lemonylemonz
06-04-2011, 03:14 PM
Or The Messenger's Shadow. Or The Executioner's Daughter. I'm not good at titles.
This is a story about death. It took me a while to write it but it still seems kind of abrupt and awkward in places and I think it needs a better ending (and a title.) But I should probably just stop talking and get on with it.
When I was young and living, I attended every execution we had in our city, not because I wanted to, particularly. I was the executioner’s daughter, and the idea of not going didn’t once occur to me. I was as much of a fixture at those executions as my father and his axe.
Ours was a good sized city, filled with crime and with criminals needing to be punished, and we had executions at least every month, more during restless times of year.
Time has stolen many of my memories, but I remember those executions well. I remember the booing of whatever size crowd decided to show up, and I remember the sobbing, too, of the mothers and wives and daughters of the people on the platform. I remember how at least a few would gather, whatever the weather or even on holidays, whether the few were family or friends or enemies of the people on the platform or just bored citizens. I remember the scrape of the axe being sharpened, and the sickening sound that it made as the life of the person on the platform came to an end.
I remember the shadows, too.
I was very young when I first noticed them, those flickering moments just after the sickening sound, when the person on the platform’s face would darken, just a little, and only for a split second, as if the sun had stopped shining on the person’s face, or as if something was blocking the light’s way down. At first they were mere flickers, easily forgotten or dismissed as a cloud passing over the sun. But with every execution, the shadows grew, darkened, and became more defined, until they were something else completely. Not a shadow.
My father’s death was expected, when it came. He had fought the sickness for longer than most did, but we all knew it left no survivors. It was a sunny day, I remember, and he was in bed, and I was bringing him lunch. Oddly, I was not surprised to see the old man standing next to his bed. My father’s eyes were closed. Sleeping. “Who are you?” I asked the stranger. He looked small and wise and ancient, and he turned to me and smiled.
“I am the Messenger,” he told me, and then he picked my father up in his arms and began to walk away.
“Where are you taking him?” I asked.
“To the other side,” he said simply, and he turned around and was gone. Like smoke. There, until it was gone. Or like life itself.
I would see more of the old Messenger, later, but two things had to happen first. First of all, I grew up. Four years after the sickness took my father, it came back and took my mother and brother, too. With my family gone, I had to take over my mother’s old job. It was hard work, and didn’t pay well. And I was still young.
Then, I fell in love.
It is interesting to see which things my mind has chosen to remember. His name escapes me, but I remember his eyes. Blue, not like the sky, but like a clear lake in the summer. Always calm, at a time when it seemed like the world would end at any minute. Also, I remember his feet. He never seemed to be wearing shoes.
I have often wondered what would have happened if I had not been there when he died. My life would have continued, I suppose, and his wouldn’t have. But it is useless to ponder such things, because I was there when he died.
He drowned. What a dumb way to die.
And I was sitting by the river and crying, and thinking about the injustice of it all, when the old Messenger came. Immediately, I stopped sniffling.
“You can’t take him,” I said. The Messenger smiled his sad smile.
“And why is that?”
“You took my father and my brother and my mother. You can’t.” He sighed.
“But I am afraid that I must,” he said.
“There must be some other way.”
“There is.”
“What is it, then?”
“You are far too young.” He looked distracted, glancing at the sky.
“Too young for what?”
He sighed again. “Well, if you were willing to become the new Messenger, then I would be able to let him live.”
I thought of the boy’s stupid blue eyes and his stupid bare feet and I thought of all the reasons he didn’t deserve to die.
And that was the day that I became Messenger.
Time passes more slowly than you might think, when you’re living a half-life in between the realms of life and death. Even with people dying every day, you are left with a lot of time to ponder things. In the beginning I used to watch the people I had once known going about their lives. I watched the boy, especially. I watched him finish growing up, get married, have children, grow old, and die for the second time. Hardly an extraordinary life, as lives go. I took him to the other side like the rest, and that was the last I saw of him.
Now the people I knew when I lived are long gone, their descendants no longer traceable, and time goes by more slowly than ever. It’s a sad existence, having to tear away souls from their bodies, their lives, their crying families. I have become seemingly detached from it all, as if I was dreaming, but I feel empty. Something inside me knows that I should have left this world long ago.
There is one question left to which I have no answer: how was I able to see the old Messenger, when no one else could, not even my father, who witnessed more death than anyone? No matter how I look at this question, no solution comes to me. But still I wait for the day when I shall finally see what’s on the other side, when after so much time I will be able to pass my burden along to the next Messenger.
