The candidate smiled at Death. “Hi, I’m Mike. About time you showed up.”
“Hi, yourself, Mike,” Death replied in his feminine voice.
Mike’s body convulsed and gasped for breath.
“No. You can’t die. I won’t let you,” Mike’s mother threw herself onto the little boy’s body, oblivious of tubes and machines. The woman looked up directly into the eyes of Death. “Take me instead. He’s so little. He hasn’t had a chance to live yet. Take me!”
Time stopped until a choice was made. Fate required a death.
“Can you do that? Change the appointment?” Mike asked, eyes wide and wondering. Momentarily he was free of the constraints of his body. Only his soul knew what transpired.
“Fate dictates that my appointment is in this room, at this time,” Death announced to all those present. “The name of the candidate is not known until the actual moment of death. Anyone here may accept the fated death.”
“Take me,” the mother said resolutely. “Spare my little boy.”
“No, Mom.” Mike looked around at his loving family, frozen in time until the choice was made. “Think of Dad and the family. Julie and Tom need a mom. Dad needs his wife. They’ll learn to get by without me. Life will be a lot harder on them without you than me. Let me go. I’m tired of hurting. I’m tired of watching you hurt because of me.”
Emotions flooded Death. He remembered pain and how love lessened it. Getting involved with his candidates was not a part of the job. But Mike was so strong, so adult, he reminded Death of....
Death refused to remember life. Change and a choice of fates belonged to others now, not him.
Mike climbed off the bed, leaving his body behind. “Time to go. Good-by, Mom. Bye, Dad, Julie, Tom.”
Time resumed. The family clung to each other in sorrow.
Death and Mike walked slowly toward a swirling circle of light, leaving life behind.
A car accident diverted Death’s attention on his transport back to the bar. Smashed metal, flying glass, the smell of hot gasoline ready to ignite. Agony! Desperate pleas. Death put aside the memory. Those terrible things must have happened to someone else.
He checked the most recent victims. Serious injuries, but no one needed his guidance to the other side yet. He made a note in his appointment book to check back with the five passengers and three drivers once they reached the hospital.
The little black book didn’t accept the note. The accident victims would not face a final choice within the remaining minutes of this year. What would happen to the book at one second past midnight? Death did not know.
Or could not remember.
Which?
Death looked at the last page of his book curiously. He saw an appointment listed for 11:59:59. The assignation hadn’t been there earlier in the evening. No place, cause, or name followed the time. Strange. What did he have to do in the last second of the Old Year to make certain the New Year came? The thought of all the souls of humanity drifting homeless for eternity made him shudder. Time must continue. People must experience change and make choices. Fates must be fulfilled.
He returned to the bar, drawn there as if by a magnet. His staff glowed brighter as he approached. The appointment book suddenly felt heavy. He checked, but no new appointments had been added past the cryptic one in the last second of the old year.
The bartender took Death’s order for another drink. Automatically Death assessed the man’s condition: arthritis, right shoulder and knee, weak and clogged arteries, and swollen feet. Six months tops.
A newcomer opened the door of the bar. The noise of the New Year celebration in Times Square filled the shabby drinking establishment with a moment of lively joy. The potential suicide wavered a moment in her decision. The door closed and the noise died. As the old year was dying.
Death hefted his little black book once more. “I need time to look in on the Pope. I have to keep tabs on all the assassination attempts and a few great musicians and artists. There isn’t enough time. Something I have to do....”
Death sipped at the drink that was supposed to taste good or make him feel good but did neither. He watched himself in the mirror behind the bar. He looked like any other generic, middle-aged male, not too prosperous, nor too downtrodden, his staff of office hiding as a black umbrella propped against his stool. The persona fit this neighborhood. He was used to the instant changes in his appearance. He didn’t like terrorizing people—except some of the truly evil personalities. When Mother Theresa finally passed on, Death had chosen to be another elderly nun so as not to frighten the woman. But that determined lady hadn’t been frightened by life. Why should Death in any guise scare her?
11:43:05. A sense of desperate need tickled his senses. The potential suicide in the corner passed her crisis and decided to give Life one more year.
Death followed her onto the street. He had too much to do in the last seventeen minutes of the year.
His long staff appeared in his hand, keeping its proper shape and size—Nine feet of shining ebony, slender top curved into a full circle. Thousands of facets from the crystal reflected tiny pin-pricks of light. His black-hooded cloak folded around him. He became one with the shadows, seeking the source of that last appointment. Only when the candidate, location and circumstances were chosen would his guise take shape.
His hands tingled with the power encased in his trappings. His staff glowed in the reflection of street lamps. Aware, not fully active. Yet.
Out on the street, Death turned the staff right and left, seeking. A faint glow emanated from the crystal when it faced right. A very dark alley. Street lights shot out, garbage piled high. A haven for vagrants, criminals and violence.
The appointment book burned with impatience.
“Just another mugging,” Death sighed. “I’d hoped for something spectacular to close out the year.”
