[New Voices] When Death Died by S. H. Marpel
Even Death can die - and he wants his story told before he goes. So he finds the mystery writer John Earl Stark...
I’m skipping to this story early, as it has a very valid parable about Death. As a character, Death shows up later, at least once. The key character introduced, right at the end is Bernie, who assumes two forms. Jude and Sal you’ve already met from the first Ghost Hunters. (And you’ll meet Gaia here, but her story is far more than this sideways introduction…)
OF COURSE, DEATH HAD horrible timing.
He showed up just after I'd buried my long-time friend Bertie - a golden lab I'd loved like family.
He wanted his story written.
I told him to get lost. Because I had nothing to lose at that point. I wasn't afraid of him.
He knew that I was his only option. if he killed me, then no one would ever, ever write his story. And he'd live on forever knowing that he'd blown his only chance to set his record straight.
A lot of people have said a lot of bad things about Death - and here was his chance to get the truth out.
But he'd started out on a wrong foot - first by taking my best friend on Earth, and then showing up in a costume designed to irritate me.
So I turned away. I didn't care anymore. At least I had a chance to tell him so in very impolite terms. He could do what he wanted.
And Death had no choice in what he had to do next.
I
SAL AND JUDE FOUND me at the top of a hill, in a pasture.
I was leaning on a shovel in front of a low pile of sod and dirt. Sweat streaming down my back and arms, pooling into my leather gloves as I leaned into that light-tan handle on an old, blackened shovel bit.
At least the tears had stopped. But the ache in my heart might take awhile to quit.
Bertie was gone. Where, I didn't know. I found her body this morning, like she was sleeping. Except she was too still. And I petted her one last time. Then stood up and turned back to my morning chores. They had just gotten longer.
I was already going into the barn to get some scratch for the chickens and collect the early morning eggs. So when I came back, I brought an old, ragged tarp that was better at keeping off more dust than any of the rain. Faded brown, not quite as light brown as Bertie's fur. Like the worn handle of that shovel I'd brought out as well.
Wrapping Bertie' still form in that tarp was the beginning of the stream of memories I let flow in my mind, even though I kept the tears batted back. I needed to see my path in front of me as I carried her and that shovel to up the pasture hill by my cabin. To a place she could see the sunrise in the morning and enjoy the God-given sunsets in the evening. Or just fill her last habit - of waiting for me to come back from checking cattle.
Bertie used to go with me, but when her joints and heart started giving her trouble, she would just lay there and watch me go down the path and come back. Once I figured this out, I made sure to come see her at that spot - just so she could walk back to my cabin with me.
I recalled that Sal and Jude met Bertie before they met me. She greeted them as friends with tail wagging and her wide smile. I still saw them in my mind as on that first day, smiling back and petting Bertie.
"Ahem."
Right on cue. Those girls had perfect timing. I stuck the shovel into the firm sod at one end of the dirt pile, took a glove off to wipe my face drier. Bare hands do that better than sweat-soaked gloves. Leave less dirt-streaks.
Then I turned to them. "Hi-ya Jude, Sal."
And they both came and hugged me without saying anything. Of course, that just started the tears again and my quiet sobs. Not that I hadn't helped both of them like this when they needed it. Of course, guys are trained to keep this all inside. Like hell.
Because these two were closer than sisters, closer than lovers. They were dear friends - and should I say - soul mates. And even if any of us could talk right then, we had no words and didn't need any.
When we each pulled back, I saw their eyes weren't exactly dry, either.
"Had your morning coffee?" I at last asked them both, when I knew I could speak without a cracking voice.
They each shook their heads 'no', each still with their misty eyes, and led me back down the path toward my cabin.
The shovel stood silent sentinel behind us, watching over the fresh grave in solitude.
As we got within a few paces of my cabin, Sal stopped us all. A look from her to Jude received a nod back. "John, hold out your hand, you've got an incoming mug."
I did, and found myself holding my favorite chipped china mug, filled up just to where I liked it. I could smell the chicory-blend and something more.
"Cinnamon?"
Jude smiled, a small and quiet one, then nodded. She and Sal each had their own mugs and were sipping them.
Sal again broke the quiet morning. "I'll tell you for both of us that we share your deep feelings for Bertie. And if we find her spirit-form roaming about, we'll bring her by for you." Jude only nodded, her eyes misting again, red-rimmed.
