The Death of All Things

by Faith Hunter

  Nora resumed her lightning-fast knitting. “A soul isn’t like a hat or a sweater or socks,” Nora said, as though she’d read Alex’s mind. “It has to fit a person on the inside. And it has to have room to grow and stretch.”

  She stopped again. The soul was already the size of the littlest clothes Mom took out of storage and put in the baby’s closet. Nora pulled at the gray-not-gray swatch and it stretched, first one way and then the other. Alex watched the complicated yarn loops tighten or slide past each other. Holes closed and new ones opened. Dropped stitches bound back up while other stitches fell. It was so much more than just fabric. “Wow,” he whispered.

  Nora smiled at him. “A soul has to grow and change with the person. With their choices and decisions, good and bad. Big ones and little ones. To follow rules or break them or make new ones. To live up to expectations or defy them. To be adventurous,” and she winked at him, “or to stay with the little kids.”

  Alex grinned back, a gap-toothed smile. Nora was cool. He watched as the yarn unwound from the skein and she knitted it into fabric. Into a soul. The soft fluffiness beckoned.

  “May I touch it?” he asked at last. He itched to feel it.

  “Better yet,” Nora said, “you can hold it.” The last of the yarn worked its way into the soul, the tail end vanishing into the piece. She slipped it off the needle and into Alex’s outstretched hands.

  So soft! It felt like nothing, light as air. Springy and forgiving. Fine spun as cotton candy from the fair. Soft and gentle like his favorite blanket. He scrunched it in his fingers. Gave it a little tug and watched the threads move. Watched as the colors twinkled on the surface. He gave Nora a sideways glance to see if she disapproved, but she was smiling wide. Feeling a little guilty, he petted the soul until it flattened out and held it toward her. “Thank you,” he said.

  Nora closed his fingers back over it. “How about I let you give it to your sister?” she asked.

  Alex’s eyes went wide. “I can’t do that. I’m just a kid.”

  “I trust you,” Nora said.

  He looked at the scrap of fabric in his hands. It felt warm. Magical. Special, like her knitting needles. “What if I forget?” he asked.

  “You won’t forget,” she replied.

  “But I’m just a kid,” Alex said again, looking up and meeting Nora’s eyes.

  She pushed the soul back toward him. Firm, but not in a mean way. Like insisting he keep a gift. “I trust you,” she repeated.

  Alex felt her hands fall away. The soul was warm and soft. Alive. Alive and waiting for its body. Alex didn’t know how he knew this, but he did.

  “Isn’t that your mother?” Nora asked.

  Alex turned around. Waddling down the hall from the changing room was his mom, her wet hair bound up in a bright yellow towel like a turban. “Mom!” he called. He waved at her while she squinted in his direction. “Mom!” he repeated, and ran off to greet her.

  “Hi there,” she said.

  Alex wrapped his arms around her waist, being careful not to squeeze too hard. “Hi, Mom,” he said.

  She hugged his shoulders. “Aren’t you supposed to stay in the Fun Space until I come get you?” she asked, but she was more amused than angry.

  “I got bored,” Alex said. He stepped back, holding the gray scrap. “Look what I have!” he said.

  Mom headed for the front counter. “That’s quite the dust kitten. Where did you find it?” she asked.

  “It’s not a dust kitten. It’s a soul.” Alex looked at the soul. Now that Mom mentioned it, it did look a lot like a dust kitten.

  “Uh-huh,” Mom said. “Whose?”

  “My sister’s,” Alex answered.

  Mom laughed. “So it’s a sister now? Yesterday you were sure it was a brother. Where did you get it?” she asked again.

  Alex kept up with her. “From Nora. She makes them.”

  “She does? Well, I suppose someone has to,” Mom replied. “Can I meet her?”

  “Sure!” Alex said. “She’s right over there.” He pointed to the lounge area outside the pool. It was empty apart from the silent TV and the magazines.

  Mom looked over. “Uh huh,” she said, the way she did when she didn’t really believe him. “Are you sure?”

