Mort
I think I complained here before that someone insisted I borrow a book from her at work. I can't say no, so I did. I even got 30-some pages into it, but couldn't go further. I was planning on reading Mort next, and Terry Pratchett writing about death can only be put off for so long.
Death pulled up short, so that Mort walked into him. When the boy started to speak he waved him into silence. He appeared to be listening to something.
THERE ARE TIMES, YOU KNOW, he said, half to himself, WHEN I GET REALLY UPSET.
He turned on one heel and set off down an alley at high speed, his cloak flying out behind him. The alley wound between dark walls and sleeping buildings, not so much a thoroughfare as a meandering gap.
Death stopped by a decrepit water butt and plunged his arm in at full length, bringing out a small sack with a brick tied to it. He drew his sword, a line of flickering blue fire in the darkness, and sliced through the string.
I GET VERY ANGRY INDEED, he said. He upended the sack and Mort watched the pathetic scraps of sodden fur slike out, to lie in the spreading puddle on the cobbles. Death reached out with his white fingers and stroked them gently.
After a while something like gray smoke curled up from the kittens and formed three small cat-shaped clouds in the air. They billowed occasionally, unsure of their shape, and blinked at Mort with puzzled gray eyes. When he tried to touch one his hand went straight through it and tingled.
YOU DON'T SEE PEOPLE AT THEIR BEST IN THIS JOB, said Death. He blew on a kitten, sinding it gently tumbling. Its miaow of complaint sounded as though it had come from a long way away via a tin tube.
"They're souls, aren't they?" said Mort. "What do people look like?"
PEOPLE SHAPED, said Death. IT'S BASICALLY ALL DOWN TO THE CHARACTERISTIC MORPHOGENETIC FIELD.
He sighed like the swish of a shroud, picked the kittens out of the air, and carefully stowed them away somewhere in the dark recesses of his robe. He stood up.
CURRY TIME, he said.
Death pulled up short, so that Mort walked into him. When the boy started to speak he waved him into silence. He appeared to be listening to something.
THERE ARE TIMES, YOU KNOW, he said, half to himself, WHEN I GET REALLY UPSET.
He turned on one heel and set off down an alley at high speed, his cloak flying out behind him. The alley wound between dark walls and sleeping buildings, not so much a thoroughfare as a meandering gap.
Death stopped by a decrepit water butt and plunged his arm in at full length, bringing out a small sack with a brick tied to it. He drew his sword, a line of flickering blue fire in the darkness, and sliced through the string.
I GET VERY ANGRY INDEED, he said. He upended the sack and Mort watched the pathetic scraps of sodden fur slike out, to lie in the spreading puddle on the cobbles. Death reached out with his white fingers and stroked them gently.
After a while something like gray smoke curled up from the kittens and formed three small cat-shaped clouds in the air. They billowed occasionally, unsure of their shape, and blinked at Mort with puzzled gray eyes. When he tried to touch one his hand went straight through it and tingled.
YOU DON'T SEE PEOPLE AT THEIR BEST IN THIS JOB, said Death. He blew on a kitten, sinding it gently tumbling. Its miaow of complaint sounded as though it had come from a long way away via a tin tube.
"They're souls, aren't they?" said Mort. "What do people look like?"
PEOPLE SHAPED, said Death. IT'S BASICALLY ALL DOWN TO THE CHARACTERISTIC MORPHOGENETIC FIELD.
He sighed like the swish of a shroud, picked the kittens out of the air, and carefully stowed them away somewhere in the dark recesses of his robe. He stood up.
CURRY TIME, he said.