There was a sound like the flushing of a very old dry lavatory. The footsteps stopped.
The High Priest smiled to himself.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘See your two pebbles and raise you two pebbles.’
The low priest threw down his cards.
‘Double Onion,’ he said.
The High Priest looked down suspiciously.
The low priest consulted a scrap of paper.
‘That’s three hundred thousand, nine hundred and sixty-four pebbles you owe me,’ he said.
There was the sound of footsteps.
The priests exchanged glances.
‘Haven’t had one for poisoned-dart alley for quite some time,’ said the High Priest.
‘Five says he makes it,’ said the low priest.
‘You’re on.’
There was a faint clatter of metal points on stone.
‘It’s a shame to take your pebbles.’
There were footsteps again.
‘All right, but there’s still the—’ a creak, a splash ‘— the crocodile tank.’
There were footsteps.
‘No-one’s ever got past the dreaded guardian of the portals—’
The priests looked into one another’s horrified faces.
‘Hey,’ said the one who was not High. ‘You don’t think it could be—’
‘Here? Oh, come on. We’re in the middle of a gods-damn jungle.’ The High Priest tried to smile. ‘There’s no way it could be—’
The footsteps got nearer.
The priests clutched at one another in terror.
‘Mrs Cake!’
The doors exploded inwards. A dark wind drove into the room, blowing out the candles and scattering the cards like polka-dot snow.
The priests heard the chink of a very large diamond being lifted out of its socket.{55}
THANK YOU.
After a while, when nothing else seemed to be happening, the priest who wasn’t High managed to find a tinder box and, after several false starts, got a candle alight.
The two priests looked up through the dancing shadows at the statue, where a hole now gaped that should have contained a very large diamond.
After a while, the High Priest sighed and said, ‘Well, look at it like this: apart from us, who’s going to know?’
‘Yeah. Never thought of it like that. Hey, can I be High Priest tomorrow?’
‘It’s not your turn until Thursday.’
‘Oh, come on.’
The High Priest shrugged, and removed his High Priesting hat.
‘It’s very depressing, this kind of thing,’ he said, glancing up at the ravaged statue. ‘Some people just don’t know how to behave in a house of religion.’
Death sped across the world, landing once again in the farmyard. The sun was on the horizon when he knocked on the kitchen door.
Miss Flitworth opened it, wiping her hands on her apron. She grimaced short-sightedly at the visitor, and then took a step back.
‘Bill Door? You gave me quite a start—’
I HAVE BROUGHT YOU SOME FLOWERS.
She stared at the dry, dead stems.
ALSO SOME CHOCOLATE ASSORTMENT, THE SORT LADIES LIKE.
She stared at the black box.
ALSO HERE IS A DIAMOND TO BE FRIENDS WITH YOU.
It caught the last rays of the setting sun.
Miss Flitworth finally found her voice.
‘Bill Door, what are you thinking of?’
I HAVE COME TO TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ALL THIS.
‘You have? Where to?’
Death hadn’t thought this far.
WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE?
‘I ain’t proposing to go anywhere tonight except to the dance,’ said Miss Flitworth firmly.
Death hadn’t planned for this, either.
WHAT IS THIS DANCE?
‘Harvest dance. You know? It’s tradition. When the harvest is in. It’s a sort of celebration, and like a thanksgiving.’
THANKSGIVING TO WHO?
‘Dunno. No-one in particular, I reckon. Just general thankfulness, I suppose.’
I HAD PLANNED TO SHOW YOU MARVELS. FINE CITIES. ANYTHING YOU WANTED.
‘Anything?’
YES.
‘Then we’re going to the dance, Bill Door. I always go every year. They rely on me. You know how it is.’
YES. MISS FLITWORTH.
He reached out and took her hand.
‘What, you mean now?’ she said, ‘I’m not ready—’
LOOK.
She looked down at what she was suddenly wearing.
‘That’s not my dress. It’s got all glitter on it.’
Death sighed. The great lovers of history had never encountered Miss Flitworth. Casanunder would have handed in his stepladder.
THEY’RE DIAMONDS. A KING’S RANSOM IN DIAMONDS.
‘Which king?’
ANY KING.
‘Coo.’
Binky walked easily along the road to the town. After the length of infinity, a mere dusty road was a bit of a relief.
Sitting sidesaddle behind Death, Miss Flitworth explored the rustling contents of the box of Dark Enchantments.
‘Here,’ she said, ‘someone’s had all the rum truffles.’ There was another crackle of paper. ‘And from the bottom layer, too. I hate that, people starting the bottom layer before the top one’s been properly finished. And I can tell you’ve been doing it because there’s a little map in the lid and by rights there should be rum truffles. Bill Door?’
I’M SORRY, MISS FLITWORTH.
‘This big diamond’s a bit heavy. Nice, though,’ she added, grudgingly. ‘Where’d you get it?’
FROM PEOPLE WHO THOUGHT IT WAS THE TEAR OF A GOD.
‘And is it?’
NO. GODS NEVER WEEP. IT IS COMMON CARBON THAT HAS BEEN SUBJECT TO GREAT HEAT AND PRESSURE, THAT IS ALL.
‘Inside every lump of coal there’s a diamond waiting to get out, right?’
YES, MISS FLITWORTH.
There was no sound for a while, except the clip-clop of Binky’s hoofs. Then Miss Flitworth said, archly: ‘I do know what’s going on, you know. I saw how much sand there was. And so you thought “She’s not a bad old stick, I’ll show her a good time for a few hours, and then when she’s not expecting it, it’ll be time for the old cut-degrass”, am I right?’
Death said nothing.
‘I am right, aren’t I?’
I CAN’T HIDE ANYTHING FROM YOU, MISS FLITWORTH.
‘Huh. I suppose I should be flattered. Yes? I expect you’ve got a lot of calls on your time.’
MORE THAN YOU COULD POSSIBLY IMAGINE, MISS FLITWORTH.
‘In the circumstances, then, you might as well go back to calling me Renata again.’
There was a bonfire in the meadow beyond the archery field. Death could see figures moving in front of it. An occasional tortured squeak suggested that someone was tuning up a fiddle.
‘I always come along to the harvest dance,’ said Miss Flitworth, conversationally. ‘Not to dance, of course. I generally look after the food and so on.’
WHY?
‘Well, someone’s got to look after the food.’
I MEANT WHY DON’T YOU DANCE?
‘’Cos I’m old, that’s why.’
YOU ARE AS OLD AS YOU THINK YOU ARE.
‘Huh! Yeah? Really? That’s the kind of stupid thing people always say. They always say, My word, you’re looking well. They say, There’s life in the old dog yet. Many a good tune played on an old fiddle. That kind of stuff. It’s all stupid. As if being old was some kind of thing you should be glad about! As if being philosophical about it will earn you marks! My head knows how to think young, but my knees aren’t that good at it. Or my back. Or my teeth. Try telling my knees they’re as old as they think they are and see what good it does you. Or them.’
IT MAY BE WORTH A TRY.
More figures moved in front of the firelight. Death could see striped poles strung with bunting.