"But as bad timing as this may be, you've got another customer for your story-writing. And it looks to be a doozy story." She switched her mug to her opposite hand and then moved to hug her sister. "Jude and I appreciate the morning coffee. More than you know." Sal's eyes misted again. And she tried to speak, but couldn't.
So they shifted out again. And left a tingling vibration in the green stone pendant hanging from it's woven neck-cord down to my chest. Meaning - they'd be back instantly if I needed them for anything. All I had to do was call them through it.
I stood a moment in the quiet, listening to the bird songs and cicada chirping's. Whoever it was could wait until I was ready.
Good and ready.
Once my eyes had quit misting and my heart was beating a bit more normal pattern. Even though I knew the heart-ache would only leave sometime later.
II
OFFENSIVE IS A LIGHT term for what I saw when I went to open the door to my cabin. So was overweight. And the smell in that cabin almost made me gag.
And that was through the screen door.
So I turned on my heel and walked out onto the thin grass that was working in from the edges of the gravel. I didn't have many visitors who needed to park here, anyway. Most nowadays were simply shifting in or manifesting as some apparition.
This one I would meet on my own terms. I could guess that this proved you only had one chance to make a good first impression – and whoever it was had blown that chance all to heck.
I just sipped my mug of delectable coffee and glared at whoever it was who was trying to make my bad morning worse.
At least now I had something to focus my anger on.
- - - -
OF COURSE "WHOEVER" just glared back. And it was a draw. I was outside, and they had the inside of my cabin.
But I had a big mug of coffee, and lots of farm chores to do when the coffee ran out. Once they left, I could simply open the windows and take my laptop out to some shady spot where the clean breeze could find me.
If the stink hadn't left by the time I got back, I knew some girls who could fix that for me. Sure, I didn't need maids. And my idea of cleaning was as high as most confirmed bachelors. But calling in a favor to spruce up the place after it had been spelled into a high-stunk mess was something any of my gal-friends could do with a wave of one delicate pinkie.
(I'd seen them do it quietly without asking, several times before. And I'd give them a hug and a kiss in return - to thank them. Hey, it got the place clean and sweet-smelling, so that was the least I could do for them.)
All that musing and looking around the farm helped me cool off some more, even though the day was warming up.
Eventually, some rotund form of smoky, filmy unctuousness appeared nearby. My visitor had gotten tired of waiting.
It was the same person. I could tell by the gross over-application of several perfumes, the same stench I'd left on the porch.
A dusky voice opined, "Well. The mountain can always come to Moses, instead."
It was apparently a man in a woman's rainbow-colored pantsuit. Glittery eyeliner and pink-glazed cheeks, with scarlet lipstick. Multiple earrings in each ear, none of them matching.
I just stood there, sipping my coffee. And appreciating that the breeze was coming in from behind me.
This appearance stuck out its hand. "Hi, I'm Death."
- - - -
I TOOK MY OTHER HAND to grasp my coffee mug but left my first one there as well. His proffered hand stayed un-shook.
"Yeah, so?"
Death frowned at me. "Not like you're supposed to be happy to see me, but isn't that a bit rude?"
That last straw broke the dam. "Like I should CARE what you THINK! You just took away one of my best friends, and I'm always cleaning up after your mistakes. You stunk up my main cabin and you're dressed to offend anyone who comes your way – except a tiny, teeny, subset culture only found in the most degraded cities we have. Why the HELL should I care about manners for a slob like you? You sure don't care a whit about being considerate to ME!"
Death just glowered back at me. I'd got "him" right where he lived. And he was speechless.
So I piled it on. "You're probably here just to get your story written. And it's obviously a mystery – or horror – or you don't like the way people talk about your reputation."
While he softened around his eyes, he still was rigid with his fists and jaw clenched.
"Look," I continued. "You're purposely working at being as offensive as possible. You actually stink - and hopefully it won't take forever to get that stench out of my home. I could go on about your purposely appearing morbidly obese, or dressing just to provoke some 'offensive' comment - when you're the one being offensive on purpose. But let me tell you: there's a reason I came out here to Flyover country. Your 'woke' efforts won't draw water out here."
Death's face became even paler under his thick makeup.
But I pushed on. "Look, just leave – go back to wherever you came from. I don't have to and don't intend to write any story for you. If this is all you think of humanity, then you need to get a completely new education about real living. I liked you better when you wore black oily rags and appeared as a skeleton with a scythe. Even rattling chains like Dickens. So go ahead, kill me and then you're stuck. Whatever reason you have for wanting your story written will die with me."
