When Death Comes Calling
By Lorien Cockman and Emma Harwell
Introduction
It’s not that I hate life, it’s just that life hates me. I’m its... polar opposite. Like Night and Day, or Dark and Light. Every human fears me, they run from my embrace. But they pass from youth to adulthood to old age, and that is when I come. I end dreams, but I also end pain. I come softly like a thief, not to harm but to... free. To free from the pain and the misery and the suffering of life. I carry away with me captives and I keep them forever in my kingdom, but whether or not they are happy depends entirely on them. My visits are brief, but where I go I take much: people, animals, what is good, what is bad, what is precious and what is loathed. It is for men to decide whether I am evil or pleasant. Children run to me when they are afraid of living, soldiers accept me with open arms, mothers find me in the night, hovering over their babies. There are those who will mourn, and there are those who will dance. I bring tears, I bring relief, I am dark, I am light. I cannot be captured, I cannot be put in a bottle, though I can be sent, and I can be called. Hospitals, city streets, battlefields. I am often found where I am expected - accepted, even. But I am never found where I am most feared. I do not hover by the caskets of soulless bodies and I do not walk in graveyards. I come once to a person, never again. I am weak, I am powerful, I cannot control men, yet I terrify them. They bring others to find peace in my embrace, but when it is them I come to carry away, they beg that I would leave them. There is no mercy - few are ready, but I take them all.
Chapter 1
He tossed and turned on the cold ground. A sharp stone poked into his stomach. Moaning, he rolled over onto his back, giving up on ever getting any sleep. He stared up at the star-cloaked sky and I saw the hopeful look shining in his eyes. I heard his thoughts, rapid and consistent, like the beating of a raven’s wings, and in an instant I knew every desire, every dream. He longed for his family, prayed for their souls. He thought of his past, laughter and water turning to ice and blood. He considered his future, and there was little more hope there.
Then a new consideration came into view, though I noticed it seemed to roll in reluctantly. It was dull, and numb, as though painful to the mind of the thinker, and it wasn’t clear like all of his other thoughts. I tried to grasp it, but the Boy was too quick. He pushed it away before I could scrutinize the contemplation.
A shadow passed over the Boy as he lay there, though I was not surprised. I had already known that a great storm was brewing, but I watched the Boy’s eyes fill with fear at the sight of the ominous dark clouds. He pushed himself to his feet and began to run, hoping to find some kind of shelter. His efforts were futile; the rain began its harsh descent as he ran, and with it came bitter wind and biting hail. Very soon the boy was soaked to the skin and bruised by the chunks of ice, large to begin with, growing steadily larger. Raising a hand above his eyes, he peered further along the path and spotted an old, rundown shack. The sight of the house filled him with relief, and he made his way towards it, dodging hail and flinching at every clap of thunder.
Quickly, he flung open the shack’s broken door and raced inside. The wind slammed the door shut and the Boy leaned against it, panting heavily. Shaking his head to flick the water droplets and bits of hail from his hair, he stepped forward to explore the place. The house was dark, the only source of light being faint streaks of moon and stars drifting through the broken windows. The rough floor boards were warped and rutted and the ceiling was on the verge of collapse. There was only one other room than the one the Boy was currently standing in. It was a tiny pantry, filled with rotten food and dirty laundry. Pictures hung on the tattered walls; a boy and a girl and a baby. The house had belonged to a family. I had been here before, when the mother fell ill with a raging fever. The sickness spread like a flame and within a few weeks all that remained was faded pictures and rotten food. I don’t know where they were buried. I had already moved on.
The boy, however, wondered what had happened to the family. There was nothing in the house to mark their passing, or to specify what had caused their disappearance. Sketches and faded flowers weren’t information enough.
As the Boy stood there alone in the dim light, the thought that he had been so careful to hide before returned, bringing with it a wave of pain. There was a girl there, her face burning into his subconscious. A pretty girl, with silvery blonde hair, porcelain skin, and dainty features. She could have been a china doll if it weren’t for the fiery determination shining in her dark eyes. The Boy thought about her for a few more seconds, and then, just as quickly as she came, she was gone. The Boy’s thoughts moved on to survival and sleep, and he moved further into the house to search it. Everything he found was either rotten or infested by lice and mothballs. After a while the Boy decided to forgo dinner and comfort and curled up on the wooden floor. Exhausted as he was, his thoughts kept spinning through his head, always coming back to the china doll girl. I didn’t recognize her, and whispered to the Boy that she wasn’t taken, but he couldn’t hear me. The tears trickling down his face didn’t stop until, at last, sleep came.
