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By Arcahan Snow crunched in the rhythm of his steps. The freezing air sank its talons into his face, attempting to tear its way -- sometimes with a good success -- through his woolly scarf and thick coat. Shivering Wilford pressed his arms tighter against his sides and jabbed his hands deeper into his pockets. He walked with a brisk pace, attempting to keep himself warm, leaning forward as if he had been fighting against a strong wind. It is said that without exception the graveyard is the coldest place in town. No matter how diligently the frost caressed buildings and people with its chilly fingers, the winter always reserved some extra energy to freeze the relics of the deceased. Wilford did not know if there was any truth in such a thing, but it certainly was cold here. It was not a wonder that he had seen no living soul other than himself. People tend to value more the burning hot radiators and a cup of steaming coffee than the wretched winter weather. They kept their doors tightly sealed and preferred nestling into their warm quilts instead of coming out here to pay their respects to their parents, grandparents and great-grandparents. Walking among the dead was not a very popular pastime, either. Not even Wilford was very glad to do it, but these times he had little else to bother with. He might just as well come here to look at the crosses and the gravestones, reading dates and names which told nothing to him. As he walked along the frosty road, which had been covered with black stones, he noticed some movement ahead of him. Why, so he was not alone then. A round-shouldered man, dressed in a long, black coat and wearing a large, black hat, was standing in the middle of the road. In his hand he had a brown paper bag, from which he absently tossed seeds to crows. Wilford blinked his eyes. Yes, crows! A whole flock of croaking crows, bobbing and fluttering, leaping and beating with their wings, fighting for the tidbits like harbor gulls! "Good evening!" Wilford shouted as he got a bit closer to the man. "Cold weather it is today, eh?" "So it is", the man replied, not giving his addresser even a single glance. He just continued to pursue his odd undertaking. "So it is." "It certainly is cold." Wilford said. He straightened his scarf a little and shifted his weight from one foot to another and back again. "In the freezing weather like this even the departed start complaining." The man glanced at him over his dark collar. "To me they look to be laying quite compliantly." Carefully he shook the last seeds for the birds' delight and then folded the paper bag up into a tiny square, which he put into his pocket. "Err… My name is Wilford Wrettons", Wilford said, extending his thickly-gloved hand. "It is always a pleasure to meet people who do not feel themselves too nervous to come to respect the deceased." "What reason would I have to get nervous of them. A work is a work and let it be such." Wilford certainly flinched as the man turned to face him and extended his white hand. "Death, they call me." * * * * "Err… Um…" Wilford stammered, actually managing to break the long silence. "I was not exactly expecting you here, sir", he faltered out. Death waved his hand. "Please, do not call me 'sir'. Just a labourer, I am. The big bosses sit behind their mighty desks and I am always slaving, shedding sweat and blood." For a moment his grin looked a bit wider than usual. "Metaphorically, that is. But Wilford! My, you look like you have seen a ghost! Well, it did not miss too far either, at least in a way. Now, come here and sit down, so that you won't faint right into the middle of the road!" "Uh, sir, are you here to…admire the work of your hand?" Wilford asked, allowing the other to lead himself to a black bench, which was covered with snow. "Didn't I already ask you not to call me 'sir'? Oh no, I do not kill them", Death replied while wiping most of the snow away from the bench. The bones rubbing against the frozen wood was a sound, which made the skin crawl wildly like a centipede. "I just work as a kind of courier. I pick them up and deliver them into the right address. For example that one, there", he pointed at a gravestone. The candle in its base had just gone out. "The poor lad did not notice an uncontrolled car three years, four months, twelve days and around five hours ago. He went so quickly that I hardly managed to catch him! Or this one, then", Death continued, pointing at a rock which had been carved into the form of a cross, "such a sweet old lady. Passed out by natural causes around one hundred and twenty years ago. I had already arrived there, ready to start my work, but the lady refused to leave her life behind! 