In March 2015 my favourite author Sir Terry Pratchet died from complications related to Alzheimers. I first discovered his books in WH Smiths in Liverpool. While browsing for something new to read, I lifted a copy of one of his “Discworld” novels off a shelf, opened it at random and started to read. Then I started to giggle…then…chuckle and finally laugh out loud. Embarrassed at this public display of frivolity I quickly replaced the book and walked away wiping the tears from my eyes. I then went back to the shelf for the book, bought it and never looked back.
Over the next few years I read everything of his I could lay my hands on, and then waited impatiently for him to write the next. A few years ago I wrote a little personal homage to Sir Terry. Just a short humorous piece about his death, or rather how i imagined it, as i don’t think he managed to go the way he wanted to; which was sitting in his garden with a glass of something and listening to a favourite piece of music.
If you’ve never read any of his books,then before I go any further you need to know that death figured as a character in many of them. He was very traditionally portrayed as a skeleton dressed in a black hooded cloak and carrying a scythe and an hourglass style timer. Terry always wrote Death’s lines in block capitals, gave him a white stallion to ride on and, for some obscure reason, made him a lover of cats.
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Mort D’Pratchett
Sir Terry Pratchett is in Limbo, having just granted himself his wish to opt out of life when he considered his alzheimers was getting too advanced. However, he’s a little puzzled as to why he is, where he is. Eventually he hears a slow clip, clopping and a large white horse looms out of the swirling mist. As it’s rider dismounts, Terry notices that the horse’s body is steaming and that the animal is also breathing very heavily. He also can’t help but notice that the Rider is dressed rather differently than he imagined but, ever the gentleman, he decides not to comment just yet and holds out his hand to greet his nemesis.
“Ah, Death I presume, I must say it’s an honour to meet you at last, I’ve written so much about you.” Death, a little thrown by this greeting as people aren’t usually pleased to see him, nevertheless holds out a skeletal hand for Terry to shake; an action that produces a rather hollow rattling noise. This causes a brief moment of embarrassed silence before a, – quite literally given the circumstances – disembodied voice booms out of the ether.
MR PRATCHETT, OR MAY I CALL YOU TERRY? I CAN ASSURE YOU THE HONOUR IS ALL MINE….there is a slight pause before Death speaks again….EVEN IF YOU HAVE BUGGERED UP MY SCHEDULE!
This time it’s Terry’s turn to be thrown, but he remains polite and says, “I’m very sorry if I’ve caused you any problem but I’m really not sure what you mean.” Death sighs and reaches for his saddle bags, lifting them down he opens them up to reveal that they are full of large hourglasses. All of them have an amount of sand in one end, which is slowly being added to by a steady trickle of sand from the other end; there is very little sand left in this ‘other end’.
Death begins to explain, THESE ARE SOME OF MY LIFE TIMERS. THEY ARE CREATED WHEN SOMEONE IS BORN AND THEY RUN UNTIL THAT PERSON DIES. YOU WILL NOTE THAT THE AMOUNT OF SAND IN THEM VARIES FROM TIMER TO TIMER. THIS IS BECAUSE EACH PERSON HAS AN ALLOTTED LIFE SPAN. I MERELY HAVE TO KEEP AN EYE ON THEM, SO THAT I KNOW WHEN TO RIDE OUT AND MAKE CERTAIN THEY ARE ‘ON SCHEDULE’……..SO TO SPEAK. ALL PRETTY STRAIGHTFORWARD I’M SURE YOU’LL AGREE…….UNTIL, THAT IS, SOMEONE LIKE YOURSELF COMES ALONG.
A light bulb went on inside Terry’s head, “ah,” he said, “I think I’m beginning to see. I’ve caused you a problem because I took my own life.”
