Chapter 27 #2
Quietly, Zakhar took a bottle of ink and a pen from his bag, along with a fresh sheet of paper, and dipped his quill twice. With a flourish, he wrote Nik’s full name across the top of the sheet and then slid it over.
“In case you want to write anything down,” he said. “I’ll leave you to it.”
As he rose from his chair, Nik said, “I don’t understand. You don’t have to leave. What’s supposed to be happening?”
“You’ll see,” Zakhar said softly. His smile was sad and apologetic. “I’m sorry, but I don’t like staying for these. I’ll return when it’s over.”
Before Nik could further protest, Zakhar was gone, and he was left alone with the strange little girl. Then, suddenly, Nik realized the two of them weren’t alone. Another man had appeared in the room.
“Kak dela, malyshka?” the man said in a smooth voice. “How may I serve you today?” But his dark eyes never left Nik’s face.
“I think this one needs to talk to you,” Zima said.
“Really? He doesn’t appear to be dying at the moment.” Then the man cocked his head, and a small smirk appeared. “Though I suppose he is suffering somewhat.”
“He isn’t dying. It’s true,” Zima said soberly.
“Then why do you want to burden him, child?”
Zima blinked. “I don’t know. I just think he needs it. Or needs to talk to you, anyway.”
“Interesting,” the man said.
“Who are you?” Nik asked.
“I don’t answer questions you already know the answer to.”
The room was silent for a moment as Nik studied the other man. His heart began beating fast, and his breathing kicked up like he’d been running.
“You . . . you’re a demon?” Nik speculated.
“Not quite.”
“A ghost?”
“Guess again.” The man studied his fingernails. “You can feel it, can’t you? The inevitability of me? The one you can’t evade, no matter what you do.”
Nik stared at him, and he knew. He simply knew.
This man had been in Nik’s presence before.
Many times, in fact. Sometimes Nik had even prayed for him to come, knew he’d been there, lurking in the shadows.
And yet he hadn’t taken him; he’d left him alive to suffer another day, another week, another month.
He’d been there when the knife had slipped between his mother’s ribs and her lifeblood had spilled out on the floor of their little home.
He’d been there on the hillside as he’d watched their cabin burn to the ground, retrieving the tiny souls of his siblings.
Yes. There was no denying—he’d been in the presence of this being before.
“You’re Death,” Nik said, swallowing.
Grinning, Death said, “Give the man a prize!” He laughed, then shrugged and added, “Just kidding. There’s no prize. No trump card that lets you escape my clutches.”
“You’re a prize to me!” Zima said.
“Thank you, love,” Death said. “That’s why you’ll always be my favorite.”
“And why you’ll come for me twice.”
The little girl grinned, showing a dimple when the dark man smiled at her and touched his finger to her pert nose.
Nik felt sick. No. He felt worse than sick.
He was going to vomit. Closing his eyes, he practiced his breathing.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
Then he tried to wet his lips, but his mouth was so, so dry.
Nik lifted his glass and got only a few drops.
Opening his eyes, he saw Death staring at him.
No. Into him. “What . . . what do you want from me?” he asked.
“It’s not what I want from you. I’m here at your behest. What is it you want from me? Zima thinks you need to talk.”
Wringing his hands, which had gone cold and numb, Nik shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “What do people usually talk about when visiting with you?” he asked.
“Hmm. Most want to know if it’s their time. But I sense you know the answer to that question already. They usually want to know the when. The how. The who.”
“And what about the why not?”
“Ah.” The man spun a chair around backward and took a seat, folding his arms on the chairback. “I wondered if you’d be brave enough to ask me that one directly.”
“Most aren’t?”
“No. I frighten most. Not because of anything I’ve done. Death is as natural as birth, breathing, eating, going for a walk, or planting a tree. It’s part of what makes you human. Want to know my theory?”
“Sure.”
“I think humankind just doesn’t like endings.
But without endings, how can you have beginnings?
Or middles, for that matter? Personally, I like a good ending.
If a story just went on and on without an ending, eventually you’d get bored and quit reading.
There’s something satisfying in wrapping up a tale.
Every river ends somewhere. Each sunrise becomes a sunset.
That’s just life. The trick is being willing to step into the unknown.
Finding out what comes next. But you . .
. you weren’t afraid of what was next; you were more afraid to live in the now.
That made death seem pretty good, didn’t it, son? ”
Nik lowered his head. “If you know all that, then why?”
“Why didn’t I take you, then? Well, the answer to that question is simple but complicated. It wasn’t your time. In other words, you still have things to do.”
“What things?”
“Ah, that’s the complicated part and the piece I can’t answer for you.
The answer is different for each person.
What I can tell you is that just like you knew me, you’ll know the answer to that question in your heart if you want to know badly enough.
Now, as to the other, more standard questions, the hows, whens, and wheres of your actual demise, I can be pressed upon to share that information.
I should warn you, though, that knowing is a burden. ”
“Yeah. I can see that.”
