WHO ARE YOU, BOY?
“Mort, sir,” said Mort. “Your apprentice. You remember?”
Death stared at him for some time. Then the pinpoint blue eyes turned back at the book.
OH YES, he said, MORT. WELL, BOY, DO YOU SINCERELY WISH TO LEARN THE UTTERMOST SECRETS OF TIME AND SPACE?
“Yes, sir. I think so, sir.”
GOOD. THE STABLES ARE AROUND THE BACK. THE SHOVEL HANGS JUST INSIDE THE DOOR.
He looked down. He looked up. Mort hadn’t moved.
IS IT BY ANY CHANCE POSSIBLE THAT YOU FAIL TO UNDERSTAND ME?
“Not fully, sir,” said Mort.
DUNG, BOY. DUNG. ALBERT HAS A COMPOST HEAP IN THE GARDEN. I IMAGINE THERE’S A WHEELBARROW SOMEWHERE ON THE PREMISES. GET ON WITH IT.
Mort nodded mournfully. “Yes, sir. I see, sir. Sir?”
YES?
“Sir, I don’t see what this has to do with the secrets of time and space.”
Death did not look up from his book.
THAT, he said, IS BECAUSE YOU ARE HERE TO LEARN.
It is a fact that although the Death of the Discworld is, in his own words, an ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATION, he long ago gave up using the traditional skeletal horses, because of the bother of having to stop all the time to wire bits back on. Now his horses were always flesh-and-blood beasts, from the finest stock.
And, Mort learned, very well fed.
Some jobs offer increments. This one offered—well, quite the reverse, but at least it was in the warm and fairly easy to get the hang of. After a while he got into the rhythm of it, and started playing the private little quantity-surveying game that everyone plays in these circumstances. Let’s see, he thought, I’ve done nearly a quarter, let’s call it a third, so when I’ve done that corner by the hayrack it’ll be more than half, call it five-eighths, which means three more wheelbarrow loads… It doesn’t prove anything very much except that the awesome splendour of the universe is much easier to deal with if you think of it as a series of small chunks.
The horse watched him from its stall, occasionally trying to eat his hair in a friendly sort of way.
After a while he became aware that someone else was watching him. The girl Ysabell was leaning on the half-door, her chin in her hands.
“Are you a servant?” she said.
Mort straightened up.
“No,” he said, “I’m an apprentice.”
“That’s silly. Albert said you can’t be an apprentice.”
Mort concentrated on hefting a shovelful into the wheelbarrow. Two more shovelfuls, call it three if it’s well pressed down, and that means four more barrows, all right, call it five, before I’ve done halfway to the…
“He says,” said Ysabell in a louder voice, “that apprentices become masters, and you can’t have more than one Death. So you’re just a servant and you have to do what I say.”
… and then eight more barrows means it’s all done all the way to the door, which is nearly two-thirds of the whole thing, which means…
“Did you hear what I said, boy?”
Mort nodded. And then it’ll be fourteen more barrows, only call it fifteen because I haven’t swept up properly in the corner, and…
“Have you lost your tongue?”
“Mort,” said Mort mildly.
She looked at him furiously. “What?”
“My name is Mort,” said Mort. “Or Mortimer. Most people call me Mort. Did you want to talk to me about something?”
She was speechless for a moment, staring from his face to the shovel and back again.
“Only I’ve been told to get on with this,” said Mort.
She exploded.
“Why are you here? Why did Father bring you here?”
“He hired me at the hiring fair,” said Mort. “All the boys got hired. And me.”
“And you wanted to be hired?” she snapped. “He’s Death, you know. The Grim Reaper. He’s very important. He’s not something you become, he’s something you are.”
Mort gestured vaguely at the wheelbarrow.
“I expect it’ll turn out for the best,” he said. “My father always says things generally do.”
He picked up the shovel and turned away, and grinned at the horse’s backside as he heard Ysabell snort and walk away.
Mort worked steadily through the sixteenths, eighths, quarters and thirds, wheeling the barrow out through the yard to the heap by the apple tree.
Death’s garden was big, neat and well-tended. It was also very, very black. The grass was black. The flowers were black. Black apples gleamed among the black leaves of a black apple tree. Even the air looked inky.
After a while Mort thought he could see—no, he couldn’t possibly imagine he could see… different colours of black.
That’s to say, not simply very dark tones of red and green and whatever, but real shades of black. A whole spectrum of colours, all different and all—well, black. He tipped out the last load, put the barrow away, and went back to the house.
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.{6}
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 realise 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.