This is a story about death. It took me a while to write it but it still seems kind of abrupt and awkward in places and I think it needs a better ending (and a title.) But I should probably just stop talking and get on with it.
When I was young and living, I attended every execution we had in our city, not because I wanted to, particularly. I was the executioner’s daughter, and the idea of not going didn’t once occur to me. I was as much of a fixture at those executions as my father and his axe.
Ours was a good sized city, filled with crime and with criminals needing to be punished, and we had executions at least every month, more during restless times of year.
Time has stolen many of my memories, but I remember those executions well. I remember the booing of whatever size crowd decided to show up, and I remember the sobbing, too, of the mothers and wives and daughters of the people on the platform. I remember how at least a few would gather, whatever the weather or even on holidays, whether the few were family or friends or enemies of the people on the platform or just bored citizens. I remember the scrape of the axe being sharpened, and the sickening sound that it made as the life of the person on the platform came to an end.
I remember the shadows, too.
I was very young when I first noticed them, those flickering moments just after the sickening sound, when the person on the platform’s face would darken, just a little, and only for a split second, as if the sun had stopped shining on the person’s face, or as if something was blocking the light’s way down. At first they were mere flickers, easily forgotten or dismissed as a cloud passing over the sun. But with every execution, the shadows grew, darkened, and became more defined, until they were something else completely. Not a shadow.
My father’s death was expected, when it came. He had fought the sickness for longer than most did, but we all knew it left no survivors. It was a sunny day, I remember, and he was in bed, and I was bringing him lunch. Oddly, I was not surprised to see the old man standing next to his bed. My father’s eyes were closed. Sleeping. “Who are you?” I asked the stranger. He looked small and wise and ancient, and he turned to me and smiled.
“I am the Messenger,” he told me, and then he picked my father up in his arms and began to walk away.
“Where are you taking him?” I asked.
“To the other side,” he said simply, and he turned around and was gone. Like smoke. There, until it was gone. Or like life itself.
I would see more of the old Messenger, later, but two things had to happen first. First of all, I grew up. Four years after the sickness took my father, it came back and took my mother and brother, too. With my family gone, I had to take over my mother’s old job. It was hard work, and didn’t pay well. And I was still young.
Then, I fell in love.
It is interesting to see which things my mind has chosen to remember. His name escapes me, but I remember his eyes. Blue, not like the sky, but like a clear lake in the summer. Always calm, at a time when it seemed like the world would end at any minute. Also, I remember his feet. He never seemed to be wearing shoes.
I have often wondered what would have happened if I had not been there when he died. My life would have continued, I suppose, and his wouldn’t have. But it is useless to ponder such things, because I was there when he died.
He drowned. What a dumb way to die.
And I was sitting by the river and crying, and thinking about the injustice of it all, when the old Messenger came. Immediately, I stopped sniffling.
“You can’t take him,” I said. The Messenger smiled his sad smile.
“And why is that?”
“You took my father and my brother and my mother. You can’t.” He sighed.
“But I am afraid that I must,” he said.
“There must be some other way.”
“There is.”
“What is it, then?”
“You are far too young.” He looked distracted, glancing at the sky.
“Too young for what?”
He sighed again. “Well, if you were willing to become the new Messenger, then I would be able to let him live.”
I thought of the boy’s stupid blue eyes and his stupid bare feet and I thought of all the reasons he didn’t deserve to die.
And that was the day that I became Messenger.
Time passes more slowly than you might think, when you’re living a half-life in between the realms of life and death. Even with people dying every day, you are left with a lot of time to ponder things. In the beginning I used to watch the people I had once known going about their lives. I watched the boy, especially. I watched him finish growing up, get married, have children, grow old, and die for the second time. Hardly an extraordinary life, as lives go. I took him to the other side like the rest, and that was the last I saw of him.
Now the people I knew when I lived are long gone, their descendants no longer traceable, and time goes by more slowly than ever. It’s a sad existence, having to tear away souls from their bodies, their lives, their crying families. I have become seemingly detached from it all, as if I was dreaming, but I feel empty. Something inside me knows that I should have left this world long ago.
There is one question left to which I have no answer: how was I able to see the old Messenger, when no one else could, not even my father, who witnessed more death than anyone? No matter how I look at this question, no solution comes to me. But still I wait for the day when I shall finally see what’s on the other side, when after so much time I will be able to pass my burden along to the next Messenger.