My voice was rising and it didn't crack. Like I was channeling my own Bertie, who would be barking up the devil right now. "You can just go frig off. Back to wherever you came from - and if you dare to come here again, it had better be cleaned up and presentable. You're the worst, rudest god I've ever encountered. I'm done with you."
And so was my coffee at that point. I walked over the few steps to my porch and set that mug down on the railing with a firm, careful placement. Then picked up one of my worn cedar staffs as I strode off down another cow path that wouldn't take me by Bertie's fresh grave, but would take me to my cows who could lighten my dark mood.
No, I didn't turn back to see what that frigging Death did. I seriously didn't care.
III
ONCE I'D SCRATCHED several backs, shoulders and necks of some very caring cows - the ones that came up to me, anyway - I was calmed down enough to think more clearly.
And reached up for my pendant to call an old friend who could help me make sense of what I'd just seen.
The earth rumbled slightly around me, as the cows moved back to give us both some room.
Gaia, that earth goddess I've written about, soon appeared in a cowboy-tailored chambray blouse, tucked into some stove-pipe tight black jeans. Those were in turn tucked into some black snake-skin cowboy boots with silver tips. All accenting her very curvy features, while wearing her hair long, brunette with blond highlights cascading across her shoulders and down her back. All framing her concerned face - deep blue eyes with a warm and caring smile. A sight for any eyes, sore or not.
She stepped forward and we were soon hugging as dear friends. It was always good to see and feel someone who was older than this planet, but didn't look or feel a day over 20. I didn't have to let go right away, so I didn't. And she was evidently loving my attention - so we stood there for awhile in the shade. And the breeze turned fragrant with summer blossoms.
Gaia knew how to comfort me. Soft, inviting, and caring. Turned a dark morning into light. I was blessed to have a dear friend like this - and all the others I'd met since joining the Ghost Hunters.
At last she pushed me away to look into my eyes. "Heard you had a tough start of a day."
I just nodded. "One real death, and a 'comic' apparition who claimed he was."
She shook her head, and her wavy long hair bounced in the breeze. A light chuckle warbled from her throat, which made me smile. "Well, they were both Death."
"Of course I knew some people thought he was a jerk, but writing up his story at this point would paint him with a capital 'J'."
Gaia shrugged. "My cousin can be vexing, that's for sure. But being rude isn't one of his usual calling cards. He must really need your help."
"That's a stupid way of trying to get it. Just stupid! I can't describe it any other way. Big City BS doesn't work out here. He was playing all the victim cards at once - I - I - just on top of taking Old Bertie away. So he can just go screw himself. Pardon my French, but he's a jerk...."
She took her petite hand and put it across my mouth. "You're going to work yourself into a tizzy. And today is too nice a day to waste on 'jerks'. Look, let's walk down the path this tree line makes, and I'll help you balance out your life. We can walk and talk, or we can just walk."
Her arm around my waist, and mine around her shoulders, we just walked for awhile. Most of the tension left my arm and back as we did. Her own long legs matched my stride easily enough, her hip moving lightly against mine. And her scent of wild roses made me feel every bit a human male.
Once we got close to a fallen tree, she motioned for us to stop. And there she cuddled, sitting next to me with her head on my shoulder.
The world was a good place again.
- - - -
"JOHN, WOULD YOU MIND telling me the happiest thoughts you can recall about your Bertie?"
And so I did, the memories flooding through and bringing more than a few tears with them.
Gaia's eyes matched mine as she listened. The pictures seemed to flow as a motion picture in front of us. Some of the worse times came forward as well, such as the time she broke a leg. She was fending off a pack of feral dogs when hardly past being a pup herself. But then came the many walks we took, on a long leash, getting her exercise despite that cast. I'd tie her up a ways off from the cows I'd visit with their young calves. So as to not excite them. When I'd come back, she'd snuggle up for petting and kiss my face with her licking.
Other stories came through, and even how she simply would wait and watch for me to come home when she was older and grayer.
And then setting her body down to its final rest, understanding that the Bertie I'd known was not going down into that ground, but had already left.
Gaia was looking up at me when I'd run out of talking. That quiet, patient smile of hers softening my own frown into an appreciative gaze.
