Danse Macabre: Close Encounters with the Reaper

by Nancy Kilpatrick

  After a moment the Joker put a finger to his painted lips, and with his other hand pulled out of a deep pocket what looked like a shiny marble, although it may have been a spinning top or even a piece of broken glass. He held this hand up for a moment and gently bounced the object in his palm, drawing the curiosity of the miners. He stepped lightly forward, his shoes hardly disturbing the sand around him, and brought his hand closer so that each man could see what he balanced there.

  When all the men had looked upon it for several seconds, and it had brought the smiles of happy memories to each one’s face, the Joker stepped toward the tent into which the old man had retreated. Another soft moan was heard coming from the tent, for the old man must have seen the Joker approaching, or maybe he had simply felt the air inside the tent grow cold.

  The Joker turned back at this sound and looked to the dark figure with whom he had ridden in. None of the six miners dared to follow his gaze. Each preferred looking at the many-colored face that smiled before them. The men instinctively felt that this was a friendly visage, one they didn’t mind seeing this early morning. They were happy to ignore the fact that the Joker was travelling companion to a much more lethal being. That harsh truth was something they would whisper about later, over cold beers from the village canteen to which they would certainly be treated after the recent events.

  The Joker moved then with no warning, swiftly disappearing into the old man’s tent and taking his shiny bauble with him, to the chagrin of the miners who had so enjoyed looking at it. Seconds later another moan issued from the tent, but it was cut off by the Joker’s high-pitched laugh. This time the laugh went on much longer than the Joker’s earlier shriek. It rose and descended in waves, and in its brief lulls the miners could hear the Joker take a deep breath before letting loose again.

  After a minute or two of this it occurred to the man who still held the frying pan that for the Joker to laugh this loud and this long the situation must truly be humorous. And so this man began to giggle softly, earning a look of rebuke from one of his colleagues, and then to giggle even louder. Then the man who had thought to greet the riders also began to snicker, and in a moment both men were laughing heartily.

  As their laughter rose louder, so did the Joker’s, challenging them to keep up and inviting the others to join in. Soon all six miners were roaring with laughter. They laughed where they stood; they laughed where they sat. One laughed so hard he rolled in the dirt, slamming his fists into the ground, forgetting about any injuries he may have suffered the night before, such was his mirth. Tears poured from the eyes of all the men at the unexpected humor of the occasion, leaving wet trails in their dirt-caked cheeks.

  The one who rolled on the ground came close to the black horse upon which the grim figure of Death sat. The horse was well trained and although it stamped its hooves in warning, it did not step on the man. This did not cause him to interrupt his laughter. He merely rolled in a different direction, making sure that he never looked up at the face of the horse’s master.

  And so the six miners laughed, feeling good to be still alive and to be allowed, even encouraged, to enjoy themselves like this. They did not notice that the sound of laughter from inside the tent eventually subsided. They did not see the Joker step out through the flap, with the old man at his side, looking forlorn. None noticed the Joker lean over and whisper in the old man’s ear, nor the old man responding with a sigh of such despondence that it would have brought more sensitive men to tears.

  And none of the six miners saw the old man point timidly at the man who’d long since dropped his frying pan, but who now stood laughing as he leaned against the outhouse wall. The old man quickly lowered his damning finger as if ashamed of his action, but the gesture was not to be undone. The Joker stepped nimbly over the miner who was lying face down in the dirt, gasping for breath while still laughing uncontrollably. He approached the man leaning against the outhouse and tapped him lightly on the shoulder, bringing the man’s laughter to an instant halt.

  This man tried to smile, then tried to laugh again, but the effort was obviously painful. The happy expression in his eyes was replaced by one of confusion. Was their enjoyment to end so soon? He saw that the other men were still laughing, and that none were looking in his direction except for the old man who could only shrug guiltily when their eyes met.

