Caleb stared as George removed his ballistic glasses to reveal volcanic black obsidian eyes. His pale flesh was drawn so tightly across his face that he resembled a bleached skull. His thin eyebrows were no more than black slashes above the eyes. Caleb’s tremor of fear became a savage earthquake.
“You!”
“Yes.”
“It … it can’t be. You, you exist, but you don’t walk and talk like us!”
“I beg to differ,” Death replied as he touched Caleb’s shoulder to urge him forward again. Even through the wet IBA and uniform, his touch was cold.
“This can’t be,” Caleb shook his head as he stumbled down the trail.
“But it is. Long story short, we have an appointment in the village bazaar below.”
Death put his ballistic glasses back on.
“Why?”
“Why?” Death mocked Caleb’s shocked tone. “Because it is time. Actually, your time was three days ago. Sometimes my, ah, assistants, do not perform as they should. One second was all that was needed for you to miss your scheduled appointment. Today, I am here to personally ensure that our appointment is kept.”
Caleb stopped, but Death grasped the shoulder of his IBA and pulled him down the trail.
“But why? I’m only here for six months, then I go home. It can’t be my time yet!”
“I suppose I could respond with something flowery like, why do the stars move in their course, or some such thing. It just is, Caleb. I do not know the answer any more than you do, but I know when it is time for someone, just like I knew when it was time for 6,000 of your fellow men and women in this Global War On Terrorism. Yours was three days ago.”
“No!”
“Do not make a scene,” Death sighed. Caleb looked around wildly, but the soldiers ignored them as if nothing out of the ordinary was occurring.
“But wait! What if this is a mistake?”
“This is not a mistake. And I have new assistants, very dedicated, and very afraid after they saw what I did to their predecessors. There are half a dozen assistants with AK-47s, and even a suicide bomber among them, all waiting for you, who will ensure that our appointment is kept today.”
“WAIT!”
“Please do not make this any more difficult than it has to be.”
“Chief!”
Death’s dry chuckle echoed through the misty air.
The soldiers ignored Caleb’s shout. He swung the butt of his carbine at Death’s skull face. The folding stock whipped through empty air and he fell and rolled down the slope. Death followed at a leisurely pace.
“Caleb, Caleb, Caleb,” Death said like a chiding parent.
“NO! SERGEANT NOTTINGHAM!”
A sarcastic smile accompanied Death’s shrug. “Go ahead. Do your best.”
“Sergeant Nottingham!”
“Yes?”
“Sergeant, I can’t go into the village! I have to stay on the crest.”
Chief frowned and gave him a suspicious look. The soldiers stopped and a few looked at Caleb from the corners of their eyes.
“Why?”
“I-I’ll die if I go down there.”
Chief lit a cigarette as a couple of soldiers snickered. “Are you having some sort of fuckin’ artistic fit? How do you know you’ll fuckin’ die if you go down there?”
Caleb trembled and shook his head. “Sergeant, please, trust me on this!”
“We’re almost to the river.”
“Look, look. The slope on this side is bare. The guys up there can see me plain as day. I won’t be in any danger if I turn back now.”
Chief’s eyes narrowed and he suddenly lifted his head and sniffed loudly. He looked around them, and then tilted his head as Death descended the slope toward them.
“You’re not Corporal Weaver.” It was a statement, not a question.
“True enough.” Death smiled and removed his ballistic glasses. His obsidian eyes within his skull-like face glittered darkly.
Caleb saw the color drain from Chief’s face. He looked at Caleb, the village, his soldiers, and back at Death.
“Who are you here for?”
A puzzled look filled Death’s face. “You do not seem surprised to see me.”
“You’re a soldier’s constant companion. Besides, my grandfather was a medicine man back on the reservation, and he told me stories about you. You’re not some goddamn frightful apparition to me.”
“Yes,” Death nodded. “I remember your grandfather. A good and dignified man. If only all were so accepting of me.” Death looked pointedly at Caleb.