'Do not harvest me yet', she laughed, 'I have much to gossip!'" Though Death did not really have any reason to draw breath, he kept a little pause anyway. "We had a very interesting conversation. That lady passed away with the delay of three minutes. Sometimes such things happen. It causes some troubles in the paperwork, if you know what I mean." He nudged his companion with a bony elbow. Wilford had clumsily pulled a little bottle of whiskey out of his pocket. With stiff fingers he tinkered the cork open and took a sip. He really needed that. Here he was, sitting on a cold bench, in the weather which would have driven polar bears all the way into tropical lands. And to crown it all, Death himself was sitting right next to him and chatting about his work like any kind of office employee! Wilford took another gulp. The powerful stuff spread out in his stomach and started to warm nicely, slowly pushing the numbing cold away. He noticed Death's interested glance and offered the bottle. "No thank you. It always goes right through me." "Say, sir, shouldn't you --" Wilford began. "Please, no sirs!" "Err… Shouldn't you be somewhere else? I mean, no offence, but there are people dying all around the world every moment." Death shrugged his shoulder so that they crunched. "I have a good organization. I stay in one place just as long as it is necessary. Perhaps you understand, to me the time is quite a comparative concept. Besides, it is not my headache -- or skullache, to be exact -- how many people die. It is the problem of the receivers." Wilford took his fourth swig. The whiskey was flushing through his veins with a nice speed. The frost was finally starting to release its grip of him. This Death fellow didn't seem to be that bad. Just another one of the necessary forces of the world. "Err… May I ask you something?" "Oh, of course", Death nodded. "I still have some time." Wilford frowned. Time? Time for what? Hopefully not… of course not. He had to swallow before the words agreed to come out from his mouth. "Are you -- I mean, are you here to fetch me?" It had started to rain snow, large, heavy snowflakes. Death reached out and caught one between his fingers. It was like a snap of two batons hit together. "Here, you see? I catch the lives like this. The right timing is all. Worry not, Wilford, worry not. I pick up each one at the right time." Wilford sighed with relief. A large and incredibly heavy stone fell down from his throat, bounced off his heart and rolled around the bottom of his belly. "So it's not my time yet." "No. Not yet. Everything has its time, if you understand the saying's irony in this case", Death chuckled at his own joke. For a moment they sat in the silence. Wilford quaffed his whiskey and Death absently preyed on the snowflakes. A car suddenly sped by in the other end of the graveyard, the vehicle's wheels screed as they sought for support from the road's icy surface. "That, by the way, won't end up nicely", Death remarked sadly. "I'll have to remember to pick them away, too. Let them learn how to drive at the next time." "That reminds me", Wilford began. The surface of the whiskey bottle's contents had lowered with quite a speed and his mood that risen with each sip. He considered giving Death a friendly backslap, but then thought otherwise. "Is there such a thing as afterlife?" Once again Death shrugged his bony shoulders. "I don't know", he replied, watching the iron-grey clouds above them. "It depends on who dies. Some believe in afterlife, others don't. Some people believe they will be born again, others know that they will go to heaven or hell, still others go to Nirvana and so on. It really is not my business." After catching one snowflake more he suddenly rose and wiped his hat clean. "Well, Wilford? Shall we go, I don't exactly have all the eternity to spend." "Go?" Wilford wrinkled his eyebrows as he stood up. "Where?" "Didn't I just say it?" Death sighed patiently. "It is not my business. I am just a deliverer. Nothing personal. A work is a work and let it be that way." A horrible thought hit Wilford's mind. It can't be… He had said that not yet! Suddenly Wilford wheeled around and halted to stare at the bench. Death had risen up and Wilford had followed the example, so by all the logic the bench had to be -- Hunched, sitting all alone on the bench there was a lone figure. A whiskey bottle was lying in the ground, its yellow-brown contents slowly dripping into the snow. Wilford swallowed. It was a frighteningly light thing to do. "Am I --" "Yes." "Shouldn't I --" "No." "Can't I --" "No." "But you said that not yet!" "Not yet back then", Death answered evenly, pulling a little pocket watch out of his coat. "To be exact, one minute and thirty three seconds ago. Everything has its time, good Wilford, everything has its time."
Author's notes: The Creation of Characters: Death Take a guess where I got the inspiration for this character. The storyline is very classical and often used, so I attempted to give it some color with some odd lines from Death. He was based on… surprise, surprise, on the very same "person" created by the master of parody, Terry Pratchett. His Death is such a classic that I cannot even hope to compete with it even if I wanted, and so my Death takes things a bit more... uh... seriously, if we even can use such a term here. The reason why Pratchett's Death is such an outclass can be best proven with a little quote: ---- "I meant", said Ipslore, bitterly, "what is there in this world that makes living worth while?" Death thought about it. CATS, he said eventually, CATS ARE NICE. "Curse you!" MANY HAVE, said Death, evenly. - Sourcery by Terry Pratchett.
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