A Thousand Deaths

My exhales fog what little I can see in the space before me. The light of the full moon shines through the cracks of the slatted, wooden wardrobe. My breath catches in my throat when I hear the whispers approaching. Even one darkness chasing breath is for naught if it means the Death of me, for what is air to a dead man? My eyes strain and my vision swims as blood and fear pump through me. The whispers echo inside my skull and pulse with my heartbeat. My damned heart, beating so loud I swear the bastards must hear it. 

I have caught only a glimpse of the horrors thus far. They began the chase in my dreams, hiding in every corner and the shadow. They were were distant at first, and easy to miss. Their cloaks are so black they darken the world around them, and sound warps and deadens in their presence. Each shadow creeps closer, and the whispers grow louder, and there is something else too. A droning beneath it all, inaudible from a distance. But the closer they come, the louder it grows. And now, as they come ever nearer, I can hear subtle changes in the droning. It, too, is a voice. It is speaking to me. So dark and deep and wicked, it must be coming from the depths of Hell itself. At this moment, I knew. Death is approaching. Am I really the sort of man to meet it hiding in a wardrobe? 

I am still holding my breath when I begin to run. I let it out in a gasp, leaving its cloud behind me as I will my body to strength and movement I have no reason to believe it can accomplish. I am not an athlete, not a strongman, not even a casual footballer who plays with his brothers before Sunday dinner. To think I can outrun Death itself is a level of arrogance my mother has warned me never to exhibit. My will to live must be stronger than my desire to keep to social graces, and if I live to tell this tale, I have hope she will forgive me. To think of her now is a curse - to picture her tears when I cannot afford to focus on anything else but the task at hand: my survival. My very life is at stake, and I could be brought to my knees at the thought of leaving my mother behind. Or perhaps it is a gift, bolstering me ever firmer against the threat of Death, so that she may never feel the pain of my demise.

Determination invigorates my senses, and I see and hear everything in the darkened woods around me. Every cracking tree branch and rustling leaf, every fluttering wing and chittering jaw, and eyes shining back at me no matter where I turn. Whether they are critter or monster, I cannot guess. I treat them all as a threat, though the distance between myself and the whisperers is surely increasing. I need only to run a bit farther to the village that is growing quickly larger in the distance. I will be safe in the light of the streetlamps. Perhaps there is a tavern I can shelter in until the morning, either in a bed or with a bottomless pint at the bar. The thought of sleeping strikes fresh fear into my heart once more, but it is best not to dull myself with drink. Though it may help me stay awake until the sunrise, and perhaps someone in this village can help me in the morning. 

Shadows dance in the lamplight as I approach the village, jogging now that the whispers are out of my mind. The village is small. I can see the other end from where I stand at its gated border wall. It is a short wall, made of rough gray stone, and reaches to about my waist. The splintery wooden gate is not locked, and the only sign I can see reads “Please Close Behind You” in a sickly thick red paint. Accompanying the words is an image of a wolf that I believe was drawn from memory. 

I open the gate and step into the village to see three taverns before me, which is odd for such a small village. I have never been to a village with more than one, and I have been to several villages much larger than this one. One tavern is made of grass and hay, the second is of wood and nails, and the third is made of stone. After minimal consideration, I walk into the tavern made of stone. 

Outside in the moonlit night and with the whispers far behind me, the sounds of nature play uninterrupted. But when I pass through the heavy stone door, I am met with a raucous scene. The tavern is full to bursting with patrons. They seem well and jolly, with their cups full, their voices loud, and their songs echoing across the walls. They are swaying and toasting and weeping and laughing in a way that seems frantic somehow - desperate. I am just happy to be somewhere bright and loud, though the heat and stench of the place leaves something to be desired. There is little room here for whispers and shadows. I peer around looking for a barmaid or someone I can speak to about a room. I spot the bar and freeze, unsure. I try not to spend too much time in my cups so I may be mistaken, but I am certain this bar is shorter than is customary. The stools as well. I see an empty one that looks no higher than my knees and I begin to wonder who these seats were made for. I move my eyes around the room to observe the patrons and understand the glaring fact I can't believe I missed. These patrons are not even human. They are pigs - hairy and sweaty with glistening wet snouts and frothing mouths. Pigs slamming beer mugs and singing brash songs. None of them so much as glance at the windswept stranger in the gray, woolen coat towering bewildered among them.

