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Chapter Six
Rose Bellham was ninety five years old that day.
It was a big event. All her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren were able to get together for the first time in a very, very long time. She'd smiled widely, greeted her guests with her usual enthusiasm, and thought that this was a very nice thing to go out with. If her husband could have been there, it would have been perfect, but he had come to her his entire life. It was her turn to finally come to him.
Rose Bellham was ninety five years old exactly, as the grandfather clock in her bedroom (Their bedroom. Always their bedroom) struck eleven forty three, and twenty two seconds. And she became no older.
The clock ticked down to a standstill, and froze.
She turned to meet the figure that stood waiting a few steps from the foot of her bed. He stared without a word, with shaded green eyes and darkness that clung to the immortal like a well-tailored cloak. She smiled at him, amused. There was a hint of the wild child she had once been, still in her eyes.
"Come to wish me a happy birthday?"
The figure shifted slightly.
Happy Birthday, Rose.
There was a small swell of warm air, barely perceptible, a touch of fondness, of pleasant surprise. It dissipated almost immediately after its conception.
It's time to come with me.
"Well, you're very forward. I'm not usually that type of girl, but," She grinned. "For you, I'll make an exception." Her gaze then prodded him intensely for a moment and she eyed him critically. "Lost your scythe, eh?"
That's very old school. I don't usually carry it, but if it makes you feel better…
The being extended the left arm out to the side, and curled his hand into the darkness. The darkness bent around its master's skeletal hand and obeyed. He brought his arm back in, and with it came a scythe, the handle seemed to be crafted from pure essence of night, darker than any substance on Earth, while the blade glinted in the lightless room, looking like liquid mercury, the surface shifting and changing constantly.
"That's more like it!" Rose nodded admirably. "Now I can bear to leave with you. You look respectable."
An uncertain pause from the figure. He twisted his scythe a bit awkwardly in both hands.
…Thank you?
"It'll be nice seeing Cecil again. Probably too old for him now though, it's been quite a while." She glanced fondly at a photo in a simple frame that stood on her bedside table, it was aged and held the image of handsome young man in an army uniform. He showed off two perfect dimples and a cowlick into the camera.
I'm certain that's not the case, Rose.
The figure then glided noiselessly forward, shape changing to accommodate the scythe. The blackness settled as more a cloak on the figure, and there was a glimpse of white bone; a bleached skull, features bent impossibly in an expression of neutrality, peered out from the hood. He lifted the scythe in both hands above his head, and without warning, fluidly and swiftly, came down upon Rose.
He then straightened and held out a skeletal hand. Rose took it and gracefully slid from her bed, her soul neatly severed from her body. She nodded, impressed, then glanced back at her prone form.
I thought you'd appreciate the theatrics, even if it's a bit old fashioned.
The skull twisted into a small smile, cracks appearing in the stark bone. Somewhere deep within the seemingly empty eye sockets, came a glint of green.
"I am old fashioned!" Rose swatted his shoulder, or attempted to, her hand swept right through, the blackness sliding neatly aside to make way for her hand. "And I do appreciate it, very nice work."
You remind me of someone. Someone I…know. Knew. Will know.
A pause.
Time is a funny thing. But you remind me of her. Penny.
"She a special someone?" Rose wiggled her eyebrows in a manner that brought to mind someone that he shouldn't be thinking of right then.
She's special. Very special. But not in the way you are thinking. Calm yourself, Rose Bellham.
"Fine, fine."
Now, come. We've delayed too long.
Rose attempted to slip an arm through his and he tolerantly became more solid, and allowed her to. Death and Rose Bellham left together, Death's cloak rippling behind them.
The clock began ticking again.
Eleven forty three, and twenty three seconds.
Eleven forty three, and twenty four seconds.
Eleven forty three, and twenty five.
o-o
"I'm not sure about this…"
"Are you questioning your orders?"
"No, no, I'm not at all, but this…this doesn't seem like our kind of thing."
"I need to make sure. Can you do it? Or do I have to send someone more…able?"
"I can do it."
"Good."
"This seems more like a job for the other side."
"Just do it. I don't want to have to put out a wanted ad for a new prince."
"You don't have to worry. I'll handle it."
"Be sure that you do."
o-o
George was five years old. Well, five and three quarters to be exact. That kind of thing counts you know. Maybe adults don't think it counts, but it counts.