Then she kissed me on my cheek. "Thanks, John. Your memories are welcome - I'm so glad you shared them with me. Even your non-fiction is great storytelling. You bring me balance with your perspective of life. And I learn more every time I listen to your shared stories."
She hugged me and held me close.
And I just felt better. By miles.
- - - -
WE EVENTUALLY GOT GOING again to head back to my cabin. I turned the herd into another fresh paddock with her help. And many of them came up to her for scratching, even the young ones. Regardless of their rush to get some of that fresh clover and grasses.
She came up to hug me again as we turned to walk up the cow-path toward my cabin. We walked in silence again, the sounds of our boots and jeans against the tall grasses and forbs made a rhythmic swish as we went.
This path took us close to Bertie's resting place, so I paused to pick up that shovel from its sentinel duties. After we got to the cabin, I'd return it to it's own spot in the barn.
Gaia looked up at me as we neared my cabin. "So, have you reconsidered your decision about my cousin Death?"
I chuckled. "Hadn't given it much thought. I mean, I'm use to cleaning up after him. I'm both the midwife and undertaker around here. And have to ship most of our calves off for other pastures each year. So I have a very real arrangement with both life and death on this farm. On top of that is dealing with the various ghosts and helping them move on, all because of my 'day job'."
"Does that mean you'll help him or not?"
"Only if he gets real and quits playing those victim cards in my face."
"By 'real' you mean...?"
"Having the good manners and common sense to show up in some respectful attire. Not stinking up my small cabin like some two-bit hooker looking for her next fix."
Gaia stopped us and looked up at me with a feigned shock on her face.
I had to chuckle. "No, of course I don't mean that last - well, not really. He did stink it up, though. But the 'victim card' description still stands. We've all got problems. But I am certainly not scared of dying. He knows that. So he wants his story written up. So what? As far as I'm concerned, he can stand at the back of that very long line of other stories that came well before he showed up."
"And what could he do to see you now?"
We still hadn't moved. I stuck the shovel down into the dirt again, and placed each of my hands on her athletic shoulders. "You're really going to bat for him? Oh - because he's key to keeping things balanced."
Gaia nodded, not moving her eyes from mine.
"And he's got something seriously out of place that he needs to talk with someone about?"
She nodded again.
I sighed. "OK. Black suit and tie. No weird makeup. Unscented - odorless. He knows I don't mind working with him, but I won't work for him. He also knows he royally screwed up this morning, so he'd better do his homework on how to get back into my graces. Because I'm definite and serious when I say that I don't need to write up anyone's stories. Just because he's Death doesn't mean diddly-squat to me."
Gaia just smiled.
"What? You're smiling now." Of course that made me smile, too.
"Because it might sound trite, but you're so cute when you're mad."
I just pulled her to me and hugged her tight. Which lasted a long while.
IV
FIRST PRESENT THAT showed up was a Tupperware container of Hami's Macaroon cookies on the seat of one of my chairs next to my cabin's front door. A post-it note said simply, "With thanks for your consideration. D."
That evening, I returned from a hot, sweaty day on the pasture to find an iced carafe of Hami's famous lemonade waiting for me - on top of a thoughtful condensation-absorbing tea towel. I enjoyed the entire quart that evening. Of course, once I'd refilled my mug for the last time and sat it down, emptied - the carafe and tea-towel simply disappeared right after.
And when I trudged down my graveled drive to the mailbox that next afternoon, I found a parchment envelope inside with officially-canceled postage attached. It was addressed to me in an ancient hand-written script.
Back at my cabin, I opened it. The card inside said simply, "May I have an appointment, please? Just note down your most convenient time and close the note, returning it into the envelope when you've decided."
I picked out a time for the next afternoon, wrote it down, replaced the card in the envelope - and both vanished from my desk. Only to be promptly be replaced by a simple, small Thank You card. The interior had a similar hand-written script, "Thanks again - D."
Of course, I cleared my calendar - which wasn't so hard, since I only needed to put off starting a new story for an afternoon. I'd prefer to have set out a specific hour of time to spend on him, but only thought of that later. Meaning it might take the few hours before I had to check my cows again (which comes after dinner). So if this appointment took a little while, I was ready.
I hoped.
- - - -
THERE WAS A KNOCK AT the door, right on time. Exactly. Through the screen and curtain I could see a shadow of someone tall out there.
I opened the heavy inner door, and now could see a tall man through the screen. Dressed in all black, even his hair. About all I could see. Then I opened the screen door.
