Day Jar View

Monday’s were an increasing struggle. They shouldn’t have been, and they hadn’t been for an age. Eons in fact. Time was of no consequence to him. The consequences of time were applied to those he encountered. In fact, he was surrounded by time. Even when he went home.

Home.

Since when had the space he occupied become home?

He stroked his nicely named horse on the head as he led him from the stables. Binky snorted affectionate approval. 

I KNOW, said death to his steed, WE’RE BOTH GETTING A BIT OLD FOR THIS.

Death missed the curious look that Binky gave him. Neither of them aged. Not here, and not even when they visited the world of people, that had once been called the world of men and at some point soon was going to be called the world populated by an abundance of diverse life. Death had taken to referring to it as The Office. It was after all, where he worked, and it was short, punchy and apt.

Groaning as he mounted his steed, Death paused and not for the first time wondered at his partial anthropomorphisation. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. His previous guise had terrified and confused all that he had encountered, and after a while he got a bit fed up with it. The terror he induced was so undignified.

The problem with his current embodiment was that it was habit forming. It did not escape him that there were gods that laughed behind his back. This was a bit of a mistake on the god’s part, because Death did not actually have a back, and so he saw exactly what they were about. He never let on, not until it was time to bring a god to their end. Even then, they didn’t get it. Gods were an egotistical lot and the ignominy of being ended by death blinded them to the nature of their existence, let alone his. Gods had to be popular, and more to the point worshipped, if they were to endure. People were a fickle lot though, and after a few generations they went in search of better looking gods with more perks attached to the act of worship.

All the same, gods seemed surprised when death turned up with their almost empty hour glass. The look they gave the hour glass was desultory. If this was the measure of their time, then surely it should have been far bigger than that? They all acted as though they thought they were above such things as death. They were not. All good things came to an end. And all bad things for that matter. Demons were a handful. Worse than the gods. They thought they’d escaped Death, it only dawned on them that they’d been lied to and their contract wasn’t worth the vellum it was written on with blood, as his scythe swooshed down and cut the cord of their existence asunder. 

“I can’t die!” they’d scream pitifully.

ALL THINGS END, Death would observe.

“But I’m already dead!” they’d cry.

UNDEAD, Death would correct them.

“But…” 

He had never got beyond this point in the debate. There were few variations to the protests. In the end, there was only denial and a sense that something in the scheme of things was not fair. This was not commonplace however. Mostly there was a resignation and acceptance of his presence and the finality that he had come to bestow. Often Death experienced something in those final moments that warmed his bones and over time he had come to realise that this was another universal truth. The universe was vast and didn’t like to make a fuss, but it wasn’t quite unknowable. Something as big as the universe made its mark one way or another.

Having arrived at his first appointment, Death opened his cloak and inspected the hour glasses arrayed within. The nearest was almost at its end, the fine silvered sand cascading to an irrevocable conclusion. He stepped off Binky and entered the cottage. There in the small and cramped kitchen was a tired woman grown so weary that there was no life left in her. Death sighed and freed the woman from her mortal coil. As she awakened to her next adventure she looked around her in a state of agitation.

“Are you…?”

I AM.

“I… I wasn’t ready…”

FEW EVER ARE. THEY SAY I CREEP UP ON THEM. I HAVE NEVER CREPT UP ON ANYTHING. I WOULDN’T KNOW HOW. IT IS NOT IN MY NATURE. I’M MOSTLY QUITE LITERAL.

The woman looked upon Death and saw that this was very much the case. Then she turned to the table and took in her slumped form, a needle and thread fallen from her right hand. “I’ll never finish that teddy bear now…” then she gasped, “dinner! The stew and the blackberry and apple pie!” she turned back to Death and her expression was both broken and imploring. “Can I at least take the pie out of the oven and the stew off the heat?”

Death shook his head in a slow negation, YOU CANNOT.

The woman looked crestfallen, the food she’d prepared and the half made teddy were filled with her love. This was how she showed her family she cared. Her demise felt like a failure. Her feelings were not about her death, but for her family.

Without another word, Death stalked forth and removed the stew from the hob and opened the oven. A simple act that was well within his gift, but now forever beyond the woman. Before the woman faded from this realm and moved on to the next, she bowed her tear streaked face in recognition of Death’s kindness. He observed the moment and once again felt a warmth within his bones.

