by Denny Taylor
“What am I supposed to say to that?” the Old Crone asked, but Death knew it was not a question. “I like you best when you’re a cat.”
Death responded by shedding her garish outfit and taking the shape of a six-foot bat, but still wearing her glittering red strappy high-heeled shoes.
“I said Cat not Bat!” the Old Crone said.
“I know I’m losing it,” Bat said, spreading her massive bat wings. Her head drooped. “The living don’t want me and the dead don’t care what happens to me.”
“I care,” the Old Crone said, looking at Bat with kindness in her eyes. “I’ll do what I can for the girl if you promise to get some rest. Promise?”
“I promise,” Bat said, shrinking a bit, taking off her glittery red shoes, and wondering if the Old Crone would mind if she hung upside down from the mantle.
“No more nonsense!” the Old Crone said, anticipating Death’s next move. “Go now!” she said, and Bat disappeared.
Death’s sudden arrival had drained the Old Crone’s strength, and she’d left the girl still clinging to life on the stone step. It bothered her that her sight had failed her – that she had not seen Death scoop the girl out of the Hudson River. She secretly admired Death for splitting the last second of the girl’s life, but it did create problems now she could no longer see the future. The Old Crone shook her head and made her way back into her house not knowing what would happen next.
By the time she’d lowered her ancient bones onto her chair, the young woman was lying minus her wet clothes on the rug in front of the Fire. There was a pillow under her head and a blanket covering her body. Her breathing was erratic – quick shallow breaths and then no breath at all, followed by quick shallow breaths and no breath at all.
Each time her breathing stopped the Four Corners moved closer, oozing anxiety that spilled on the great flagstones in putrid puddles that evaporated quickly when the girl gasped – still alive – and repeated the motif of quick shallow breaths.
The ash grey embers of the Fire glowed, determined to be of more use than the Four Corners, and flames flickered warming the girl – but still her breathing was shallow and she did not stir when the flames shot up the chimney lighting the room that alternated between cavernous and small.
The girl’s rapid breathing with long breaks continued for what seemed like hours. The Old Crone sat quietly, her hands in her lap, watching the girl. She had black hair, and even though she had not opened them the Old Crone knew she had green eyes. But it was the girl’s skin that held the Old Crone’s attention. Her face was scratched and bruised and her bottom lip was badly swollen, but now that the blood and mud had been removed she could see the girl was ink stained – her entire body was covered with tattoos. Her skin reminded the Old Crone of a piece of vellum on which a great scribe had written words with a quill pen and then discarded because the ink had blotched and run – but the blotches were blue, purple, and black bruises where she had been hit, punched, and kicked.
“Can you save her?” the Four Corners asked in chorus, puddles of anxiety oozing from the baseboard as they spoke.
“You heard Death ask that question,” the Old Crone said, her voice, no more than a hoarse whisper. “What was my answer?”
“She can save herself.”
“Yes she can,” the Old Crone said, sharply. “She is the only one who can decide whether or not she lives or dies.”
“But you’ll help her decide?” the Four Corners persisted in chorus.
“Of course,” the Old Crone said, as she closed her eyes.
The Four Corners watched her intently. Was she sleeping? The Old Crone stopped breathing, then gasped and breathed rapidly in time with the girl’s shallow breaths. The Four Corners couldn’t help themselves – they breathed in unison with the girl and the Old Crone.
The quick-quick-stop of the girl’s breathing continued for what seemed like many hours, and the Four Corners were just about to go to sleep when the girl’s eyes opened then closed again.
The Old Crone’s eyes opened at the very same moment but did not close, for Death had reappeared in her feline form.
“She was a split second from dying,” Death said, disheveled and overwrought. “She was dead to the world and yet she refuses to die. Tell me! Tell me. Have you made up your mind? Is she going live?”
“It’s not my mind that has to be made up,” the Old Crone said,
“Just save her!” Death wailed.
“There’ll be deadly consequences”, the Old Crone said, looking at Death and thinking to herself that she’d never seen her so distraught.
“You don’t know that!” Death wailed, hysterically. “If you hadn’t hidden yourself away in these mountains for the past five hundred years –” she said, sobbing, “– you might have got your sight back!”
“No,” the Old Crone said. “This awful moment would’ve come anyway – five hundred years and no solution – if we save the girl many others might die. Will die. You know that.”
“They’re dying already,” Death said, her voice more of a whimper. “It’s the only chance we’ve got to change the future.”
“Either way we’re stuck in this split second,” the Old Crone said. “We’re boxed in and I’m not sure we’ll be able to get out.”
“Perhaps the split second is the solution,” Death said, for a moment feeling hopeful.
“Perhaps,” the Old Crone said, her attention suddenly taken by the girl.
The girl’s breathing had changed. Her breaths became short and quick – quick – quick – stop, quick – quick – stop. The Old Crone watched her intently – quick – quick – stop, quick – quick – stop. Then the girl’s green eyes opened wide and closed quickly. And in that moment – between the girl’s eyes opening and closing – there was a thud and a groan as another body landed on the stone step heaving and choking in a putrid puddle of anxiety oozing from the Four Corners that had seeped under the great oak door.
