Memento Mori – Tiah Marie Beautement

Death walked in, taking a seat at the table as the kettle came to a boil. The woman silently wheeled herself over to the drain board to fetch another mug. As she moved, the light danced across fingers, each sporting a silver splint.

“How many sugars?” she asked.

Death held up two fingers.

She placed a small tray in her lap before rolling over to the table. Death accepted his mug of rooibos with a nod of thanks.

She pushed her braids from her face, causing the coral beads interwoven into her hair to click. Death fingered one, noting the dark Rhodophyta hue remained. He had worried; it had been too long since his last visit.

“I’m healthy,” she said.

He inhaled her salty scent, rolled it over his tongue, considering it, before replying with a nod.

They sipped their rooibos in leisurely silence. He was in no rush. There were plenty under his command on duty today: from owls, to buck, to ravens, to horses, to his beloved canines.

In fact, he mused, the latter would make an excellent gift. He pulled out a notebook from the rear pocket of his jeans, making a note.

She placed her empty mug on the table and held out a hand. He removed the folded parchment from the inside pocket of his black coat, handing it over. She opened it without comment. This was not always so. The first time they’d done this she’d asked, “Why parchment?”

It was a good question.

Unfortunately, he had no satisfactory answer. This was true of many things in life and in death.

While she read, he made himself busy in the kitchen. It was a pleasure few mortals granted him in their homes. It was their loss, as he was an excellent cook. He’d decided on black bean and butternut chili, which would be served over rice. No cutting required; she didn’t look up for it tonight.

As he dished up the food, she said, “The ramp was damaged in the storm. I’ll need help to reach the water.”

He nodded. He’d spotted the split planks on his arrival. It explained the unusually low number of vials prepared for collection. He pulled out his notebook, making a note to have his birds check on her with more regularity. He looked up to find her watching. He tore out of a piece of paper and handed it to her.

It was blank.

She folded it into an origami ibis then placed it into his hands. He admired it, before tucking it into an inner coat pocket.

They ate in companionable silence as the sun drew closer to the earth. As the bright orb’s underbelly met the horizon, she pushed her bowl away. “I’ll go change.”

Death nodded and collected the dishes for washing up. He had placed the final bowl on the drying rack when she emerged from her bedroom. She’d removed most of the braces and splints, and was wearing a silk robe of blues and greens. A thick grey towel sat folded in her lap, the very one he’d brought her on his last visit. He smiled.

“I think it’s best if you carry me tonight,” she said.

He was relieved that she had come to the conclusion on her own. Wordlessly, he scooped her up and walked out into the dying light. She turned her head, fixing her eyes on the sea. It was a special place, where two great oceans meet. While the area was well known, her cottage and dock were secluded, far from where normal mortals dwelled.

Death picked his way down the ramp with care. Many of the boards were missing or splintered. The floating dock, however, remained sound. He gently set her on the dock’s edge, so her feet could hang in the water. He accepted her towel and robe without comment, then stepped back as she checked the belt around her waist that held numerous tiny vials. As the earth swallowed the sun, her gills appeared. Without farewell, she slipped into the sea.

Death waited another moment before turning back to the cottage. He had a toolbox to fetch.

#

The ocean welcomed her into its depths as the webbing between her fingers and toes slid into place. The sea’s gentle caress soothed her irritable skin while its bulk supported her weight, easing the aches in her joints. How she had missed her watery nights, where she could move with ease and grace. But Death’s time was in high demand and she had not wanted to ask for help. She knew he’d come, eventually. Souls trapped in the sea needed collecting, like any other, and she was one of his best.

As she swam through the deep, many silvery souls drifted by, but she left them alone. They were those of the drowned and their bodies were dead. In time, other soul collectors would catch them, but while they waited they would gently float in a peaceful, slumbering state, unharmed. What she was searching for was far more elusive.

Stories formed by memories that had slipped out through human tears, breath, sweat, and ablutions whispered along the currents she travelled. Thoughts were typically lost at a trickling pace, relieving the mind so that it would not become over-encumbered with new ideas and experiences. There were times, however, when chunks of the past were lost in a gush, either through trauma or an act of mercy. They were of little concern because the soul itself usually remained intact.

But for the people whose entire memories slipped away while their physical being still breathed, leaving them unable to recall the names of loved ones or recognize their faces, this was not so. These souls, torn between body and mind, followed the sense of self into the water and were the hardest for Death to locate. Until these disembodied souls could be caught, the victims’ loved ones could do nothing but helplessly witness their long decline.

As she swam, she shut her eyes, opening her heart to sorrows. This is what her fellow collectors did not understand: dark souls could not be seen or captured. They floated in their watery coffins much like dread sits in a stomach. Her days on land, living with Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, the chronic condition that caused her body to constantly ache, had taught her this: pain worsened if you fought it. The only way to live with it was to ride its wave with acceptance. This affinity to pain was what called the dark souls out of hiding. She greeted them with open arms, without judgment, soothing their shame as she slipped them into vials and secured them in her belt.

