Clouds piled up over the mountains. Bill Door strode up and down the first field, using one of the ordinary farm scythes; the sharpest one had been temporarily stored at the back of the barn, in case it was blunted by air convection. Some of Miss Flitworth’s tenants followed behind him, binding the sheaves and stacking them. Miss Flitworth had never employed more than one man full time, Bill Door learned; she brought in other help as she needed it, to save pennies.
“Never seen a man cut corn with a scythe before,” said one of them. “It’s a sickle job.”
They stopped for lunch, and ate it under the hedge.
Bill Door had never paid a great deal of attention to the names and faces of people, beyond that necessary for business. Corn stretched over the hillside; it was made up of individual stalks, and to the eye of one stalk another stalk might be quite an impressive stalk, with a dozen amusing and distinctive little mannerisms that set it apart from all other stalks. But to the reaper man, all stalks start off as…just stalks.
Now he was beginning to recognize the little differences.
There was William Spigot and Gabby Wheels and Duke Bottomley. All old men, as far as Bill Door could judge, with skins like leather. There were young men and women in the village, but at a certain age they seemed to flip straight over to being old, without passing through any intermediate stage. And then they stayed old for a long time. Miss Flitworth had said that before they could start a graveyard in these parts they’d had to hit someone over the head with the shovel.
William Spigot was the one that sang when he worked, breaking into that long nasal whine which meant that folk song was about to be perpetrated. Gabby Wheels never said anything; this, Spigot had said, was why he had been called Gabby. Bill Door had failed to understand the logic of this, although it seemed transparent to the others. And Duke Bottomley had been named by parents with upwardly-mobile if rather simplistic ideas about class structure; his brothers were Squire, Earl and King.
Now they sat in a row under the hedge, putting off the moment when they’d need to start work again. A glugging noise came from the end of the row.
“It’s not been a bad old summer, then,” said Spigot. “And good harvest weather for a change.”
“Ah…many a slip ’twixt dress and drawers,” said Duke. “Last night I saw a spider spinnin’ its web backward. That’s a sure sign there’s going to be a dretful storm.”
“Don’t see how spiders know things like that.”
Gabby Wheels passed a big earthenware jug to Bill Door. Something sloshed.
WHAT IS THIS?
“Apple juice,” said Spigot. The others laughed.
AH, said Bill Door. STRONG DISTILLED SPIRITS, GIVEN HUMOROUSLY TO THE UNSUSPECTING NEWCOMER, THUS TO AFFORD SIMPLE AMUSEMENT WHEN HE BECOMES INADVERTENTLY INEBRIATED.
“Cor,” said Spigot. Bill Door took a long swig.
“And I saw swallows flying low,” said Duke. “And partridges are heading for the woods. And there’s a lot of big snails about. And—”
“I don’t reckon any of them buggers knows the first thing about meteorology,” said Spigot. “I reckon you goes around tellin ’em. Eh, lads? Big storm comin’, Mr. Spider, so get on and do somethin’ folklorish.”
Bill Door took another drink.
WHAT IS THE NAME OF THE BLACKSMITH IN THE VILLAGE?
Spigot nodded. “That’s Ned Simnel, down by the green. O’course, he’s real busy about now, what with the harvest and all.”
I HAVE SOME WORK FOR HIM.
Bill Door got up and strode away toward the gate.
“Bill?”
He stopped. “YES?
“You can leave the brandy behind, then.”
The village forge was dark and stifling in the heat. But Bill Door had very good eyesight.
Something moved among a complicated heap of metal. It turned out to be the lower half of a man. His upper body was somewhere in the machinery, from which came the occasional grunt.
A hand shot out as Bill Door approached.
“Right. Give me a three-eighths Gripley.”