Old Bones by a Yew

I like to think of my untimely demise as murder. If only because it made my story sound more epic. An unnatural culling told better than the story of a poor, unsuspecting fool struck down by a rogue arrow.

Arrows, as far as I’m concerned, are not a naturally occurring phenomenon. Regardless, the tiny spear entered the left side of my head and exited the other. I can’t necessarily recall if I screamed in pain or if I futilely attempted to stop the bleeding.

(These sudden lapses of memory have become rather common lately. I can’t help but wonder if it was to be expected after experiencing such an extreme head wound.)

I had been a common man in a common house located in a common town. I was no Lord, no knight, nor a particularly gifted scholar. My only peculiarly being my slightly carnivorous horses. Lovely creatures… for the most part. I remember being a foolish man, quite a stubborn one too. So many times I was thrust into compromising situations because of a pride as grand as the greatest King’s castle.

(As you may be able to guess, this particular attribute had a tendency to get me into the deepest of trouble. My fate was twisted by just a single despicable woman.)

For several suns, a rather ill-favored crone had set up her shop in the town forum. She would lay out her wears on a ratty wagon canvas and—with a certain desperation—harass all who passed by.

The witch would stay there, unmoving, until her gnarled joints and papery skin became wet with perspiration and even the most daring shopper had fled from the midday heat. With no customers in sight, she would quickly tidy up her wares before stripping out of her coat, clothes, and underclothes as well. From there she would jump into the old fountain to stave off the heat.

(Three times she was arrested and fined for public indecency.

I had been there to witness such an arrest. I would have wished for death… but it's become a moot point.)

Ignoring her crimes against decency, she offered a plethora of remedies, maybe miracles, and strange lucky charms in exchange for the oddest of payments. I can no longer recall how or why I came to see her. Neither can I call forth most of her features.

Hanging wrinkled boo—No-no-no-no! Purge-purge-purge-purge!

One memory—hrrk—ONE memory remained of the witch, her teeth. I’ll admit, it’s a rather strange observation to make considering nearly all had dreadful mouths. Yet, I remember them perfectly. Crooked, pointed, and decayed till the point they were black. I noticed when she had first given me that devilish trader’s grin. Her smile was filled with fermented insanity. When I’d grimaced she had cackled so loudly passersby stopped to gawk.

“Yup! Indeed! You’re a stubborn one!” The witch had croaked with all the eerie knowing of a toad.

With her eyes alight with a consuming fire she jabbed a crooked finger into my chest. She leaned in, rancid breath tickling my cheeks.

“You dead…” She’d smirked, tossing me something of her wares.

For several moments I stood captive under her fetid scent.

“O-of course I’ll die,” I had brilliantly provided, breaking from her malodorous spell, “Everyone dies.”

I believe they found the terrifyingly indecent witch dead some ways outside of town several days later. She deserved to die after spoiling my own death. Looking back—and after thorough analysis—I have realized that she most likely stated “Yew dead.” A reasonable explanation considering I was unjustly ‘murdered’ at the base of a yew tree. Perhaps she cursed me.

(O the curse of bullheadedness…)

I was a stubborn man, an immovable mountain when it came to even the most benign arguments. This was still a present trait even as my blood flowed away and my brain performed a grand ol' coup d’état. Even if I no longer recall the reason for my patient waiting, I wasn’t about to let the eternal sleep stop me from doing so.

No matter the temptation to fade into nothingness I remained firmly attached to my corpse. For all I knew, I could have been waiting to elope with a lover that never arrived or searching for a lost child or something important!

(I could have just been taking a piss in the woods. But that would have added unnecessary embarrassment to my already lame death.)

No matter the circumstances, I would not dissipate. I would not surrender to death. There was a reason (I hope) I was killed at that yew, a motive (I really hope) behind my death, and a reason (I really, really hope) that I had yet to leave my body. I would just have to sit here and wait for the world to reset my fate since, CLEARLY, it was exceeding death.

(I miss that motivation.)

At first, death was terribly boring. The dead, after all, have very little to do.

I believe the first thing I did was contemplate my life. It had just ended, and I was very new to death. I thought about the sins I committed, worked through the depression of no longer being amongst the living, and worried about who would feed my horses. Dastardly creatures, no doubt they had already escaped and eaten my poor stable boy.

Around my fifth year of being dead was when the insanity first began to sink in. A little mushroom had sprouted around where my nose used to be, which I named Harold. He was incredibly wise and the most eloquent fungi I had ever met. Harold and I spent many hours discussing the great philosophical ways of the world.

Harold met his unfortunate end by means of a very hungry mouse. I mourned his loss for days until I suddenly stumbled upon my sanity with the realization that I was projecting myself onto a fungus. That had to be one of the more awkward moments of my death.