The crystal glowed brighter, taking on red tones. “Odd. Red indicates a death of great importance, someone who will stop time if his, or her, destiny goes unfulfilled.” That had happened with Princess Diana as she clung to life for agonizing moments, but others had stepped in to continue her work. One instance when the victim became more powerful dead than alive.
While the world mourned her passing, people continued to make choices and grow through change.
Death followed the crystal with increasing urgency. For the sake of all lost souls, time had to continue.
The woman who had chosen life over death walked ahead of him, head high, shoulders back. She had chosen life and her posture reflected reawakened joy and confidence. Her high heels tapped a rhythm onto the sidewalk akin to the song of life.
Grunts. Cries for help. Scuffling feet and thumping bodies.
Death hurried.
He rounded the corner into the alley. Three Lives standing. One desperate Life sprawled amid piles of junk and empty boxes, right leg twisted unnaturally beneath her. The skirt of her red power suit hiked up immodestly and torn at the side seam. Blood spilled on the pavement.
11:58:47. In the distance the shouts from Times Square increased. Close up, one of the standing Lives lifted a gun and took aim at the Life who waited. A feral smile grew around broken and rotted teeth. All four Lives were fully conscious. All four knew that Death awaited one of them.
“Should have given us the diamond ring along with the purse right off, yuppie bitch. We’d have let you off with a sore head,” the youth with the gun sneered at his victim.
The diamond on the woman’s left hand winked in the weak light, almost as brightly as Death’s black crystal. A cherished wedding ring. A promise of love. The muggers had broken her leg while she struggled to protect the ring.
There was still time for Death to offer choices.
All four Lives froze in a tableau that screeched of man’s violation of his covenant with Life. The black crystal in the staff passed from red to blinding white. The appointment book grew heavier and hotter yet.
11:59:45. Time stopped.
Death looked anxiously from the crystal to the Life who awaited his touch. Time awaited the next candidate. Who? The book didn’t tell him.
“Don’t kill me!” the woman who had left the bar filled with renewed purpose yelled at the three muggers. “You’ve got my purse and my jewelry. I can’t run away. My leg is broken. Leave me alone.”
No one moved. Nothing moved, not even the freezing wind.
Death waited. A curious sensation of warmth engulfed him. He’d been cold so long he’d forgotten what warmth was. Not exactly warmth, an absence of heart-chilling cold. But with the warmth came pain too. Sharp pains filled his leg in empathic sharing with the woman. Curiosity and dread warred with fear for mastery within him. His heart raced and then seemed to stop. This was the last appointment in his book and he would be an active participant instead of an escort after all the choices were made.
Fate had caught up with him at last.
“Help me, please. I don’t want to die,” the woman called to Death. Her hand reached out in entreaty.
Death heard himself issuing the same plea a year ago. He remembered fear and its copper taste on his tongue.
He shook off the memory and the residual tremors. He had a duty to perform.
“I have an appointment with someone in this alley. One of you must go with me.” Death’s voice echoed around the alley, like a bronze bell. The three muggers remained frozen in time. Not so much as an eyelash twitched among them.
“Take one of them.” The woman pointed to the tableau of criminals frozen in the act of theft and murder. Her hand wavered and almost pointed directly at Death.
Death tried to retreat within the folds of his hood. “They are outside this decision, Ma’am. Only you and I are here.” Her name eluded him. Why? This had never happened to him before... before he became Death.
A year ago he had wanted so desperately to live that he had chosen to become Death rather than accept his fate. And now he was faced with another Life in the same dilemma. One of them must die.
He planted his staff in front of him. The glowing black wood gave him authority and confidence. Someone in the alley had to die. Time would not resume unless Death escorted a candidate to the other side. He still had a choice.
“I’m not volunteering to die,” the woman screamed. “I’m not ready to die! I just decided to live. Please let me live!”
“I can’t give you that choice,” Death lied.
“Do something.” The woman grabbed the staff and shook it in desperation.
Death jerked back on the length of wood in panic. “The staff is my badge of office. Only I may touch it.” His hood fell back. This time he knew his appearance was the classic personification of Death, a skeletally thin face, pasty white. Deep-set eyes that looked into eternity.
The woman held tight to the staff, shaking it again.
“You. Must. Let. Go.” Death grabbed the black staff with both hands, trying to wrest his tool away from her. “You. May. Not. Touch. It.”
“If you won’t help me, then let me have it to save myself.” She clung to the staff as if it were Life itself; a Life she desperately wanted. Now. A few moments ago she’d almost thrown it away. “I can use this as a weapon to save myself!”
Power raced up and down the wood binding her to the staff and to Death. He almost let go. Desperation kept him glued to the wood.
If he let her live, what would happen to him? Someone had to die or time would not resume.
Who would it be?
What choices were left?
The only way to cheat fate and Death is to become Death, another voice had told him a year ago.
Death stumbled. The woman twisted the staff and tripped him with it. Death dropped to his knees. His cloak fell away revealing a red woolen suit, the same cut as woman’s. Same blouse. Same scarf around the neck. His skeleton took on flesh but remained pasty white.
“Who are you?” The woman rolled to her left, away from the collapsing body of Death. She stood up in one fluid motion with the staff in hand, as if her leg hadn’t been broken a moment ago. Her shoulders hunched and she aged a thousand years in a moment.
