Reaper Man - Terry Pratchett [95]
The Fresh Starters were being entertained by the wizards, and trying to look as though they were enjoying it. It was one of those problematical occasions with long silences, sporadic coughs, and people saying isolated things like, “Well, isn’t this nice.”
“You looked a bit lost there, Windle, for a moment,” said Ridcully.
“I’m just a bit tired, Archchancellor.”
“I thought you zombies never slept.”
“I’m still tired,” said Windle.
“You’re sure you wouldn’t like us to have another go with the burial and everything? We could do it properly this time.”
“Thank you all the same, but no. I’m just not cut out for the undead life, I think.” Windle looked at Reg Shoe. “Sorry about that. I don’t know how you manage it.” He grinned apologetically.
“You’ve got every right to be alive or dead, just as you choose,” said Reg severely.
“One-Man-Bucket says people are dying properly again,” said Mrs. Cake. “So you could probably get an appointment.”
Windle looked around.
“She’s taken your dog for a walk,” said Mrs. Cake.
“Where’s Ludmilla?” he said.
Windle smiled awkwardly. Mrs. Cake’s premonitions could be very wearing.
“It’d be nice to know that Lupine was being looked after if I…went,” he said. “I wonder, could you take him in?”
“Well…” said Mrs. Cake uncertainly.
“But he’s—” Reg Shoe began, and then saw Windle’s expression.
“I must admit it’d be a relief to have a dog around the place,” said Mrs. Cake. “I’m always worrying about Ludmilla. There’s a lot of strange people around.”
“But your dau—” Reg began again.
“Shut up, Reg,” said Doreen.
“That’s all settled, then,” said Windle. “And have you got any trousers?”
“What?”
“Any trousers in the house?”
“Well, I suppose I’ve got some that belonged to the late Mr. Cake, but why—”
“Sorry,” said Windle. “My mind was wandering. Don’t know what I’m saying, half the time.”
“Ah,” said Reg, brightly, “I see. What you’re saying is that when he—”
Doreen nudged him viciously.
“Oh,” said Reg. “Sorry. Don’t mind me. I’d forget my own head if it wasn’t sewn on.”
Windle leaned back, and shut his eyes. He could hear the occasional scrap of conversation. He could hear Arthur Winkings asking the Archchancellor who did his decorating, and where the University got its vegetables. He heard the Bursar moaning about the cost of exterminating all the cursewords, which had somehow survived the recent changes and had taken up residence in the darkness of the roof. He could even, if he strained his perfect hearing, hear the whoops of Schleppel in the distant cellars.
They didn’t need him. At last. The world didn’t need Windle Poons.
He got up quietly and lurched to the door.
“I’m just going out,” he said. “I may be some time.”
Ridcully gave him a half-hearted nod, and concentrated on what Arthur had to say about how the Great Hall could be entirely transformed with some pine-effect wallpaper.
Windle shut the door behind him and leaned against the thick, cool wall.
Oh, yes. There was one other thing.
“Are you there, One-Man-Bucket?” he said softly. how did you know?
“You’re generally around.”
heh heh, you’ve caused some real trouble there! you know what’s going to happen next full moon?
“Yes, I do. And I think, somehow, that they do too.”
but he’ll become a wolfman.
“Yes. And she’ll become a wolfwoman.”
all right, but what kind of relationship can people have one week in four?
“Maybe at least as good a chance of happiness as most people get. Life isn’t perfect, One-Man-Bucket.”
you’re telling me?
“Now, can I ask you a personal question?” said Windle. “I mean I’ve just got to know…”
huh.
“After all, you’ve got the astral plane