He rubbed at his eyes, pointer finger and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose as he did so. “The circumstances being my imminent demise from…something?”
“Allergic reaction to a bee sting in the back garden.” She said absently. There was a pause. “You know, I’m starting to wonder if I’m actually doing this on purpose, on an unconscious level.”
“I have noticed a surprising uptick in the number of fatal accidents I’m supposed to have.” Ray said wryly. “No strong correlation with actual accidents suffered, mind you, but it’s still a disturbing trend.”
The banshee shrugged. “It’s your time?” She shook her head. “I don’t know how it works. I’m part of the system, but not the whole of it. I can tell when someone is going to die. A banshee comes to mourn for them, and they cork it. I don’t know why it isn’t working now. The theory seems to be pretty sound, and by all accounts it’s always worked before.” She held up a hand. “And before you even start, don’t ask me about free will. I don’t know, alright?”
She slouched off, looking for all the world as if she was in search of a theater to star in.
It hadn’t been a bad question, Ray reflected, as he gathered up his tools and studiously avoided the flower beds which were receiving due attention from the buzzing bees. But then, perhaps this was it; him exercising free will. And if the Neighborhood Association came by to complain about his messy yard work, then he could tell them about the banshee and they could ignore him too.
* * *
Thursday
A few local stores offered discounts to seniors on Thursdays—probably following some obscure sales algorithm—so as much as possible he tried to pick up the essentials while the better prices could be taken advantage of. Shopping around for the best prices made for busy Thursdays, but a fixed income meant that it was necessary. As he wandered around the grocery, he paused briefly at the canned tuna, before thinking better of it.
It didn’t hurt to be a little extra careful, considering.
He supposed that, accepting the premise, he’d had several close encounters with Death, or near enough as made no difference. For some reason, he’d bought in to the mass-media interpretation—a tall, gaunt, pale figure with the black hood and scythe—all of his life, but now it was hard to imagine anything other than the…well, pale, yes, but neurotic and not particularly skeletal woman in the role. He had been skeptical—still was—but the fact of the matter was, there was the ring of truth to her demeanor. He didn’t wish to believe that he was slated to die, but it wasn’t impossible to believe that the banshee believed what she was saying.
And it had influenced his life, as well. He’d been trying to do more healthy activities, and trying to distract himself, while simultaneously waiting for the herald of death to show up again. There was a metaphor for life if he’d ever heard one.
Lost in thought, he nearly wandered into that same vision of Death, currently in the process of setting up what appeared to be a grocery samples stand. He raised an eyebrow. “Free samples of death? A little on the nose, wouldn’t you say?”
She scowled at him, clearly irritated. “Well, if you must know, I was planning to give a sales pitch, continuing in the theme of ‘the oral tradition.’ Now I wonder if I’ll even bother.” She glanced down at the table, where she’d set up a hot plate. “Also, this is the longest I’ve spent in a single place. It’s not as if I need a job, but it’s useful to have something to do while I wait for whatever horrible thing is due to happen to you next.”
Ray gave the banshee a bemused look. “Your confidence in my ability to survive is rather underwhelming.” He shook his head. “I’ll admit, I don’t know what to make of you.” She gave him a sharp look, but he held up a hand. “I don’t know why, but I believe you are who you say that you are. It’s just … difficult to make sense of. Beyond the obvious, I mean. If you’re the Death of my family, why are you struggling so much with this?”
She gave a faint, sad smile. “Do you really want to know?”
He nodded and the feeling of familiarity returned, stronger and different than before. Initially, it had been the sense that he had met her somewhere before. Now, it was clearer, and yet more opaque; as if he had walked with her every day of his life and yet didn’t even know her name. She suddenly seemed very old indeed and he felt very young.
He nodded again, uncertain of himself now. “I do.”
She took a sip from one of the cups of water in front of her. “I am your Death, Ray O’Connor. And the Deaths of your ancestors, and the Deaths of hundreds of others besides. But here, and now, in this place, I am your Death, and this is who I am. And I am young because you have not brushed with Death before, and I am inexperienced because you are far from the bones of those who came before you. And I am frightened to sing because I am the only Death you get.” She gave a rueful smile. “And I don’t want to make a hash of it. I only get to sing once, and I worry that my song will not be enough. So if I half-ass it, I haven’t yet reached the point of no return.”
Ray had slipped into a liminal space, of sorts; no one acknowledged the two of them, because they were in that twilight zone that was between here and there. The eyes of passing shoppers had slid by her automatically; death was the ultimate threshold, and to acknowledge her was to stay there longer than anyone felt comfortable doing. He had ceased to exist to the world outside. Real, and yet unreal.
He started to speak, but the moment had been intimate and now it had passed. A minute before he had seen something vulnerable and it had changed the world, at least a little; now they were back in the store, if a step apart, and if there were anything to say, he didn’t know what it was.
He tried anyway. “I’m sorry…” but it rang hollow and was ash in his mouth. Sorry for what? He had prided himself on living his life as fully as he could; was he sorry he wasn’t resigned and salty, like his neighbors, or living in the shadow of his own death, so that she would have more confidence?
