Death's Child

The first child that Death came to claim was unlike any other. She was born in a time before children were taught to fear Death and she stared up at him when he came, silent and curious and watchful. She cooed at him as he reached out a long, thin-fingered hand to gently smooth unkempt chestnut hair out of her eyes, and he pulled his hand back. It was sad, to take a child this young.

He learned a long time ago, though, that when the call came, he could not ignore it. There was a time, when Life and Death were still young in this world, when he had tried. When he had seen the first righteous soul he had to claim, and when he had refused. It had not ended well.

For this child, it was simple, however. She was not sick or uncared for; her heart was just too weak, and her body too active. Her parents would not know what had happened, only that their precious child had been taken from this world. They would weep and wail and curse God and Heaven and Light, but the inevitable, uncaring world would keep spinning, and their lives would move with it.

Death leaned down, and the baby reached her small hands up, one of her stubby fists finding a clump of his robes and working its way between the folds. It found purchase, and Death could feel a tug as her arm bent back toward her body.

His hands reached under her head and under her back and he lifted her.

The world expects a soul to be light, unburdened, but a soul carries with it all it has learned. All it has seen and felt and experienced. A lifetime of happiness and wonders, even if there are no words with which one may describe the feeling.

As he lifted, her mortal body stayed behind, its eyes closing softly, but her gentle, warm inner spirit raised in his hands, her hand still in his robes. She looked vaguely startled for a moment, but, in the way that new babies tend to accept novelties without much comment, she did not fuss or cry.

Death straightened, the unfamiliar weight in his arms, and she turned her pudgy face toward him, her small eyelids drooping. In a moment, she had burrowed deep in his arms and robes and, to his great astonishment, fell asleep.

He stood, unsure of what to do with her.

Death had never claimed a child before, and he felt strangely out of his element. Ordinarily, the deceased met him with a kind of grim acceptance. There were often questions, regrets, and an occasional attempt at bargaining, but they knew what came next. He ferried the poor man or woman onto the next place, and moved on. But this was different. He couldn’t bring himself to put the small child down.

Death very rarely stayed to watch the first discovery of a newly departed person, but there was something about this one that made him stay. Something in the little one’s soft, rhythmic breathing that made him curious about the family from which she had been pulled.

It did not take long. The few interactions that he had had with mothers had convinced him that they possessed an uncanny, unnatural ability to sense their infant’s needs or concerns. The mother came quickly, kneeling over the bundled figure, tears streaming down her face even before she had touched the petite, lifeless form. She cried, sobbing into the night. She did not curse God, as he had thought she would, but she prayed for her child. Death caught the name Haankhes among the sobbed Egyptian and he looked down at his small charge.

Haankhes, he thought, translating in his mind, May she live. How strangely poetic.

The girl stayed with Death. He did not understand it. He tried, at first, to bring her to the next place, but each time he moved to set her down, she would scream her protestations and thrash, one fist clenched tightly in his robes, and he found he could not bear to leave her behind.

He knew that it was what he was supposed to do. Ordinarily, he would. But this child was not ordinary. In a moment of selfish whimsy, the words She is mine invaded his thoughts, and, though he stamped at them quickly, they resisted the force of reason, pervading each corner of his mind.

It was then that she giggled the first time, the bright bubbling spilling out in pure, unadulterated delight. He knew in that moment that he was not strong enough. Not strong enough to relinquish his hold on this gift. Not strong enough to give her away. Not strong enough to say goodbye.

So she stayed.

She lived as he did; time passing over and around them– a river around two stones. She grew and learned and laughed and played. Her wonder and curiosity endured and her spirit stayed bright. And, as the years changed, so did her name. In minute increments, until finally Haankhes became Haanahes became Hannah.

~ ~ ~

Her small hands reached up, grabbing at air, and Death scooped her up in his arms, spinning her once, fast and high, to bring from her the magical, bubbling giggle that warmed him. She laughed as she settled in his arms and looked up at him.

“Papa, why do birds fly?”

Death's heart ached in his chest. It was a feeling he had grown to cherish; an unwitting and unintentional gift from his miracle.

“Hannah, love, I am not your Papa. It is hard to explain, but your Papa lives far away from here.”

She considered this for a moment, her whole face scrunched into the effort of understanding. Finally, she shook her head. “Nope.”

“Nope?” Death repeated.

“Nope. Little girls need a Papa. You make me laugh. I choose you as Papa.” She crossed her arms imperiously over her chest. “I choose you and I’m always right.”

