'This extract is the opening chapter of a novel I planned and developed extracts from for my EPQ. It emulates some of the style of Sir Terry Pratchett, who is undeniably my favorite author (if you look back in book blog history you’ll see me defending him against J.K Rowling) and who has significantly influenced my writing style to be what it is today.
My EPQ centred around developing character building, in particular exploring and expanding upon Pratchett’s take on the Grim Reaper, Death. This story depicts the process my character of Death goes through to collect someone’s soul. I hope you enjoy it, and I thoroughly recommend any and all of Terry Pratchett’s books.'
Death's Duty
Death looked over the scene in front of him, resplendent in all his terrible majesty. A skeletal figure, shrouded in a deep, deep purple cloak, so dark it could almost be black and empty night sky, but with a hint of imperial majesty - unassuming, but all-encompassing, majesty. In front of Death was a cottage. A normal, completely happy and peaceful cottage. Death sighed. He hated these ones.
There was a knock at the cottage door. A small, bespectacled old woman opened the door and looked up. And up. When at last her eyes reached the figure’s head, her cragged face broke into a smile. ‘Ah, Richard!’ she exclaimed, ‘My how you’ve grown! But you’re so pale now. I knew all that office work with our Jonathan couldn’t do you any good.’ She paused, as though expecting an embarrassed rebuttal. When none was forthcoming from the cloaked figure, except for an air of slight embarrassment, she harrumphed and said, ‘Well, come in then. I don’t want you to catch cold as well. I have some tea boiling already, would you like some?’ Without waiting for a response she continued, ‘Good, good. Milk? Yes, of course, I know how you like it.’
Less than a minute after entering the old lady’s cottage, Death found himself trapped in a flowery armchair, trying desperately to juggle his scythe and a flowery china cup, without also burying the scythe blade in the ceiling. The tea, however, was just as he liked it. Hot, but not too hot, and milky, with a ginger biscuit on the side.* The woman sat opposite him, with her own tea, but without a biscuit. After a long silence, she coughed. Loudly. Death suddenly became alert, his scythe ready if slightly shakily held in just one skeletal hand. But the woman wasn’t ready to give up on life yet. She was looking at him poignantly. Death felt that something was expected of him, so he hazarded a cautionary guess.
THIS IS VERY NICE TEA. THANK YOU VERY MUCH. The old woman sniffed, ‘Thank you very much who?’
THANK YOU VERY MUCH... GRANDMA? She sniffed again, clearing her throat, and Death put down his cup and gripped his scythe properly, almost hopefully.
‘It is good to see you haven’t forgotten all of your manners, even when you’ve been hanging around with that Thumper Johnson and his lot. Honestly, why do you associate yourself with him? It’ll never work out. He’s bad news that boy, I’ve always said so.’ She paused, and it seemed that he should interject here again.
YES, ERR, GRANDMA, I’M SORRY. Death reached into his sleeve and brought out a small ticking egg timer, checking to see that he did indeed have the right little old lady.
SORRY, YOU ARE EMMA MINTLE AREN’T YOU? A shocked expression flew across her face, before she drew herself up to her full height, as if preparing to let fly the full force of her ‘Young man, I’ll have you know…’. Unfortunately, the effect of righteous fury she wanted was rather spoiled by the fact that at that second, her weary heart beat its last and she slumped over in her chair, dead. This calmed Death somewhat. He knew where he was with a corpse. Corpses he could do, it was the living that gave him so many problems. He stayed in his chair and waited.
Several seconds later, she sat up again. Blinking her eyes, she saw that she could see clearly again, for the first time in over thirty years. Confused, she looked down at herself. Then at her body, in which her legs were still sitting.
‘Ah.’ She said. There is a certain clarity that the spirits of the dead have before they depart, and Death saw it appear in her now. She looked up at him. ‘So you were-’
YES.
‘And not my Grandson?’
NO. MY APOLOGIES.
‘Well, I suppose it happens to everyone. It just never occurs to you when you’re alive.’
NO. BE THANKFUL FOR THAT. Death got up and offered her his hand. IF YOU WOULD JUST STEP AWAY FROM YOUR BODY PLEASE, MISS MINTLE, THIS WON’T TAKE A SECOND AND THEN YOU CAN BE ON YOUR WAY. She took his hand, and came and stood next to him, looking at her body.
‘It’s strange, I feel very... light. As though I’m freed of all my weight. I suppose I am, in a way.’ She laughed, then stopped, startled. ‘ That wasn’t my laugh, it sounded.. Younger.’ She looked down at her ghostly form. She was indeed younger, back in her early, free, years.
YOU ALWAYS APPEAR HOW YOU SAW YOURSELF IN LIFE, Death said. WATCH YOUR FINGERS, PLEASE, THE BLADE IS VERY SHARP. Death swung his scythe, there was a flash of light, as his scythe cut through soul, and the now young woman began to fade. Death turned to her,
ANY LAST REQUESTS, OR QUESTIONS? He said to her kindly.
She shook her head, almost invisible now. With her last effort of will she created the words, why were you so kind to me?
Death was silent for a while, until her spirit had disappeared, but her presence just about remained.
WELL, IT WAS VERY GOOD TEA.
Miss Mintle was gone. Quietly, Death washed up the cups and saucers, then sat the old woman up in her chair. Before leaving, Death carefully locked the door using the inevitable spare key under the mat, and walked down the pathway to the little painted gate and fence.
Off the premises, Death strode away, to his next appointment, unaware of the unscheduled change he was about to experience.
* This is a known phenomenon with particular old ladies. They develop what is referred to in the wizarding community as the ‘5 senses of the elderly’ which includes the sense of how someone likes their tea. Other senses of the same type are, the sense of how much a family member has grown, the sense of things back in ‘their day’, the sense of how hungry a relative or visitor must be, and, of course, the sense of whether or not a grandchild’s cheeks need pinching. The number of cups of tea drunk and small children’s cheeks pinched to carry out this research was tremendous, but those wizards that carried out the research insist that it had deep implications for humankind.
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