The banshee shook her head and began to pack up her things. “I need to go.” Ray watched her leave, not sure what he should say or do, and so saying and doing nothing.
Ray didn’t buy all that much that day after all, excellent discounts notwithstanding. Somehow, parsimony seemed less important right now. He was polite, but curt with the clerk, and left quietly, deep in thought.
* * *
Friday
The banshee didn’t come to Ray on Friday, although he looked for her. It left him a little sad, although he had no idea why. He worried that he’d hurt her, and he worried that she had said things that she wished that she hadn’t. As he went to bed that evening, he wondered if she had given up. He fell asleep wondering what that might mean. Sleep was long in coming, and by the time it arrived, he had no more satisfying an answer than when he first retired for bed.
* * *
Saturday
Ray saw the banshee outside of his house, once more. No props, that he could see from his window, no elaborate costumes, just her, in dark veil and garb, almost exactly as she had been when they had first met, although strangely silent now. There seemed to be no time like the present, and he went down the short path to the driveway, and down to the street, which was also strangely quiet for this time in the morning.
His initial impulse was to begin with a joke, but something within him strangled the notion in the cradle. It seemed inappropriate, and besides, he was mostly just happy to see her, whatever her presence foretold.
He offered the second cup of coffee he had poured to her. She tilted her head and took it. “Thank you.”
“It seemed the least I could offer. New machine and all.” More than he probably should have spent, but it was the top of the line model. Good for entertaining, for all that he scarcely ever entertained.
“I’m sorry about the other day,” she began. “It wasn’t particularly fair of me to unload all of that on you. No offense, but in terms of the cosmic balance of the universe, you’re most certainly on the user-end,
not particularly to be bothered with the provider’s troubles. It’s not f—”
Ray cut her off, holding up a hand, shaking his head. “Three words that are always true and hardly worth finishing.” His voice caught in his throat a little bit, but it had been a week that had forced him to consider some unpalatable things. “Look…” he caught himself pausing again, and then forced himself to continue. “I’ve been considering what you said. About your concerns and your problems. I just wanted you to know…” it was hard to keep going, but he knew that he had to. “Well, the world can be a harsh and cruel place. If you’ve seen—been—as many deaths as you said, you don’t need me to tell you that. Often things come at us faster than we can handle them, when we aren’t expecting them, and not in the way that we would have chosen. I’m not in any rush to shuffle off this mortal coil, but if it comes to it—when it comes to it—sing. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Life never is. But you never take a second step if you never take a first.”
As a teacher, he’d given similar speeches to students struggling with problems that were felt bigger than they were. In a sense, it gave a strange sort of perspective to realize that problem didn’t stop beyond the human level. It just scaled upward.
She smiled, sadly. He tried his best to smile reassuringly. And then she opened her mouth and sang.
It wasn’t beautiful. It was a little haunting, but not in sublime majesty; it moved the heart and the soul because it was genuine, not because it was perfect. Here and there, the wordless tune cracked and faltered, but nothing was withheld and nothing was forbidden. It was a balm upon the wounds in the world and for a moment, nothing hurt, and the weight of age fell from Ray like dew from a leaf. He wasn’t young again; not even comparatively. But all of a sudden he wasn’t old, either. He wasn’t Ray O’Connor, Old Man, and he wasn’t Ray O’Connor, Frequently At Odds With the Homeowners Association. He was just Ray O’Connor, as much and as loud as life could permit, standing in the street with a young woman who might or might not actually be there.
The song came to a pause and the world flowed in again. Somehow, it wasn’t as harsh as it had been. The colors were vibrant, but not gaudy; the noisy world pronounced, cacophonous, but not obnoxious. The aches and pains of age were back, but they were familiar, not demanding. For a moment, there had been nothing but the song, imperfect though it was. Now, everything else was back, but it was a world where the song had happened and the imperfections of the world seemed less demanding, somehow.
The banshee tilted back her head and sang a final, trilling note, high and mournful, great, terrible, and magnificent.
It came at Ray faster than he could handle and when he wasn’t expecting it. He never saw the truck coming.
A Constant Companion
Juliet E. McKenna
“Wait till I get hold of Anil Deker, spreading tales like that,” the young woman muttered wrathfully. She strode through the market square rather faster than was ladylike, though thankfully the townsfolk were too busy with their own affairs to notice.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that.” She shot a glance at the enormous black hound loping at her side. “I won’t betray him to Inky Jerban. But he won’t go around clucking like his aunt’s chickens by the time I’ve finished with him.”
They approached a light carriage waiting by the public water trough. The chestnut horse in the shafts pricked its ears, looking over the edge of its nosebag. The driver was dozing on his seat, his russet livery coat unbuttoned. As the horse whickered, the gray-haired man sat up, concerned.
“Lady Dalria? Is something amiss?” Carden asked as he buttoned his coat.
The young woman curbed her anger. This was hardly Carden’s fault. “I’m sorry. I’ve changed my mind about visiting the market. There’s some new rumor that my brother’s alive and returned to claim his title, along with the castle and all the estate.”
