by Al K. Line
I watched them leave. She even waved, which was nice, considering.
This was the beginning of a very long eternity. Have you any idea how many people die at any given moment? It's bloody exhausting being Death. You don't even get a break for tea and biscuits.
A Moment
After Tammy's departure, I took zoning out to a whole other level. I don't know how long I stood motionless, the wind blowing my tattered cloak, never reaching my face, feeling empty of most everything, but it must have been a considerable length of time.
Aeon's maybe, who can tell? I could taste the salty tang of the water on my lips as I ran my tongue over their dry, cracked surface, yet I knew it was merely my imagination. This was no sea or ocean, it was the lake, and yet it reminded me of the sea, what with the beach, so that's how I thought of it. I also knew I had no tastebuds, couldn't even feel my tongue on my lips, but my brain kind of filled in the blanks, gave me sensation where really there was none. Guess it was trying to cope with the impossible.
The lake offered no answers, nothing did, and eventually I stopped searching for a reason, for a deeper meaning to explain all this. I'd had my explanation. The bloke I took over from had told me in no uncertain terms exactly why I was here, and how. I'd wasted my lives, screwed up over and over, acted in childish ways even my faery godmother hadn't expected, and now I was paying the price. I had lost my friends and family, lost everything. I didn't even have my hat, or Wand.
Alone. I was all alone.
But it didn't stop them coming. When I finally came out of my stupor, it was to be greeted by a veritable horde of impatient, bewildered, or downright terrified souls. I soon lost count of the people I helped pass, whether they wanted to or not. People of all races, from all possible countries, speaking all manner of languages, some familiar, some utterly alien. And yet, I understood them all, even spoke each language fluently, and I wondered how I appeared to these people. Men and women from remote tribes, people from countries I'd never even heard of, each with their own set of beliefs, customs, traditions, and expectations, they all knew me, recognized me.
I must have assumed a hundred different guises, yet I always looked the same to me.
This Death business was confusing, and even surrounded by this cornucopia of humanity I still had the same overriding feeling.
I was lonely, and alone. Maybe for eternity.
Screw It
"Bollocks to this," I muttered, my words snatched away on a sudden gust that stirred the cowl keeping my face in darkest shadow, no light, no warmth ever touching my skin.
"Never give in, never surrender." I wondered if that was a line from the Karate Kid, but figured no, it was an awesome quote The Hat had just made up.
Determined, I set off along the beach, hugging the shoreline, unconcerned about getting my feet wet. Could I walk on water? What would happen if I strode right out into the lake and kept on going? Would I drown? No. Would I sink and breathe underwater? It was at this point I realized I wasn't even breathing. Didn't have to.
Okay, that's not exactly correct. I was going through the motions, my body doing it on auto-pilot, but it was habit more than anything else. I could hold my breath for as long as I wanted, so as I walked I counted up to a thousand without taking in air before I got bored.
Mind empty, I focused on one thing, and one thing only. Walking. Gliding to be exact. To hell with what I should believe, to hell with it all. No way was the beach infinite, it couldn't go on forever. Whoever had designed this place, the big guy upstairs maybe, must have run out of steam eventually. After all, it only needed to be large enough to accommodate Death and whoever visited. Maybe it was all smoke and mirrors and if I walked for a while I'd come to the end. To a large glass barrier the other side of which would be a means of salvation. An exit, a way out in case of emergency.
This was an emergency. I was pissed off and didn't want to be here. That was reason enough for me to be determined to escape. Nothing is infinite, surely? Time to find out.
I walked, or glided, whatever, and continued. Never tiring, never seeing anything new or exciting, just water and pebbles and the same damn ugly sky. I'd done this once before, when visiting Death, and had found no escape then, but things were different now, I was him, so maybe I'd get lucky. I had to.
Cloud patterns repeated endlessly, the water lapped to a rhythm I was now in sync with despite myself, and the pebbles beneath my feet became familiar, until I was certain I was moving in circles, going around and around on the outside of some tiny planet made especially for Death. Maybe I was. Maybe that's how this worked. Robinson Crusoe of the afterlife, just without Good Friday for company or hope of a ship coming to rescue me and take me home.
A true castaway.
One foot in front of the other, that's what I focused on. Over and over, using the scythe like a staff, crunching on pebbles, the only sound the clattering as I disturbed them. Often I would turn to see if I could mark my passage, but the beach always reconfigured and the pebbles locked back into place. Everything was always the same.
Always.
Pig-headed, I refused to give in to this place, this boring bloody no-place I was trapped in, and so I continued my journey, moving forward until I found the exit. I never tired, I never got hungry or thirsty although I craved both food and drink. I missed everyone, I missed everything, and yet I couldn't have cared less for the company of people or the home comforts I usually delighted in. Worst of all, I didn't even miss my kitchen, or smoking, and that was when I knew I absolutely, without fail, had to escape.
Somehow, somewhere, some way, there had to be a way to get out of this dump.
The Hat was, if nothing else, a determined kind of fella and he would not spend eternity taking a bloody roll-call of the recently deceased. I would return to where I belonged, or I'd pass on to what awaited me on the other side, but I would not stay here and go slowly insane.