  Alex blinked. Where did she go? “She was right there!” he insisted. “She was in a purple tracksuit and had a bag the same color. All matching, like Gramma in our pictures.”

  “And she made you a soul,” Mom prompted.

  “She said I already had one and this one was for my sister,” Alex said. He fingered the soul. It still felt magical, even if it looked like dryer lint.

  “Uh huh,” Mom repeated, still not believing him. “You have a great imagination. I’ll ask at the desk, okay?”

  “She was there,” Alex insisted.

  Mom tousled his dark hair. “I’ll ask at the desk. Come on, we’ll be late for my appointment. Oooh, kick. Really jumping today,” she said, putting a hand on her stomach. She grinned at Alex. “Want to feel?”

  Wide-eyed, Alex nodded yes. Mom took his hand and guided it to a spot at the top of the extra-round part of her stomach. In a moment he felt a push against his hand. It retreated, then two more in quick succession. In his other hand, the soul felt warm and soft and light as air. “Wow,” he whispered. “It really doesn’t hurt?

  “It does feel a little funny,” Mom admitted, “but it doesn’t hurt.” She enclosed his hand in hers. “Come on. We’ll be late for my appointment.”

  “Okay,” Alex beamed. As he approached the lobby desk with Mom he glanced over toward the waiting area. The magazines were still there. The silent TV, too, showing the endless tennis match. He didn’t see Nora.

  * * *

  Nora smiled. With his mother, Alex was back in the adult world. No longer between. He had chosen a side and could no longer see her. She turned her head as an elderly man came in from outdoors. His back was bent, his face lined from the sun. A stained, wide-brimmed hat crowned his head and a pair of heavy hedge trimmers hung from his belt.

  “I’m glad you’re late,” she said.

  The old man shrugged.

  Nora patted the seat beside her. “I had a visitor.”

  The old man raised one white eyebrow. He lowered himself onto the chair’s pilled upholstery and slipped a coarse canvas sack from his shoulder.

  “Children pierce the veil more easily than adults. You know that,” she said. “Besides, he’s related. Alex, up there with this mother.” She pointed at the front desk.

  The man’s gaze followed her finger. Up at the lobby check-in Alex risked another glance in their direction. His mother, one arm wrapped around the boy’s shoulders, gestured at the furniture outside the pool room. The attendant glanced at the empty sofas and the unwatched TV before returning her attention to the pair. Her lips formed the word “No” accompanied by shake of her head in the negative. She frowned and began going over the names on her sign-in sheet. Alex looked again at the soul in his hand, gray like rainbows in fog.

  The old man turned his attention back to Nora. He tipped his head a fraction of a degree, the wide-brimmed hat exaggerating his movement.

  “He’ll remember. He’s a perceptive child,” Nora answered.

  The old man raised an eyebrow. The hat’s angle became steeper as the tip became a decided tilt.

  “Yes he will,” she countered. “Did I not knit his soul? Can I not see the patterns in its weave?”

  He frowned, his white wiry eyebrows merging together.

  “Pshaw, rules. Rules can be broken when required. You don’t always keep your rules, either. Why were you late, anyway?” Nora accused.

  A sheepish grin replaced his scowl and his bent shoulders rolled in a shrug. He refused to meet her shining eyes with his own coal-dark ones.

  “Mmm hmm,” Nora muttered. “We’ll see. What do you have for me?”

  The old man reached one gnarled hand into the sack and produced a scrap of multicolored knitted fabric. One
single strand of yarn trailed from a corner, its end neatly clipped. He handed it to Nora and waited for her reaction.

  She ran her fingertips over the fabric, lingering on the tight knots of sunny yellow. “Oh, look what she made. All this happiness. Even with dark times she found happiness.” Nora traced the complex patterns and varied colors. “So resilient. Here at the end, too,” she said, twisting the final, unraveled strand, gold and emerald together. “So short, their lives. To grant a little more, just a little, for a final goodbye. I see why you were late.”

  The old man shook his head no. He took a deep breath and reached into the sack again, this time withdrawing a large lump of fur, all shades of brown and black. It buried its head into the old man’s elbow and clung to his arm, striped tail curled protectively around its body.

