Reaper Man by Terry Pratchett

altar dusting, temple cleaning, sacrificial stone scrubbing, honorary vestigial virgining, has-sock repairing and every other vital religious support role by sheer force of personality, her departure resulted in total chaos.
    Mrs. Cake buttoned up her coat.
    “It won’t work,” said Ludmilla.
    “I’ll try the wizards. They ought to be tole,” said Mrs. Cake. She was quivering with self-importance, like a small enraged football.
    “Yes, but you said they never listen,” said Ludmilla.
    “Got to try. Anyway, what are you doing out of your room?”
    “Oh, mother. You know I hate that room. There’s no need—”
    “You can’t be too careful. Supposin’ you was to take it into your head to go and chase people’s chickens? What would the neighbors say?”
    “I’ve never felt the least urge to chase a chicken, mother,” said Ludmilla wearily.
    “Or run after carts, barkin’.”
    “That’s dogs , mother.”
    “You just get back in your room and lock yourself in and get on with some sewing like a good girl.”
    “You know I can’t hold the needles properly, mother.”
    “Try for your mother.”
    “ Yes , mother,” said Ludmilla.
    “And don’t go near the window. We don’t want people upset.”
    “Yes, mother. And you make sure you put your premonition on, mum. You know your eyesight isn’t what it was.”
    Mrs. Cake watched her daughter go upstairs. Then she locked the front door behind her and strode toward Unseen University where, she’d heard, there was too much nonsense of all sorts.
    Anyone watching Mrs. Cake’s progress along the street would have noticed one or two odd details. Despite her erratic gait, no one bumped into her. They weren’t avoiding her, she just wasn’t where they were. At one point she hesitated, and stepped into an alleyway. A moment later a barrel rolled off a cart that was unloading outside a tavern and smashed on the cobbles where she would have been. She stepped out of the alley and over the wreckage, grumbling to herself.
    Mrs. Cake spent a lot of the time grumbling. Her mouth was constantly moving, as if she was trying to dislodge a troublesome pip from somewhere in the back of her teeth.
    She reached the high black gates of the University and hesitated again, as if listening to some inner voice.
    Then she stepped aside and waited.

    Bill Door lay in the darkness of the hayloft and waited. Below, he could hear the occasional horsey sounds of Binky—a soft movement, the champ of a jaw.
    Bill Door. So now he had a name. Of course, he’d always had a name, but he’d been named for what he embodied, not for who he was. Bill Door. It had a good solid ring to it. Mr. Bill Door. William Door, Esq. Billy D—no. Not Billy.
    Bill Door cased himself further into the hay. He reached into his robe and pulled out the golden timer. There was, quite perceptibly, less sand in the top bulb. He put it back.
    And then there was this “sleep.” He knew what it was. People did it for quite a lot of the time. They lay down and sleep happened. Presumably it served some purpose. He was watching out for it with interest. He would have to subject it to analysis.

    Night drifted across the world, coolly pursued by a new day.
    There was a stirring in the henhouse across the yard.
    “Cock-a-doo…er.”
    Bill Door stared at the roof of the barn.
    “Cock-a-doodle…er.”
    Gray light was filtering in between the cracks.
    Yet only moments ago there had been the red light of sunset!
    Six hours had vanished.
    Bill hauled out the timer. Yes. The level was definitely down. While he had been waiting to experience sleep, something had stolen part of his…of his life . He’d completely missed it, too—
    “Cock…cock-a…er…”
    He climbed down from the loft and stepped out into the thin mist of dawn.
    The elderly chickens watched him cautiously as he peered into their house. An ancient and rather embarrassed-looking cockerel glared at him and shrugged.
    There was a clanging noise from the