How had the other guy done it? Maybe he was mad. Maybe he'd made up the story about the harem and it was merely wishful thinking. Or maybe he was sane and had done his job and waited patiently until some poor sap came to replace him. Should I do that? Wait this out? Hopefully in a few hundred years, maybe millennia, someone was sure to screw up and come to take over. But what if they didn't? I didn't know the rules and I could be stuck here.
I wasn't going to take that chance. I would leave, and nothing could stop me.
First I had to find the bloody door.
So I walked some more.
Acceptance
Eventually I stopped, because I was wrong. This was endless, I was stuck, there was no exit. There wasn't anything but what had endured and always would.
I'd forgotten one very important thing about this place and my predicament.
It wasn't real.
Not real-real, like flesh and bone, our planet, the food we eat, the water we drink.
This was something different. Death, i.e. me, and the place I inhabited, had grown from a need. A construct forged by the communal mind of humanity. This was a unique place specifically for those who believed, however vaguely, in an afterlife and that there was something beyond reality as most knew it. We longed for it, we needed it, because that couldn't be it when you died, could it? Game over? No, there had to be more, and this was our answer.
The figure of the Grim Reaper was so much a part of western consciousness that he became manifest, although that just meant some poor sod got stuck with a cool robe and a scythe. No doubt he'd morphed countless times throughout the ages, would be different things to different people, maybe taller or shorter, more or less menacing. I, he, the idea, was a way to ease the passage through the afterlife. Something familiar yet suitably daunting and scary, because, let's face it, dying should be scary because it's a ginormous leap into the unknown.
So I was a figment of the collective need. I existed to help people accept that they had died yet it wasn't quite game over, and the line through their name was so they could find peace of sor
ts, however bad a person they were. Maybe that isn't right. Maybe not peace, but a definite end to one part of the adventure.
I cross your name out, you are definitely one hundred percent dead. What do they call it? Closure? Yes, it was closure. Of a very final kind.
It was worrying to finally understand that I wasn't truly real, merely born from the will and need of the people. I'd believed there were other entities doing the same job in different guises, after all, Death as I was presented was a very western idea, but now it seemed even that wasn't right. I was every manifestation of Death, appeared however I had to, but there must have been other entities that had it worse.
Ha, how could it be worse? This was about as bad as it got, surely?
How would I cope? How long would this last? How would I get my hat back?
I was, and I'm not ashamed to admit it, feeling rather sorry for myself.
Too Much
Something tugged at me. I don't mean at my mind, or the wind which I ignored now, I mean there was someone yanking my cloak. I sighed, not in the mood for dealing with other people's misery when I was miserable enough anyway, but turned reluctantly to confront my next soul.
"Huh?" I grunted, seeing nothing.
"I'm down here," came a squeaky voice.
A young boy of six years, three months, seven days, and three hours clutched my robes tight, his little hand holding on for all he was worth.
"Um, hello," I said, trying to keep from sounding menacing and failing to stop my words catching in my throat.
"Have you seen my mummy?" asked the child, his eyes wide, huge, utterly innocent.
"No, can't say I have."
"She was going to get me a snack. I was playing, in the garden." He looked at me expectantly, like I should know. I knew, but I didn't want to know. God help me, I knew, I saw. I wondered if my tears were real or imagined. Not that it mattered.
"I was playing, and, um, please don't tell, but I was naughty." He began to cry, tiny tears rolling down his red cheeks, shamed and feeling guilty for ignoring the rules, even though he knew it was wrong.
"It's okay, don't cry. You didn't do anything wrong. It's okay."
"But it's not, is it? I went in the pond and I wasn't allowed. Mummy said she'd only be a minute. I was going to have a lolly. Strawberry, it's my favorite. Do you like strawberry?"
"I love it," I sniffed. "It's my favorite too."
"Really!?" His little face brightened, distracted by the thought of a treat. The wonders of being a child, that even under such circumstances their minds wander worse than an old, grumpy wizard's.
"Yeah, it's awesome."
"Cool. Do you know where she is? Am I in trouble?"
"She's at home, but no, you aren't in trouble."
"Are you the Grim Reaper? Are you gonna chop my head off? Is that real? Can I touch it." He reached up on tiptoe for the scythe blade but he was way too little and it was way too sharp anyway.
"Careful, it's very dangerous. No, I won't chop your head off. Not unless you want me to. Would you like that?" I asked, hoping the humor came across. I felt like a fool, trying to tell a joke when I looked the way I did. But he didn't seem to mind, so what's a Grim Reaper to do?
"Um," he said, mulling it over. "No thanks!"
"Wise choice."
"Can I go home now? I got wet, and I couldn't get out. I think I need to change my clothes." The boy, Peter was his name, looked down at his clothes and frowned. "They're not wet."
"No, not any more. All dry. And I'm afraid you can't go home. Do you know why?"
"Why aren't they wet? Why can't I go home?"
"I think you know. I'm sorry. More sorry than you will ever know."
"I drowned in the pond, didn't I?"