Chief saw the look and glanced at Caleb. “You’re here for him?”
“Yes. We missed our appointment three days ago. I am here to see that we keep our new appointment.”
“You can’t fuckin’ have him.”
Death raised his thin eyebrows in surprise. “What?”
Caleb blinked and, though he knew his fate hung in the balance, there was a desperate glimmer of hope that Chief might somehow save him.
“You can’t have him,” Chief said. “I’ve been goddamned lucky. I’ve seen 23 of my soldiers wounded, even crippled. But I’ve never lost a soldier, and I’m not going to fuckin’ lose one now. Not when this may be my last tour because the war is winding down.”
“That is not my concern. He is overdue.”
“You’re Death. You can release him, give him an extension of time. You have the power to do so, right?” Death frowned at Chief and Caleb. “Right?”
“Well, yes.”
“Then do it. Give Sergeant Justus an extension of time because you have the fuckin’ power to do it.”
“Why should I do that?”
“Because you have the power to do it.”
Death shook his head. “I cannot do that. I choose not to do that.”
“What do you want that will encourage you to give a fuckin’ extension?”
“Nothing that you, or this world, has.”
“Of course there is. You just haven’t recognized it.”
An unfriendly and menace-filled frown crossed Death’s skeletal face. “There is nothing that I desire that would make me want to grant Caleb an extension.” He pointed with a pale hand at the village across the river. “We have an appointment this afternoon.”
Chief tossed the cigarette aside and lit another. He studied Death, looked at the village, and at Caleb.
“You know, I loved my grandfather very much. I treasure the time we spent together. He told me stories about his grandfather who fought at the Little Big Horn. A small fight, really, compared to some Civil War battles. But a small fight that became a heroic myth to a young nation, and an important part of my tribal heritage.”
“And?”
Chief smiled as he puffed on the cigarette. “He also shared with me some things before the fuckin’ coming of Manifest Destiny.”
“The point, Sergeant Nottingham.”
“My grandfather taught me to make paint from natural materials, and he taught me how to paint on a buffalo hide robe, as our ancestors used to do.” The obsidian eyes glittered impatiently. “Art hasn’t been kind to you, especially since the Black Death in the Middle Ages. Mostly art depicts you as a worm-eaten corpse, a skeleton barely clothed in fleshy tatters, a scurvy hound from hell preying on a helpless mankind—”
“I get the idea.”
“Sergeant Justus will do a portrait of you. A goddamn dignified portrait that will do you, no pun intended, justice.”
Death’s eyebrows rose with surprise and Caleb’s mouth dropped open in equal surprise.
“Excuse me?” Death asked.
“What?” Caleb gasped.
Chief glared at Caleb, and turned back to Death. “A goddamned dignified por
trait. As you know, Sergeant Justus is an Army Combat Artist. A damned good one from what I’ve been told. Only the very best artists become an Army Combat Artist.”
Death shook his head in disbelief. “No.”
“What have you got to lose?” Chief asked. “If you don’t like the portrait, the two of you keep your appointment. If you like your portrait, you give him an extension of time.” Death’s eyebrows curled thoughtfully and Chief added again, “What have you got to lose?” He flicked his cigarette at Caleb who shook off his shocked stupor.
“Yes, I can do it! And, maybe, five or ten years or more in exchange?”
Chief rolled his eyes at Caleb. “He lives to a very ripe old age with his faculties intact. No tricks.”
“He offered five or ten years.”
“He’s not much of a negotiator. In exchange for a fuckin’ dignified portrait, he lives to a very ripe old age.”
Death rubbed his jaw and chuckled. “All right. A dignified portrait that I like, that my assistants like, in exchange for living to a very ripe old age.”
Caleb held a hand up like a school child. “I can’t do anything in this rain.”
“Be patient,” Death replied as the clouds started to break up and shafts of bright sunlight peeked into the shadowed valley.