  Nora blinked twice. “That’s not a soul, dear.”

  The old man shook his head no. He ran his fingers down the animal’s bony spine.

  “We’re not responsible for animals, love,” Nora said.

  The old man stroked the animal’s back again. Its tail switched.

  “Cat, then,” Nora acquiesced. “It’s still an animal. How did you get it?”

  The old man bent his head and concentrated on the creature in his arms. He scratched at the gaunt neck with his rough fingers.

  It was Nora’s turn to frown. “Her. Get her. You’re avoiding the question, dear.”

  The cat finally withdrew her head from the old man’s elbow and huddled against him. She opened eyes as orange as an autumn moon and yawned wide. She looked around, stretched stiffly and rose on arthritic legs. She spotted Nora’s tantalizing bag lying open on the floor and jumped down. A few shaky steps and she was inside. Only her tiger-striped tail remained visible. The old man tipped his head the other way and he gave a slight shrug.

  Nora sighed and watched the cat’s tail disappear slowly into the opening. “I’m sorry she was suffering. But even if she did see you, we can’t keep everything that wanders between worlds. You know she has to go back.”

  The old man ran a finger over the edge of his shears.

  “Well, yes, die,” Nora said. “All things in their time. As Alex will die in his and his sister in hers. People understand what your arrival means. Animals don’t. They can’t.” She took the old man’s hand from his shears and squeezed it tightly. “I’m sorry, love, but you know it’s true.”

  The cat emerged from the bag and shook herself. She cleaned a bit of wayward soulstuff from her whiskers and set about grooming. Her fur grew shinier and fuller and her body more sleek and well-muscled with every pass of the pink tongue. Finished, she dipped her forelegs in a deep stretch then reversed it. She bunted up against Nora’s leg and sniffed the trailing end of the soul in her lap. The cat turned back to her benefactor and sprang to his knee, then his shoulder. She crept around the back of his neck and perched on the opposite side. The old man reached up with his free hand and scratched her chin. The cat rubbed against his grizzled cheek and settled down.

  The old man raised his wiry eyebrows.

  Nora sighed again in mock irritation. “Just because she remembered her younger self doesn’t make her special.” She reached over to scratch behind the cat’s ear and the animal began purring. Her claws dug into the rough cloth of his shirt then relaxed, alternating paws. Her pumpkin-colored eyes narrowed in pleasure. Nora withdrew her hand but the cat continued purring. “I suppose if it’s just the one,” Nora said.

  The old man smiled and squeezed her hand back.

  “Ravens or owls are more traditional, you know,” she giggled.

  The old man’s only answer was to tap the cat’s salmon-colored nose and then Nora’s.

  “Well, rules can be broken when required,” Nora said with a smile. “Best get to work.” She took one of her needles and slipped it through the final knot in the soul she held. It loosened and she pulled the yarn free. In short order she reduced the piece to a tangle of multicolored yarn in her lap. Starting at the end, she untwisted it. Yarn became fiber, lost its distinct colors and became shimmering gray fluff. She added more from the bag. Carefully selecting her fiber, she teased off a lump of unformed soulstuff and replaced the remainder. Clever fingers twisted and pulled a thread from the bundle. She wound the end around the spindle and sent it spinning. The cat watched the process with interest.

  “One life ends and another begins,” Nora said. She looked up from her spinning with a smile. “Changes are good. Even for us.” She scratched the cat’s chin in between keeping the spindle turning. “Even for us.

  DEATH AND MRS. MORRISON

  Andrea Mullen

  The chainsaw was still running, but there was no way to turn it off now. Blood spattered the grass and brush she had been trying to clear as Mrs. Morrison held her jacket over her wounded left hand. She hadn’t seen much before she’d had the presence of mind to try to close the wound, but she was sure that she’d caught a flash of bone. This ridiculous little thicket shouldn’t have been this much of a problem, wouldn’t have been if she had dealt with the overgrowth on this side of the farm last year like she should have. But she got to meet her first great-grandchild last year, which took time, as did the weddings and graduations she was obligated to attend. Funerals too, which there were more of every year. Perhaps she should have taken her daughter’s suggestion and hired help, or been a little more proactive in culling the herd. She was eighty five years old, after all. That was old enough to scowl rather than panic when the figure appeared in front of her. “You, again?”

