A Brief Literary Tribute to Sir Terry Pratchett

Sir Terry Pratchett (1948 - 2015)

I haven't touched this blog for several years, as it was originally part of a course assignment for a graduate school class.  However. I am repurposing it to use as a vehicle to share a short work of fiction in the style of my favorite fiction author who passed away today at the age of 66 from a nasty variant of Alzheimer's.  His 70+ books have brought joy to our lives, and to many others throughout the world.  Rest in Peace, Sir Terry.  The stories will continue, as the laws of Narrative Imperative apply here in Roundworld as well as on the Discworld.

Death and the Creator

Death looked at the hourglass in his bony hand.  “ALREADY? ”  He stepped through the door of the large house and glided up the stairs.  At the end of the hall, the bedroom door was open and a group of people were standing and sitting around a bed where an older man was sleeping.  A cat was curled up next to him, purring.  In the corner sat Granny Weatherwax, un-noticed by the family.  Usually her task was to sit with the dying on the Discworld who didn’t have friends or family, and see them into the next world.  This fellow had both in full attendance, but Granny’s presence indicated that the man in the bed deserved special treatment.

Granny looked up when Death entered.  “Right on time—any trouble crossin’ over to the Roundworld?”  “GREETINGS, MISTRESS WEATHERWAX.  NO PROBLEMS.  THE CONNECTION BETWEEN THE DISCWORLD AND THIS PLACE IS STRONG.”

“Now’t wonder.  He’s the Creator…he’s wrote our story and made us who and what we are.  It jest seems right fer me t’ be here.”  “MOST APPROPRIATE, INDEED.”  The cat on the bed looked up at Death and blinked.  It then stretched, settled back down, and continued purring.  The man’s chest was rising and falling, but more slowly now…the circle of people were whispering their farewells and messages for him to deliver, and weeping quietly, holding on to one another.

Granny looked at Death, and asked the question that had been twittering in her head all day:  “So does our story end, now’t he’s gone?”  Death considered this.  “NO, I BELIEVE THAT OUR STORY HAS BECOME A LIVING THING.  IT WILL NOT DIE WITH HIM.  WE WILL GO ON.  WE WILL WRITE OUR OWN STORY FROM HERE.”

Granny smiled.  “Jest when you think you’ve come to the end of a story, there’s another ‘un waitin’ to be told.”  Death nodded.  “AS I KNOW, THERE IS ALWAYS A DOOR TO THE NEXT WORLD, AND ANOTHER STORY.  I BELIEVE IT IS TIME TO WELCOME OUR CREATOR.”  The man on the bed had stopped breathing, and the grief among the circle was palpable.  Death leaned over the bed and touched the man’s shoulder.  “SIR TERRENCE PRATCHETT? “  The man’s transparent self sat up and looked around him, and his face broke into a smile.  “You DID come!  You’re real!  And Granny, too—well met, Mistress Weatherwax.”  Granny chuckled, and said “Think I’d miss this?  Hah!”

Death grinned.  “OF COURSE I’M REAL.  YOU MADE ME.  YOU ARE THE CREATOR.  AND IT IS YOUR TIME.  WE MUST BE GOING.  YOU HAVE A LONG JOURNEY AHEAD OF YOU.  AT THE END, THERE WILL BE A STORY TO TELL.”  The man looked around the room at his friends and family, and reached out to pet the cat.   When his hand went through the cat, it opened its eyes and stared at the man and Death standing next to the bed.  Death reached over and scratched behind the cat’s ears and it began purring again.  No one noticed.  Death took the man’s hand and motioned towards the door, and the two of them stepped outside.  Granny followed them out, and the three figures slowly walked out of the house, into the daylight, and vanished.

And the story continues.

Rest in Peace, Sir Terry—thank you for all the joy and laughter you have brought to my life though your books.  I came a bit late to the Discworld, but I loved every book and every character.  Your creations will live on and become legend, as it should be.