  The Joker, wearing a smile of unnatural glee, took the man by the shoulder and turned him to face the rider on the black horse. At once the man’s throat constricted as he found himself looking into the blood-red eyes of Death. Death’s face showed neither joy nor anger at the man’s appearance before him. The miner fell, grabbing at his shirt collar, but loosening it would not allow him to breathe more easily.

  The Joker quickly returned to the old man and whispered into his ear again. The old man shook his head, but this merely caused the Joker to whisper more urgently. The old man shrugged once more, powerless in the face of Death as all men are, and pointed this time at a fat miner who was sitting laughing by himself. This drew a loud guffaw from the Joker, who slapped his hands together merrily, inciting the remaining miners to even greater gales of laughter.

  But before moving away from the old man the Joker looked back at him expectantly, his eyes twinkling in a way which made the old man think of far-away stars and circuses and insanity as he lifted his finger again, a tremor running through his arm. He hesitated at the youngest of the crew, a lad of fifteen who’d come to work there after his father had died in an earlier accident at the mine. The boy was laughing with all his heart, his happiness making him forget the gravity of his wounds. The old man jerked his finger away, his expression clouded by fear and uncertainty, and quickly pointed down at the man who was rolling on the ground.

  The Joker’s smile disappeared for a moment, and he hesitated, displaying a rare ambivalence. Finally he shrugged just like the old man had done before and moved to the fat miner, lifting him up by his collar as if the man were nothing but a doll. The Joker dragged the fat miner to where the third man lay on the ground, laughing so hard it was a wonder he could breathe at all. Looking back at the old man with a leer that may have been mischievous, or maybe wasn’t there at all, the Joker let his hand hover over the man on the ground. The old man took a moment to think, then nodded and shrugged once more, sending the Joker into paroxysms of delight, jumping and slapping his thigh as he laughed.

  Finally the Joker grasped these two men and turned them to face Death, who sat unmoved on his horse. Both men fell in front of him, gasping for breath through clenched windpipes. The Joker stood briefly at attention before Death, his sarcastic expression mocking the seriousness of their work. He then removed his hat and bowed so low to the ground that his yellow forelock touched the dirt. He straightened wearing his widest smile. He kicked lightly at the man who’d been unexpectedly chosen then looked questioningly up at Death. Death’s lips twitched slightly as if he wanted to smile, and the Joker leaped with delight, landing nimbly upon his patient pony.

  The two riders recommenced their journey, heading west with neither a word nor a backward glance at those they were leaving behind. Their newly-minted travelling companions, those three unfortunate miners, rose and shuffled after the two horsemen. Their eyes were clouded and their faces purple from their inability to breathe, all three faces expressing surprise and disappointment at their fate.

  As the travelers rode off with the three following, the remaining miners slowly stopped laughing. They looked toward the old man but said nothing, because what had happened was obvious to all. The boy of fifteen shivered as if an icy hand had run down his spine, but he smiled at the old man who shrugged modestly in return.

  All four men stood and watched the departing group until it began growing small and blurry in the distance. For a brief moment the three men on foot became indistinct, as if surrounded by the shadows of many others, then all the travelers disappeared. The surviving min
ers blinked and rubbed their eyes, their thoughts turning now to their cuts and bruises, and their good fortune.

  The old man thought that maybe he’d go to mass the next time the priest came out this way. He crossed himself, feeling a sudden need for confession.

  As for the fifteen year old, he went to his sleeping bag and pulled out a small pencil and a piece of paper. He would finally write to his mother as she’d begged him to do. He would tell her of the tragic accident that had occurred, and of the brave old man who’d saved his life at great personal risk, when the boy had feared he’d never see sunlight again.

  The wind began to howl, blowing sand into his eyes and carrying a high-pitched screech that sounded like the Joker’s distant laughter. The boy paused before beginning his letter, shivering, wondering how long it would be before the riders returned to the camp.

