said Mort. “I mean, a king is reigning even when he’s doing something else or asleep, even. Is that it, sir?”
IT’LL DO, said Death, rolling up the maps. AND NOW, BOY, IF YOU’VE FINISHED THE STABLE YOU CAN GO AND SEE IF ALBERT HAS ANY JOBS HE WANTS DOING. IF YOU LIKE, YOU CAN COME OUT ON THE ROUND WITH ME THIS EVENING.
Mort nodded. Death went back to his big leather book, took up a pen, stared at it for a moment, and then looked up at Mort with his skull on one side.
HAVE YOU MET MY DAUGHTER? he said.
“Er. Yes, sir,” said Mort, his hand on the doorknob.
SHE IS A VERY PLEASANT GIRL, said Death, BUT I THINK SHE QUITE LIKES HAVING SOMEONE OF HER OWN AGE AROUND TO TALK TO.
“Sir?”
AND, OF COURSE, ONE DAY ALL THIS WILL BELONG TO HER.
Something like a small blue supernova flared for a moment in the depths of his eyesockets. It dawned on Mort that, with some embarrassment and complete lack of expertise, Death was trying to wink.
In a landscape that owed nothing to time and space, which appeared on no map, which existed only in those far reaches of the multiplexed cosmos known to the few astrophysicists who have taken really bad acid, Mort spent the afternoon helping Albert plant out broccoli. It was black, tinted with purple.
“He tries, see,” said Albert, flourishing the dibber. “It’s just that when it comes to color, he hasn’t got much imagination.”
“I’m not sure I understand all this,” said Mort. “Did you say he made all this?”
Beyond the garden wall the ground dropped towards a deep valley and then rose into dark moorland that marched all the way to distant mountains, jagged as cats’ teeth.