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France - 1803
The little things excite us, no matter who or what we are. The smell of your mother's cooking, the brush of the summer breeze or the gentle flutter of a lover’s kiss across the warm skin and racing hearts. In the little village of Dulbro in a humble baker’s shop, a young baker’s son by the name of Valentin knew this to be true. A young lad of seventeen years, he spent most of his days caring for his ailing mother and helping his father run the baker, all while raising his younger sister. The sun-soaked village was one of cobblestone roads and sandstone cottages, flower-filled trenches lining every window and children made their merry by running about the street barefoot and squealing as they splashed through puddles playing tag. Death was about them just as his consort life was at all times but on this particular day, Death felt he needed to pay a particular visit to a particular young lad.
Death wore a trench coat of black upon a clean-cut undershirt of white, his alabaster toned hands stuffed into the deep-set pockets of the coat. A whistle sung between his lips, a fountain of joy swimming from his black eyes and a joyous stride carved the entity into the frame of that day as he wondered about the town. He was eager to see this boy, this baker’s boy that had what neither kings had nor the tabby cat sleeping on his window sill. Death leaned in the frame of the door and gave the tabby a pat as he watched the boy make his bread.
“Valentin!” An older, male voice called from the stairs leading to the floor above. His voice was a twist of tiredness and drive, a drive to keep going despite the years weighing him down. When one lives for such a time as eternity, they get to know most secrets hide in the way someone speaks.
“Yes, papa?” The young lad Valentin called back, dusting the flour from his hands. The old man shambled down the stairs, his bones creaking more than the floorboards.
“Have you cleaned the shop yet? Customers will pour through that door any moment,” He grumbled, affectionately whacking Valentin on the shoulder with a rolling pin.
“No, not yet papa I was just putting in the last batch in,” The son replied. The grunting and apologies continued on for what felt like hours, but only a few seconds for Death. His short, curly blonde hair reminded Death of the field of sunflowers he’d once crossed a few centuries before, his watery blue eyes were as beautiful as the pristine waters of the islands Death had razed into the sea and his brown freckles were numerous as the soldiers Death had taken. With no empathy nor lust Death merely found these features fascinating, they were merely the paint to this art, the physical ties that were only a layer of beauty. Rolling sand dunes, rippling waters and armies made this boy what he appeared to be, but what was he beneath?
For days Death and the tabby cat pondered this question, sitting in the baker’s shop and walking about the village, following him about on his duties as a son, brother, and baker. It was a preposterous idea to not expect that a lad like Valentin would not have some poor fool of a girl hopelessly in love with him, but Death found it amusing nonetheless. Over the span of time since both life and death had existed he’d seen this same story over and over. Two lovers, divided by invisible constructs. To other humans, the story of defying the norm was something exhilarating but to Death, it was quite obvious. By day Valentin cared for his sister and mother and helped his father but the night was for himself and for his love, Addie. They met when the moon was nigh and the insects had scuttled inside their homes. There was a small, abandoned cottage by the forest edge where they’d met and interlock into a lovers tumble. Addie’s fire smoked and whirled in combination with Valentin’s sand and stretching oceans. Eventually, Addie bore the fruit of their tumbles, a baby girl was pushed into the world and for the first time since his arrival, Death met yet again with life. They named the baby Sally, a lass of sand dune hair and ocean eyes, but with fewer soldiers dotted upon her face. They became a family within the cottage and lived their simple life and eventually that particular thing about the particular boy faded away. Death’s curiosity waned away as the years past and the girl grew and Valentin’s fear of death grew with her.
“How unfortunate,” Death sighed, looking to the early morning sun. Death was without empathy, but he was not without feelings and boredom was a terribly powerful emotion. He went to step away to another place, perhaps Italy or Switzerland. Maybe Time had some of herself to have a spot of tea. She oft liked to drone on about the last millennia for what felt like forever.
“Where am I?” A voice whispered.
“France, but also death if we’re being specific,” Death said.
“How can I be in death? That…is not a place,” The Ghost said, green eyes dull and distant.
“Death isn’t something you can define my dead friend. It is a place, a time, an act and a being. All at once. Definable and undefinable just as my two wives are, Time and Life,” Death tried to explain.
“How do I know that you’re not just some random ghost, trying to sound all so mystical and deep?” The ghost wondered, folding his arms. As Death and the ghost of green eyes and sun-kissed earthen hair spoke, Addie passed them both to hang some washing outside the cottage. Without even bothering to look, Death placed his hand on her shoulder. The second his cold fingers touched her warm skin, her heart stopped beating and the life drained from her eyes. Addie crumpled to the ground, wet clothes spilling onto the grass.
“At a single touch I can shift the universe and all will still fall into alignment. A star may go out, but another will always be there to replace it,” Death said as Sally stumbled out of the cottage, her eyes foggy with sleep.
“Mamma?” Her confusion became tears when the realization dawned that her mother was not breathing. Death watched them both, his thoughts far away. This was nothing new, this was something he’d seen half a million times. When Sally found her father and told him of what happened, Valentin did not pause to rush to her side. He wept all the same as Sally and begged for her to wake up, but she heard neither of their cries. Sally tried to hold her mother’s hand but the rush of grief formed into an anger that made Valentin shove his daughter away from Addie and to the ground. The ghost disliked this. He disliked it so much that the snap and the sound of his body slumping onto the ground by his wife could be heard all the way to the village.
“Are you a fan of making orphans or was this a mistake?” Death asked the ghost.