His next appearances were unremarkable in their remarkableness, but that was to be expected in a career that had seen the end of billions, over thousands and thousands of years. He never tired of each and every experience though. It helped that he was generally incapable of becoming tired. Or bored for that matter.

The wheel of humanity’s time turned and Death did his thing. His ever faithful steed taking him from ending mortal to ending mortal until they reach the last of the hour glasses.

THAT’S ODD, Death observed as he removed the final hour glass. He raised it to the blue tinged moonlight and turned it this way and that. The final grains of sand were not silvered, instead they looked exactly as though they had been taken from a beach, and a dirty beach at that. Looking down at the base of the glass, Death saw two distinct layers of sand. Silver on the bottom. The dull brown-gold of sullied beach sand above. Sensing that something was not right, he shook the hour glass and that was when the top fell off, exposing the open glass bulb below.

OH DEAR, muttered Death. At this, the white surface of his skull gave the impression of puckering in a quizzical manner. Death didn’t make a habit of muttering, nor of pulling confused faces. And so he made his way through the detritus in the back alley and entered the work kitchen via the open back alley. Just past the threshold, he paused and looked down at his colleague.

SQUEAK! Said the Death of Rats.

INDEED, replied Death.

They nodded at each other by way of a professional courtesy and went about their business.

“Ah…” said the single occupant of the mildly industrial kitchen.

AH, echoed Death. And there was an echo thanks to the strange acoustics of the room they occupied. An echo that carried over the bubbling, oversized pots and pans. Every now and then a bubble popped and an almost meaty aroma was released. Almost, because the contents of pots and pans was almost meat.

DIBBLER, stated Death.

“You can call me Throat,” said Cut Me Throat Dibbler.

I’D RATHER NOT, said Death. Then he leant in towards the peculiar man and scrutinised his rodent-like features, HAVE WE MET BEFORE?

Dibbler’s pale features coloured from the neck upwards until he looked decidedly unhealthy, which was quite a feat for a man who had been officially dead for the past decade, “I don’t think so…” he said uncomfortably and very unconvincingly.

I THINK WE HAVE, said Death, THERE WAS THAT UNFORTUNATE BUSINESS WITH THE REFUNDS.

“Don’t know that you mean,” Dibbler said shifting even more uncomfortably from foot to foot.

YES, THERE WAS SOME UNPLEASANTNESS AND A MOB BAYING FOR REFUNDS, persisted Death.

“I’ve never given a refund in my life!” protested Dibbler.

That had been the problem and that problem had led to Dibbler’s unsurprising demise.

NEITHER HAVE I, said Death as he reached into his robe and retrieved the compromised hour glass.

“I wouldn’t know nuffin bout that,” said Dibbler side-eyeing the doctored hour glass.

HOW? Asked Death in a manner that demanded an answer.

“Wasn’t me,” Dibbler said shrugging in what he hoped was a convincing manner. It wasn’t. It made him look even more shifty and decidedly guilty.

Death stared at the man. Death’s stare was as disconcerting as it got. It wasn’t that there were no eyes in the sockets of his skull, it was that the infinite resided there.

To his credit, Dibbler lasted for almost a minute. He raised his arms in surrender, “OK, OK, I found it!”

Death raised the hour glass, THIS?

Dibbler nodded in a loaded, and uncertain manner, “it was just lying there in the road. So I took it.”

YOU TOOK IT? Death echoed. Again, the words echoed impressively around the kitchen.

“Yeah, you were busy,” Dibbler shrugged again, “there was a lot going on.”

There had been a lot going on. The mob that had gathered at Dibbler’s stall, calling for refunds had become restless and then it had become murderous as it became clear that no refunds would be forthcoming. Those at the rear pressed forth and those at the front got increasingly angry. Fighting broke out and that led to broken bones. Some of those bones were vital to the act of living and breathing, and so Death had had his work cut out. Quite literally.

I CUT YOUR CORD, Death said to the man fidgeting before him.

“You thought you cut my cord,” Dibbler corrected, “I dodged your scythe at the last moment.” He eyed Death and grinned, “I’ve been dodging things all my life. It’s become a bit of a habit.”

Death SIGHED. THIS IS NOT GOOD.

Dibbler nodded and sidled up to Death, “not at all good for your reputation, is it?”