He dreamed of her. She was holding out her hands and crying slick, black oil, and her eyes were dark and void. Her sobs were hoarse and desperate, and with each inky tear another scar appeared on her outstretched arms. Eventually her cries faded into soft, broken words. Like a prayer of deliverance.
The Boy tossed and turned on the warped floor. I stretched out my hand to comfort him, but couldn’t reach him. So he lay there, writhing at the sight of the Girl suffering deeply. The oil was flowing faster now, streaming from her eyes like a dark river. No noise came from her mouth, but her heart beat loudly and with every pulse her body jerked. Every time she jerked, he writhed. Soon their bodies were twisting and twitching to the same rhythm, the Boy curled on the floor, the Girl kneeling in his mind. Their hearts converged and beat as one, pounding and throbbing until she gasped one last time and was still.
The Boy slept peacefully after that, but I couldn’t push the image away. The scent of my domain had been on the Girl, but I did not know who she was. When the Boy awoke, he didn’t remember the dream, but the feeling of dread lingered with him through the day. He left the house early and searched the wood for food. He found an impressive supply, and ate heartily. Then he set out, not looking back. Why would he? He had nothing to lose and nothing to gain. A man on a mission of death.
For many days the Boy traveled, walking through every day, dreaming of the Girl every night. He stood tall and strode with purpose, but I could feel him slipping. He was looking for her, I realized now, and every time he woke up to face another day without her the break in his heart got a little deeper. But it wasn’t until the second week of searching that he crossed the line between sanity and madness. The sun was shrouded in mist and thunder, and the whole land lay in shadow. The Boy was crossing a stream when he saw her. She was standing beside a towering hemlock, her silvery hair gleaming in the pale light. Her dress was torn and dirty, and her hair was tangled, but there was the fire and the courage, just as strong as before. The Boy rushed towards her, but just as his hand reached out to touch her, she vanished. Stunned, he stood there, gazing at empty space as if waiting for her to appear again. She didn’t, but laughter rang out further on in the forest. It was a joyful, mocking sound, and as it faded into the trees the Boy let out a guttural cry and sank to his knees beside the hemlock. Again, I reached out to comfort him, and this time his resolve weakened and he let me slide my hand into his. For a moment his head lowered and his vision darkened, but then he straightened and jerked away. I didn’t mind - I could be patient.
Chapter 2
Three men lay in a cavern, faces to the floor. Their hair was matted and their bodies were nothing but ropes and bones. As I took them away I silently wept, but I was the only one mourning. Everyone else was feasting, drinking, shouting. The hall was alive with music and laughter, but I ignored all of it. My eyes focused on a young serving maid who looked vaguely familiar. Her dirty, tangled hair had probably once been pretty and blonde, and her skin was eerily pale beneath layers of grime. I watched her a moment more, before I walked away, hoping I wouldn’t have to come back to the cavern. Hopeless, for I also knew it was only a matter of days before the King of Thieves offered me another corpse.
* * *
Days from the cavern, the Boy was sitting beneath a tree, picking up stones and throwing them as hard as he could. I could tell he was angry, and I wished he would allow me to comfort him. But he wouldn’t let me get close enough.
He was still thinking about the Girl. Since the hallucination he couldn’t push her out of his mind. The Boy was getting desperate, I knew how hopelessly he cried every night. But every morning he woke up ready for another day of seemingly pointless walking. Sometimes when he was shaking with cold or hunger, he would let me slip my hand in his for a few moments. It never lasted long. He was stubborn, and I respected his zest for life.
I had to admit, though, that at the end of each day I was surprised by his resilience. Even through the pain he kept going, on and on and on. I initially thought that he would die quickly, but every day he proved me wrong. He fought hard, though where he found the strength I wasn’t sure. He was desperate, yes, but I felt that it went deeper than that. There was something he wasn’t showing me.
Every night she invaded his dreams, sometimes bringing him peace, sometimes bringing him torment. Every time, though, she showed me another piece of the puzzle that was the Boy’s existence. From the outer edges in, I was learning is past, present and future. It was beautiful and horrific, full of fury and fire. When he was 12 he watched his parents die. This confused me, because I did not know his parents, but since there was nothing I could say to him about them, I wasn’t too bothered by it. Many times he dreamed of a man, with an ancient face and young eyes. The man was a farmer, he planted peaches by a riverside and in the winter, when the water froze over, he would tie on the Boy’s skates and push him across the glittering, shimmering ice. These were the good dreams, and the Boy would smile a little in his sleep and sigh as if he really believed he was a safe and warm in the arms of his hero again. But sometimes the hero would die, his ancient face still and peaceful, surrounded by cherrywood and the velvet paddings of a freshly polished casket. Then the Boy would shiver on the ground where he slept and a tear would slide slowly down his cheek. I wanted to comfort him, but all I could do was kneel beside him and try to take his hand.