“Who’s that?” the Old Crone whispered, looking at Death in alarm.
“Don’t know,” Death said, her feline body growing a little smaller.
“This is not a funeral parlor,” the Old Crone whispered, pointing a twisted finger at Death and singeing her fur. “Do not bring any more of your dead or dying here!”
“I only brought the girl,” Death whispered with considerable urgency before adopting her Bat persona minus her glittery red strappy shoes and hanging upside-down from the mantelpiece – coughing slightly after inhaling the smoke from her smoldering fur.
“This one’s not yours?” the Old Crone asked incredulously, getting up and opening the great oak door and pointing at the choking heap that was tangled up in so much debris it was hard to tell either age or gender.
“I’ve brought no other!” Death said, emphatically back as a cat.
The Old Crone turned and looked down at the girl who was still hovering uncertainly between life and death. “Why does she equivocate?” the Old Crone asked. “She is so close to death she should have taken her last breath and yet she lingers.” She pointed a wizened finger at the body on the stone step. “Do you know who that is?” she asked Death.
“The girl’s boyfriend, I think,” Death said. “He jumped in the Hudson River to save her. He must have got caught up in the split second when I brought the girl to you.”
“She must have brought him,” the Old Crone said, looking at the girl. “She equivocates for him.”
“She looks peaceful,” Death said, resisting her desire to purr.
The girl’s eyes were closed but her breathing had changed again. There were no more quick breaths. No long breaks between breaths either.
“She knows the boy is safe,” the Old Crone said. “She will live.” And with that she closed the great oak door leaving the boy clinging to life on the stone step.
Three
The Old Crone sat back down by the Fire, while the Four Corners adjusted their right angles.
“You’re leaving him
outside?” Death asked sitting on the rug next to the girl and tucking her front paws under her feline body preparing for the vigil.
“He’s not going to die,” the Old Crone said looking at the girl. “She won’t let him, although I doubt she knows she has that power.” She sighed, looking at her hands so gnarled and twisted as she unfurled them. Her wizened fingers grew long and slender and her skin was no longer ancient and grey but iridescent and pale blue.
Death looked at her face and the Old Crone seemed to have fewer wrinkles than before. Death took this to be a hopeful sign.
“Not yet,” the Old Crone said, her hands claws once more and the gnarly grey bones of her fingers visible through her ancient skin. “The girl has faced many dangers. Since they were children the boy has been at her side,” the Old Crone told Death. “But nothing has prepared them for what is about to happen.”
“Happen – because I split a second?” Death said.
“No, I’ve been thinking your split second might provide us with a solution,” the Old Crone said. She looked at Death who gave her a guilty lopsided Cheshire Cat grin. She watched as the cat’s fur stood on end, rippling before rearranging itself close to her body.
“Have you split seconds before?” the Old Crone asked suspiciously.
“How else d’you think I cope with all the dying?” Death said mewing miserably. “It’s a permanent pandemic. Total crappiness! I can’t keep up.”
“Shhh. We can talk about it later,” the Old Crone said kindly. “I’m going to put the girl somewhere safe and then we’ll interrogate the boy.”
“Interrogate?” Death said.
“Yes,” the Old Crone said. “What if he’s not who we think he is? What if he’s a Sick-Reaper sent to make sure the girl’s dead? Or if –”
“Or, if he’s a Sick-Reaper sent to kill you instead,” Death said. “That could be the reason you can’t see the future!”
The Four Corners had relaxed but immediately went on high alert signaling to the Fire that the Old Crone was in imminent danger. The room grew hot and the Walls, familiar with the Inquisition, covered themselves with a wallpaper of torturous devices including the rack and thumbscrews in full working order that could be used in the interrogation.
“Very funny,” the Old Crone said to the Walls that rippled good humoredly. Then she turned to Death and said more sarcastically, “How on Earth would he kill me –” it was not a question.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Death said, again with her signature lopsided Cheshire Cat grin. “A stake through the heart – if you had one.”
“Enough! Go now and don’t come back,” the Old Crone said, not serious. “Unless you sit by my Fire and become my Cat!”
“I’ve no time for that,” Death answered. “Too many living about to expire – although it would be nice to stay here with you and cuddle by your Fire.”
“You’re right,” the Old Crone said, sighing. “It would be nice.”
“She will die if you turn him away,” Death said, this time with no artifice or guise. “And if she dies he will die and that will be the end of –”
“I know, I know,” the Old Crone said, putting her hand up to stop Death from continuing. “I will bring him in and question him but not with the girl here.”
The Old Crone looked intently at the girl while Death padded around her as she had done several times before and with her teeth she tugged at the blanket drawing it back so she could see the bruises on her body.
“No deep wounds,” Death said. “Did they rape her?”
“No,” the Old Crone said. “They were going to but she got away just in time. I can see them kicking and punching her but somehow she escaped and jumped in the river. Nothing after that.”
“Nothing at all?” Death asked anxiously, knowing what that meant.
“Nothing,” the Old Crone said, shaking her head.
“Have you seen the tattoo on the inside of the girl’s left wrist?” Death asked changing the subject because there was nothing either of them could say about that.