"You did," I said, wondering if I could cope with this for another moment more. But he needed me, probably more than anyone had ever needed me, and I would not break, I would not fall apart, not now, and not because I didn't want to, because I did. But because however bad I had it, he had it worse. His mum too. And his dad. And his two older sisters who always teased him.
He left behind a broken family. His mother was right now cradling his soaking corpse and screaming, neighbors were coming running, someone was calling an ambulance, and life would never be the same again. Joy was gone forever from their lives, and nothing would ever make things right again. Guilt, overwhelming sadness, loss on an unimaginable scale. So no, I didn't fall apart.
"Hey, let's go for a walk," I said, holding out my hand. I realized what I'd done and pulled it away. We couldn't hold hands, I would hurt him, break him. He'd be in agony if he touched me, if he could.
Peter nodded and we wandered slowly down the shoreline, silent.
After a minute or so, he asked, "What happens now?"
"What would you like to happen? Apart from going home. I know you want to, but you can't. What would you like to happen next?"
"Heaven, you mean?"
"Sure, heaven."
His face became bright, his hands animated, and he said, "There's clouds made of candy floss, and as much ice cream and jelly as you want, and you never have to eat vegetables and you get a new bike every day and every day Father Christmas comes and you're always good so you get loads of cool presents. Even computer games. I'm allowed now, aren't I? And a TV in my bedroom? I can, can't I?"
"I don't see why not. Sure, whatever you want. Let's get this thing done," I said, and glanced up. The table, ledger, ink and what have you all came down, slowly, calmly, not wanting to frighten the boy. The book opened, settled on the right page, and with an ache in my heart I gently crossed out Peter's name.
Everything shot up and away and Peter stared, open-mouthed.
"Pretty cool, eh?"
"Really cool," he agreed, nodding his head vigorously. "Where'd it all go? What was it? Where did it come from?"
"You ask a lot of questions. It beats me."
"I know," he said, smiling. He was a cheeky chappie and no mistake.
I heard a splash and turned to the lake. "Here comes your ride."
"I get to go in a boat? Can I row?"
"I don't think so, you have your own oarsman today. Just sit back and enjoy yourself."
The boat came to the shore, Peter hopped in and settled himself. The Boatman turned without me seeing how, and they were lost to the fog, indistinct as always.
"Eat some ice cream for me," I shouted.
"I will," came the distance voice of an innocent.
My mind was made up. I had to get the fuck out of here before I lost the plot entirely. If I met another dead child I'd go insane.
Deep Ponderings
What kind of world was it where children could die in their garden waiting for a lolly? You could blame the parents for being irresponsible, but shit like this happened all the time. Children got run over, they were born with incurable diseases, parents saw their children die, which is plain wrong, and in the case of poor Peter I knew there was a locked gate around the pond, but he'd been in a boisterous mood and sneaked over the fence even though he knew better. Should you blame the mother for her lack of vigilance? I didn't think so.
How was this allowed to happen? And why did I get so many chances when the children had none? It was unjust, and I couldn't stand it. If there was a God, or many gods, which I was confident there were, then he, she, it, or they had a lot to answer for. Once again, the Devil was winning and in my glum melancholy I got the impression he always would.
And what would happen to the children now? Where did they go? Did Peter get what he wanted? Would he forever be a child? Would he grow up to be a man in heaven? The man he could have become? I didn't have the answers, all I had were questions and more questions. I knew I would never know. There was only one way to ever truly understand what came next, and that was to take a ride with the Boatman.
Well screw him, and screw God, and screw this messed up life where such things occurred every single minute of every single day throughout the entire cours
e of human history and would continue to do so until the sun burned out or we blew ourselves up because we were idiots.
Yeah, I was on a downer now. Big time.
A Visitor
The only thing for it was acceptance.
I'd gone through the gamut of emotions, struggling to even have them, and when I did I understood it was a terrible idea. You coped with this job by being empty inside, not letting the extent of human misery and suffering touch you. I had to become Death incarnate. A thing, a creature that held no opinion on what people did, how they died, if they deserved it or not. Because, let's face it, who deserves to die right there and then? Most people are inherently good, they don't go around killing indiscriminately, hurting people in any meaningful way just for kicks. They try, in their own small way, to be nice. Everyone is too busy trying to cope with daily life to be arsed spending time being mean on purpose. So why should they die?
Surely they deserve another second, minute, hour, day, month, or year? Who gets to decide?
Nobody. And certainly not me. I was here for one reason only, to sign them out, look at their life, and use whatever this knowledge was I had inside to give them a big thumbs up or down. I decided their fate based on the positives and negatives of their life, but it was already decided, of that I was sure. I was like a final check, quality control if you will, to ensure no one fell through the cracks and went where they weren't meant to.
So I would do that. I would weigh their lives with dispassion, not think about the rights or wrongs of their death. Everyone died, there was no escaping that, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it.
A feeling that was becoming very familiar came over me, an all-over tingle yet without the actual tingle. A vibration is the best way I can put it. Like my bones were rattling silently under the robe. It meant only one thing.
Another soul to help on their merry way.
I turned, faced up the beach where the land rose slightly, pebbles washed up higher by strong waves.