Six Feet Under in the Sky Prologue
Prologue to Six Feet Under in the Sky. Death and Albus´s first meeting.
Albus stirred, then let out a groan as he pushed his old-man´s body into a sitting position. The world around him for a few moments before steadying. Oddly enough, it wasn't anymore definite. He must have dropped his glasses somehow, since they weren't perched on the end of his long nose like they usually were. Neither, he noticed after a few seconds of blind patting, were they anywhere within reach.
There was just him and the swirling mist.
After a while he stood and began walking down what seemed like a path between the mists. It was impossible to tell how long it was- every time he looked back, the mists had closed in on the path behind him. He wasn't sure what would happened if he stepped off the path into the mists. He wasn't even sure if he could. There was only forward.
But he also wasn't sure if he wanted too. There was an impression, a feeling of need and anticipation for him to reach the end of the path. He didn't know if they were his own emotions, or the lasting impression of the place around him. He hadn't the faintest clue where he was going, or why he wanted to get there anyway.
But there was nothing else to do, so he walked.
And walked.
And walked.
And walked.
One moment there was roiling mist for as far as he could see. The next, he broke through into a perfect kept pastoral garden. Trailing vines, rambling paths, an old but sturdy wooden fence- not to mention pristine white- and carefully trimmed bushes. Behind them, warm and welcoming, was a beautiful thatched cottage, old and comfortable in its antiquity. Albus inhaled sharply and whirled around. But there was no one besides himself in the entire garden. He could not see her, even in this special place of her's.
But the old man did sense another figure behind him. It hadn't hidden, hadn't arrived. It just came into being. The old man turned to face it.
It took him a moment to identify. For a few breaths he swore he was staring at a Dementor, but as his mind began to function past the initial shock, he recognized the figure.
And began to laugh.
"I always thought the stories mixed up Dementors and Death in their descriptions because of the nature of the Kiss. But I appear to be mistaken. It is the Dementors who take after you."
AN UNFORTUNENT EXPERIMENT BY A WIZARD WHO THOUGHT HE COULD RECREATE DEATH. the figure said. MERE SHADOWS OF A TRUE REAPER. OR AN APPRENTICE FOR THAT MATTER. The figure paused a polite distance away from the old man and waited.
"Does this mean you reap souls by sucking them out of their bodies?" the old man asked curiously. "That hardly seems efficient."
ITS NOT. said the figure. AND I DON'T. THAT'S JUST THE DEMENTORS. I THINK THEIR CREATOR MEANT TO GIVE THEM STRAWS INSTEAD OF SCYTHS, BUT THEY COULDN'T HOLD THEM SO HE SPELLED THEIR MOUTHS INSTEAD. THEY HAVE POOR COORDINATION the figure explained. SIDE EFFECT OF THE ROTTING.
"Straws? Really?" The scholar in the old man was aroused.
The figure sighed and gave the impression of rolling his eyes. YES. HE WAS NOTORIOUS FOR HIS BAD WRITING. PROBABLY MISREAD HIS OWN NOTES*. THOUGH WHY HE THOUGHT IT REASONABLE I WALK AROUND WITH A STRAW I HAVE NO IDEA**.
The old man chuckled at the figure's peeved tone. "Absolutely fascinating. But why was he so determined to recreate Death? An attempt to overthrow you?
A BET the figure corrected. HE WAS DRUNK. BAR CRAWLING DWARF BARS IN ANKH-MORPORK WITH A TROLL. The figure spoke as if this explained everything. I'M STILL NOT SURE HOW HE GOT THERE.
"Am I to take that to mean that travel between realities in impossible?"
WELL, CLEARLY NOT IMPOSSIBLE. the figure admitted. JUST HIGHLY IMPROBABLE. AND PROBABLY ONLY POSSIBLE IN A MANER LOGICAL TO A MIND WITH A RATHER DANGEROUS BAC.
The old man's eyes twinkled. "You wouldn't happen to have any drinks on you then?"
NO. SORRY.
They stood in companionable silence for a while, overlooking the garden.
"Do you do this for everyone?" the old man finally asked.
YES said the figure. BUT NOT EVERY REALITY.
ITS A LOT OF WORK the figure added after another pause.
The old man pretended to miss the hint for a few minutes, but curiosity overcame silence. "What waits beyond?"
I´M NOT REALLY SURE the figure admitted. BUT I THINK A LOT OF TRAFFIC.
The twinkle returned to the old man's eyes. "Then I guess I had better wait for it to die down."
UNLIKELY said the figure. BUT YOU'RE WELCOME TO WAIT FOR A WHILE.
*Idric the Inebriated was equally famous for his drinking habits and their effects of his handwriting. Or at least, everyone just assumed they had an effect on his handwriting. No one had seen an example of his writing sober simply from the fact than no one had seen him sober ever. Actually, no one even knew if he was literate and knew how to write at all because plenty of people have tried to scour his notes for the secretes to his successes (and weather or not he was ever successful is a whole 'nother matter entirely) and failed. Even the Codebreaker's and Linguist's Guild couldn't make head-nor-tails of his notes. And the Codebreaker's Guild of Anhk-Morpork gets a lot of business.
** Despite Death's protest, the possibility of a Reaper harvesting souls with a straw is not as outlandish as he'd insist. While every Reaper has their own preferences, Death is rather traditional (or, at least, according to Susan, just "too-damned-stubborn-to-change) and has stuck with a scythe all these years. But Kevin from the reality-third-galaxy-to-the-right-and-just-a-little northwest-and-up changed to a vacuum (Dulex style, 50% off) several years ago and Derek from the same sector has been using a weed-wacker since the six hundredth-four thousand-and-fifty second century of his reality. Though Derek has always been a bit….crotchety compared to the other Reapers. He's the guy you avoid at the once-in-a-billenium parties.