(After-death? After-life? Limbo? Yet another thing to contemplate.)

With the addition of a couple of years upon that, the earth soon began to claim my bones. It was one of the more unfortunate events of my death. Despite being dead I still very much enjoyed the sun shining through the foliage and watching the animals scurry about. (Even if some of them did find delicacies with my bones.) I would miss the green of plants and the blue of the sky. I did not want to sink into the cool, dark earth.

No longer could I move. I couldn’t make any perceptible noise. It would have been quite a sticky situation if it wasn’t for my encounter with a wayward Grim Reaper.

I had watched him approach from the deepest, darkest shadows of the forest. He was night incarnate and had the signature scythe thrown over his shoulder. The Reaper was rather out of place within the bright greens of the woods. I first assumed him to be yet another figment of my growing-more-estranged-with-every-passing-second imagination. I was quite thankful that my delusion appeared to be human… this time.

The Reaper had wandered over—long robes catching in the undergrowth—and looked down his pointy, pretentious nose at me. I would’ve described his eyes as dark, mysterious, and unreadable, but that would begin to mark a divergence into something more romantic. I was trying to avoid those sort of deluded fantasies.

I had been rather curious about which part of my deteriorating mind he represented. Guilt, despair, or self-doubt seemed rather likely. Perhaps insecurity. The figment did seem rather rawboned and awkward.

The man bowed slightly—wrinkling his cloak—and uttered a small prayer.

"Rest deeply, old forgotten bones laying by the yew." He had whispered.

Soon after, he moved to leave. He steps silently despite the fallen leaves. There was an eerie grace about him.

It was around that time that I had begun to gather that he was, as a matter of fact, NOT part of my consciousness. So, as someone who was surrounded by perpetual boredom, who cussed at aggressive birds, and who spoke to mushrooms as if they were great philosophers, it was only natural I began to speak with him. I regret my lack of self-control.

“Please! Do continue walking! I’ll just unbury myself!” I had called, “Yes, me! Without any arms or legs! I would never wish to impede the great master of poor fashion!”

The man froze several steps away, his shoulders rigid as he turned. After a couple of seconds of rude staring, a scowl settled itself frankly upon his jaw. Storming over he plucked my skull right out of the ground with a spray of soil.

“What are you doing in there!” He growled frigidly, “Get out!”

I stared at him blankly. That was all I could do since I was lacking a fleshy face. (Perhaps, if I was still alive and in a similar situation I would have been making faces. Mean ones.) I wish I had remained silent for I soon said something foolish.

“A mean bird ate my jaw,” I replied with misery and an admittedly little forethought, “I can’t talk.”

The only sign that the man had become enraged was a subtle twitching of an elegant black eyebrow and the slight noise of grinding teeth. Dreadful sound that is. The shadows of the forest seemed to grow darker. Was this an ability of a soul reaper?

(Oh. No, no. Just a passing cloud.)

He raised me to an uncomfortably short distance from his face and said in an eerily calm voice, “Listen hear you lowt… You’ve obviously been stranded on the mortal plane for far too long. I think you should leave before what remains of your mind strays too far into lunacy!” And then with an added hiss, “You’re dead!”

“Really?” I replied skeptically, “I could have sworn the arrow missed…”

Most living people, or even less stubborn dead, might have noticed the threatening undertone. From what I remember from my mortal life… I was incompetent. Hidden meanings, analogies, metaphors; all flew over my head. Much like birds over trees. I never understood why some people just couldn’t just speak outright about the mind's pressing matters.

“You’re the lowt! Walking around covered in that black cloth! What sort of madness has infected you that… that has become appropriate for this time of year?!” And just for added measure, “You’re definitely a loon!”

For a moment all was silent and the beautiful sounds of nature became apparent. Birds chirping and fluttering about, the wind ruffling leaves, squirrels, and chipmunks scurrying about. It was all very peaceful. With this sudden peace, I knew immediately to regret the words that had spilled from my mouth.

The man had a strained sort of smile on his face. He looked as if he was so angry that breathing had become an afterthought. I was surprised he wasn’t turning violet. I had just been about to apologize when he threw me. The fellow had good aim. I hit the yew dead on.

“Ouch!” I shouted, tumbling to the ground.

As the world slowly stopped spinning enough for me to make sense of it, the man marched over with his scythe swung off his shoulder. When he finally arrived, I stuck my tongue out and–wait a moment.

Raising his foot, the man kicked me into the bushes.

“Ow!” I shouted, tumbling into the bushes.

Pulling me from the leaves the man, once again, raised me to his face.

“Why the hell are you saying “ouch”!?” He shouted, “You’re dead! DEAD! Nothing but a filthy skull!”

The Reaper took a breath.