Without warning, the ache in Death’s chest bloomed, beams of inexplicable and overwhelming exultation filling every inch of him. The feeling was alien but welcome and his breath caught for a minute.

Hannah, still in his arms, saw none of this, unaware of the effect her words had on him.

Again, her hands grabbed at air. “Can I be tall, Papa?”

Laughter fell out of him, tumbling and wheeling, and he scooped her up, swinging her, shrieking with glee, up to his shoulders.

In the coming years, he took her with him. To claim the departed and to ferry them to the next place. For many years, she did not understand, and when she did come to know, she accepted and understood it with the same calm and graceful assurance that she did everything. There were times she was scared or didn’t want to go with him, and he listened to her, but, more often than not, she accompanied him, holding his hand or his robes and watching, silent and amazed.

~ ~ ~

Death approached the side of the hospital bed, and though he could tell it unnerved her, Hannah followed in his wake, her head barely reaching his mid-thigh as she reached one reassuring hand out for his familiar robes. He reached down toward the man, scooping the pock-marked and age-dimpled hand from the sheets and holding it gently. The man’s soul shimmered around him, and as he sat up, his mortal chest failed to rise in another breath. The man’s soul rose and came to stand next to them before what had happened truly settled on his mind. He looked between his mortal body and Death for a moment. Tears welled in his eyes.

“So this is it? No grand fanfare? No storms beating upon the earth?”

Death shook his head. “No.”

The man nodded, looking to his body once more. As he turned back, he noticed Hannah for the first time. He smiled gently. “Hello.”

She smiled back, still a tad wary. “Hello.”

“You are beautiful, little one.”

Her head cocked slightly. “So are you.”

The dam withstanding the swell of the man’s tears finally broke and they spilled unbidden down his face.

“Thank you.”

Death took the man’s arm and led him willingly to the door of the hospital room. He nodded to the man, who opened it and, with a single look over his shoulder, stepped through.

The woman standing by the bed screamed, sobbing and beating on the chests of the orderlies attempting to restrain her. She cursed then. God and Heaven, yes, but also Death and all that lay in between.

Death’s hand fell to Hannah’s shoulder and he turned her away, silently pleading for her not to have to witness this. She followed him, tears running down her own face. She looked up at him as the sounds from the room dissipated.

“Are we the bad guys, Papa?”

He shook his head. “No, Hannah. We’re not the bad guys.”

“But that lady said it wasn’t fair. If it’s not fair, why do we do it?”

Death thought for a moment, looking down into her swimming eyes. “Follow me, my girl.”

And she did. They stepped through the door of the room into the rest of the hospital, the faint smell of waxed linoleum and antiseptic spray lingering in the air. He led her down several hallways and into another, smaller, quieter room.

A new mother, swaddled baby in arms, sat, alone. She cooed to her infant, singing softly, the smile on her face not diminished by her exhaustion. As Hannah approached her, the door opened behind them and a man entered.

The mother’s eyes sparkled as he approached the bed and laid a careful hand on the warm bundle.

“She’s beautiful,” he whispered reverently. The woman nodded.

“And she’s ours, Mark. Our very own baby girl.”

There was silence for a moment as they both looked at her.

“Do you want to hold her?”

The man was stunned for a moment, unsure how to respond. His head moved; the shadow of a nod. She smiled and reached up, laying the baby in his arms as he sat on the edge of the bed. Again, tearful silence fell between them.

Death looked down at Hannah. Her face was still stained with tears from the scene in the previous room, but she was watching, transfixed. He waited for her, not wanting to interrupt. Finally, she looked at him, her eyebrows scrunching. He could see the wheels in her head chugging, attempting, in the ways that small children do, to fit each puzzle piece together.

“I think I understand. Babies can’t be born without us. They need us, just like we need them.”

Death didn’t answer her out loud. “Watch this.” He took a step behind her and held his hands over her eyes. When he removed them, he could tell that she saw what he did. There was a woman, stunning and brilliant, sitting on the other edge of the bed, her arm around the mother and her hand on the baby’s head. Her soft curls fell just past her shoulders and her dress was immaculate and white. Everything about her personage was kind and giving.

Hannah gasped. The woman looked at her, and then at Death and she nodded slightly, saying nothing. Death returned the nod and the woman, with a small kiss to the baby’s forehead, disappeared in a vibrant, pulsating, warm glow.

Hannah looked up at Death, reverence painting her face in awe, her tears forgotten.

Barely a whisper. “Who is she? She is lovely.”

Death offered a half-smile at her admiration. “She is Life. My other half. Isn’t she beautiful?”

The girl could only nod, words failing her.