A wide smile, dark eyes, and an open hand greeted me. "Hi, I'm Death. Thanks for inviting me."
I shook his hand this time. Firm grip, but not overpowering. His eyes were deep, almost black irises.
Then I saw him raise an eyebrow.
"Oh, that's right. Sorry. Won't you come in?" I backed out of his way, letting him have a seat on the couch while I pulled my rolling chair out from in front of the writing desk, and sat so I could face him.
Then waited there.
After a while, Death got the hint. It was his turn.
"OK. Well, thanks for having me. I guess I need to apologize for the last time we met. And tell you that you're right. About everything. So, again: sorry. I'm quite sorry. And funny enough, in my line of business, that's something I've never had to say before. And haven't. Even when I was wrong about who died. Because being separate from all the grief and suffering any particular loss causes – that's just part of my job description."
He paused. And waited.
"So, you need your story told, is that right?"
Death nodded.
"How did the overweight getup in the smelly rainbow pant-suit fit in?"
"Thought it would make a great opening."
I just shook my head. "By the sound of it, you've been listening to some of those left-coast movie-making clowns."
Silence.
Finally, Death nodded. "Probably so, come to think about it. There's a lot of media out there that pushes those themes. They seem to be popular."
I gave a wry smile. "Well, that may be – in their own media bubble. From all you've seen, does that add up? Do most people really think or act that way?"
"You mean, like a victim, an oppressed minority?"
I shrugged.
He shrugged. "Not so much."
"Do you even know what makes a story and why it's important to get it right?"
"I thought I did."
"Well, let's back up a bit. I know you've got a story that needs telling. Enough that you'd come in a requested, odor-free black suit and tie just to talk with me. I just need to know that you're going to tell me the real story and not some Hollywood fiction that won't even pay back its investment."
At this, Death sat back. He'd never looked at this before. Not that we'd call this his "life” story, but whatever he'd figured his story was just got thrown out the window. Puzzlement ruled his face.
"OK, that's a real rug-puller, right? Sorry. My turn to apologize for that paradigm shift. I should have given you some foreshadowing or drop a clue or something."
Death nodded.
"Alright. Now we can start over. Almost nobody knows what their own story is. For some, it's a romance, for others – a mystery. Some people think the non-fiction world they live in is a fantasy dream state that will someday be over – like when they retire.
“But you and I know that most people won't make a choice like that, because they've already agreed to simply settle for the story other people have force-fed them. Even when someone points out to them that they can create any sort of world they want.
“Am I right? Does this fit in with what you've seen in all your multi-millennium operation?"
Death relaxed his face, nodded, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "So you're saying I don't have a choice in what story I want to tell, but it's probably not what I think my story is, anyway?"
"Pretty close. What's more accurate that if you really know what makes a good story - and that idea of 'good' is what has consistently kept books selling and changing hands all through the centuries - then you can start to narrow down to what your own story actually is."
"And you authors are better off telling me what a good story is - so it's like that old phrase, 'Don't try this at home without professional supervision'?"
I had to roll my eyes and chuckle. "That explains why suicides have such bad reputations. Amateurs trying to DIY something they shouldn't be touching."
Death smiled at that. "Sure. Did you know that there's a longer history of something or someone simply having their 'time' come around - and time travelers observed this over and over - that no matter how much someone or something tried to keep from dying, it would be another way and slightly another time, but 'everything happens for a reason'."
Of course that just confirmed what I'd suspected for some time. "The very action of living then means death is inevitable. And so there's a greater reason for living than most people suspect?"
Death's smile became a grin. "Your self-improvement background is showing. But that's true. People have really no reason to be afraid of me. They should be more afraid - as I think you or some other authors said - of "dying with your story still inside you". That would be the greater waste. Those are the lives I used to think were my particular form of sin - taking lives that weren't fully lived. But of course, your historical culture has long held other options as true that aren't as popular these days."
"Such as?"
"Well - reincarnation, for one."
"So we are just trying over and over until we get it right?"
"Something like that. Although maybe living isn't just to make other people happy, or make a lot of money, or achieve enlightenment. There's that other idea that living itself is an endless journey."
"And the journey is more important and more rewarding than the end itself."
"In that concept, then death is just another doorway."
"Can't you tell me what happens when you do your job - where do people go, their spirit or soul?"