  The first time Mrs. Morrison had seen Death, she was not yet Mrs. Morrison. She was ten year old Mary Jane Dalton, lying in a breathless heap on the dirt floor after a startled milk cow had kicked her squarely in the chest. He had looked exactly like he did in the Halloween decorations and scary stories her brother read, with a black robe and a skeletal face, and a bony hand resting on his scythe. She was frightened and could feel her heart skipping in her chest, but knew she couldn’t leave her family to do all of her chores by themselves. He had followed her around while she carried the pails to the cistern, dumped them in, and returned to the cows, concentrating hard on breathing regularly while she continued with the task at hand. As the fluttering in her chest had faded, so did the apparition.

  * * *

  Death visited her again and again throughout the years, but the incident with the milk cow had taught her that she could fight back, and win. He’d come to collect her during her bout with a particularly bad strain of influenza that claimed several of her classmates. She was pale and shaking with fever, but she waved him off in favor of her mathematics homework. He’d come again when the car accident had happened, and shook an hourglass that was nearly out of sand at her as she fought through the dizzy nausea from her head injury to pull her best friend out of the mangled vehicle. She’d seen him when her blood pressure dropped precipitously during labor with her daughter, and refused to make her an orphan. Ten years ago, when the heart attack gripped her chest in the middle of church, she learned that he could be frightened off. The memory of how quickly he had backed off when she’d shouted about how death had no place in the Kingdom of God kept her warm during cold nights for years.

  The last time she saw him was in the hospital with her darling husband Felix. She held his hand while his lungs filled with fluid, singing him his favorite songs just a little out of key. She had no idea how long Death had been in the shadows in the corner—maybe it was from the very beginning, before she’d even heard the word “ventilator”—but he was impossible to ignore as the numbers on the glowing monitor got smaller and smaller, and Felix’s breathing became shakier. The doctors evicted her from the room when the alarms sounded. “Take me!” she demanded of Death as they were ushering her out. “Take me instead! Or take me, too!” He did not extend his hand to her then, and did not follow, even after the somber doctor walked out shaking his head to offer his condolences. She left that hospital with her children at her side, but more alon
e and adrift in the world than she had ever been.

  * * *

  Mrs. Morrison glared through cataract-glazed eyes. “You always look the same. Seventy five years, and you haven’t changed at all. Why is that?” Death said nothing, as usual, but extended his hand. Mrs. Morrison shook her head. “You had your chance at that,” she snapped. “Five years ago, or is your memory worse than mine? You should have done it then. I have too much to do right now, and both you and this—” she nodded to the idling chainsaw resting on the grass amid the out-of-control multiflora rosebushes and black locust trees “—are going to have to wait!” She set her jaw and turned towards her tractor, parked on a flat spot a short distance up the hill. Somehow, Death was in front of her again, waiting for her to reach out and accept his hand. It would have been so easy to accept it.

  But Mrs. Morrison did not forget easily, and did not forget a perceived slight at all. She stepped around him and hoisted herself into the seat of the tractor. The venerable Farmall had seen better days but still ran well with a little lubrication and proper rest, much like its owner. Mrs. Morrison stuck her tongue out in concentration as she worked out how to steer and shift at the same time with one hand. She’d keep the injured hand elevated and wrapped of course, and it would take time, but if she kept it in first gear all the way up the hill, she would never have to take her hand off the steering wheel.

  She heard a tiny rattle of brass and couldn’t stop herself from looking. The hourglass Death was shaking at her was down to a thin film of sand in the upper bulb. She glared at him as the Farmall’s engine sputtered then roared and shouted, “Well good—I still have time to put the tractor away.” Death’s skeletal face could hardly be considered expressive, but Mrs. Morrison had seen him enough times to catch a hint of exasperation in the clench of the bony jaw. The tractor lurched as the transmission caught first gear, and she was off.