The coachman’s expression darkened as he jumped down to open the carriage door and unfold its step. “It’s been, what, six years since the last time someone turned up spouting such nonsense?”
“Quite so.” Dalria paused as she plucked up the green fabric of her skirt to avoid treading on the hem.
“Well, your grandsire drove that scoundrel off with his tail between his legs. We’ll soon be rid of this one.”
Dalria smiled as if she shared Carden’s confidence. Inwardly, she sighed. She well remembered her grandfather ripping that last imposter’s claims to shreds, even though she’d barely been thirteen years old. Now though, Grandfather was dead and gone like the winter that had claimed him, and his loss was still so recent, so raw, that grief could still overwhelm her without warning.
She must maintain the composure he had taught her, essential to fulfill her duties as his heir. Essential if she was to challenge the lawyer who handled the business and legal affairs of her birthright—Master Jerban’s letters already indicated that he assumed she would follow his instructions, rather than him taking hers.
“Indeed, but I fear it may not be so simple this time,” she said as she settled into the coach. “It seems that Master Jerban has brought this particular claimant to Harles himself.”
“My lady?” Carden gaped at her.
Dalria took a moment to make sure her voice stayed calm. “You remember Anil Deker? Nephew to Mistress Warin, the egg seller?”
The coachman nodded as he secured the door. “Proud as one of her own roosters she was, when he went off to clerk for the castle in Bastrys.”
“It seems he was quick to share such juicy news with his family when Jerban’s coachman stopped to water the horses,” Dalria said tartly. “And his aunt is already spreading it in the market.”
“We must have just missed them on the road.” Now the coachman was looking pensive as he climbed into his seat and gathered up the reins.
Placidly, the horse headed out of the little town and towards its stable. It gave no sign of noticing the great black hound trotting at its side.
* * *
As they reached Harles Castle, Carden drove into the inner courtyard, drawing the carriage to a halt in front of the grandest entrance.
Ordinarily they’d have gone to the stable yard on the castle’s far side. Dalria would have walked in through the kitchens, pausing to wish Mistress Zante good morning. They’d have shared a glass of cordial and a honeycake as they discussed the housekeeper’s daily concerns.
Dalria could pretend that life continued as it had done before her grandfather died. But everything had changed.
* * *
As Carden jumped down to open the carriage door, Dalria took care to descend with all the poise she could muster. Wide windows on either side of the ornate doorway overlooked this inner courtyard, and she could guess who would be watching for her arrival.
Carden bowed low as she exited, just as he had always done to her grandfather.
No, she must not remember that. She must keep her grief at bay until she had dealt with this challenge.
The great black hound growled softly, deep in its throat, as it stalked up the steps at her side. Comforted, Dalria felt her courage returning.
“My lady.” Harbon was waiting to open the carved oak door. “You have visitors.”
The door to the reception room on their left opened. Dalria turned, her expression calm and composed. Grandfather had taught her the value of never letting any adversary think you were taken unawares.
“Lady Dalria.” Mistress Jerban advanced into the magnificent entrance hall. Her gown and adornments were doubtless the finest that Bastrys merchants could supply. Ochre silk, elegantly accented with gold and amber jewelry, was entirely fitting for these opulent surroundings.
Dalria could see the older woman’s disdain for her own plain woolen gown. As for going out in public, even in this warm spring weather, without a suitably decorative and decorous shawl? Mistress Jerban would sooner walk barefoot through soiled streets. That was merely one of the lessons the woman had chosen to share on her fi
rst visit, offering endless, unwanted advice in that dark week of the old Margrave’s funeral.
Dalria smiled. “You may address me as ‘My Lady Margravine,’ or Lady Reole, if you prefer.”
Mistress Jerban curtsied, perfunctorily. “That title awaits the Paramount King’s confirmation.” She turned to summon the young man standing with her husband by the window.
Dalria forestalled her, turning to Harbon. Turning her back on whoever was loitering with the lawyer, uninvited and unwelcome. “I will see Master Jerban in my grandfather’s—” she coughed “—in the muniment room.”
Without a backward glance, she walked past the lofty staircase leading to the upper floors and took the passage heading for the castle’s oldest regions.
She heard Master Jerban’s footsteps hurrying after her and quickened her pace. Striving to keep her breath even, she found the key to the muniment room on the chain at her waist.
Master Jerban arrived as she was taking her seat at the table where her grandfather had worked long days in the service of Harles Castle’s tenants and dependents. All those people were now her responsibility.
He cleared his throat. “My lady.”
Dalria sat straight-backed in the ancient oak chair and studied him in the dim light filtering through high, narrow windows. “Explain yourself, if you please.”
“I would not have brought this young man here unless I believed his claim warrants serious consideration.”
He looked at the high shelves packed with books and scrolls and document cases, the oldest records dating from hundreds of years ago. “Your brother’s unknown fate was your grandfather’s deepest sorrow. That his grandson could not be laid to rest beside his son and his wife—”