Terry Pratchett - Discworld 11 Reaper Man

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2024-11-30 0 0 506.88KB 283 页 5.9玖币
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inexpert accordion rendering of Mrs Widgery s Lodger and ruthlessly by
such as the Ninja Morris Men of New Ankh, who can do strange and
terrible things with a simple handkerchief and a bell. And it is never danced
properly.
Except on the Discworld, which is flat and supported on the backs of
four elephants which travel through space on the shell of Great A’Tuin, the
world turtle. And even there, only in one place have they got it right. It’s a
small village high in the Ramtop Mountains, where the big and simple
secret is handed down across the generations.
There, the men dance on the first day of spring, backwards and
forwards, bells tied under their knees, white shirts flapping. People come
and watch. There’s an ox roast afterwards, and it’s generally considered a
nice day out for all the family.
But that isn’t the secret.
The secret is the other dance.
And that won’t happen for a while yet.
There is a ticking, such as might be made by a clock. And, indeed, in
the sky there is a clock, and the ticking of freshly minted seconds flows out
from it.
5
numbered among those who see to it that gravity operates and that time
stays separate from space.
Call them auditors. Auditors of reality.
They were in conversation without speaking. They didn’t need to speak.
They just changed reality so that they had spoken.
One said, It has never happened before. Can it be done?
One said, It will have to be done. There is a personality. Personalities
come to an end. Only forces endure. It said this with a certain satisfaction.
One said, Besides... there have been irregularities. Where you get
personality, you get irregularities. Well-known fact.
One said, He has worked inefficiently?
One said, No. We can’t get him there.
One said, That is the point. The word is him. Becoming a personality is
inefficient. We don’t want it to spread. Supposing gravity developed a
personality? Supposing it decided to like people?
One said, Got a crush on them, sort of thing?
One said, in a voice that would have been even chillier if it was not
already at absolute zero, No.
One said, Sorry. Just my little joke.
One said, Besides, sometimes he wonders about his job. Such
speculation is dangerous.
One said, No argument there.
One said, Then we are agreed?
6
They looked up at the face of Azrael, outlined against the sky. In fact, it
?loas? the sky.
Azrael nodded, slowly.
One said, Very well. Where is this place?
One said, It is the Discworld. It rides through space on the back of a
giant turtle.
One said, Oh, one of that sort. I hate them.
One said, You’re doing it again. You said ‘I’.
One said, No! No! I didn’t! I never said ‘I’! ... oh, bugger ...
It burst into flame ?iyld? burned in the same way that a small cloud of
vapour burns, quickly and with no residual mess. Almost immediately,
another one appeared. It was identical in appearance to its vanished
sibling.
One said, Let that be a lesson. To become a personality is to end. And
now ... let us go.
Azrael watched them skim away.
It is hard to fathom the thoughts of a creature so big that, in real space,
his length would be measured only in terms of the speed of light. But he
turned his enormous bulk and, with eyes that stars could be lost in, sought
among the myriad worlds for a flat one.
On the back of a turtle. The Discworld - world and mirror of worlds.
It sounded interesting. And, in his prison of a billion years, Azrael was
bored.
And this is the room where the future pours into the past via the pinch of
the now.
Timers line the walls. Not hour-glasses, although they have the same
shape. Not egg-timers, such as you might buy
7
nearly empty. Bone fingers rise and reach out. Select. And another. Select.
And more. Many, many more. Select, Select.
It’s all in a day’s work. Or it would be, if days existed here.
Click, click, a~, the dark shape moves patiently along the rows.
And stops.
And hesitates.
Because here’s a small gold timer, not much bigger than a watch. It
wasn’t there yesterday, or wouldn’t have been if yesterdays existed here.
Bony fingers close around it and hold it up to the light. It’s got a name
on it, in small capital letters.
The name is DEATH.
Death put down the timer, and then picked it up again. The sands of
time were already pouring through. He turned it over experimentally, just in
case. The sand went on pouring, only now it was going upwards. He hadn’t
really expected anything else.
It meant that, even if tomorrows could exist here, there weren’t going to
be any. Not any more.
There was a movement in the air behind him. Death turned slowly, and
addressed the figure that wavered indistinctly in the gloom.
8
I HAVE ALWAYS DONE MY DUTY AS I SAW FIT.
The figure floated closer. It looked vaguely like a grey-robed and
hooded monk.
It told him, We know. That is why we’re letting you keep the horse.
The sun was near the horizon.
The shortest-lived creatures on the Disc were mayflies, which barely
make it through twenty-four hours. Two of the oldest zigzagged aimlessly
over the waters of a trout stream, discussing history with some younger
members of the evening hatching.
‘You don’t get the kind of sun now that you used to get, ‘ said one of
them.
‘You’re right there. We had proper sun in the good old hours. It were all
yellow. None of this red stuff. ‘
‘It were higher, too. ‘
‘It was. You’re right. ‘
‘And nymphs and larvae showed you a bit of respect. ‘
‘They did. They did,’ said the other mayfly vehemently.
‘I reckon, if mayflies these hours behaved a bit better, we’d still be
having proper sun. ‘
The younger mayflies listened politely.
‘I remember, ‘ said one of the oldest mayflies, ‘when all this was fields,
as far as you could see. ‘
9
摘要：

inexpertaccordionrenderingofMrsWidgerysLodgerandruthlesslybysuchastheNinjaMorrisMenofNewAnkh,whocandostrangeandterriblethingswithasimplehandkerchiefandabell.Anditisneverdancedproperly.ExceptontheDiscworld,whichisflatandsupportedonthebacksoffourelephantswhichtravelthroughspaceontheshellofGreatA’Tuin,...

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