EXACTLY……said Death…..THERE I WAS IN ‘WYJABRINGADOGALONG’ ON THE EAST COAST OF AUSTRALIA, WHEN A BLOODY ALARM WENT OFF. THE POOR BUGGER I’D GONE TO COLLECT NEARLY DIDN’T NEED ME. I HAD TO JUMP ABOARD POOR BINKY…(this was the name Death had given to his horse……it’s a long story)….AND RACE AROUND HALF THE PLANET JUST TO GET TO YOU. I MEAN JUST LOOK AT THE POOR ANIMAL….HE’S GONE FROM NOBLE STEED TO CART HORSE. IT’LL BE EXTRA OATS AND A GOOD RUB DOWN FOR HIM WHEN WE’VE FINISHED THIS SHIFT.
Terry was genuinely apologetic, “Look, I really am sorry, but you must have known I wasn’t prepared to put up with my ‘embuggeration.” Which was the word he used to describe his alzheimers. “Everybody knew that what I wanted was to end my life peacefully at a time and place of my choosing. Admittedly it didn’t go entirely to plan. I mean, I’d got myself comfortable in the garden with my glass of brandy and Thomas Tallis on the hifi. I couldn’t help that my neighbour had chosen that precise moment to play her Kylie Minogue album. I was just about to pop the pills when the strains of ‘I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky’ drifted over the hedge. Well I could hardly knock on her door and ask, ‘I say, would you mind awfully keeping the volume down, as I’m just about to top myself.”
There was an awkward silence as both of them shifted from one foot to the other while staring at the floor. Terry took a deep breath and said, hesitantly, “Er, while we’re here, just out of interest, how much longer did I have left?”
OH, A FEW YEARS I THINK. Said Death.
“And, er, what would have been my quality of life?” Asked Terry.
BUGGERED IF I KNOW, said Death, I ONLY DO THE ONE JOB, AND THAT PREFERABLY ON TIME.
At this point, Terry began to feel a bit sorry for Death. After all, it probably wasn’t Death’s fault that there was a certain amount of job demarcation in the process of passing over. I mean, if everybody started topping themselves willy nilly whenever they felt like it, the multiverse would be in a right pickle. There had to be a certain order about things. So he said, “Look, I really am sorry, but I really didn’t want to carry on, knowing what was likely to happen to me. So I’m quite ready for you now, really I am, but I’ve been wondering, er, would you mind answering one more question before you do your job?
ASK AWAY. Said Death.
“Well I’m curious.” There was a slight pause. “Well, why are you dressed like that?
LIKE WHAT? Said Death, somewhat indignantly.
“Well it looks like some sort of Jedi Master.” Said Terry.
OK, SO I FELT LIKE A CHANGE. Said Death, a tad defensively. IT’S ALRIGHT FOR THE LIVING. YOU CAN JUST POP TO M&S FOR A NEW OUTFIT WHENEVER YOU FEEL LIKE IT, AND ON YOUR WAY HOME DUCK INTO ‘ACCESSORIZE’ FOR SOMETHING TO SET IT OFF. BUT ME, I’VE BEEN STUCK WITH A TATTERED BLACK CLOAK WITH A HOOD AND A BLOODY GREAT SCYTHE FOR MILLENNIA.
“Ok, ok, calm down.” said Terry, “I don’t mean to criticise, but you do look a bit like a cross between Darth Vader and er, Yoda?…..I mean….what’s all that about?”
IF YOU REALLY WANT TO KNOW. Said Death. I WANTED A NEW IMAGE. SOMETHING A BIT MORE 21ST CENTURY. I HAPPEN TO THINK THE DARTH VADER LOOK IS QUITE BUSINESS LIKE WHILE ALSO LOOKING RATHER SEXY.
“And the head of Yoda?” Said Terry, raising an eyebrow.
WELL, WHO WANTS A BLEACHED MAGGOT INFESTED SKULL TO BE THE LAST THING THEY SEE? Said Death
“Ah, I see your point.” said Terry. “But what about your scythe, surely you need something to do the deed?” There was a click, a hum and a swish as Sir Terry Pratchett disappeared in a puff of smoke. A swish, a hum and a click as Death clipped his light sabre back onto his belt.
OH YESSSS. Said Death, with a satisfied smile. BEATS THE HELL OUT OF A SCYTHE.
Navigating Hades. 