Halton Cray (Shadows of the World Book 1) (33 page)

Thirty

‘The thought of Death, to one near Death is dreadful, oh, ’tis a
fearful thing to be no more, or if to be, to wander after Death; to walk, as
Spirits do, in Brakes of Day; and when the Darkness comes, to glide in Paths
that lead to Graves.’

– John Dryden and
Nathaniel Lee,
Oedipus

It took everything I had
to pull myself from him. He grabbed my hand firmly in his and turned me to face
the direction of Death’s approach. On the other side of the road, something
moved in and out of the shadows. The fog remained too thick for me to discern
any more than just the figure of a man. He crossed the road insouciantly
towards us, and seemed from here very ordinary. Wearing a dark quilted down
jacket, zipped up, his hands buried in the front pockets. I did not expect a
robe & scythe and I wasn’t disappointed. His hood was up and drawn low to
obscure his face, though I could distinguish the outline of his eyes. As he
stepped up from the road onto the pavement where we stood, he unsheathed a hand
and drew back his hood to reveal who he was, or at least appeared to be. Though
a part of me expected to see this, I still took a step back in surprise.

Thom tugged at my hand, as if hoping it was a sign
I’d changed my mind. I couldn’t. I stood firm and swallowed those feelings
Death was conjuring up. Because faithful to Thom’s account of
its
custom
to personify departed loved-ones, Death was now the physical embodiment of
someone I’d known; someone I’d loved. Certainly all the world is a stage, and
here was Death in costume. It was to ease the journey – my transition. I knew
that face he sported immediately; it had imprinted itself on my memory.

Death stepped towards me in the stolen image of
that still face I’d last seen in an open casket. Everything about him resembled
my father, a perfect clone. From his cropped red hair, a shade darker than
mine, and his thick beard, to those grey-blue eyes which mirrored my own; right
down to the tiniest details, like the open pores in his skin and odd strands of
grey in his hair. If I’d been ignorant of Death’s personifications, I might
have believed it truly was him. That my memory of his funeral – his body laid
out against the satin lining of his coffin – was some kind of implanted memory.
I could even remember the fine points of his lifeless but colourful face, and
the way he’d looked asleep. I was so young when he died. He was in truth a
stranger to me now. Though somewhere inside me, a little girl still waited for
daddy to come home. Still loving him; still missing him; and she never grew up,
but slowly forgot herself. And he never came back.

How could Death think that this was someone I would
run into the arms of? But I suppose that that’s exactly what I would have done,
if not for knowing undoubtedly that it wasn’t my dad. What a conflict of
feelings! To hate Death who stood there in the image of someone I should love,
ready to snatch my world from me, and deprive Thom of some happiness.

As he drew nearer, I caught the intense scent of
him that soon hung at my nostrils. He even imitated the smell of my father, so
accurately; his body scent beneath the layer of an early-nineties aftershave. What
could more arouse a memory than a scent? It was so intrusive how Death had
unlimited access to my memories – more access than I had consciously – to use
against me in this way. What terrible trickery! I recalled again that last kiss
my dad had placed on my cheek. I still remembered his voice and the way he
would look at me when it was time for bed. Here was the Angel of Death looking
at me through those eyes. I saw now that they reminded me of Thom’s, too.
Emptiness sat behind them with that lack of a soul; the depths of time without
end.

Thom, invisible to Death, switched hands with me
and roped his other arm around my waist, as if ready to shield me from
impending doom. My belief in
meant to be
had seriously come into
question; this was not meant to be. I couldn’t stay for him and he couldn’t
come with me.

Just a few yards away I suddenly knew that Death’s
touch would mean I’d slipped on the pavement; it would move me ten yards to my
right, to get hit by the car – the car I could now hear racing in the distance
– as if I’d jumped out in front of it. I knew from what Thom had told me: Death
had that ability to balance timing perfectly for his needs. I began to panic; I
didn’t
want
to die. Death had come to take me. Other than via Thom, I
knew now that nothing could prevent this.

