There was also the question of Ludmilla. Ludmilla was a problem. The late Mr. Cake, gods rest his soul, had never so much as even whistled at the full moon his whole life, and Mrs. Cake had dark suspicions that Ludmilla was a throwback to the family's distant past in the mountains, or maybe had contracted genetics as a child. She was pretty certain her mother had once alluded circumspectly to the fact that Great-uncle Erasmus sometimes had to eat his meals under the table. Either way, Ludmilla was a decent upright young woman for three weeks in every four and a perfectly well-behaved hairy wolf thing for the rest of the time.
Priests often failed to see it that way. Since by the time Mrs. Cake fell out with whatever priests were currently moderating between her and the gods, she had usually already taken over the flower arrangements, altar dusting, temple cleaning, sacrificial stone scrubbing, honorary vestigial virgining, hassock repairing and every other vital religious support role by sheer force of personality, her departure resulted in total chaos.
Mrs. Cake buttoned up her coat.
"It won't work," said Ludmilla.
"I'll try the wizards. They ought to be tole," said Mrs. Cake. She was quivering with self-importance, like a small enraged football.
"Yes, but you said they never listen," said Ludmilla.
"Got to try. Byway, what are you doing out of your room?"
"Oh, mother. You know I hate that room. There's no need -"
"You can't be too careful. Supposin' you was to take it into your head to go and chase people's chickens? What would the neighbours say?"
"I've never felt the least urge to chase a chicken, mother," said Ludmilla wearily.
"Or run after carts, barkin'."
"That's dogs, mother."
"You just get back in your room and lock yourself in and get on with some sewing like a good girl."
"You know I can't hold the needles properly, mother."
"Try for your mother."
"Yes, mother," said Ludmilla.
"And don't go near the window. We don't want people upset."
"Yes, mother. And you make sure you put your premonition on, mum. You know your eyesight isn't what it was."
Mrs. Cake watched her daughter go upstairs. Then she locked the front door behind her and strode towards Unseen University where, she'd heard, there was too much nonsense of all sorts.
Anyone watching Mrs. Cake's progress along the street would have noticed one or two odd details.
Despite her erratic gait, no-one bumped into her. They weren't avoiding her, she just wasn't where they were.
At one point she hesitated, and stepped into an alleyway. A moment later a barrel rolled off a cart that was unloading outside a tavern and smashed on the cobbles where she would have been. She stepped out of the alley and over the wreckage, grumbling to herself.
Mrs. Cake spent a lot of the time grumbling. Her mouth was constantly moving, as if she was trying to dislodge a troublesome pip from somewhere in the back of her teeth.
She reached the high black gates of the University and hesitated again, as if listening to some inner voice.
Then she stepped aside and waited.
Bill Door lay in the darkness of the hayloft and waited.
Below, he could hear the occasional horsey sounds of Binky - a soft movement, the champ of a jaw.
Bill Door. So now he had a name. Of course, he'd always had a name, but he'd been named for what he embodied, not for who he was. Bill Door. It had a good solid ring to it.
Mr. Bill Door. William Door, Esq. Billy D - no. Not Billy.
Bill Door eased himself further into the hay. He reached into his robe and pulled out the golden timer. There was, quite perceptibly, less sand in the top bulb. He put it back.
And then there was this "sleep". He knew what it was. People did it for quite a lot of the time. They lay down and sleep happened. Presumably it served some purpose. He was watching out for it with interest. He would have to subject it to analysis.
Night drifted across the world, coolly pursued by a new day.
There was a stirring in the henhouse across the yard.
"Cock-a-doo... er."
Bill Door stared at the roof of the barn.
"Cock-a-doodle... er."
Grey light was filtering in between the cracks.
Yet only moments ago there had been the red light of sunset!
Six hours had vanished.
Bill hauled out the timer. Yes. The level was definitely down. While he had been waiting to experience sleep, something had stolen part of his... of his life. He'd completely missed it, too -
"Cock...cock-a...er..."
He climbed down from the loft and stepped out into the thin mist of dawn.
The elderly chickens watched him cautiously as he peered into their house. An ancient and rather embarrassed-looking cockerel glared at him and shrugged.
There was a clanging noise from the direction of the house. An old iron barrel hoop was hanging by the door, and Miss Flitworth was hitting it vigorously with a ladle.
He stalked over to investigate.
WHAT FOR ARE YOU MAKING THE NOISE, MISS FLITWORTH?
She spun around, ladle half-raised.
"Good grief, you must walk like a cat!" she said.
I MUST?
"I meant I didn't hear you. " She stood back and looked him up and down.
"There's still something about you I can't put my finger on, Bill Door," she said. ‘Wish I knew what it was."
The seven-foot skeleton regarded her stoically. He felt there was nothing he could say.
"What do you want for breakfast?" said the old woman. "Not that it'll make any difference, ‘cos it's porridge."
Later she thought: he must have eaten it, because the bowl is empty. Why can't I remember?
And then there was the matter of the scythe. He looked at it as if he'd never seen one before. She pointed out the grass nail and the handles. He looked at them politely.
HOW DO YOU SHARPEN IT, MISS FLITWORTH?
"It's sharp enough, for goodness sake."
HOW DO YOU SHARPEN IT MORE?
"You can't. Sharp's sharp. You can't get sharper than that."
He'd swished it aimlessly, and made a disappointed hissing noise.
And there was the grass, too.
The hay meadow was high on the hill behind the farm, overlooking the cornfield. She watched him for a while.
It was the most interesting technique she had ever witnessed. She wouldn't even have thought that it was technically possible.
Eventually she said: "It's good. You've got the swing and everything."
THANK YOU, MISS FLITWORTH.
"But why one blade of grass at a time?"
Bill Door regarded the neat row of stalks for some while.
THERE IS ANOTHER WAY?
"You can do lots in one go, you know."
NO. NO. ONE BLADE AT A TIME. ONE TIME, ONE BLADE.
"You won't cut many that way," said Miss Flitworth.
EVERY LAST ONE, MISS FLITWORTH.
"Yes?"
TRUST ME ON THIS.
Miss Flitworth left him to it and went back to the farm-house. She stood at the kitchen window and watched the distant dark figure for a while, as it moved over the hillside.
I wonder what he did? she thought. He's got a Past. He's one of them Men of Mystery, I expect. Perhaps he did a robbery and is Lying Low.
He's cut a whole row already. One at a time, but somehow faster than a man cutting swathe by swathe...
Miss Flitworth's only reading matter was the Farmer's Almanac and Seed Catalogue, which could last a whole year in the privy if no-one was ill. In addition to sober information about phases of the moon and seed sowings it took a certain grisly relish in recounting the various mass murders, vicious robberies and natural disasters that befell mankind, on the lines of ‘June 15, Year of the Impromptu Stoat: On this Day 150 yrs. since, a Man killed by Freak shower of Goulish in Quirm' or ‘14 die at hands of Chume, the Notorious Herring Thrower."