“You want me to what?”
Gord McCowan’s voicebox had said it, not he. He was still in shock.
The figure hulking over him was quite clearly Death. Gord didn’t have any friends who would play a prank of that sort – not any pranks at all, for that matter. They were an earnest bunch, and so was Gord.
Even in his bed, he could see that Death was big. Well over six feet tall; possibly six foot six. The black cloak may as well have been a burqa, save for the hood; it was the kind that topped a sweatshirt or maybe a parka. It was black too. Thanks to some sort of night vision, Gord could see what was black and what wasn’t.
“Aren’t you – supposed to be holding a scythe?” And a large hourglass? That was his voice again. Had Gord been fully aware, he would not have dared; not at all. He must be still sleepy, or something close to.
The creature did not reply. Instead, its resonant baritone voice said, “I need you to assist me in a death.” This ain’t a funeral director; that’s for sure. “In exchange for doing so, you will learn the year of your own death.”
A trade? With Death? The almost homeyness of the offer jolted Gord into wakefulness – and stomach-melting fear. The trouble his voice didn’t have now descended upon it.
“Uh – uh – the year. If…you don’t mind me asking, sir, why – why not the day?”
This time, Death answered him. “You can so choose if you wish, but I must warn you. Many who have heard the day of their death have adjusted their conduct and rendered their prediction false. Should you follow, I am sure that the information you will gain will prove to be useless.
“The year provides an indefiniteness that makes it of value.”
Despite the helplessness in his stomach, Gord had to concede that Death made his point. There wasn’t even any guarantee that changing course would postpone the day; he might end up hastening it. He got up and Death backed away. Gord, standing straight up, saw his eyes rest on Death’s collarbone.
“I’ll take the year.” The fear in his voice was gone now. His subconscious now realized that Death was not there to destroy him, or take him away, but to bargain with him.
“Then we go.”
Now, there was light. He saw an older woman, with a slight smile on her reddened mouth, reading a book. It looked as if she was about to turn in.
“Do not be fooled,” Death told him. “She is a whore. She cuckolds her husband recurrently, using various excuses that are accepted in her subculture. Her ways have made her children directionless and easily distracted from purpose. She believes she has kept the peace, but there is little of the responsibility-taker in her.”
It clicked in. Gord was hearing - from Death, no less! – something he could hear his preacher say. The Whore of Babylon, spreading confusion and pain. So this was a real one.
“What is she dying of?” he asked Death.
“That is not for you to know; it is not part of the bargain we have made.”
There seemed no point in pressing. “Then what shall I do?”
“You will make sure she is ready,” Death instructed. “She must be accepting of her death and must not cause trouble.
“I will go now. When you think she is ready, call for me and I will be back.” And, he was. Gord and this woman were alone.
“Ma’am?”
She looked up, straight at him. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”
“I’m, uh, Death.”
The corners of her mouth turned up more. “Death? That’s not exactly a new one.” Evidently, she had little fear of strangers, Gord noted to himself. Coldly, he found.
But, she was his responsibility. “What I mean is, I’m an envoy – a sort of agent of Death. I don’t rate the cloak.”
That put her at her ease, and that put him at his ease. “Pity. You would have been exotic had you been.”
That snapped his morals back. “I understand that –“ but her look, a polite and inquisitive one, drained them away. She was dead, after all, and he was only the envoy.
Instead of a speech, his brain clicked on an idea. “Would you care to stand up?”
Now her teeth were exposed. “Would you care to help me?” There was something in her eyes that squared with what Death had told him, but Gord just held out his hand. It seemed best to get the job done. She took it, and her well-coiffed brown hair bobbed slightly as she did so. Her ‘do stopped above the ears, making almost for a parody of what a much younger woman would sport. Her mouth was thin, and her dark eyes were small. She smiled easily; Gord noticed how thin she was
As she stood up, he saw his hunch proven to be correct. “Please, turn around.” She did so, and saw her own body with the upper part slumped over. The armchair had enough depth to keep her teetering body from hitting the floor, as yet.
“Golly. I really am dead,” she said flatly with a bit of wonder. The, her eyes fastened upon his. “Do you know what caused it?” Gord shook his head. The top of hers was at the level of his chin.
It had hit her in such a way to make her anxious. “Is there any…other part to this?”
Gord was tempted to tell her that she was to expect the standard treatment. St. Peter, or another angelic gatekeeper, going over her life and pointing out her many sins. For her to express sorrow over - or gloat about. Then, the judgment. Afterwards – well, given what she was, what else would be expected?
But something in her demeanor changed him. He had expected a woman of her sort to be lewd, or self-justifying, or smirky, but she wasn’t. Gord couldn’t see any hint of defensiveness or braggartry.
“Yes, ah, there is. You’ll soon be meeting the real thing. Once I’m through, Death - the real spirit - will take over.”
“The real thing…” She was back to looking at her own body, still slumped. Gord idly noted that he legs were spread with her head dangling just over her lap. That observation led to no other.
After all, she was dead now. Any trouble she had caused, she would no longer be causing it. Her husband likely didn’t now of her misadventures, and they may have well died with her. Gord had to admit to himself that he didn’t know the whole story: maybe her kids would have turned out directionless all the same. It was that kind of culture in some parts. He also knew that some loose-moraled couples didn’t mind the wife doing what she did; for all Gord knew, it had been consensual all the way. She would go and sin no more; that was for sure. So why dwell on it?
“Are you ready?” he asked quietly.
She smiled up at him, in a similar way as from the chair, but there was no tang in the smile this time. “I’ll go quietly,” she replied with quiet firmness laced with a little irony.
Uh-h-h, Death? His thought was to prepare him for the call, but it wasn’t needed. The stiffening of his body, and the shadow of a much taller figure, told Gord that his mission was done.
She looked a little afraid, but largely quizzical. “So you’re Death. You look a lot like the one in the movies.”
The next thing Gord saw was his own room, and his own body lying in sleep. Funny: he had forgotten to check when Death had whisked him away for his errand. He waited, unsure of whether he could go back without Death there also. It was only about two minutes before his wait was ended when the same shadow appeared behind him. When he turned around, Gord saw the same hulking figure looking down at him.
“She was co-operative. You have fulfilled your part of the bargain.”
He still felt a responsibility, perhaps. “Where did she go?”
Death’s face was sheathed in darkness, except for a strangely bulbous nose. But Gord could feel the creature’s eyes lock with his now. He wondered if he had been prying.
“That, you will never know until your time is due. For all you know, your God may be a libertine and she may be cavorting under His benevolent eye. It could be that your impressions are correct and she is suffering without recourse, but you will never know until the death that is your own. Even then, it is likely you will never find out.”
Gord got the message, completely. He just waited as the hood-covered glare seemed to fade.
“Now, to your own. You will die sometime in the Christian year 2038.”
Sixty-one? Gord neither smoke nor drank. He didn’t make any big deal of his diet, but he wasn’t a food slob either. Why so…
But whatever slim chance he had to ask, was gone. His spirit-body was lifted up, moved gently over his own sleeping form, adjusted to match its position, and sunk. Death, by this time, was also gone.
And so was sleep. Gord turned on the bedroom lamp and walked to his desk to write down the number he learned. While doing so, he added a note to search the likely causes of death in males at sixty.
Thinking further, he also added a more personal note to get on with it. He was still single, and he didn’t seem to have that much time now. He wouldn’t be a grandfather, but he still had time to start a family…