Death stood before me, blind to the vampire’s
presence, and in an exact recording of my father’s voice spoke –

‘Lexi,’ he pronounced the variant my father had
used in my infancy, in a tone that expressed he’d missed me. Death’s cloned
hand rose to my shoulder with his index finger outstretched. My hand tightened
on Thom’s, and the engine of my demise grew louder in my ears, as it sped up
the road behind us. I already knew what the poor driver would say to the
paramedic who couldn’t save me, something like ‘she came out of nowhere.’

Thom edged at my side; I heard him whisper that he
loved me. I had no time to reply. It was as if Death had put a spell on me. His
fake fingers hovered before me, though didn’t touch me, as if they were playing
something. Like a puppeteer, holding something yet unseen, he moved it in a way
to distract or hypnotise me. To that I felt my heavy eyes close. In an instant,
I could no longer feel Thom’s hand, and then I could no longer remember his
name, or mine. I couldn’t remember anything.

My life did not file away in a slideshow of
pictures beneath my eyelids. No flash of my past, no memories or moments to
remain for, or to keep me back. All I could feel was that laid in front of me,
and that behind was erased. I could see it was getting lighter. The colour
turquoise seeped into the light and clouded it like paint swirled in water. I
could no longer physically feel my body or the ground beneath it, as if it had
fallen away from me. I was leaving it behind. I felt a wonderful freedom of it,
from a prison of flesh and bone. I was going somewhere, through light and
sound, without moving, as if the universe moved instead of me. Sounds all
around me softly penetrated my senses in notes I didn’t know, perhaps only
comparable to circling the rim of a wet glass with your fingertip. The
turquoise space was boundless and the slightest feeling of pressure came over
me, similar to being suspended in a great volume of water. I was aware of
having no body in this infinite, waterless ocean; and it had no surface.

I could see panoramically: everywhere all at once
with no focal point. It was busy with small flutters and kinks of movement. They
resembled waves on a rolling sea with wisps of prismatic light, as if caught by
a ray of the sun. These waves were within this waterless ocean. I knew instinctively
that I was one of these waves – that each one was a soul. Countless souls! I
knew they were moving through me as I through them. I found that some were
familiar: I had known them before now, in another life. Those that were
unfamiliar, and there were many, I knew I’d never known them. But I felt part
of them, as one great volume of consciousness, spanning space and time, in the
Eternal Now. We all felt simultaneously a euphoric sense of freedom, peace, bliss,
and calm curiosity. Not yet reaching nirvana, just anticipating it. Those
familiar souls drew me to them. I felt they were ready to take me somewhere
new, somewhere deeper and farther, as if they were handing me over at a
crossing point. Amidst them remained a soul that was unlike the others, an
anonymous swell that held no movement. It was not awake here or a part of this
great consciousness. It was unconscious and would not move with us, but remain
here alone. As if fixed at this borderline it was unable to go on or turn back.
It gave off no curls of light like the others did, and its edges were stretched
and uneven as if they had been torn. I couldn’t tell whether it was a familiar
soul – whether I’d known it from my life before; the life I couldn’t now
remember. I would be leaving this one behind. I didn’t want to leave it. I
moved through it and instantly I heard a distant, familiar noise; a voice deep
and strong –

‘She’s
gone; O deadly Marks-Man, in the heart!

Yet in
the Pangs of Death she grasps my Hand:

Her Lips
too tremble, as if she would speak her last farewell.’

With the voice came a reel of familiar images. I
began to remember.

‘Thom!’ I opened my eyes. My skin wrapped me once
more, with the concrete beneath my feet. Did I speak aloud? He couldn’t have
heard me, as he stroked my cheek, kissed my lips, and whispered honeyed words
in my ear –

‘Thou art not conquered! Beauty’s ensign yet is
crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, and death’s pale flag is not advanced
there.’

I couldn’t stem the tears coursing my face. His
hand still locked about mine; the soulless man I loved. I turned to him and he
looked at me with confusion and relief fused into one powerful expression.

‘You came back? You’re not a ghost?’ His hands
clamped the sides of my face.