“Oi,” a voice calls to me. I turn to find a sow with tangled brown curls spilling out from beneath a grassy green bonnet ringed with frilly white lace. Her apron has the same frilly lace and grassy green; embroidered upon it is a bear with gnashing teeth, dripping maw, and a pelt made of jagged rocks. The Stone Bear, it reads in a flowing script. 

“Welcome, man, to The Stone Bear,” she passes me a mug of foamy, brown beer, and gestures for the bar patrons to make room so I can seat myself among them. They oblige with a few snorts and nods of their heads before returning to their own conversations. I am not certain the small stool will bear my weight, but it proves sturdy so I settle in and thank the pig woman earnestly for her hospitality. Something is itching in the back of my mind, but I am not able to ponder it long before she begins to speak in her gurgling, guttural voice once more. 

“What are you looking for tonight, man? Do you seek only beer, or perhaps a bed and a girl to warm it?” I choke on my drink and wet laughter bubbles up from her throat. 

“I am only joking you, man. It isn’t often we see your ilk in these parts and I could not resist.” I can’t force a smile so I take another swig from my mug. 

“So, man, how did you find yourself here tonight?” The itch grows stronger. That is the question to ask, isn't it. How did I find myself here? I came through the woods, yes, but why was I in the woods? Because I ran from my hiding place inside a wardrobe? A wardrobe outside in the moonlight, on the edge of the woods? How did I get there? What a strange place to be. Should I not be in bed on a night such as this? Should I not be asleep? 

Suddenly, a scream curdles my blood, and the fragile cheer of The Stone Bear breaks down around me. The patrons begin to squeal and growl as one scream becomes another, and another, and the screams grow louder and more desperate, and they are accompanied by sounds of snapping and cracking, wet squelches and gurgles, slurping and howling. The sounds of Death. One by one, every animal in the bar turns to look at me. Some with fear, others with rage. They are wasting away. Animals that were once plump and soft are becoming disheveled and bony. Thick, leathery skin begins to slough from bodies into rancid piles on the floor. The sow’s curly hair becomes limp and gray and falls in clumps onto the bar. Her once bright clothes are now dirty and torn, hanging loosely from her ragged frame. Her expression has turned grave. Her tiny black eyes look deep into mine as she speaks. Her voice comes out warped and muffled, and my vision becomes twisted and cloudy. Still, I can hear her final words.

“Did you close the gate, man?” I squeeze my eyes closed as the blackness overtakes me and the horrible sounds of Death fade to an echo in my mind. Then, chirping. Clear and ringing like bells. They are birds of the morning, greeting me awake. I open my eyes, ready to prove it was all a dream. Instead, I am laying on my back in a grassy field with a clear blue sky above me. I am still not home. I sit up with some difficulty, struggling against heavy silver armor that dresses me from head to toe. I look to my left and see an elegant silver helmet with a slatted visor and topped with a vibrant red plume. To my right is a shining greatsword with precious gems adorning the hilt. There is a stone castle standing regal and proud a ways behind me, and lush, rolling hills ahead of me. The castle has banners of red with an image of black I cannot make out across the distance. I rise slowly to my feet, still adjusting to the armored suit. I decide to place the helmet on my head, but push the visor up to increase my line of sight. The sun may be shining, but there is a dread within me, and I do not think it is related to the slaughter I left behind. It is a dread of something to come. Death is still at my back and I stand exposed. Who knows how soon the shadows will appear?

As soon as I have the thought, I hear it: the thumping of hooves approaching from beyond the hills. Not just four hooves, but many. Perhaps a stampede, but certainly enough to trample me. I curse the armor, desperate to run once more, but settle instead for picking up the sword and brandishing it before me. The castle is too far behind. Even if I could run, I would never make it. Almost at once, there is a whinny at my back. I spin around to see a great horse, blacker than night and frothing at the mouth. He is dressed in a smooth black leather saddle with velvety black reins and wild black eyes. The arrogance overtakes me once more. I sheathe the sword at my hip, grab the reins, and throw myself into the saddle with a fervor I did not think possible. I worry only for a moment that the armor makes me too heavy for the beast to carry, but he shows no sign of discomfort. In fact, I get the sense he enjoys the weight. He is proud to demonstrate his brute strength, and his confidence is a taunt to these unknown riders. Let them prove they are as powerful as he. 