“Assistants?” Chief asked. As if in response, loud snorts and grunts came from the soldiers who stooped and swayed as if unused to standing erect. A few sniffed the air loudly, while others lumbered down to the river where they lapped up water like animals.
“Assistants. They will see to our security, though that’s hardly necessary at the moment.” He snapped his fingers and the once-soldiers loped and scurried in all directions to take up their positions. From the crest came long, drawn out howls that were neither animal nor human. The once-soldiers growled and howled in response.
“I see,” Chief said, a horrified look on his face.
Death looked at Caleb. “And now, I’m at your service.”
“Sergeant Nottingham?” Caleb said.
He walked with Chief to the edge of the tall reeds and trees that followed the gurgling river. “I don’t know what to do, I mean, how to do it. I mean, a dignified portrait of something that scares the bejesus out of most people?”
“Okay, before the Black Death, Death was, just fuckin’ Death. He was the lord of the underworld. People were afraid of him, yes, but not like today. He’s a companion to those of us serving in the Profession of Arms. You’re the fuckin’ artist! What do you look for when you paint a portrait of someone?”
“Ah, the inner person. The outer person yes, but to paint something of the inner person, to bring that to the surface so that the viewer can see more than the physical shell.”
“Okay, good. Death is fearsome, yes, but he’s not some fair-weather friend and, damn him, he’ll always be with you. And he’s fuckin’ strong. Nothing can overcome him. You follow my drift?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Caleb nodded, his mind racing frantically at a morning that took such a strange, haunting, twist.
“Then fuckin’ paint or draw or whatever, as if your life depended on it, because it does.”
As Caleb returned he felt the obsidian eyes boring into him, measuring him. He discarded his IBA, ACU blouse, and combat pack, and from his drawing kit dug out a small sketch pad and colored pencils. Death cleared his throat and Caleb looked up. “Yes?”
“Are you going to do a portrait of me using colored pencils and a small sketch pad?”
“I usually do sketches, maybe take a few photos, and then go back to my studio at Bagram to do the final, whether oil painting or charcoal or pastel. It could take weeks to complete. I’m used to working standing up with a tripod easel and canvas or a drawing board with Rives paper. Sometimes even a wood board.”
“What is your favorite medium?”
“Ah, oil, charcoal, pastel.”
Death shook his head impatiently. “Your favorite?”
“Oil.”
“Then may I suggest we go straight to the means for accomplishing the final product?”
Caleb blinked as a tall wood tripod easel with a large canvas appeared before him. A paint stand appeared next, well stocked with brushes, tubes of oils, liquin to mix with the paints, a large jar of turpentine for the brushes, and a variety of graphite and charcoal pencils.
“Uh, thank you.” Caleb took his time arranging everything. He had no idea how to accomplish a portrait of Death without resorting to a stereotypical image. Death folded his arms as Caleb arranged his paints for the third time. Chief lit his last cigarette and disgustedly crumpled the empty pack. Death sighed and produced a new pack.
Death cleared his throat loudly, impatiently.
“Right!” Caleb said as he flipped the canvas to a horizontal position and carefully sketched three boxes; a large center box and a narrow box on each side. “Triptych. The center image is the strongest, the foundation. The two side boxes emphasize something from the center, or emphasize something related to the center. The triptych was big during the Middle Ages, usually done on wood, and in churches.”
“Fascinating,” Death grumbled.
Caleb felt the warmth of the newly revealed sun on his face as the last of the rain clouds dissipated. A breeze, though cool because it was fall, flowed gently across the valley that echoed with low growls and an occasional howl.
“No,” Caleb said decisively. “Give me an oak board instead, gessoed and sanded, same size as the canvas.”
Death blinked in surprise, and an oak board replaced the canvas.
“I need a large rock for you to sit on.” Death sat down on a large rock that appeared. “Sit erect, body facing the river, your face toward me. Place your carbine across your lap, your hands on the pistol grip and the barrel guard. Put your Kevlar on the ground. Perfect.”
