~ * ~ * ~ * ~
The world floats through space on the back of Great A'tuin the Star Turtle (and four elephants) and people float with it. So do other things, but it's not polite to name them.
See, here are the twinkling lights of the sprawling city of Ankh-Morpork; a place that makes a cesspit seem like a delicate spring garden. Now go outwards, where the lights grow fewer and fewer, to the Rim, where the water pours over the edge and drenches the poor elephants unlucky enough to stand beneath it. But there are other places here, that the mind does not see. Just outside the Discworld, they belong to it, but humans do not see them. Not unless they're really unlucky. Or slightly mad.... Or even drunk... One of these lurking places is the real Unseen University, where only the most very senior wizards go (and the Bursar, because he got lost).
And here? Here is the garden of Death. No, really, it's a garden. It's black, of course, but there are trees and flowers and even fish and bees. If you look closely it's little fuzzy round the edges, here and there, but you can tell someone's put a lot of work into it, a lot of – love. Like one of those airplanes that comes in a kit, but you couldn't put the wings on straight. And in the middle of this black garden stands a cottage, providing a cottage has three hundred rooms and is rather larger than you might expect, but it's a cottage nonetheless. Look, it even has roses growing over the door. Black ones, but still roses. And here's a window, looking into a wide room, panelled in wood; a dark rug sits on the tiled floor, and there's a chair – with an occupant……who's smiling – but then, he smiles all the time. He can't help it. Really. But let us see what we can see as we draw ever closer to the room beyond the window……
~ * ~ * ~
Tappa-tappa-tappa. Tappa-tappa-tappa. Tappa-tappa-tappa.
One long, bony fingered hand drummed on the shining (black) wooden tabletop next to the chair. Death rested his chin, such as it was, in his other hand and stared out of the black-framed window at the black garden. A black bee buzzed past the window and the black flowers swayed slightly in the breeze, even though it wasn't real. He stared out over the horizon he'd created. Mostly it was black. Or shades of black. He knew every inch of the garden out there, from the pond with its clear water and blackfish, to the stables where Binky lay, probably dozing, in warm flatulence.
His eyesockets glanced round the room, resting for a moment on the lectern where The Book sat. Even now its pages flipped back and forth, though no one was touching them. His gaze (such as it is) drifted away from the book and he stared back out of the window again. Even with the grin on his skull, you could tell.
Death was bored.
He levered himself up from the chair and stalked out of the room, robes flapping behind him and feet clicking on the polished black tiles, heading for the kitchen. He passed, without really seeing them, the towering doors with their skull-and-bones motifs; and the huge black clock that silently rang in the hours with its wickedly pointed pendulum; a stuffed bird with inky black feathers sat on top of the gleaming case. Bats and ravens were carved all over it in, and the words "Quoth the raven, no more". He'd rather liked Edgar Allan Poe. Handy, the odd dimensional jaunt here and there. Actually, he'd liked Poe a lot. Though Death's house would have made even that gentleman break out into a cold sweat and run screaming for the hills.
Death entered the kitchen, peering through a fog of warm air and smoke that smelled of fried things. Not that he could smell it, of course. Albert, his manservant, jumped as the door boomed shut, and dropped the egg he'd been sliding carefully onto a spatula.
"Master?" he said curiously. Death never came into the kitchen if he could help it; he never said, but Albert knew he didn't hold with grease and fry ups. Those eye sockets could broadcast a lot of disapproval, when Death put his mind to it. Albert had often wondered where Death actually kept his mind, on occasion. I mean, surely it would leak out, he'd thought. He shook his head and looked inquiringly at his employer.
ALBERT. DO YOU NEED HELP?
Albert blinked in astonishment and stared up at the seven foot skeleton, dressed in flowing darkness, shifting from foot to foot in front of him. "H – help, Master? With what?"
THAT. WHAT YOU DO WITH THE GREASE AND FLAMES. Death hesitated. BURNING. IS THAT WHAT IT'S CALLED?
A bony finger extended from beneath a wide sleeve and pointed to the sputtering, lumpy fat in the iron griddle-pan. Smoke snaked towards the ceiling as Albert's bacon crisped to a point beyond help.
"Ah. Well. Uh, no, Master. Not help, as such. That's just me breakfast, that is." Albert peered into the pan at the bacon and frowned sadly at the black lumps. "Well, it was." He straightened cautiously. "Are you alright, Master?"
Death sighed. What he sighed with was anyone's guess, but he sighed nonetheless.
I AM BORED, ALBERT.
"Bored? How can you be bored?" the old servant said incredulously, absently waving the grease encrusted spatula round. Odd blackened bits flew off and crunched to the floor. "You're rushing round like a – like a – thing, oh, what're they called, tip of me tongue, wossname, yes that's it, a headless chicken, well, mostly you are, how can you have time to be bored?" He looked suspiciously at Death. "Don't you have somewhere to be? The Duty, Master?"
I DID NOT BEHEAD THE CHICKEN. Death said firmly. AND THE DUTY CAN WAIT FOR A MOMENT. TIME IS MINE TO BEND AND NO-ONE WILL NOTICE. I NEED A REST, ALBERT. AND I NEVER GET TO MEET PEOPLE. WELL, NOT FOR LONG. AND THEY DON'T LIKE ME. I WISH I COULD MEET SOME PEOPLE. SOME ONE. A SPECIAL SOMEONE WHO DOESN'T SCREAM AT THE SIGHT OF ME. He sighed mournfully. OR MAYBE A PET OF SOME KIND.
Try to imagine a voice like grating tombstones with a slightly petulant edge, and you have it perfectly. Try even harder to imagine a pouting skeleton. Go on, you can do it! There. Now you have Death to a tee, as he stands in the kitchen and talks to Albert.
"Soooo, you want - to meet people? On a non-professional basis? Without the hourglass and scythe, dead giveaways, those are, oh yes, you don't want to be carting those around..." Albert mused doubtfully. The grinning skull nodded. "For friendship? Possibly leading to a caring relationship? Good sense of humour, must be – erm. Wossname. Thing. You know.. Alive?" The skull nodded harder. Albert dropped the spatula on the counter next to the greasy cooker and leant back without thinking.
Death grinned more widely. I WOULD NOT LEAN THERE. IT IS HOT - The faint blue sparkle in the otherwise empty eye sockets flared for a moment as Albert suddenly leapt forward with a howl of pain, – AH. YOU'VE NOTICED!
Albert glared sourly at him and rubbed his rear end, now smoking slightly. Muttering under his breath, he stomped round the kitchen, eventually settling down at the scrubbed wooden table with a cup of tea so strong he struggled to pull the spoon out.
"Then you need the Ankh-Morpork Dating Society!" he announced at last, after some thought. He rubbed his hands together gleefully. "We'll place an ad. They'll be knocking down the door!"
Death hesitated. DATING SOCIETY? KNOCKING DOWN THE DOOR? MY DOOR? The twin supernovas deep in the darkness of his eye sockets flared, twinkling as he blinked, and looked suspiciously at Albert. IT'S NOT SOME KIND OF RELIGION, IS IT?