  * * * * *

  Gabriel Boutros is a defence attorney in Montreal, where he lives with his wife and two sons, and occasionally dabbles in creative writing. His one previously-published story, “I Drive”, appeared in Carte Blanche, an on-line literary review. He is a lifelong fan of Jimi Hendrix and has listened to All Along the Watchtower hundreds of times. Once, on a long night-time drive, he listened to the song’s closing words and decided that somehow he had to incorporate this foreboding image into a story. “Two riders were approaching, and the wind begins to howl…”

  Pressed Butterflies

  By Lorne Dixon

  Surrounded by her three weeping Aunts, Chelsea Braybrooke waited in the darkened parlor for Dr. Wainsworth’s nurse to summon her to her Momma’s beside. When the nurse came, Chelsea took her hand, aware that the steel-tipped riding boots she wore tapped against the hardwood floor as her aunts burst into a fresh chorus of hysterical sobs.

  The hallway was a dark tunnel leading to a fiercely bright rectangle at the end. Her mother’s bedroom seemed unnaturally bright, too intense, as penetrating to a sustained stare as the rays of the sun. Her eyes dropped to the floor.

  Entering, Chelsea’s vision warmed to the light; dozens of lit candles cast out all shadows. She’d never seen this room so glowing, even in the day. She walked past the house staff, all dressed in garments as dark as their skin, past Reverend Prescott and a wary-faced seminary protégé standing beside a nurse with heavy eyes. All turned their heads away from her. In the center of the chamber, her father sat in a sturdy wooden high-backed chair, his eyes swollen into withered pink slits. Behind a wheat-hued lace curtain, Momma lay on her side at the edge of the master bed, unmoving, both arms cradled against the breast of her nightgown, as rigid as the talons of a dead crow. Her face, always radiant and beautiful, was now blank and expressionless, anonymous and unremarkable, the face of any of the Scourge’s thousand victims.

  Sidling up to her mother, she pulled back the lace, and wound it around the canopy post. Unobstructed, her mother’s face was worse than from a distance: yellowed and weathered, she looked older by far than anyone else in Old Saybrook, even the blacksmith’s uncle, who was rumored on the schoolyard to be one hundred years old. She wasn’t quite gone, although it would have been easy to mistake her for having passed; a dim vitality still danced in her eyes, fading but resistant. She cracked open her mouth to speak but at first only sour breath escaped. Then, a second attempt, only marginally more successful, but imbued with a whisper, too quiet for any but Chelsea to hear.

  “…my angel…”

  Mother didn’t die then. No, that came later, during the blackest hour of morning, before sunlight but after the stars faded from the night sky. Chelsea knew it happened when one of the nurses slid a leather-bound Bible under her bedroom door. Between chapters, the holy book contained her mother’s collection of pressed butterflies, painted by hand to resemble angels in flowing robes. All, that is, except for the enormous black moth pressed between the final page and the back cover. He was untouched. Over his dried, spread corpse her mother had written HE WHO FELL in her daintiest handwriting.

  That was how Chelsea inherited a book full of dead angels.

  Chelsea found a holocaust in her stepmother’s garden, mouths open in eternal gasps, wings curled and edged in black, killed by the tobacco spray that kept the roses red and tulips yellow. She plucked them carefully out of their flower petal deathbeds, wrapped them in scented tissue paper, and gently carried them to her room in tiny jewelry box caskets. She would leave them to repose on the windowsill, to lie in state and wait for invisible mourners to visit at midnight. Then, the next morning, she would open the leather bound Bible and place each fragile body between the last page of one gospel and the first of the next, and then press the covers closed with a firm hand.

  By late October, she only had collected half the angels she needed to fill her mother’s Bible. Winter crept closer. She knew that a coming morning would bring frost and then the angels would disappear until winter ended. It would take too long for the butterflies to return in Spring, just too long for a frail, sickly girl. As she carefully slipped the latest orange and yellow body between Ecclesiastes and The Song Of Solomon, Chelsea made up her mind that she could not wait for the seasons to turn to finish her collection. She would need to find the nests where the angels slept and collect the rest all at once. She would harvest them from their beds.