Death shook his head. "Sorry, that's something that's above my pay grade. If I did know, then I couldn't tell you. Like time travelers can't tell you your own future - because that would become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Sure, you may or may not get there - but when you focus on one result, you'd then miss the real action - which is enjoying the ride."
"So what about pets we have that die suddenly?"
"It's probably too easy to say something like 'their time had come' - but it's closer to the truth."
"Kinda sucks, either way, though."
"Sure, unless you pull that trick that Gaia did with you."
"You were listening in?"
Death sat back on the couch. "Sorry, but in my business, there's no such thing as real privacy. I could come at any moment. Sure, I don't usually listen in - I'm way too busy for trivial pursuits - but you left me with the problem of how to get you to write my story."
"That gives us another discussion for another time – but tell me: what did Gaia do with me?"
"She got you to realize that the time any pet or fellow human spends with you - their journey alongside you - is what's important."
Death sat forward again, looking intently into my eyes. "You keep those ideas in your mind and those are the things that are valuable to you and others about that individual. Animal or human - how did they help you live your own life and what lessons did you learn from them?"
"Like - what stories did they tell you with their actions?"
That made Death's mouth drop open. I'd struck close to home.
And he sat back on my couch again, looking up at the ceiling. Quiet.
So I gave him his time.
He finally grinned and looked back at me. "Say, would you like me to conjure up some of your great chicory-blend coffee for you? No tricks - just the way you like it. Because you might have just explained something to me."
I nodded. A little leery. Then at the next moment, a mug of steaming brew was in his own hands and my favorite mug was within reach of mine. As I pulled it toward my face, the smell was even better than I'd experienced before. And he got just the right amount of honey in it.
"You know, Death, the rumors about you aren't anywhere near true."
He chuckled a bit. "Now we're getting back to the problem I came to you with."
"Which is?"
"I wanted to tell you my story before I died with it still in me."
- - - -
V
HERE WAS ONE OF THOSE moments where I had to quickly swallow to keep that coffee from coming out my nose. "Surprised" was an understatement.
"You're kidding. How does Death die?"
"Oh, same as you or your pets or other relatives you've known. There will be someone else to take my place, it's just a natural phenomenon. 'Gods might be immortal..."
"...but it doesn't mean they can't be killed.' And what you're saying is that if they quit having a reason to continue their journey, then their lifespan quits for them - death."
He smiled a dark smile over the rim of his coffee mug.
"Well that's a great opening scene for your story. But it's not the plot by itself."
"Not even a great ending?"
"Sorry, I don't write tragedies. They don't sell as well as good endings."
Death frowned. "You can't be serious. Or you aren't taking me serious."
"No, you're not listening to yourself, you aren't taking your own business seriously."
"My business is the serious one of death and dying. Not helping my subjects achieve some happily-ever-after."
"No, you're wrong. Your business is opening doors for people."
"Doors - like some hotel doorman? I should invest in an umbrella to shelter them from rain as I take them from this life to wherever they're going?"
I chuckled at that image. "You know, Death, you've got a fine sense of humor."
"Yeah, dark satire."
We both chuckled at that.
- - - -
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THIS Death job is just opening doors?"
"Well, you don't know where the spirit or soul goes, but you have your job to do. And life is more valuable if you consider that it's your journey and how you interact with people around you.
“You're then simply opening portals to another experience for that individual. And it's on them if their own life is meaningless - a doorman just wants to help people out of their car and inside the hotel.
“That's the doorman's job. Other people assist them inside the hotel. And the car driver simply moves the now-empty car along."
"And you buried your Bertie as the 'car driver'."
A tear wanted to form in my eye. I nodded and sipped to let my throat and voice relax.
"There – right there. That's shows what meaning Bertie's life holds for you. But you aren't doing your job in your own life if you are holding onto grief. That's what Gaia was trying to tell you. She was trying to help you find balance."
I sat back and relaxed a bit in my rolling chair. "You mean that her co-journey with me is the real value I should cherish, not the form I buried?"
Death nodded. "Right. And that's the reason I think I'm done here and have to move on."
"No, you don't. That logic doesn't scan."
"Why not? I've just given up the secret to having a valuable lifetime. You write that up and I can move along to another job."
"Sorry, no. It doesn't work that way - although you can be sure I'm writing up this interview."
"What do you mean 'doesn't work that way? What makes you a sudden expert on my profession?"
"Because you've already explained your own laws to me. You've just given me your job description."
Death relaxed on my couch and scanned across my ceiling, trying to recall what we'd talked about.