“I didn’t mean to – I didn’t…What of the girl?” The ghost stuttered.
Death, as Death tends to do remained unchanged. Back and forth they argued over who might be a fault. Fruitless really but also fruitful, an endless loop. They walked either side of the girl, following her as she stumbled into the town. Death felt no obligation to watch over the girl, but curiosity pushed him to stay. The ghost’s control over the material world was warped and confused into a disarray of emotional outbursts with no rational mind to guide it. The owner of Dulbro’s tavern took pity on Sally and took her in, giving her a job of sweeping the floors and keeping the place clean. In return, the keep gave Sally her own little room in the attic and plenty of food and water. Death and the Ghost watched over her and by her fifteenth birthday, the Ghost made contact with her. She’d always known something was wrong, that she wasn’t completely alone. By her sixteenth year Sally had become a barmaid, a woman nearly fully grown physically, despite the fact she’d been a woman since she was thirteen years old. The Ghost and Sally spoke with charcoal on the wooden walls and floorboards, the Ghost oft teaching her how to read and write. The charcoal and splintered wood became their mouths and the words that spilled from them. Every morning Sally washed the markings away in hope to seem sane to friends she did not have.
Nothing of interest happened to Valentin’s daughter for the next few years, not until a certain drunk noble stumbled his way into her bed. Sally quickly found herself pregnant and working in the noble’s kitchens. The Ghost and Death both followed, their whisperings becoming markings in the flour of the bread and pastries that she baked in the sweat-filled kitchens. Death’s wife passed them and eventually his other wife, Life came calling to deliver the baby. The ant was healthy as could be, a squealing red boy Sally came to the call Sebastian. Time, Death and Life spun their silk webs as the boy grew into a man and Sally’s years slipped from beneath her and the days turned her youthful body soft and pudgy, the months turned her bones and skin sore and taught and the years crept gray into her brittle hair.
“Over all these years, I’ve always thought you to be my father. My memory of recent years past betrays me but my childhood feels as though I was but a child the day before yesterday. I very much remember finding my mother’s body laying cold in the grass, but I could never work out why my father dropped dead minutes after. Like the child I was I told myself he died from heartbreak…but it was you, wasn’t it?” Sally said, rolling out the morning dough. Her hair was grayed, skin wrinkled from use like scrunched paper and up to her elbows was dipped in flour. But the Ghost recognized her beauty. He’d been with Sally since she was a baby and had only looked to her eyes of ocean blue to remember her youth. Death stepped from the shadows and made himself known. He extended a gloved hand, motioning for her to take it. “Quick now, before Death comes,” Death said.
Sally stared at him wide-eyed, lips parted in shock. Her powdered hand entwined with his gloved and a creature that held life danced with an entity that was only a single step away from life. The music that guided their steps along the worn floor were the memories of years past. Sebastian’s first cries as he breathed his first breaths in the world, his first laugh only moments as Sally held rocked him gently in her arms. Her father’s voice when he sang her to sleep, the sound of her noble’s sires breath and heartbeat.
“Did you kill my father, specter?” Sally asked softly, remembering back to the Ghost’s lessons of literature. The old woman rested her head on the lapel of his black coat
“I’m not the one that killed your father sweet Sally, but I did take your mother. Just as I took your grandmother and grandfather, your great grandmother and your great grandfather and so forth. Your family and all the rest that now reside in my kingdom,” Death replied, humming along to the song of Sally dearest’s life. Just as he expected, she did not flinch nor did she go to pull away. She knew, just as her father had, that Death was not something to be feared.
It was why I loved him so. I did not resent Addie, nor do I resent their child. Valentin’s heart lives again within his daughter whose resilience and content is something worthy of envy. It is why I love her. Both of them, they do not fear death.
Sebastian was nearly a man, but only time could tell whether he’d be the same as his grandfather and mother. He looked the same, the sand dune hair and ocean eyes, but he hadn’t Valentin’s heart. Unlike the sweet kindness behind Valentin’s blue eyes and the strength behind Sally’s, Sebastian had a wall of ice. Together Death and the girl danced away from thoughts of the future and abandoned the past as they danced through shared memories of the past. They danced and danced until her last breath left her body with a small smile upon lips worn with laughter and smiles. For the few seconds that her spirit wandered, the Ghost took her shaking hand the reassured her.
“Charcoal and flour couldn’t ever express how very sorry I am for taking away those most important to you. For this, I’ve tried my very best to care for you and ensure your happiness and safety but there was never anything I could’ve done to stop Time,” the Ghost said softly to her. Sally looked to the Ghost for a moment in confusion, but it quickly melted away to be replaced with warmth and forgiveness. A look that said she’d known this specter, this man, all her long life. With a small smile, Sally embraced him.
“All I ask is that you make sure my boy is safe. All I’ve ever wished is for his own happiness…but I do have one question.,” Sally leaned in and whispered her question his ear whilst Death watched from afar. The Ghost smiled.
“Booker, my named is Booker,” He said as she faded away.
“Booker the Ghost is it?” Death said in his usual snarkish manner, sitting on the kitchen table top. He poked her corpse with the point of his boot.
“Death the Death is it?” Booker said, equally sardonic, kicking his foot away from her.
“So…what’re you to do now?” Death asked, brushing the flour from his finely trimmed cloak.
Booker sat crouched by the flesh that Sally used to inhabit, hands clasped and pressed against his lips in thought.
“Look after her boy, of course.”
ns 15.158.61.4da2