Even in his sleep, he fought me. His memories were like bullets, some only whizzing by and spooking him, other tearing into him and ripping his soul to pieces. The latter came most often, until I wasn’t at all sure how there was anything left of him. So much pain, why didn’t he just let me take him in my arms and sing it all away? I didn’t know, but as long as he fought, there was nothing I could do but brush against him when I could and take his hand for a few seconds when he was too weak to struggle.
Every few days I was called back to the hall of the King of Thieves. Always I’d stare down at the faces of his victims, silently cursing their murderer’s existence, but knowing that I couldn’t do anything. He wasn’t mine to curse. Not yet.
The King of Thieves was not a real king. Not by title, anyway. He was born a lord, but he wielded the power of fear, and he used it wisely. The people called him King of Thieves, not because he stole material things, like gold or jewels. No, he stole lives. So many lives. They also called him the Lord of Death. This was not true, of course, but sometimes I felt like even I did his bidding. Whatever his alias, the Lord was certainly one to be feared. I had begun dreading the days when I would be called to his hall, forced to look upon the cold, pale faces of those who had displeased him, twisted in agony and fear.
I was surprised one night, to see the Lord’s face in the Boy’s dreams. He was standing behind the Girl, one hand buried in her long silvery hair, the other holding a glittering knife. The Girl’s face held no fear, only pleading, but it she wasn’t pleading for the Lord to spare her life. She was begging the Boy to run. A strangled sob escaped the throat of the sleeping Boy, and suddenly I realized that I had found the core of his existence. The reason of the rhyme, the picture, telling me what the puzzle should look like once I’d found all the pieces. The Girl begged him to run, and he had obeyed her. He could never tell her no, and even though he knew that he would be more help to her alive and outside the hall of the Lord, than dead, which he surely would be by now if he had not run, he still considered himself a coward. Which was why he was running toward the Lord of Death, arms outstretched, unafraid. This wasn’t desperation, this was sacrifice.
Chapter 3
The Girl stood by the Lord’s chair, head bowed, eyes fixed on the wine she was pouring. The Lord laughed and ignored her, which gave me an unexpected surge of anger. I should have been glad that he was ignoring her, since most of the people who attracted his attention ended up dead, or worse. But I had the sudden, irrational thought that was really more an emotion that this Girl who meant the earth and sky to the Boy should be more than a ragged, dirty nothing in the hall of a bloody Lord. I shook my head and wondered what had gotten into me. I knelt and pulled the lifeless man on the floor to my chest and whispered soothing words in his ear. His soul was restless, and I did my best to give him peace. It was useless. This man was unprepared for the end and he and I both knew that there was nothing I could do to make what was To Come any easier.
* * *
The Boy didn’t understand the concept of patience. Not like I did anyway. He lived in the here and couldn’t see past now, and since I didn’t really understand time the way that people count it nowadays, I couldn’t exactly help him out. He was making good progress on his never ending journey to the one place no one sane wanted to go. I thought of three ways this could end: Perhaps he Boy and the Girl would die tragically in each other’s arms. Or maybe the Girl would die tragically and the Boy would attack the Lord and also die tragically. Or the Boy would die tragically and the Girl would do whatever she felt led to do in the moment, whether it was dying with him or running. No matter what, the Boy was going to die. I walked closer to his side now, close enough to feel his pain and depression. His existence was a bird caught in a trap, struggling, hopeless, but still beating for life. He slept little, the worries and memories keeping him awake. What little sleep he did manage to catch in the wee hours of the mornings was deep and dark, blazing with empty silence.
There was something beautiful about the Boy’s desperation and devastation. It was like he was incapable of surrender. He had more drive than most people in his place would have displayed. I kept trying to get closer to him, but he held me at a distance. He had accepted my presence, but refused to let it sway his determination. By the time he reached the Lord’s hall, he was a dry cloth stretched over a cage of bones. It disturbed me how closely he resembled the victims the Lord had left for me on so many occasions. The only difference was the fire that still burned in his eye. I decided to call the fire Life.
