Mort - Terry Pratchett [66]
I’M SORRY. I FELT IT WAS TIME FOR A CHANGE.
“Can you play a musical instrument?”
NO.
“Can you do carpentry?”
I DO NOT KNOW, I HAVE NEVER TRIED. Death stared at his feet. He was beginning to feel deeply embarrassed.
Keeble shuffled the paper on his desk, and sighed.
I CAN WALK THROUGH WALLS, Death volunteered, aware that the conversation had reached an impasse.
Keeble looked up brightly. “I’d like to see that,” he said. “That could be quite a qualification.”
RIGHT.
Death pushed his chair back and stalked confidently towards the nearest wall.
OUCH.
Keeble watched expectantly. “Go on, then,” he said.
UM. THIS IS AN ORDINARY WALL, IS IT?
“I assume so. I’m not an expert.”
IT SEEMS TO BE PRESENTING ME WITH SOME DIFFICULTY.
“So it would appear.”
WHAT DO YOU CALL THE FEELING OF BEING VERY SMALL AND HOT?
Keeble twiddled his pencil.
“Pygmy?”
BEGINS WITH AN M.
“Embarrassing?”
“Yes,” said Death, I MEAN YES.
“It would seem that you have no useful skill or talent whatsoever,” he said. “Have you thought of going into teaching?”
Death’s face was a mask of terror. Well, it was always a mask of terror, but this time he meant it to be.
“You see,” said Keeble kindly, putting down his pen and steepling his hands together, “it’s very seldom I ever have to find a new career for an—what was it again?”
ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATION.
“Oh, yes. What is that, exactly?”
Death had had enough.
THIS, he said.
For a moment, just for a moment, Mr. Keeble saw him clearly. His face went nearly as pale as Death’s own. His hands jerked convulsively. His heart gave a stutter.
Death watched him with mild interest, then drew an hourglass from the depths of his robe and held it up to the light and examined it critically.
SETTLE DOWN, he said, YOU’VE GOT A GOOD FEW YEARS YET.
“Bbbbbbb—”
I COULD TELL YOU HOW MANY IF YOU LIKE.
Keeble, fighting to breathe, managed to shake his head.
DO YOU WANT ME TO GET YOU A GLASS OF WATER, THEN?
“nnN—nnN.”
The shop bell jangled. Keeble’s eyes rolled. Death decided that he owed the man something. He shouldn’t be allowed to lose custom, which was clearly something humans valued dearly.
He pushed aside the bead curtain and stalked into the outer shop, where a small fat woman, looking rather like an angry cottage loaf, was hammering on the counter with a haddock.
“It’s about that cook’s job up at the University,” she said. “You told me it was a good position and it’s a disgrace up there, the tricks them students play, and I demand—I want you to—I’m not….”
Her voice trailed off.
“’Ere,” she said, but you could tell her heart wasn’t in it, “you’re not Keeble, are you?”
Death stared at her. He’d never before experienced an unsatisfied customer. He was at a less. Finally he gave up.
BEGONE, YOU BLACK AND MIDNIGHT HAG, he said.
The cook’s small eyes narrowed.
“’Oo are you calling a midnight bag?” she said accusingly, and hit the counter with the fish again. “Look at this,” she said. “Last night it was my bedwarmer, in the morning it’s a fish. I ask you.”
MAY ALL THE DEMONS OF HELL REND YOUR LIVING SPIRIT IF YOU DON’T GET OUT OF THE SHOP THIS MINUTE, Death tried.
“I don’t know about that, but what about my bedwarmer? It’s no place for a respectable woman up there, they tried to—”
IF YOU WOULD CARE TO GO AWAY, said Death desperately, I WILL GIVE YOU SOME MONEY.
“How much?” said the cook, with a speed that would have outdistanced a striking rattlesnake and given lightning a nasty shock.
Death pulled out his coin bag and tipped a heap of verdigrised and darkened coins on the counter. She regarded them with deep suspicion.
NOW LEAVE UPON THE INSTANT, said Death, and added, BEFORE THE SEARING WINDS OF INFINITY SCORCH THY WORTHLESS CARCASS.
“My husband will be told about this,” said the cook darkly, as she left the shop. It seemed to Death that no threat of his could possibly be as dire.
He stalked back through the curtains. Keeble, still slumped in his chair, gave a kind