“There is something I have to do before midnight.” Death’s voice remained deep and solemn, echoing and reverberating around the alley. Which one would die? His right leg twisted unnaturally beneath him.
The muggers came back to life.
A mighty roar rose from Times Square. “10.”
Three shots rang out in rapid succession.
“9.”
The muggers turned and bolted from the alley.
“What do you have to do? There isn’t much time.” Shock made the standing woman’s words weak and squeaky. She bent low to catch Death’s words, feeling for a pulse, trying to stop the flow of blood from his chest. She didn’t have enough hands, or medical knowledge to save him/her.
“8.”
Death grabbed her lapel and pulled her closer yet. His claw-like hands seemed incredibly strong for someone who’d just been shot in the belly, the heart, and the lung.
“7.”
“Tell me what you have to do. I can help,” she cried.
“There is a way for you to survive this encounter.”
“6.”
“I have survived, you’re the one who is dying.”
“One of us must die at the stroke of midnight. You have taken the choice away from me. The only way to cheat death is to become Death.” He repeated the words spoken to him a year ago. A lifetime ago.
Everyone was fated to die. The choice of when fell to only a few.
“5.”
“Become Death? You mean I’ll die too. Who are you?”
“4.”
“I am your destiny, your fate. Life or Death. You must choose. As I chose a year ago. I loved life too much to give it up. I still do. But I no longer have the right to make that choice.” Choice and change belonged to the living. Everyone had to die. Fate determined when and where. No choice.
Except for the last death of the year.
“3.”
“If it means living, I’ll become Death, I’ll become Santa Claus or whoever it takes. Just so I can live. I decided not to kill myself over my husband’s infidelity and a mangled career because I realized that life is too beautiful to waste.”
“I thought the same thing last year at this time.” A fiery car crash, pain beyond enduring, and still he had clung to life rather than let Death take him. “And now I know that all Life is beautiful. If one of us does not die then time will cease, taking all Life with it. Life must be preserved.”
“2.”
“Then why must I become Death? I’d rather be alive.”
“Death, like change, is a part of life. If Death does not walk the streets then all Life will cease. The choice is yours.”
“What is that supposed to mean.”
“You’ll find out.”
“One! Yeah! Whoopee. Yahoo!”
The body of a young man, who had refused to die in a car crash the year before, took on the last vestiges of the woman wearing a red suit. He/she collapsed in the alley. The last page of the old appointment book dissolved.
A skeletally thin, old hag, dressed in tattered red and black draperies, with eyes that burned clear through to eternity stood up and retrieved Death’s cloak, without dropping the staff. All memory of her life, her decision to live, her wrestling match with Death, faded. She was Death now, with duties to perform.
From the folds of black cloth fell an enormous book bound in black leather. The gold calligraphy on the front was fresh and new, spelling out one word.
“Appointments.”
“Let’s see. Victims of an automobile accident. Mercy hospital,” the old hag cackled. “Five passengers. Three drivers. Four of the eight need an escort in two minutes. A musician is shooting a bad batch of drugs in central park in six minutes. The pope can wait a little longer.”
She morphed into a young nurse wearing bright turquoise scrub pants and
a white tunic with tumbling pink teddy bears. The staff of office coiled around her neck like a stethoscope, the black crystal blocked the metal bell at one end.
Death popped into the emergency room of mercy hospital, ready to escort those who needed her.
A diamond on her left hand winked in the bright hospital lights as she escorted the first death of the new year into the swirl of light.
~THE END~
Of Rats and Cats and Teenagers
This is one of my all time favorite stories that took forever to find a home. It started as a class exercise where I needed to write a character with a humorous voice. I first published it on the Book View Café as a free story and it is now in the Beyond Grimm anthology edited by Deborah J. Ross and Phyllis Irene Radford.
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The sound of weeping drew me to the fading rural community of Sweetgrass. I sensed the deep, silent mourning of a soul without hope. I heard in those tears an opportunity to help, and a chance for a trade.
Let me introduce myself: Cinnamon Schtick, Fairy Godsister At-Large. Are you missing something vital? Chances are there is someone in this world with a surplus of that very item. To them it’s a plague. To you it’s life itself. So we Fairy Godsisters work the trade and everyone is happy. That’s my job and I take pride in keeping the world balanced.
To those of us in the profession, a trade is like a meal of steak, baked potatoes, Caesar salad, and pecan pie. I am always hungry.
So I followed the sound of deep distress behind the weeping and popped in on Emma. Old-fashioned name. Old-fashioned lady, living in a generations-old farmhouse that was falling apart at the seams. The farm wasn’t in any great shape either. My freshly pressed cinnamon-colored overalls, straw hat, and tight braids seemed too neat for the setting, so I faded a little.
Emma looked like everyone’s favorite grandma with white hair twisted into a knot on top of her head and the smell of baking cookies in the oven as her only perfume. She was small and as dainty as the antimacassars on her threadbare easy chair. Who could resist rushing to her rescue?
Fantastical Ramblings Page 3