  To do this, she needed a perfect disguise. Too many times before she had been forced to dress, eat breakfast, and sulk away to the schoolhouse. The disguise would have to be better than any she had built before. Chelsea stared into her oval mirror and practiced. She curled her bottom lip just a little and squinted slightly. Then she coughed and sneezed. The cough was good, candid and raw, almost like a small dog’s bark. The sneeze was not as convincing. She spent most of the night working on it as she lay in bed, listening with an orchestra conductor’s keen ear to her nose’s inhalations, quivers, and sudden releases. She did not sleep until she felt confident that the sneeze could compete with the symptom of any genuine illness.

  Morning came and the argument followed. They were in the hallway, just outside her bedroom doorway, her father’s stern, concerned voice and her stepmother’s annoyed chatter. She sputtered as she spoke, her words punctuated with vicious little pauses and deep breaths. They were discussing Chelsea’s health, just as they had since Dr. Wainsworth had revealed his diagnosis.

  Her father came in, kissed her forehead, told her to feel better and that he loved her, and left. Her stepmother stood in the doorway and barely let him pass. She stared at Chelsea on her bed for a moment, then blinked hard and shook her head.

  Chelsea waited in bed, eyes shut to simulate sleep whenever her stepmother looked in on her, anxious to get her day started. Just before noon she heard feet descend the staircase and the front door open. She ran to the window and watched her stepmother rush into an unfamiliar coach and drive down the banyan-lined drive to the front gates.

  She was free! She fished the previous day’s clothes out of the corner laundry hamper and wiggled into them. Thrusting her mother’s Bible under one arm, she sprinted out of her room, through the hallway, down the stairs, and out through the rear patio. Her butterfly net and an empty killing jar waited on the verandah’s black cobblestone floor. She collected them up and dashed across the yard, sidestepping the stone bird table, the hummingbird feeders, and the frog pond.

  At the edge of the yard she swung open the wrought iron gate that blocked the path to her stepmother’s garden. She could not run anymore; she had been in trouble enough times to know that her heavy shoes would tear up the moss beds. She would walk carefully, stepping only on dry soil and not the patches of green, or when there was no other path, lightly on the frilly liverwort leaves.

  The path ended at two large wintersweet shrubs that book-ended the garden’s entrance. Stepping across the threshold, Chelsea was greeted by the purr of bumblebees busy with their endless gardening. She could already see a pair of angels flying above a line
of vibrant Eastern Coneflowers. They were orange and yellow and brown, the same as the flowers, but marked with dots of black on the center of their wings. Chelsea wondered if this was how Cain had been marked by God for slaying his brother. Those brothers had been working in a garden, too, when that first murder had sprung into Cain’s mind.

  She set down the Bible and the jar near a cluster of tall ferns and the fiddleheads growing in their shadows. She tiptoed, head low, up to Cain and Abel with the net hidden behind her back. They didn’t seem to notice her approach, their attention locked on the flowers beneath them as they flitted overhead in strange circles.

  Chelsea paused for just a moment and watched the holy messengers play. She felt a passing tinge of guilt and worry, unsure whether she had the right to capture Cain and Abel and add them to the book. But then she remembered her mother curled up on her bed, eyes moist and red, pleading for the angels to come and save her. They never came with a goblet of sacerdotal elixir to heal her failing body. They let her die, choosing instead to play in the gardens.

  She sprang — quick and precise — and caught both angels in one deft swoop, then twisted the handle so their narrow black legs would tangle in the netting. She brought them over to the jar and unscrewed the lid. Reaching inside the net, she took Abel by one wing and moved him to the jar. He flapped and writhed but the fight was futile. Then she repeated the process with Cain. Inside the closed jar, they both settled at the bottom and waited for asphyxia.

  Chelsea wondered why Abel had been marked too.

  As she set the jar down, she heard a crackling voice drift over to her from beyond the line of sunflowers at the edge of the garden. “Now, what’s with all this rustling about over there?”