“It’s not a tattoo,” the Old Crone said. “She was born with it – it’s the sign for the powers of the human soul.”
“Her mother too,” Death said. “And her mother before that – stretching back – I knew them. They were all very special.”
“Let’s not get sentimental,” the Old Crone said. “The girl must rest. It’s time to bring in the boy. For the moment she is dead to the world, her future uncertain, perhaps that will be her fate.” And with that she pointed a claw like finger at the girl who promptly disappeared at the exact moment there came a feeble knock at the great oak door.
“Mind if I stay?” Death asked.
“Oh, all right,” the Crone said. “Don’t mention the girl. No funny stuff.”
Another knock. This time it was more hesitant, a dull and hopeless sound. Feeling fearless and frightened by this ending of her peaceful life, the Old Crone pushed back the bolts, top and bottom, lifted the latch, and flung open the door.
On the stone steps there stood a very wet boy, a youth, more than eighteen but not much more than twenty, bent over coughing, as he tried to catch his breath. The heat from inside the house was intense and he staggered back thinking it must be on fire.
“Cool it,” Death whispered making herself small on the rug by the Fire. “And get rid of that wallpaper!”
“A boy!” the Old Crone exclaimed as if she had no idea who he was. “Just a boy!” she croaked. “A very large wet noisy boy!”
“I fell,” the boy said, explaining without apologizing.
“Fell from the sky?” the Old Crone asked looking up wanting to know if he knew he had indeed dropped from above.
“Of course not,” the boy responded, but for a second the irrational thought entered his head that he might have – no, the old hag was not serious. “I didn’t see the step,” he said. “You need a light out here.”
The Old Crone stared at him through squinting eyes as he stood up straight but she knew it was a struggle. She could see the fear in his eyes and she knew terrible things had happened to him. The boy – really a very thin young man – tried to look tough. He pressed his lips together and stuck out his chin, but his shoulders could not hold the position and he put his arm out so his right hand was flat against the old stone of the house. Neither of them spoke. For a few endless seconds they stared at each other. Then the Old Crone peered into the darkness behind him.
“What d’you want?” she asked, not as sharply as she might, but without disguising her irritation at what he thought must be his unexpected intrusion.
“My dog,” the boy said lying, “I’ve lost my dog.”
“There are no dogs here,” the Old Crone spoke sharply, disappointed that he lied. “Go back from where you came.”
“I can’t,” the boy said, looking at her suspiciously wondering if she was a spy.
The Old Crone stared at the boy in silence wondering if she had made a mistake and that he was not the girl’s boyfriend. His body was bent over again, and his head hanging. He was no longer looking at her, not looking at anything. He had gone some place deep inside himself, and in the darkness he was still looking for – not his dog, that’s for sure.
“How did you get here?” the Old Crone asked again, more gently this time.
“I walked,” the boy replied, raising his head and looking at the Old Crone as if challenging her to say he hadn’t.
“Walked? Walked?” the Old Crone almost squawked, as if not to disappoint him. “Where from?” she demanded. “This place is a long way from anywhere. No one comes here.”
The boy tried to stand up straight. “I got on a bus,” he told her staring at her again wondering if there were Sick-Reapers hiding behind the open door. Again the doubt, she could be a spy he thought, dropping his eyes and looking at his feet.
“I couldn’t find my dog,” he said. “People were being put on buses. Someone told me to get on.” His voice trembled. He looked up for a moment
at the Old Crone. “I thought my Mom and Dad might be on the bus,” he said, “so I got on.”
“Did you know where the bus was going?” the Old Crone asked, realizing that while the boy was lying about how he got to her house, the story he was telling was true – perhaps when he was a small child?
“They wouldn’t tell us,” the boy said, a tear running down his cheek, which he brushed off as he took his hand off the wall and tried to straighten up. “All they kept saying was, ‘Get on! Get on!’” He shrugged. “I started walking when I got off the bus.”
“And you have been walking ever since,” the Old Crone said quietly.
“Something like that,” the boy said, with a fleeting smile. “I’ve been walking for a long time.”
The Old Crone moved closer and looked at the boy. She raised her claw hand and put a twisted finger under his chin and peered deep into his eyes. The boy did not stop her. He looked back at her and did not blink. He was exhausted and frightened, but he held her gaze. Suddenly the Old Crone drew in her breath and stepped back as if she had been surprised by what she’d seen in his eyes.
“Is anyone with you?” she asked, gaining her composure and nervously peering into the darkness behind him.
“No,” the boy said, unable to make out what it was she’d seen when she’d looked so intently into his eyes.
“How long were you on the bus?” the Old Crone asked, her voice no longer croaking, sounded strong and authoritative.
“Days,” the boy replied, on alert now, because he was sure he was right. She was a spy.
“How many?” the Old Crone asked not caring what he was thinking.
“Four? Five?” he said, making it up. “Not sure.”
“How long have you been walking?” she asked, sounding less irritated.
“Three days, maybe four,” the boy replied, too tired to figure out why the Old Crone was asking him so many questions.
“What’s your name?” the Old Crone asked, speaking quickly.
“Max,” the boy said, just as quick.
“What’s your dog’s name?”