“This is such a simple pose,” Death observed.
“At your feet I’m placing a Mycenaean figure-8 shield, a Greek hoplon, a Roman scutum, a round cornered rectangular Celtic shield, and a Crusader heater shield. An Eisenhower jacket from World War II, a flak vest from Korea and Vietnam, and an IBA from this war. The background, darker at the edges and lighter toward you as if you’re lit by a spotlight, a chiaroscuro effect, will be a wall of prehistoric cave art.
“Please explain.”
“Everything taken together, from the beginning of mankind’s first effort at drawing and painting, represents you as a steady companion, especially to those of us who wear a uniform.”
“And the side panels?”
“On the left panel, your hand a little above, reaching down toward a human hand that is being raised up from below to your hand. Sooner or later we all come your way. The ancients accepted you as a part of life, while today we’re very afraid of you. The panel represents us reaching toward you while you extend a reassuring hand to us, rather than a skeletal or diseased hand grasping us.”
“The right panel?”
“I’m reminded of the World War I slaughter at Flanders Field where so many soldiers now sleep. A wheat field lit by the golden rays of a peaceful morning sun hanging in a deep blue sky. Sooner or later we all cross over to sleep peacefully for eternity.”
Death said, “The theory sounds good. We will see how well you accomplish the execution.”
Caleb silently mixed paint and liquin, and for additional colors, mixed various paints to produce the desired result. He also mixed lighter and darker hues of the same colors; once the paints were mixed, he chose a graphite pencil to sketch the painting. He was grateful that his mentor tirelessly emphasized drawing skills as the basis for a well crafted painting.
The graphite hissed lightly across the wood as he worked quickly, sketching, and erasing as needed, as if in a race before the sun set. Or until Death lost his patience. Chief paced sile
ntly behind him, lighting one cigarette after another.
Then he started the actual painting. His mentor emphasized working on the entire painting at one time, as working piecemeal resulted in a piecemeal look. Besides, wet paint made the blending of edges, and the blending of different hues that gave a painting depth, much easier. Clearly defined edges and a lack of careful blending always drove his mentor up the wall.
He hadn’t thought about it in such a long time, but he almost chuckled when he remembered how primitive his first efforts were. Sometimes he was ready to chuck the brushes and his paints. But he hung in because he wanted to be a painter. He didn’t think he would be another Peter Paul Rubens, Claude Monet, Henri Matisse, or Edgar Degas, but he would give those accomplished masters a run for their money — and he did.
“Why oak?” Death asked.
Caleb paused. “Wood has a finite life, like us. Someday this painting will crumble into dust, just like us.”
“Go back,” Chief murmured. “That’s a Cheyenne way of looking at death. Sooner or later we all go back to Mother Earth.”
“I see.”
Caleb sighed and looked at the village. Half a dozen assistants, Death had said, including a suicide bomber, were waiting for him. Where would they be hiding? Or would they pose as a villager with an AK-47 or a pistol hidden within their robes? Perhaps all they had were hand grenades with which they would shower him in a deadly volley.
As he stared at the village, Chief crossed his view, cigarette in hand, and pointed at the board.
Caleb returned to the painting with a fresh vengeance. He wanted to go home, he wanted to see his family, marry Lesley, and especially, cradle Mikey in his arms.
“Done,” Caleb finally said as he plopped his paint brush into the jar of turpentine and rubbed his face with paint stained hands.
Death stirred as if awaking from a deep sleep. Chief stood next to him. The once-soldiers, grunting and sniffing, approached curiously.
Death examined the painting and stroked his jaw thoughtfully.
“It’s an excellent portrait,” Chief announced. Many of the once-soldiers kneeled before the board and lowered their heads as if before royalty. “A goddamned excellent portrait,” Chief repeated in a stronger voice.
Danse Macabre: Close Encounters with the Reaper Page 22