Again, Death turned toward the door and the two exited, but before it closed, Hannah looked back at the two new parents and their little girl.

“Did my parents look at me like that? Did they…” she faltered. “Did they love me like that?”

Though he wasn’t sure why, the question surprised Death. “Yes, they did. Your parents loved you very much.”

Hannah nodded, the answer satisfying her.

~ ~ ~

Death let his eyes fall to the girl as her own mahogany eyes took in the scene before them. He had hesitated to bring her near battle, longing to protect her from the cruelty of the world, even as her witness of death preceded her remembrance. She had insisted, though, when she learned this is where he was called next. She wanted to see it, she had told him. She wanted to know all aspects where death visited. Now the two of them stood, a barren, burning wasteland before them, littered with bodies.

Death stood impassive. He and War were old companions. As long as the world of man stood against one another, the two of them had danced to this same music. Never had one existed without the other. Now Death stood, looking out over the field of battle, still strewn with empty mortars, and he wondered for only a moment if ever War would wax thin and pass from this world. He wondered fleetingly if the world of man needed War, or if they simply had not learned how to do without him. And then the thought was gone.

Hannah, who had been holding Death’s hand, let go and took a step away from him. She moved forward, stepping lightly around the scattered bodies, even when she knew she could not disturb them. He followed her at a distance, letting her lead.

Eventually, she stopped, looking down at a man who lay, scared and alone. He had been shot by something large, and blood gushed out of his stomach and chest, his hand doing little to stop it.. As Death drew closer, he realized that it was not a man. It was a boy, scarcely 19. Stubble was scattered across an otherwise smooth face, and his eyes held little knowledge of life.

He lay on his back, staring up into nothing, silent, painful tears running down the sides of his face. Each line of his body was wracked with pain and he convulsed involuntarily, thick red blood gushing each time he did. He whispered soft words, and for a breath, Death wondered if, though in a different tongue, it was the same prayer Hannah’s mother said when she found her daughter taken from her.

Hannah scanned the field again. “They’re all so young. They’re only boys.”

At the sound of her voice, the soldier started. His eyes struggled to focus, but when they did, they met hers.

“Who are you?” His eyes fuzzed again and he struggled with it for a moment.

Confusion registered on Hannah’s face, and she looked at Death for an explanation. “He can see me?”

Death nodded grimly. “When one like this is so close and is begging for me to come, often the veil separating us will thin and glimpses can be had.”

As he said it, the soldier found Hannah again.

“Are you an angel?”

Death stayed silent, letting Hannah answer him. She kneeled down in front of him and laid a hand upon his.

“My name is Hannah. What is yours?”

He gasped in a few breaths, and Death stepped closer, knowing it was almost time, but the boy spoke again.

“I’m Matthias.”

Hannah offered a little smile. “Don’t worry, Matthias. It’s almost over. The pain is almost gone.”

She looked up at Death and he stooped down. Matthias’s eyes closed and he gasped again as Death laid a hand on his forehead. When his eyes opened, his mortal body lay still. As his soul stood, his hand reached for (the place he was dying), but the injury and the pain were gone. Matthias looked at Hannah, gratitude spilling over.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and was gone in an instant.

She stood, looking at his body, for a long time. Finally, she spoke to Death.

“Was that the right thing to say?”

A nod. “Yes.”

Another lengthy pause as she surveyed the field, not looking at him.

“You’re not cruel.” It was not a question, and he did not answer her. Finally, she turned. “Death is a merciful thing, isn’t it? A gift to people who are suffering.” She gestured at Matthias and then to the others that lay on the field.

Again, a nod.

Her head cocked to the side, like it used to do when she was younger.

“Papa, what is an angel?”

Death didn’t know how to answer her.

“A comforter. A guide and a protector. They help souls like Matthias find peace and rest.”

She regarded him for a heartbeat. “Like you.” She stepped closer to him. “You help people find peace and rest. You protect and comfort and guide me. Are you an angel, Papa?”

Death had never thought about this before.

She took one more step toward him and wrapped her arms around him. In a flash, it was as if she were a baby again, snuggling into his arms and his robes. Falling asleep in the safe embrace.

He wrapped his arms around her, too, and they both stood, surrounded by carnage and rubble, holding each other.

His robes moved gently with her breath as she spoke again. “If you’re an angel, Papa, does that make me an angel, too?”

She looked up at him, her eyes bright and young. He leaned down and kissed her forehead.

“I suppose it does, my child.”

As he wrapped her again in his arms, a prayer formed in his heart in the voice of her mother.

Haankhes. May she live.