The Black Beast gallops toward the castle at full speed. I try to turn my head and see our pursuers, but the helmet keeps me from doing so. I tear it off and toss it to the ground as the horse continues ever forward toward the looming castle. With my head free, I turn once more. The riders stand atop a hill, still and black, as a cloud of dust settles around them. The sky behind them is dark, as if all light and color had been sucked from it during the minute my back was turned. I look at them for a moment too long, their stillness unsettling me. The droning whispers echo between my ears once more. The beast is running me through the gate by the time I turn back to see the banners. The black image upon them is clear now. It is a cloaked black rider on a wild black horse. 

I cannot stop the cursed thing as he runs me through the castle. He knows the way as if Death itself is beckoning him closer. He is carrying me right to it, the armor’s weight a crushing prison pinning me to his back. We ride through narrow winding halls I could not navigate for the life of me, and finally the ceiling opens up into a massive throne room. Upon the throne, I see a man, or maybe a specter, quiet and cloaked and cold. It is giant, perfectly proportioned for the room it occupies. The Black Beast brings me to the foot of Death’s throne, rears onto his hind legs, and dumps me from his saddle. I clang to the ground at Death's feet, and Death watches me with eyes I cannot see from under the blackness of its hood. 

“Why do you run from Death?” My hair stands on end and my heart freezes. I have heard that wicked tone before, droning as I hid in the wardrobe. A gasp escapes me and my breath fogs in the frigid air. Death waits patiently for my reply.

“I do not wish to meet you,” I say in a quaking voice. I know I must be as good as dead, so it would not become me to turn a liar now. “My mother, she needs me. I am young. I am virile. I am not yet wed. There are too many reasons I should run. Should I not instead be asking why you chase me? What business do you have with me? Is there not someone older, someone settled, someone with affairs in order and no one left who loves them?” 

“Death will have them, too,” Death replies. “Death will have them all. There is no life that lies beyond Death’s reach.” 

“So what if you find them and take them first? Then come to me when all of them are yours? And maybe then, I will have lived enough that I will come along more willingly?” Death is silent for a moment, as sadness often is. 

“We have already met, you know. I thought you might remember from your armor. The woods did not excite your memory, nor the wardrobe or the tavern. Nor any other dream I have given you. You run from me, but we have met already, time and time again. And still you refuse me. Well, no more. I grow weary. So here you are now, in Death's castle, at the foot of Death's throne. Take your place or suffer another thousand deaths. Take your cloak and cowl, take your reaping scythe, and take your rightful place that I may succumb to Death itself. After all my years of service, I am owed a peaceful end. So take my throne at once, and leave me to my prize. Reap my soul and bless me with the sweet release of Death. Maybe then, you will see Death is nothing to fear.” 

My armor is gone. In its place is a light, gauzy cloak, black and whispering. Death’s outstretched hand holds Death's Scythe, and Death wants me to take it. I do. When I touch its cold grip, a thousand deaths flash before my eyes. I am in the tavern being ripped apart by wolves. I am in the wardrobe when the killer comes. I am in the woods when the beasts attack. I am an armored knight when the dragon burns me. 

Once more, I open my eyes. This time I am in bed. My mother is standing at my door, her gaze affectionate and warm. 

“My son, you will sleep the day away like this. And this one is beautiful. You should not miss it.” I rise, cross the room, and kiss her fully on the cheek. She wraps her arms around me, and I squeeze like it is the last time, because I know it is. Before this day is through, Death will become me. And if I am to become Death, then surely Death was right. I should not fear its coming for it will always come. Instead, I should welcome Death. I should become Death as fully as I can become Life. Nothing is one or the other. Everything is both. Everything lives and dies, and lives again and dies again, in large and small ways, across every lifetime. Thinking otherwise would be arrogant - thinking I can run from Death forever when Death was never chasing me. Death walks its own winding path, and even mine must cross it. So if this day is my last, let me live it as such, fully and with love, for Death is approaching. This time, I will not run.