“It’s all part of being alive.”
HOW DO HUMANS STAND IT?
“Well, fermented apple juice can help.”
Bill Door sat staring gloomily at the floor.
BUT WE FINISHED THE FIELD, he said, with a hint of triumph. ALL STACKED IN STOOKS, OR POSSIBLY THE OTHER WAY AROUND.
He clutched at his skull again.
AARGH.
Miss Flitworth disappeared into the scullery. There was the creaking of a pump. She returned with a damp flannel and a glass of water.
THERE’S A NEWT IN IT!
“Shows it’s fresh,” said Miss Flitworth,* fishing the amphibian out and releasing it on the flagstones, where it scuttled away into a crack.
Bill Door tried to stand up.
NOW I ALMOST KNOW WHY SOME PEOPLE WISH TO DIE, he said. I HAD HEARD OF PAIN AND MISERY BUT I HAD NOT HITHERTO FULLY UNDERSTOOD WHAT THEY MEANT.
Miss Flitworth peered through the dusty window. The clouds that had been piling up all afternoon towered over the hills, gray with a menacing hint of yellow. The heat pressed down like a vice.
“There’s a big storm coming.”
WILL IT SPOIL MY HARVEST?
“No. It’ll dry out after.”
HOW IS THE CHILD?
Bill Door unfolded his palm. Miss Flitworth raised her eyebrows. The golden glass was there, the top bulb almost empty. But it shimmered in and out of vision.
“How come you’ve got it? It’s upstairs! She was holding it like,”—she floundered—“like someone holds something very tightly.”
SHE STILL IS. BUT IT IS ALSO HERE. OR ANYWHERE. IT IS ONLY A METAPHOR, AFTER ALL.
“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.”