#

            Death finished his task by the darkest hour before the dawn. Yet he remained. Watchful. Patient.

When the sun’s first rays brushed the horizon, her head broke the surface of the sea. Yet she remained out of reach. He knew she was often reluctant to leave, content to swim long after her gills and webbing had retracted. But he was selfishly pleased when she, after spotting him, swam over to the dock. He knew she managed to pull herself onto land, day after day, without assistance. But he found himself unable to bear the thought of watching her face twist in pain as she hauled herself out. Quickly, before she could protest, he’d lifted her up, swaddling her with the thick grey towel.

She stared up at him as he set her gently down in her chair.

He stilled, fearing he’d taken too much liberty.

“Thank you.” She turned her head towards the ramp. “And for that.”

Her words made him bold, and he leaned down, brushing a kiss across her forehead.

She replied with a soft sigh.

Back in the cottage, he took the fresh vials, packing them in his case along with the rest. Done, he went to say good-bye. He found her in bed, nearly asleep. Her eyes fluttered open when he ran a finger down her cheek. As he pulled away, her hand found his.

“Stay.”

She was not the first to ask, but never before had the invitation come from her lips. He was fairly certain she was offering nothing more than her slumbering company. Yet he found himself removing his shoes, shrugging off his coat, and joining her in bed, where he curled himself around her smaller form.

It was warm, comfortable.

A minute later, she was fast asleep.

He waited until the sun had fully risen before kissing her cheek and abandoning the bed. She hardly stirred. He stepped out of the room, leaving the door open a crack, the better to hear her breathe. He wondered if she knew her slumbering breath flowed in time with the waves below, creating a rhythmic melody.

In the kitchen, he brewed her a pot of rooibos. As foil wrapped bricks baked in the oven, he cooked up a bowl of oats, lacing it with raisins and cinnamon. On the other hob he prepared a pot of West African peanut soup. When all was ready, he put the bricks into a cooler box, setting the food on top, and shut the lid. He withdrew a sheet of parchment, the words he wanted already inscribed.

#

            A black Labrador arrived a week later, unannounced. Its trainer looked befuddled and dazed, as if he couldn’t quite understand how he came to be at her cottage. Which was an accurate assessment of the situation. For while records showed money had been received and a discussion of what mobility services would be required, not a single member of the organization could recall interacting with the buyer.

Nonetheless, the trainer handed over the paperwork which detailed the animal’s history and care. As the trainer drove away, a delivery van arrived with dog food and an assortment of pet supplies. Neither driver would recall the location of her cottage by the end of the day.

In the quiet, dog and woman took stock of one another. As she scratched its neck, she her fingers brushed a piece of parchment tucked into the harness. As she read, a raven hopped onto her shoulder. She turned to the bird, whispering, “Please, give him my thanks.”

With a gentle tug to a braid, the raven agreed, then flew away.

Dog and woman worked well together. Each night, before she slipped into the sea, she’d remove his harness. The dog would leap into the water, swimming alongside for a half an hour, before climbing back onto the dock. There he would wait for his mistress, guarding her chair, as she dove into the deep, embracing dark souls whose abandoned bodies longed to die.

Once the dog had his mistress safely back to the cottage, they’d sleep on her bed, side by side. The training manual did not recommend this. Neither woman nor dog cared.

#

            As soon as her head sank under the rough sea, she could hear the terrified cries of fishermen. The other soul collectors were occupied: a hurricane, a jellyfish sting, a tsunami, a suicide. There was never enough of them, but tradition stated that sailors and fishermen should never die alone. Tonight, the dark souls would have to wait.

Battling the turbulent water, she reached the ten terrified humans trapped inside a flooded compartment. She was not permitted to save their lives, but amidst the chaos and panic, she could bring them calm and comfort. Heavy beams blocked their escape. Drawing upon her hypermobility – a trait of being born with Ehlers-Danlos syndrome – she subluxated her joints, flexing and contorting until she partially dislocated them. This caused pain and damage, but she was able to squeeze through a gap between the twisted door and a fallen beams.

Inside, as the boat rocked and debris came loose, she gathered the dying close to her. The boat groaned, seams threatening to split, but she stayed, singing softly to the fishermen. As air evacuated their bodies, a beam fell. The impact completely dislocated her right shoulder. Yet she remained with her charges, welcoming their souls. They turned silver, and peacefully slipped into the awaiting vials, where she corked them, one by one, using her remaining working hand. Finished, she turned her attention to her right arm. But try as she might, she couldn’t force it back into its joint as she often could with other dislocations.

