The Death of Rats

The following extracts are taken from Terry Pratchett's book Reaper Man. Apologies to Terry for any breach of copyright, but we know lots of rats who find it a comfort when their friends and relatives are near death. Or should that be Death?

A lot of rats died.

Down in the runs under the barn - in the deepest one, one tunnelled long ago by long-forgotten ancestral rodents - something appeared in the darkness.

It seemed to have difficulty deciding what shape it was going to be.

It began as a lump of highly-suspicious cheese. This didn't seem to work.

Then it tried something that looked very much like a small, hungry terrier. This was also rejected.

For a moment it was a steel-jawed trap. This was clearly unsuitable.

It cast around for fresh ideas and mush to its surpise one arrived smoothly, as if travelling from no distance at all. Not so much a shape as a memory of a shape.

It tried it and found that, while totally wrong for the job, in some deeply satisfying way it was the only shape it could possibly be.

It went to work.

~~~*****~~~

After a while he was aware of the pattering of feet. He turned.

A stream of pale rat-shaped ghosts skipped along the roof beam above his head, fading as they ran so that soon there was nothing but the sound of scampering.

They were followed by a... shape.

It was about six inches high. It wore a black robe. It held a small scythe in one skeletal paw. A bone-white nose with brittle grey whiskers protruded from the shadowy hood.

Bill Door reached out and picked it up. It didn't resist, but stood on the palm of his hand and eyed him as one professional to another.

Bill Door said: AND YOU ARE - ?

The Death of Rats nodded.

SQUEAK.

I REMEMBER, said Bill Door, WHEN YOU WERE A PART OF ME.

The Death of Rats squeaked again.

Bill Door fumbled in the pockets of his overall. He'd put some of his lunch in there. Ah, yes.

I EXPECT, he said, THAT YOU COULD MURDER A PIECE OF CHEESE.

The Death of Rats took it graciously.

Bill Door remembered visiting an old man once - only once - who had spent almost his entire life locked in a cell in a tower for some alleged crime or other, and had tamed little birds for company during his life sentence. They crapped on his bedding and ate his food, but he tolerated them and smiled at their flight in and out of the high barred windows. Death had wondered, at the time, why anyone would do something like that.

I WON'T DELAY YOU, he said, I EXPECT YOU'VE GOT THINGS TO DO, RATS TO SEE. I KNOW HOW IT IS.

And now he undestood.

He put the figure back on the beam, and lay down in the hay.

~~~*****~~~

The Death of Rats materialised behind the heap in the forge, and trudged to the sad little heap of fur that had been a rat that got in the way of the scythe.

Its ghost was standing beside it, looking apprehensive. It didn't seem very pleased to see him.

'Squeak? Squeak?'

SQUEAK, the Death of Rats explained.

'Squeak?'

SQUEAK, the Death of Rats confirmed.

'[Preen whiskers] [twitch nose]?'

The Death of Rats shook its head.

SQUEAK.

The rat was crestfallen. The Death of Rats laid a bony but not entirely unkind paw on its shoulder.

SQUEAK.

The rat nodded sadly. It had been a good life in the forge. Ned's house-keeping was almost non-existent, and he was probably the world champion absent-minded-leaver of unfinished sandwiches. It shrugged, and trooped after the small robed figure. It wasn't as if it had any choice.

~~~*****~~~

SQUEAK.

Death looked down.

A small figure was standing by his feet. He reached down and picked it up, held it up to an investigative eye socket.

I KNEW I'D MISSED SOMEONE.

The Death of Rats nodded.

SQUEAK?

Death shook his head.

NO, I CAN'T LET YOU REMAIN, he said, IT'S NOT AS THOUGH I'M RUNNING A FRANCHISE OR SOMETHING.

SQUEAK?

ARE YOU THE ONLY ONE LEFT?

The Death of Rats opened a tiny skeletal hand. The tiny Death of Fleas stood up, looking embarrassed but hopeful.

NO. THIS SHALL NOT BE. I AM IMPLACABLE. I AM DEATH... ALONE.

He looked at the Death of Rats.

He remembered Azrael is his tower of loneliness.

ALONE...

The Death of Rats looked back at him.

SQUEAK?

Picture a tall, dark figure, surrounded by cornfields...

NO. YOU CAN'T RIDE A CAT. WHO EVER HEARD OF THE DEATH OF RATS RIDING A CAT? THE DEATH OF RATS WOULD RIDE SOME KIND OF DOG.

Picture more fields, a great horizon-spanning network of fields, rolling in gentle waves...

DON'T ASK ME I DON'T KNOW. SOME KIND OF TERRIER MAYBE.

...fields of corn, alive, whispering in the breeze...

RIGHT, AND THE DEATH OF FLEAS CAN RIDE IT TOO. THAT WAY YOU KILL TWO BIRDS WITH ONE STONE.

...awaiting the clockwork of the seasons.

METAPHORICALLY.

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