Or did count.
George knew he was sick. His mom and dad sat him down, after a long visit to the doctor's a year and a half ago, and said things he didn't really understand. He pretended to understand most of it though, he didn't want them to think he was a baby who didn't understand stuff. However, he did understand one thing: he was sick.
Not normal sick, the kind where you get to stay home from school, but real sick. Doctors and hospitals sick. But they told him he'd be okay, and he'd believed them immediately. (Though the bright new red fire truck helped too.)
George gaped in stunned silence at his parents' faces, frozen, expressions raw and jagged, through the glass observation window.
"Time of death: 4:12 pm, April 22nd." A small hand was laid gently down upon the operating table. George wondered whose hand.
A surgeon stood limply out of the way as other medical staff filed stiffly away, blending into the walls, painted with guilt and horror. Snatches of conversation, blurred and distorted made their way to George.
"Poor kid. Shit. Poor, poor kid."
"-complications during surgery."
"…was risky anyway…"
"Cancer. A brain tumor the size of a komquat. He didn't have a chance."
"-relapse."
"…only five years old too."
And three quarters. They always forgot the three quarters. George frowned slightly, feeling…something. He shook and sat down cross-legged on the floor, then scootched his knees to his chest and hugged them. They were…they were talking about him?
Adults do always seem to forget the quarters. They don't realize how important they are.
George's eyes darted fearfully to the new figure standing harmlessly next to him, peering innocently with invisible eyes at him. George curled tighter into a ball, and stared at himself. Lying on the table. Still. So still. Tears began to spill. He wiped them angrily away with a fist. Babies cried. He wasn't a baby.
It's okay to cry. There's nothing wrong with it, George. I won't think any less of you.
George wept into his arms, confused and frustrated and afraid. There was crackling, almost like a bonfire, as the figure in the shapeless robe folded intricately in on itself to crouch down at the child's eye level. A light breeze gently caressed his cheeks and he turned to the figure. Now, in its place, kneeled a man, a bit spindly, awkward, but warm and kind. He smiled sadly.
"I-I wanna go home…"
"I'm so sorry, but I can't do that, George." The man said softly.
"Why can't you?! I won't tell anyone, I promise!"
The man's smile fell away a moment, and he pressed his lips tightly together as if in pain. He sat down cross-legged next to George.
"I…George, do you… do you know about death? What happens when people die?"
"They go to heaven." He replied automatically. "I learned that in church school." He then stared intently at the man. "Am I…dead?"
"Yes. I'm so sorry."
"But I can't be." George's brow furrowed. "I'm only five and three quarters. Mama and daddy promised me a big birthday party, with a-a bounce house, and a puppy! They said they'd get me a puppy." His bottom lip began to wobble violently. "I'm scared. I wanna go home. Please." Tears welled, and he closed his eyelids tightly.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But it's okay, George. Don't be afraid." The man gingerly moved to crouch awkwardly in front of George. "Have you ever been on an adventure?" An uncertain answering head shake. "This is just like an adventure, George."
Eyes cracked open. "Like being pirates? Or cowboys?"
"Sort of. I'm going to be there with you the whole time. I promise, I'll keep you safe." The man smiled warmly, stood and extended a hand to George, who uncertainly took it and stood as well.
"Who're you?"
"I'm…a friend. A guide, just for you, George. And where you're going, you'll love it. I promise. I don't want to ruin the surprise though." The man smiled conspiratorially. George grinned despite himself. He loved surprises.
"That's cool! But…but what about my Mama and Daddy?"
The man's smile iced over, and his eyes emptied of emotion. His humanity was stripped away, leaving the hard alien surface scraped clean at the surface. George cowered. The man seemed to notice and corrected himself into something more human. Sadness was in every crease of his still young looking face, aging him ten years.
"They have to stay here for now." George's face crumpled and the man knelt to his level. "But I promise, you'll see them again. Not right now, but soon." The man's eyes pierced his own. "I promise, George."
"I just wanna go home."
"I know. I know. But you just can't anymore."
George's lip wobbled, but he then took a deep breath and squared narrow shoulders. He was five and three quarters. It was time to be a man. He wasn't a baby any longer. "Okay."
The man squeezed George's shoulders encouragingly, and stood. And the man led him away from the corpse formerly known as George Stiles, five and three quarters years old, dead at 4:12 pm on April 22nd, and into the next life.