"Gaia can't change the laws of this universe any more than you can. I don't doubt that any god of death can die, or that they can even commit suicide or the equivalent. But just writing up your story won't let you die. That's not your choice - just like it's not mine."
"Wait – you mean that time you almost died of cancer and then didn't? Why wasn't that cheating Death of my due?"
"Because I wasn't done yet. I had more story within me. Even though I didn't have a clue what that story was."
"Like you're telling me - until a few minutes ago, I didn't know what a story was, and so I now probably still don't..."
"...and telling someone your story doesn't mean it's over. It's just another chapter that ends on a high – or low – note. But like I said, people who live long are the ones that consider their chapters endings as just another opening to following chapters."
"Like people live in serials."
"Or a collection of short stories with the same main character."
We both sipped our coffee at this point. Between the two of us, we'd officially bitten off more than we could swallow with out chewing carefully.
At last Death looked at me again. "How do you figure that I can't just die? I've seen many people just quit living. Multi-millennium's worth. And I've been called to collect people who even surprised me that their life was over - long or short. I've even thought at times someone must have made a mistake at calling me. And the next moment, we were both just standing there looking at their empty body..."
I interrupted. "Let's take up Gaia, then. She has never told me that she knew who or what she was before she was born an Earth goddess. And like you said, goddesses are immortal, but can die - or be killed. But otherwise, they keep on going down that journey."
Death just nodded. "Of course, you're leaving out another valid theory of what's on the other side of that doorway."
I raised an eyebrow and waited.
"Perhaps (as a tiny few have ventured) we are all simply an assemblage of ideas here – with a single purpose – to put ourselves to a test in this 'real world' and see what effects we can create, or what situations we can solve."
I had to agree with that. "You know, I noticed that once – where a person died and then attributes of that personality started showing up around me in other living things. When another pet died, then Bertie took up the actions that I expected from that other pet before. Like those ideas then dispersed to the other life forms around them. Reminds me of sitting in the back of my Chemistry class and figuring out that Entropy logically proved life after death – just not how."
Death nodded. "Even I don't know that answer, but we both know that constants are constant."
He rose at that point, and vanished his own coffee mug. "Time for a walk. I think you're nearly done with my story except how it ends."
As he stood, his dark suit hung wrinkle-free, as it he'd never been sitting down in it and crunching it into my couch. And was quickly through my door with hardly a swish in passing.
I took a last gulp of coffee, set my own mug down and tried to catch up with him before the screen door closed. While he had as long a stride as mine, he did pause outside so that we could walk together in that sunny day.
VI
TOO SOON, WE WERE AT the small mound of dirt that said where Bertie's body lay.
"Actually, John, this dirt mound tells more than just the body of your friend. It will forever remind you of the love your pet shared with you and all the great moments you've experienced."
"So you're saying that there isn't really any loss when someone dies."
"Not if you remember their moments you shared and incorporate them into your own journey."
"And my own stories that I write."
"Even if no one will ever consider them other than fiction."
I nodded at that, and Death did, too.
"Another question, if you can answer it - what about ghosts? Will I see Bertie again as a spirit-guide?"
Death just gave me a wry grin. "Ghosts are exceptions to the rules. I don't have all the answers to all paranormal activities. But you might remember about the idea of life being a collection of ideas assembled for a certain purpose. Once they tell you their story, and you help them examine all sides of it, then they move on through that inevitable doorway."
"And spirit-guides, like Jude and Sal?"
"You'll have to ask Ben to pull up some references for you on that one. You and I know that spirit-guides exist, and in certain cases ghosts can evolve into them. But it's safe to say that there aren't very many writings about those or what's definitely on that other side of that doorway, after any earthly journey is over. Your 'fiction' stories might be the only textbooks available on this.
“And there was that entity known as 'Steve Jobs', whose last words told us something was over there, for sure. And there are a few glimpses people had after coming back from an out-of-body experience. Those are all tantalizing descriptions, but too short."
"So you're saying, 'your guess is as good as mine'?"
Death just shrugged. "Sorry. Again, that's above my pay grade."
He motioned and we continued on that cow path down the other side of that hill.
Both of us quiet, with mutual food for thought.
At last, in the shade, I touched his arm and we stopped.
“There are some questions I still have.”
"If I can answer them, I will."
"What was with the get-up you wore when we first met?"
Death closed his eyes in a wince. "Ooh, I hoped we could forget that."
