Reaper Man - Terry Pratchett [101]
THEY’RE DIAMONDS. A KING’S RANSOM IN DIAMONDS.
“Which king?”
ANY KING.
“Coo.”
Binky walked easily along the road to the town. After the length of infinity, a mere dusty road was a bit of a relief.
Sitting sidesaddle behind Death, Miss Flitworth explored the rustling contents of the box of Dark Enchantments.
“Here,” she said, “someone’s had all the rum truffles.” There was another crackle of paper. “And from the bottom layer, too, I hate that, people starting the bottom layer before the top one’s been properly finished. And I can tell you’ve been doing it because there’s a little map in the lid and by rights there should be rum truffles, Bill Door?”
I’M SORRY, MISS FLITWORTH.
“This big diamond’s a bit heavy. Nice, though,” she added, grudgingly. “Where’d you get it?”
FROM PEOPLE WHO THOUGHT IT WAS THE TEAR OF A GOD.
“And is it?”
NO. GODS NEVER WEEP. IT IS COMMON CARBON THAT HAS BEEN SUBJECT TO GREAT HEAT AND PRESSURE, THAT IS ALL.
“Inside every lump of coal there’s a diamond waiting to get out, right?”
YES, MISS FLITWORTH.
There was no sound for a while, except the clip-clop of Binky’s hoofs. Then Miss Flitworth said, archly:
“I do know what’s going on, you know. I saw how much sand there was. And so you thought ‘She’s not a bad old stick, I’ll show her a good time for a few hours, and then when she’s not expecting it, it’ll be time for the old cut-de-grass’, am I right?”
Death said nothing.
“I am right, aren’t I?”
I CAN’T HIDE ANYTHING FROM YOU, MISS FLITWORTH.
“Huh, I suppose I should be flattered. Yes? I expect you’ve got a lot of calls on your time.”
MORE THAN YOU COULD POSSIBLY IMAGINE, MISS FLITWORTH.
“In the circumstances, then, you might as well go back to calling me Renata again.”
There was a bonfire in the meadow beyond the archery field. Death could see figures moving in front of it. An occasional tortured squeak suggested that someone was tuning up a fiddle.
“I always come along to the harvest dance,” said Miss Flitworth, conversationally. “Not to dance, of course. I generally look after the food and so on.”
WHY?
“Well, someone’s got to look after the food.”
I MEANT WHY DON’T YOU DANCE?
“’Cos I’m old, that’s why.”
YOU ARE AS OLD AS YOU THINK YOU ARE.
“Huh! Yeah? Really? That’s the kind of stupid thing people always say. They always say, My word, you’re looking well. They say, There’s life in the old dog yet. Many a good tune played on an old fiddle. That kind of stuff. It’s all stupid. As if being old was some kind of thing you should be glad about! As if being philosophical about it will earn you marks! My head knows how to think young, but my knees aren’t that good at it. Or my back. Or my teeth. Try telling my knees they’re as old as they think they are and see what good it does you. Or them.”
IT MAY BE WORTH A TRY.
More figures moved in front of the firelight. Death could see striped poles strung with bunting. “The lads usually bring a couple of barn doors down here and nail’em together for a proper floor,” observed Miss Flitworth. “Then everyone can join in.”
FOLK DANCING? said Death, wearily.
“No. We have some pride, you know.”
SORRY.
“Hey, it’s Bill Door, isn’t it?” said a figure looming out of the dusk.
“It’s good old Bill!”
“Hey, Bill!”
Death looked at a circle of guileless faces.
“HALLO, MY FRIENDS.
“We heard you’d gone away,” said Duke Bottomley. He glanced at Miss Flitworth, as Death helped her down from the horse. His voice faltered a bit as he tried to analyze the situation.
“You’re looking very…sparkly…tonight, Miss Flitworth,” he finished, gallantly.
The air smelled of warm, damp grass. An amateur orchestra was still setting up under an awning.
There were trestle tables covered with the kind of food that’s normally associated with the word “repast”—pork pies like varnished military fortifications, vats of demonical pickled onions, jacket potatoes wallowing in a cholesterol ocean of melted butter. Some of the local elders had already established themselves on the benches provided, and were