I put my hands on his. ‘I’m no ghost. I’m here.’

Death remained before me with an aspect of
dissatisfaction on his borrowed face.

‘I can choose?’ I stammered. The car – my death-trap
– with driver unscathed, zoomed past unwittingly with windows down, music
blaring.

‘I can refuse you if I want to?’ I muttered to
myself. ‘And Death shall have no dominion!’

‘And Death shall have no dominion!’ echoed Thom,
following this up with a nervous bout of laughter.

Death looked begrudgingly disappointed, remaining as
that imitation of my dad. His phoney hand fell down in failure. He would not
attempt to touch me; he could not, because I had refused, merely by realising
that I had that choice. And I chose to stay.

It had all been in a few seconds. From the moment
I left my body and Death had shown me the way, until I reopened my eyes, barely
any time had passed.

‘And you saw what I saw, didn’t you?’ I asked
him
,
knowing that he had, for he had shown it to me. He had taken me there.

Unaware that Thom stood at my side, still he said
nothing. He didn’t move either; just stared blankly, as if he’d switched off. I
felt that he wouldn’t leave my side until I consented for him to take me. I knew
he could too. As Thom had said before, he was omnipresent: he could do his
other work even as he stood here with me. But what would happen to me now?
Could he trick me in other ways? He could control the events that would cause
death, but only if I assented first? A million questions raced through my mind.
There were people in the world that survived catastrophic events, as if by a
miracle. Perhaps it just wasn’t their time, or had they refused too? Death
looked disappointed, but not surprised. Were there others in the world who knew
and had refused to part with their soul? A simple knowledge of biology no
longer factored in this equation. I’d seen too much to dismiss the possibility
that the body could live longer if the mind chose to use it. But what would it
look like if you continued to reject Death? Could the mind keep the body in
good condition even? Perhaps just the eyes would still tell the truth of what
lay behind the lie, as the mirror tells the truth about Thom.

One thing I understood: Death’s power was limited.
It could dazzle and distract; take you far enough to forget. But until you consented,
it couldn’t deliver you from the land of the living to the land of the dead. Thom’s
soul had reminded me of my life, and in that moment, I went with what I wanted:
to stay with him.

I hugged closer to Thom who still looked at me in
confusion. Did he know that I’d touched his torn soul? He had no idea of what
was going through my mind. I turned my eyes on Death.

‘I know you cause the demise when someone’s time
comes. I also know you can’t direct the soulless. They kill without your
knowledge. So you’ve no control over when their victims die, even though it
conflicts with your orders, right?’

No response.

‘And their victims have other points in time when
they were supposed to die, on your list?’

During the silence, I snuck a look at Thom; he
seemed hopeful and desperate simultaneously.

‘I know you saw that unconscious soul, too,’ I continued.
‘That soul
you
never took in the first place. So how long did he truly
have left to live? When was his number up, according to your orders?’

Death spoke at last, and in keeping with his
disguise, his voice remained in that flawless replica of my father’s.

‘It wasn’t his time. Even so, according to your
material clocks, it was long ago. He would be dead by now in any event. His soul’s
already been taken. I’ve nothing to do with re-embodiment.’

‘Liar!’ scoffed Thom, inaudible to Death. ‘Alex,
it
can
do it!’

I looked on to Death’s lent eyes and repeated
Thom’s words with less irritation. But my voice changed without my realising
it. I’d passed through the grave and returned with true knowledge of my free
will. A little tipsy on power, and knowing he could do it, I became demanding.

‘Return his soul so that he can live the remainder
of his life, however long or short that is according to
your
clocks, not
ours. When that time is past I will give my consent on that day, too.’

‘This is your time.’

I raised my chin. ‘Evidently, it is not. You’ll
still get one soul at your right time.’

Death kept still, as like that familiar corpse
from the coffin in my childhood. He looked at me so silently, as if trying to
feed my mind with his thoughts. And if I were to guess, I would guess that
Death’s message to me was ‘do not dare imagine I have no dominion whatsoever.’