I just waited and looked directly at him.
"OK, it's a bad habit I have of showing up as what people most don't want to see."
"Please, clarify."
"Most people have a fear of death, and want to feel afraid – or figure they're supposed to. You don't like victims - people who blame others for their own situations instead of working to improve them. And your own media is full of these 'outrage mobs' and 'disadvantaged minorities'."
"That's where the 'fear of death' comes from?"
He shrugged again. "More or less. Fear, like suicide, is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. People and animals hang onto images and memories of situations that threatened them. Yet your own religions and ancient philosophies teach letting go and forgiveness - putting those incidents behind us as evaluated facts.
“And also they write about putting emphasis on remembering the good moments, to learn from those as well. Fear is destructive, and has been used as a control factor through history. Yet if people would study their own histories, their philosophies, their religions, they'd see again - as many authors have posited - that all stories have already been written, all problems have already been solved. Any new story is an old plot retold with fresh faces."
I was smiling at his metaphor. "And those who refuse to study their own history are condemned to repeat it."
Death raised his eyebrow and gave me a wry grin. "That's a bit dark for someone who likes to write happy endings."
I looked around the shady glen that opened onto the pasture. "I think it's all about the moments. Resolving the bad ones and living for the good ones."
Death nodded. "That will work. I'll give it some testing and let you know."
"Meaning, my time is coming soon?"
He chuckled and put his hand on my shoulder. It was warm to the touch.
"No, John, nowhere near. All I was wanting to ask if I could drop by from time to time and share some of the more remarkable stories that I hear from my job as 'doorman'."
I was smiling again, especially as I felt relief from knowing I still had a lot of stories to tell. "Well, since you're in the neighborhood so often every year, sure."
He stuck out his hand for me to shake, and I did.
"One last question though - kinda like Santa Claus, how are you all over the place and all the time?"
He chuckled and grinned. "You don't read your own books? Simultaneous time. Ask your time benders how they do it. Tess can tell you. All I know is, there's plenty of me to go around."
With that, he stepped back, gave me a casual salute, and disappeared like a shadow into the bright sunlight.
VII
TYPING AWAY AT MY LAPTOP, my coffee steaming, I heard the screen door knock at its doorway frame.
Looking up, I saw a black and white border collie sitting there with a letter-sized paper in its mouth.
Once it saw me look up, the dog placed the paper gently on the decking and then walked backward to let me open the screen door. Once I had, I propped the door open with my foot while I picked up and read the paper.
To no one, I said out loud, "This is a job application and resume."
The collie thought in my mind. "Yes, sir, it is."
Used to this, from my earlier Ghost Hunter experiences, I sent back, "And you heard there was a 'job opening'?"
"Sir, I'm very sorry for your loss. But yes, some friends of yours told me that I might be useful to you about now."
"Friends?"
"They'd prefer to remain anonymous. No, it wasn't Sal or Jude, but you can see that those two are on my sheet as references."
"It says here you are a shifter with a long history. Is that supposed to impress me?"
The collie shifted into human form, about my height. His hair was salt and pepper, trimmed closely. He wore a three-piece suit of charcoal gray with a light-gray button-down shirt, a white vest, black tie. And held his hand out to shake, which I did. A firm, polite grip.
"Sir - or if would you prefer to be called Mr. Stark - I am only here to be of service. And I prefer the canine appearance. But we can talk this way if you'd like. I do not chase cats, but will ensure that your cabin and barn are secure from unwanted intruders, your chickens safe. And I am obviously very good at helping you herd cattle as you need. But if you'll check toward the bottom..."
I looked and read. His speech was very accurate English, although I couldn't place the dialect.
"...I'm also well trained in American English and can be an on-farm proofreader."
I had to smile.
"Your name is Bernie?"
"Short for Bernard, which was an unfortunate naming since my birth-litter was next to another's."
"A litter of big pups, also multi-colored?"
Bernie nodded.
"And you live outdoors by preference?"
"But devoted to your needs, as any good manservant."
"OK, you've got the job. On one condition."
"Sir?"
"Call me John, OK?"
Bernie again nodded, more relaxed now.
"The condition is that you tell me the stories of your experiences from time to time."
At that Bernie shifted back down to border-collie size and gave a tongue-lolling grin. Along with a wide-wagging, white-tipped tail.
We were going to get along great, I could tell.
Another selection from the Ghost Hunters Primer
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