* * *
Another man had died, but this one had attracted a crowd. He was a man of some importance, judging by the lion seal on his little finger and the murmurs of the people gathered around his dead body. I pushed through the throng and knelt by his side, cradling his head in my lap. I turned to look back at the Lord and anger surged through me at the sight of the Girl pouring wine into his goblet as he stared with impassive eyes at the cold, still body of his victim. But there was nothing I could do.
* * *
The Boy stood at the entrance of the Lord’s hall, steeling himself for what was to come. He had no plan, he had preparation. He knew he was going through the gates of death. I could see it in his eyes. As he stared up at the tall, black spires of the Lord’s hall, his breath turned ragged and for the first time, fragments of fear crept across his face. I tried to put my hand in his, to comfort him, to give him peace. But he pulled away, like always, and I let him. I knew that no matter what, this was the end. He should at least have the privilege of choosing his own death.
The determination in his eyes was unnerving and I knew that nothing but death could stop him. It gave me a strange sense of power, but also made a streak of sorrow run through my heart. I didn’t want this to be the end.
The Lord’s hall was easy to get into. Many people came requesting his audience, begging for the lives of loved ones. The Boy strode through the great oak doors of the Lord’s hall, eyes burning with hatred and determination, footsteps steady and loud. The hall grew silent, everybody pausing to stare at this strange boy who had unabashedly stormed into the lair of the King of Thieves. The Girl’s eyes widened and she dropped the pitcher she was holding. The Lord chuckled quietly as the Boy pulled a knife from his belt, but before the Lord could say anything the Boy was upon him, hand gripping his throat. Guards rushed forward, but I knew they would be too late. The Boy could not be stopped in his anger and bloodlust. I watched the knife rise and fall, heard the Lord’s muffled cry so suddenly silenced, and then the guards were pouncing. The Boy was dragged from the body of the dead Lord and a big, brutish guard raised his own knife to end the Boy’s life. The Boy stood still, waiting for the end. The guard struck, swift and sure, but before the tip of the blade could find it’s intended mark, a servant rushed forward and leapt into the path of the weapon. The startled guard pulled back the dripping knife and stood, staring down in confusion at the woman lying on the ground.
The Boy was also staring, a look of horror and disbelief etched across his features. One word dripped from his lips, burning into the air like a brand.
“Mother.”
Chapter 4
It was like a really bad joke, standing there, helpless, as the Boy who had come to symbolize such life in my eyes watched his mother die for the second time. For a moment, he couldn’t move. I could see his thoughts spinning and twisting as he stared at the lifeless form on the ground. Then he looked up at guard and the darkness in his eyes was enough to make even the strongest of hearts trip over a beat. The guard barely had enough time to take a step back before the Boy was on him. They both crashed to the ground, thrashing and pummeling. Somewhere in the frey I saw the glitter of a knife, but I wasn’t sure whose it was. Suddenly there was a grunt and the pair lay still. The Boy slowly pushed himself to his knees, breathing hard and ragged, staring down at the knife buried to the hilt in the guard’s chest. The Boy tried to stand, but fell back down, and the Girl rushed to his side. That’s when I noticed the blood, seeping outwards from his ribs. I knew that he wasn’t going to last long.
The Girl had her arms around the Boy’s neck and was sobbing into his shirt. I saw her thoughts, flashing reds and blues. She believed he could be saved. She believed there was hope. I wanted to tell her that it didn’t matter, he was going to die anyway. He’d been dying when I’d first come to him in the woods. That’s why I came to him in the first place, why I’d been able to slip my hand into his in moments of weakness. I thought he’d come with me more willingly, but he’d fought until there was nothing left. He reached his goal, and now he faced the end with the same determination he’d had at the beginning.
I reached down and took his hand. For the first time he let me. Then his eyes met mine and I knew he was seeing me for the first time. As I drew the Boy towards me, I felt another hand take my own. Small and pale, it clasped mine tightly. I looked down at the couple, but they only had eyes for each other. As the knife dropped from her fingers and clattered to the floor, we rose above the screams and left the hall together.
* * *
It’s that moment between life and death that always gets me. When everything fades away and the sleeper realizes the gap they just bridged. It’s a beautiful, terrible thing. I remember all of them, those souls that close their eyes one last time and take my hand. I’ve never forgotten one. It is true, I have no mercy. But I do have pity. I do feel their sorrow. For few are ready, but I take them all.
