Death stood at the window of his dark study, looking out onto his garden. Nothing moved in that still domain. Dark lilies bloomed by the trout pool, where little plaster skeleton gnomes fished. There were distant mountains.
It was his own world. It appeared on no map.
But now, somehow, it lacked something.
Death selected a scythe from the rack in the huge hall. He strode past the huge clock without hands and went outside. He stalked through the black orchard, where Albert was busy about the beehives, and on until he climbed a small mound on the edge of the garden. Beyond, to the mountains, was unformed land—it would bear weight, it had an existence of sorts, but there had never been any reason to define it further.
Until now, anyway.
Albert came up behind him, a few dark bees still buzzing around his head.
“What are you doing, master?” he said.
REMEMBERING.
“Ah?”
I REMEMBER WHEN ALL THIS WAS STARS.
What was it? Oh, yes…
He snapped his fingers. Fields appeared, following the gentle curves of the land. “Golden,” said Albert. “That’s nice. I’ve always thought we could do with a bit more color around here.”
Death shook his head. It wasn’t quite right yet. Then he realized what it was. The lifetimers, the great room filled with the roar of disappearing lives, was efficient and necessary; you needed something like that for good order. But…
He snapped his fingers again and a breeze sprang up. The cornfields moved, billow after billow unfolding across the slopes.
ALBERT?
“Yes, master?”
HAVE YOU NOT GOT SOMETHING TO DO? SOME LITTLE JOB?
“I don’t think so,” said Albert.
AWAY FROM HERE, IS WHAT I MEAN.
“Ah. What you mean is, you want to be alone,” said Albert.
I AM ALWAYS ALONE. BUT JUST NOW I WANT TO BE ALONE BY MYSELF.
“Right. I’ll just go and, uh, do some little jobs back at the house, then,” said Albert.
YOU DO THAT.
Death stood alone, watching the wheat dance in the wind. Of course, it was only a metaphor. People were more than corn. They whirled through tiny crowded lives, driven literally by clock work, filling their days from edge to edge with the sheer effort of living. And all lives were exactly the same length. Even the very long and very short ones. From the point of view of eternity, anyway.
Somewhere, the tiny voice of Bill Door said: from the point of view of the owner, longer ones are best.
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.