Again, Nik shifted, crossing and uncrossing his legs, trying to find some way to relieve the pain. Blast that Pasha! he thought.
The three were silent for a long time. All waited on Nik.
With Veru or Stacia, Nik never had to speak first. Any time there was silence, they rushed to fill it, each sister talking over the other one.
Nik had learned from the time he was young that there was great protection in being quiet.
Not only could you glean information you would otherwise miss out on, but you avoided saying anything that would cause upset in others.
Those who traveled with you always assumed you agreed with their opinions.
His mother rarely spoke, especially in the presence of their father, but when she did, she usually said something so profound it stuck with him.
One thing she’d said was, “A fool’s tongue runs before his feet.
” She’d always encouraged him to gain experience in a thing before he went on trying to speak about it.
Another one, his favorite, was, “A silent man is never conquered.”
Nik had quoted that to himself time and again when withstanding his father’s blows.
It was part of the reason he’d survived.
He bore the pain because he told himself he was the victor in the end.
But he’d since learned, for whatever reason, that most people didn’t think or feel the same way about being still or quiet, or just sitting with their thoughts.
He appreciated that the two people in the room with him did. It was rare.
When he finally gathered himself, he said, “I don’t care about my own death.
When or how it happens, it will happen. I’ll accept it, no matter what.
Death—or you, I suppose—have passed me by many a time.
Now that I know there’s a reason for me to keep walking upon this earth, I’m satisfied to continue searching for the why until I find it and accept that my work isn’t finished. ”
Death spun his chair back around and stood as if preparing to leave.
“That’s an impressive worldview. And fairly healthy, considering your background.
Then until we meet again, my dear.” He picked up Zima’s tiny hand and pressed a kiss on the back, then bowed.
The little girl giggled in response and tossed her head back, jiggling her bouncy curls.
“I’ll take my leave now. Unless there’s something else? Think hard, young man. I won’t return for you again until it’s your time, so if there’s something pressing, best get it out.”
“Yes,” Nik said. “There is something else.”
“Very well. Tell me,” Death said. “What is it that itches in your thoughts? If it’s not for yourself, then perhaps for another?” he suggested.
Dozens of people he cared about shifted to the forefront of Nik’s mind—Veru, Stacia, the tsarina and her husband, each of his siblings, his maternal grandparents, his mother and the unborn babe, Pasha, the ghosts he’d met, even the kikimora grandmother and her tree-spirit leshi husband.
Nik thought he might ask after any one of them.
Were they happy? Did they suffer? Were they in a better place? Did they forgive him?
But Nik realized the answers to those questions didn’t matter.
What difference did it make now? Death happened.
It was done. There was nothing he could do about it now.
He couldn’t fix it. There was no going back and undoing the fire or the knife to his mother’s belly.
Could saying, “I’m sorry. I made a mistake,” ever be enough to compensate for the loss of an unborn child and its mother?
So instead of asking Death any of those very valid, yet ultimately pointless questions, Nik asked him the one thing he truly wanted to know.
“Is my father in hell?”
Death blinked once, twice, then straightened. “My, my. Now that is a question, isn’t it?”
“Well? Is he?” Nik almost felt desperate to know the answer now.
“I don’t get asked that one often. The truth of it is . . . I don’t know.”
“What? What?” Nik asked incredulously. “How do you not know?”
“I think you have me confused with Hades or maybe Anubis. I don’t manage an afterlife or an underworld. I’m Death. Plain and simple. Once a mortal end has been reached, my work is done. Justice? Punishments and such? Not my bag.”
“I think he’s getting upset,” Zima said.
“I think you’re right,” Death agreed.
“Look, young man. I can see you’re very sincere. You really unearthed some baggage here today. I can tell you that your papa died the first time by your hand and the second time, if you can call that half-life living, by your hand as well. That much I do know.”
Nik was quiet for several moments. Death and Zima sat patiently, waiting for him to talk. When he finally did, he smiled. “Thank you for your visit. This conversation has been most enlightening,” he said.
Death stood and bent over Zima, whispering something in her ear, then called out, “Priest! It is time for you to return. I place the young one in your care until such time as she summons me again.”
Zakhar parted the curtain nervously and refused to make eye contact with Death, but the dark-eyed man did glance at Nik once more, who boldly returned his gaze.
After Death melted away, Zakhar retrieved his quill and bottle of ink. “Oh, I see you didn’t take any notes yet. Did you want me to wait a bit?” he asked Nik.
“No, spasibo,” Nik said. “I’ve got what I need.” He pointed at his temple and smiled. “It’s all up here.” He slammed his palm down on the table, making everyone jump. “Serving girl!” he shouted. “Bring me more water!”
Zakhar glanced at Zima and then thanked the serving girl, whose hand was shaking when she poured a glass of water. When she spilled some, Zakhar offered to clean it, but Nik insisted she return and clean it herself.
“What’s gotten into you?” Zakhar asked Nik.
Waving a hand in dismissal, Nik said, “I’m just having a really, really bad day. Now, tell me everything.”