“It’s time that your forgotten soul move on from this world.”

What a rude and vile traveler. He came to my home, my yew, and decided to beat me up for back talking. Well, he was going to get a lot more than backtalk as soon as I found my arms… and my legs… and that bird that ate most of my bones…

“I’ll have you know that while I cannot feel pain, I have emotions! Emotions that can be hurt by hideous travelers with such a poor sense in cloth like you!” I insulted, “I would like to see you try and force me from this world! You can kiss my missing arse you tickle-brained fustilarian!”

For a moment I was weightless, just floating in the air. It was one of those moments when you begin to reflect on the life you have lived up to that critical poin–right… dead. Okay, so maybe instead of self-reflection I stared at the yew tree I had been waiting at for so long. What was the point? Why shouldn’t I give up the remainder of my consciences to rest in peace? The light reflected off the man’s scythe as it came down quick and sharp, directly where the arrow had first killed me.

(Hmm… Whatever did happen to that arrow?)

With a crack and a snap, the back of my head flew off. Now all that remained of my once complete body was my forehead, my eye sockets, and the upper half of my jaw. A sort of deep sorrow came over me leaving me breathless (I have no lungs…), my words abandoned me. The Reaper turned away with an irritable huff.

“Stubborn old soul…” The shadowy man muttered.

Once again he bowed his head and spoke a small prayer, although slightly begrudged, and began to leave. Despair slowly began to sink deep into my soul. Doubt of my purpose and a deep sadness towards my current situation were prominent. Was it even worth it to wait so many years for something that would likely never come?

Had I been forgotten?

Despair is such an easy thing to sink into, and the fall is even deeper when negativity is added. I would have given up if it wasn’t for a familiar carrion bird coming into view. Like a rejected angle the creature swooped down and grabbed something off the forest floor.

It landed on a branch with a squawk. My skull clenched within its jagged talons.

“You!” I gasped.

That horrid visitor whipped his head around with an aghast look. He pointed at me, shouting scrambled and hateful words. I ignored him, too focused on the bird as it slowly broke my delicate bone into chunks. It watched me as it swallowed them whole. Bite after bite. Crunch after crunch.

“How dare you eat me!” I yelled, “Foul creature! Rat with wings!”

The bird screeched another squawk before vanishing deeper into the woods. The irritating stranger, once again, marched over and picked me up. I really hoped he didn’t throw me, that blasted bird wasn’t going to get another free meal on my watch.

“Why won’t you move on!” The man screamed, little bits of spittle flying here and there.

For a moment he sat there huffing and silent, waiting for my response.

“Would you move on if you died waiting for something that never arrived? Am I unreasonable for wanting to see what my life was bought for?” I asked curiously, “Perhaps a weaker man would have given up once forgotten, but I am not one. For that, I guess you will have to forgive me.”

The man let out a long defeated sigh and fastened his scythe back over his shoulder. Much to my surprise (and against all logical reasoning), he placed me upon his face much like a mask.

Wonderful, from human to carrion to bird food… and now to mask. This was… truly my lowest moment. Slowly the illogical man began to meander away from the yew, much to my chagrin.

As if sensing my concerns the man spoke, “I’m known as Acwellen. I am what you would know as a Grim Reaper. I assist souls to the afterlife and force the more stubborn ones.” He stated with a worrying smirk, “You won’t move on and I couldn’t force you, therefore I must find your unfinished business or whatever…”

“As a man, I feel extremely uncomfortable being this close to another man.”

“Please… do shut up.”

“And how am I remaining on your face? Do you have supernatural abilities? Are you a witch?”

There was only a tired sigh in response. Were all travelers as looney as this one who claimed to be an assistant of death, put the skull of a long-deceased human on his face, and thought black cloth to be an appropriate travel color?

I was concerned about where this idiot would be taking me. He didn’t seem very trustworthy… and he did just attempt to kill me. Not to mention he helped that damn bird. Although, the lowt did say he was going to help me find whatever I was waiting for. Who was I to be picky? This man had LEGS!

“Acwel! Your name means to kill! My name is Daegal! I wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you!” I introduced myself jovially.

The man suddenly stopped. Raising a hand to his new boney mask he spoke.

“I forgot to ask,” He started with a curious tilt of his head, “what exactly are you waiting for?”

“I have no recollection!” I giggled.

Once again, I was thrown (This fellow really did have impeccable aim!) into a tree. One of the sharper edges of my skull dug into the bark leaving me stuck at a peculiar angle. Acwel, turning red in the face, marched over and viciously pulled me from the wood. He seemed just about to throw me again when he gathered some semblance of self-control and released a pent-up breath. Bringing a hand down his face he looked towards the sky.

“Why must you test me?” He sighed.