by K. N. Parker
continued.
“No, that’s definitely a cricket bat mark. Yep, a cricket bat done that,” said Nate.
“Perhaps it was a hammer,” squeaked Jane. “How positively idiotic. No hammer could have done that. Absolutely a cricket bat injury,” reiterated Nate.
“Maybe someone threw a brick at her. The mark is rather red.”
“I think that to be blood, Rowley. Besides, bricks used to come in all sorts of colors. Cricket bat I say,” said Nate, adamantly.
Whether a red brick, a baseball bat or a cricket bat, none of this bickering had brought up any memories of how she had died.
“Thank you, but none of this is helping,” said the figure in black as she stood to leave.
“It seems that you’re unsatisfied with our speculations,” said Nate.
“There is one individual who may be able to help,” spoke Rowley.
“And who might that be?” asked the figure in black, and the three guides all pointed to a rather tall and rather black structure off in the distance.
“It is common knowledge that Death himself resides there,” said Jane. “He would surely know your story.”
“He would surely know indeed,” added Rowley.
“You should visit him. I’ve heard no one visits. I would suspect he would appreciate the company,” said Nate, rather unsurely.
“And why does no one visit him?” asked the figure. Nate shrugged.
“Who knows? No reason to, I suppose. I haven’t had one. Have you two?” He posed the question to Rowley and Jane, and they shook their heads in unison.
“Then that is what I’ll do,” said the figure draped in black. “I shall pay him a visit. You have my gratitude, Nate, Rowley and Jane.”
Before she left, Nate kindly asked, “And you, you’ve not told us your name, love. What is it?”
And the figure in black stood for a moment and briefly considered taking on the nickname Nate had bestowed upon her. Love. But, as she thought about the notion it made her shiver, and not in a pleasant way.
And so, she turned her head and simply answered, “I have no such thing,” and with that, she made her way toward the structure in black in the distance, and the three guides returned to their conversation.
3
Death Himself
The figure in black arrived to the structure of a similar color, which sat on top of a small hill. It was a rather tall and thin structure. It was quite imposing and had no doors that could be spoken of. She was intimidated by it for sure, and hesitated for a moment before pushing her way through the black wall that stood before her.
Once inside, she was greeted by walls the color of pure tar on either side of her and matching flooring beneath her robes, and a great, long hall in front of her. At the end of this great hall was of course, the back of the structure; and built into the back of this structure was a lone window that was almost as thin and tall as the structure itself. It let in the eeriest grayish-white light from outside that shone against the back of a very tall figure sitting at a relatively normal sized desk, casting a very long shadow the length of the hall. Whoever it was seemed to be deep into what seemed like paperwork on the desk, but the figure at the desk soon noticed the figure in black and called out to her.
“Who goes there?” he asked in a low and booming voice, a voice that reverberated throughout the hall.
Before she could answer his inquiry, he said, “I jest. I know who goes there. Please, come forward,” and the figure in black complied with his request.
The closer she got to him, the larger and larger he appeared, like a rapidly growing black tree that grew instantaneously before her. Soon, she was engulfed in the whole of his shadow, and because of the moderate amount of backlight, she was barely able to see the imposing figure that sat before her. But what she could see was a great figure that did indeed resemble a tree, a terrible old and frightening one draped in black, much more black than she wore; much more black than her tiny body would be capable of wearing. And near the top of this figure was a hooded white face: a face that resembled an aged and decaying and very wrinkled squash that had been left in a cupboard somewhere for much too long. But this squash had two black sockets where eyes should be and a mouth, a mouth that once again began to speak.
“Welcome. You have surprised me,” said the talking squash. “I do not get visitors all too often. I wonder, what brings you here, my dear?” The name ‘my dear’ was much more preferable to ‘love’ she thought.
She wasn’t quite sure how to address him, so she started, “Yes. Well, Death, sir…” but before she could continue, the large and imposing figure stood up, making himself even more large and more imposing, and leaned toward her so that he was face to face with her. She could feel fear rising in her body, but also knew that being afraid was of no use. Nothing could be worse than death, and she was already in that state, so why would she be fearful? But the figure that stood before her was so horrifying that he was able to instill fright in her in spite of this fact.
“My dear, that is not my name,” said the large white and wrinkly face, in an unusually calm voice. “Death is what we, as guides, ease the living into, but I am not death itself, and I find the name to be quite offensive. It makes it sound as if I am the cause of death and I am most certainly not.”
“My… my apolo…”
“…Nor am I called the Grim Reaper,” he continued, cutting her off. “The name itself is, well, rather grim. Nor do I reap anything, especially, so that name as well is all around rather inaccurate if nothing else,” he finished.
She waited for him to say more words, but he did not, and so she said, “I am sorry. It was not my intention to offend you.”
“It is all right my dear. You did not know, but now you do, and I would prefer it if you never address me as such again. You may, however, continue to call me sir. Now, what brings you to me today?” he asked as he slowly returned to his seat.
“Well, sir,” she began as she felt what seemed like a lump forming in her throat. “I have some… questions.” The larger figure in black nodded, and the smaller figure took that as a sign to continue.
“I… I’m not quite sure of how I died, of how I came to be in this position or of what my name is or was and I have felt uneasy because of it.” The imposing figure laughed and it echoed throughout the chamber.
“When the freshly dead come to us, we give them a speech regarding the details and rules of the occupation and send them on their way, nothing more and nothing less. And since they are dead they do not question a thing: nothing else matters. They know they died and now they are here. They accept it. But every so often I get someone like you, ones who cannot remember. The curious. But, I know your story, and it is quite special. I have come across many more special than yours, mind you, but that does not make yours any less interesting.”
Extremely tall file cabinets surrounded him. They were quite taller than he, made of an off white material that may have been petrified wood or the finest marble, or even pumice perhaps, but was most likely bone. He outstretched his impossibly long arm that resembled a withered tree branch covered in tattered cloth, to the top most drawer on his right, opened it and brought down a file that bore resemblance to a tuft of smoke, placed it on the table and pushed it toward her.
As he interlocked his boney and withered fingers and rested his chin on top of this ghostly weave, he said, “This is your case. You may have a look if you wish.”
She started to reach for it, but before she had the chance to lay a finger on it he spoke again.
“Within this file are the details of your death and your name. That would answer two of the three questions you had for me. The answer to your third is ‘tragedy’.” The small figure in black looked at him with confusion, and he took notice as he explained further.
“Tragedy brings you to us my dear,” said he. “If one dies in a most horrible and tragic way, they are to join us as a guide to help us ferry those with the fortune of a more ge
nerous death to another existence.”
“And why is tragedy the key, sir?” asked the small figure in black, as she fought through another lump.
“Tragic death is almost always immediate, and one that suffers from an instant death does not usually have the luxury of consultation with a guide, as you very well know.” She nodded. “But they most certainly do have a caretaker, and that caretaker is I. But I cannot do this task alone. So, I thought it beneficial to employ you as helpers.”
“So, I died tragically, sir?”
“That would be the implication, yes.”
She grew quiet for a very long time before speaking anything else, and then she finally said, very boldly, “And how did you die sir, if I may ask?”
“You may ask, but I will not clearly answer,” said the large and imposing figure in black. “The details of my death are either several hundred years old or several millennia old. It took place in either the 15th century or the 7th century. It might’ve taken place in a time before centuries were counted, but would you know the difference?”
She shook her tiny head. He continued.
“If I am entirely truthful, and I always am, I have forgotten some of the events that led to my demise, but I do remember most of them, and I cherish them and they are uniquely mine, and therefore would very much like to keep them very private. Is this answer satisfactory?”
She nodded.
“But I will share with you
