Reaper Man - Terry Pratchett [72]
“What she’s holding looks real enough.”
JUST BECAUSE SOMETHING IS A METAPHOR DOESN’T MEAN IT CAN’T BE REAL.
Miss Flitworth was aware of a faint echo in the voice, as though the words were being spoken by two people almost, but not quite, in sync.
“How long have you got?”
A MATTER OF HOURS.
“And the scythe?”
I GAVE THE BLACKSMITH STRICT INSTRUCTIONS.
She frowned. “I’m not saying young Simnel’s a bad lad, but are you sure he’ll do it? It’s asking a lot of a man like him to destroy something like that.”
I HAD NO CHOICE. THE LITTLE FURNACE HERE ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH.
“It’s a wicked sharp scythe.”
I FEAR IT MAY NOT BE SHARP ENOUGH.
“And no one ever tried this on you?”
THERE IS A SAYING: YOU CAN’T TAKE IT WITH YOU?
“Yes.”
HOW MANY PEOPLE HAVE SERIOUSLY BELIEVED IT?
“I remember reading once,” said Miss Flitworth, “about these heathen kings in the desert somewhere who build huge pyramids and put all sorts of stuff in them. Even boats. Even gels in transparent trousers and a couple of saucepan lids. You can’t tell me that’s right.”
I’VE NEVER BEEN VERY SURE ABOUT WHAT IS RIGHT, said Bill Door. I AM NOT SURE THERE IS SUCH A THING AS RIGHT. OR WRONG. JUST PLACES TO STAND.
“No, right’s right and wrong’s wrong,” said Miss Flitworth. “I was brought up to tell the difference.”
BY A CONTRABANDISTOR.
“A what?”
A MOVER OF CONTRABAND.
“There’s nothing wrong with smuggling!”
I MERELY POINT OUT THAT SOME PEOPLE THINK OTHERWISE.
“They don’t count!”
BUT—
Lightning struck, somewhere on the hill. The thunderclap rocked the house; a few bricks from the chimney rattled into the grate. Then the windows shook to a fierce pounding.
Bill Door strode across the room and threw open the door.
Hailstones the size of hens’ eggs bounced off the doorstep and into the kitchen.
OH. DRAMA.
“Oh, hell!”
Miss Flitworth ducked under his arm.
“And where’s the wind come from?”
THE SKY? said Bill Door, surprised at the sudden excitement.
“Come on!” She whirled back into the kitchen and scrabbled on the dresser for a candle lantern and some matches.
BUT YOU SAID IT WOULD DRY.
“In a normal storm, yes. In this lot? It’s going to be ruined! We’ll find it spread all over the hill in the morning!”
She fumbled the candle alight and ran back again.
Bill Door looked out into the storm. Straws whirred past, tumbling on the gale.
RUINED? MY HARVEST? He straightened up. BUGGER THAT.
The hail rumbled on the roof of the smithy.
Ned Simnel pumped the furnace bellows until the heart of the coals was white with the merest hint of yellow.
It had been a good day. The Combination Harvester had worked better than he’d dared to hope; old Peedbury had insisted on keeping it to do another field tomorrow, so it had been left out with a tarpaulin over it, securely tied down. Tomorrow he could teach one of the men to use it, and start work on a new improved model. Success was assured. The future definitely lay ahead.
Then there was the matter of the scythe. He went to the wall where it had been hung. A bit of a mystery, that. Here was the most superb instrument of its kind he’d ever seen. You couldn’t even blunt it. Its sharpness extended well beyond its actual edge. And yet he was supposed to destroy it. Where was the sense in that? Ned Simnel was a great believer in sense, of a certain specialized kind.
Maybe Bill Door just wanted to be rid of it, and that was understandable, because even now when it hung innocuously enough from the wall it seemed to radiate sharpness. There was a faint violet corona around the blade, caused by the drafts in the room driving luckless air molecules to their severed death.
Ned Simnel picked it up with great care.
Weird fellow, Bill Door. He’d said he wanted to be sure it was absolutely dead. As if you could kill a thing.
“Anyway, how could anyone destroy it? Oh, the handle would burn and the metal would calcine and, if he worked hard enough, eventually there’d be nothing more than a little heap of dust and ashes. That was what the customer wanted.
On the other hand, presumably you could