The boat moaned, beams around the gap shifted, narrowing the way out. Pushing panic aside, she grabbed the nearest beam with her left arm, and hauled her torso through what was left of the gap. As she twisted and squeezed through the maze of tiny open spaces, she felt something tear in her left ankle. She continued to kick with her remaining leg, when something struck her right knee, pinning it. Rotating like a contortionist, she  subluxated the joint bending in unnatural ways to free herself. Pain rocketed up her body as, with another pop of a joint, she finally pushed out of the boat. But her body was now battered, with only her left arm in fully functioning condition.

She was swimming too slow. Time was running out. The dock was still a mere pin prick in her sight when the sun began to rise. She gasped as her gills and webbing retracted. Struggling to breathe, she thrashed in the choppy water, her bones growing heavy, her muscles weak.

Turning to float on her back, she released a desperate whistle for help. Her only answer was a raven’s caw.

The sun rose higher, its heat stinging her face. As the waves tossed her spluttering, exhausted body around, trying to force water up her nose and mouth, she thought of Death and wondered why he hadn’t said good-bye. Through bleary eyes, she spotted a raven circling in the sky. There was comfort in knowing she would not die alone, at least.

The sound of the water changed.

Splashing.

There was a cold bump on her cheek. A pant in her ear. A lick over her nose. Blindly, she tossed her good arm over the dog’s neck, grabbing his scruff. It was all she could do to hang on as he dragged her battered body through the choppy sea.

#

Death came as soon as the raven brought word. He walked into her home without a knock. As he strode into her bedroom, he found her asleep. The dog raised his head, acknowledging the visitor, and, satisfied, snuggled back down beside his battered, bruised, and exhausted  mistress.

Death looked her over as best he could without waking her. She and dog had clearly done a decent job sorting out the majority of her injuries once they’d made land. That was her way, to be as independent as possible. Managing her chronic condition was as everyday to her as brushing her teeth. But she’d always struggled to reset her own shoulder.

With nothing to be done until she woke, Death joined the pair in bed, curling his body gently around the woman’s. He listened to her breath’s rise and fall, in perfect harmony with the waves. The dog’s huffy beat added a bluesy feel to the mix.

She was still asleep as the sun stretched past midday. He was antsy, Death needed a distraction, while waiting to reset her shoulder. He decided to cook, but as he rose from the bed, her left hand shot out, grasping his own. He looked down, noting how the silvery splints she wore on each finger sparkled in the daylight. “Stay,” she whispered.

This time he placed the kiss directly on her lips.

#

            Death had never been a healer. Popping her shoulder back into place left him convinced he’d caused her more harm than help. Her cries of pain had sent fear down his spine, despite her assurance afterwards that the worst was now over. As she bathed, he busied himself in the kitchen, wondering how he could persuade her to see a doctor. He knew there probably wasn’t any more a doctor could do, but it would make him feel better.

He looked up at the sound of her chair. She had rolled out of the bedroom, body covered by a fluffy robe. Death noted the extra braces on her wrist and ankles. She parked next to the table, and with the assistance of dog, eased herself into a dining chair. Her robe slipped, flashing a knee brace and long strips of brightly colored athletic tape.

He reached into his jacket for parchment.

“Don’t,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

He wasn’t sure he agreed, but he could tell by the look on her face she was in no mood to argue. He set down mugs of chai and plates of mandazi instead.

“Thank you,” she said.

He joined her at the table. Out of lowered eyes, he watched her attempt to cut the puffed triangles. One went skidding off her plate, straight into the dog’s grateful mouth. A blow of frustration escaped her. He sensed an offer to assist would not be appreciated. Instead, he set down his cutlery and picked up the food with his fingertips. He made a subtle show of dunking the breakfast treat into the rich caramel sauce, before bringing it to his mouth.

She smiled, proceeding to follow his lead. When she’d finished her meal, she carefully cleaned her hands on a serviette and dabbed her face. As she folded the cloth, she said, “I have a favor to ask.”

He wished he could shout, “Anything!” But he was not made to behave as such. Instead, he merely nodded, as his heart warmed.

“It would help to have a larger bathtub, one that would allow me to float during the day when, well, when I’m sore and have had enough.”

He pulled out his notebook, making a note.

“Thank you.”

She stood. He pushed back his chair, preparing to aid, but she held up a splinted hand. He remained sitting, watching her careful steps. The dog ghosted beside her, his harness handle available should she need support. When she reached Death, she gave him a smile, cupping his face with one hand.

He dropped his arms to his sides. She slid onto his lap, resting her head against his chest. As he embraced her, she said, “Do you think, perhaps, you could consider this your home? Use it as a base, between your travels?”

He did not inform her that he already did. Instead, he kissed the top of her head. When she did not look up, he placed a finger under her chin. As she raised her face, he pressed his forehead against hers.

She reached to her waist, untying the fastening. As her robe fell open, she whispered, “Take me to bed.”

End