I DON’T HAVE A REPUTATION, Death said frostily, the air in the room dropping twenty degrees.

Dibbler laughed, “you’re joking! Your reputation precedes you! Nowt certain in this life other than Death and Taxis!”

Death said nothing, fixing Dibbler with a stare that the seedy chancer easily dodged. He hadn’t been joking about this habit of his, and he was rather good at it, “listen, I’m sure we could do a deal here. After all, I’ve sent a lot of business your way over the years.” He waved an arm expansively over all the bubbling pots and pans containing almost meat substances sourced from dubious suppliers, the kinds of bottom feeders who mopped up the floors of abattoirs when all the best cuts from the finest stock was long gone.

Death unplucked Dibbler’s arm from around his bony shoulders. Stepped back from the serial failed entrepreneur and manifested his scythe. 

Dibbler’s shoulders fell in resignation to what was about to occur. Death almost felt sorry for the man. But he was not to be denied. That was never how this worked. And so he brought the blade down and in the next moment Dibbler was looking up at him with an expectant grin, “told you I’m good at dodging, didn’t I?””

Death looked from the iridescent blade that had never failed to separate a soul from body to the grinning man in front of him, HOW? He asked.

“I’ll show you if you’d like?” Dibbler tilted his head to one side and held his hands together in a way that would have been beseeching, if he’d known what that meant.

Death let forth another SIGH. COME WITH ME, he said and with that he guided the purveyor of meat of dubious origins from the back street kitchen to the patiently waiting Binky. The trio made for an intriguing sight as they left the mortal realm and returned to Death’s cottage situated at the very edge of reason. Not that any mortal saw them. Only the Death of Rats observed their departure, SQUEAK! He said before shaking his head at the retreating robed figure.

TEA? Asked Death once he’d put Binky in the stables for the night.

“What’s in it?” asked Dibbler suspiciously.

TEA, answered Death, AND BOILING WATER. AND A SPLASH OF MILK.

“It’s not poisonous then?” asked Dibbler, his words continuing to drip suspicion. 

YOU CAN’T DIE HERE, Death replied.

“Really?” asked a now very interested Dibbler. 

YES. REALLY, answered Death.

“Don’t suppose you have sugar?” asked Dibbler.

I HAVE SUGAR, said Death.

“Good,” said Dibbler, “I’ll have five tablespoons full then!” he said gleefully rubbing his hands together. That amount of sugar equated to a profitable outcome as far as the business mind of Dibbler was concerned.

They sat in Death’s sitting room and drank their tea. Or rather, Dibbler chewed on the sugary confection in a mug as Death sipped at his own cup of tea. Dibbler tried not to stare as he wondered where the tea actually went as Death drank it, “do you live here alone?” he asked.

MOSTLY, Death said, MY DAUGHTER VISITS EVERY OTHER SUNDAY AND BRINGS ME HOTPOT. SHE TELLS ME I DON’T EAT PROPERLY.

“Oh,” said Dibbler, as he attempted to get his head around the newly introduced concept of Death’s Daughter.

I DON’T SUPPOSE YOU’D LIKE TO COOK SOME OF YOUR MEATS HERE? Death asked Dibbler.

Dibbler took a moment to consider the alternatives, which as he sized them up seemed to coagulate into a singular and very final alternative. He’d never actually cooked meat as such. That in itself would be a step up in the world. He calculated the odds and bore in mind the risks and settled upon a plan, “yes, I think I’d like that very much,” he said with his trade mark, lopsided grin.

GOOD, Death was NODDING. I THINK I’D LIKE THAT TOO. IT’S BEEN A WHILE SINCE I’VE HAD COMPANY. DON’T SUPPOSE YOU PLAY ANY MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS?

“It just so happens,” Dibbler reached into one of the many pockets of his oversized coat and pulled out a harmonica, “that I can play this. Very badly.”

Death seemed to smile, which was a feat when there were no lips to emphasise a smile with. He reached behind his chair and took up a banjo. Binky whinnied his worry as an asynchronous cacophony of sound pelted forth from Death’s cottage. The awful noise heralded a new chapter in the life and times of Death and also the charmed life of Cut Me Own Throat Dibbler.

The noise that approximated music continued and a new certainty grew in the universe; things would never be the same again.