Danse Macabre: Close Encounters with the Reaper Page 3

  Hans stayed up throughout the night, turning over options and possibilities, and by morning he knew there was only one course of action. But first … there was one final drawing to be made.

  Death returned a few nights later and Hans was waiting for Him.

  “What have you got for me this week, friend?”

  Hans passed him the last drawing he’d made. Death looked at it, perplexed. “What is this?”

  “You lied to me. You’ve lied to me from the start. There is no authority over You, and I was a fool to ever believe there was. There is only You.”

  Death stood silently before Hans. After a few seconds he glanced aside and noticed the wooden box full of drawings was missing from the table. “Where are the others?”

  “Gone. I burned the entire box.”

  The skull head twisted back and Death trembled, the first real display of emotion Hans had ever seen from Him. “You destroyed them all?!”

  Hans held his ground. “Yes.”

  “You know what this will mean for you?”

  “I do.”

  “Look under your arm.”

  Hans could already feel the skin there swelling, as heat began to course through him. “There’s no need.”

  “You are a fool!”

  Smiling, Hans answered, “Not anymore.”

  With that, Death vanished.

  Hans Holbein the Younger died two days later.

  It was several more days before they found him; by then the blood had dried, but the smell hadn’t abated. The messenger from the royal court and the neighbors who had battered down the door pulled back, nauseated. The young printer’s apprentice had stopped by to visit Hans, and was there as the others were turning away.

  “What’s that he’s got in his hands?”

  The apprentice took a deep breath and stepped forward; he wanted to know what could have been so important to the great Hans Holbein that it was what he’d clung to as life had left him.

  “Be mindful of the plague, lad,” the messenger said. But the apprentice thought art was more important than death, and so he reached down and wrested the drawing from the master’s stiff fingers.

  The sheet of parchment had been splattered heavily by Hans’s blood, as he’d coughed up his life, but the apprentice could just make out the image: It showed a man who looked very much like Hans Holbein in a room that was undoubtedly this studio, dying of plague, his face blackened, blood staining his bedclothes … but the man was smiling, at peace. Above the man’s head was an hourglass, the upper compartment empty; from the side, a bony hand reached for the glass, but no more of Death was visible, a strange exclusion. At the bottom of the drawing was a Latin inscription. The apprentice had some familiarity with the language, and thought the words read: “Now I join Ambrosius.”

  He wondered who Ambrosius was.

  “That’s plague blood on that sheet, boy,” muttered the neighbor. “Throw it on the fire.”

  The apprentice considered, then realized they were probably right. Who knew exactly how death passed from one man to another? Better not to take that chance.

  He placed the drawing gently on the cold logs in the hearth, kindled a fire, whispered goodbye to the remarkable artist Hans Holbein the Younger, and left that chamber of death.

  * * * * *

  Lisa Morton is a screenwriter and four-time winner of the Bram Stoker Award. She is also the author of The Halloween Encyclopedia, and is one of the world’s foremost authorities on Halloween. She lives in North Hollywood, California.

  About the story she says: Earlier this year I worked on a lengthy non-fiction article about the work of Hans Holbein, and he became a minor obsession as a result. When I heard the premise of Danse Macabre, there was, then, no question that the story would be about Holbein.

  Death in the Family

  By Morgan Dempsey

  Death waits at the foot of everyone’s bed. With each gasping breath he inches his way closer, trailing a bone finger against blankets of coarse wool or fine silk, until his icy hand rests against a warm cheek. Then there is silence.

  Right now, at this bed, he stands on the opposite side of me, at the knee of Krysza, wife and mother of four. He studies the loose weave of the blanket trapping what warmth her body provides. I don’t plan on letting him move closer.

  Krysza will require only one leaf. She’s not too badly off, just an illness that settled in her chest and refused to leave. Death was not close enough to warrant more. I muddle the leaf in a bowl with a clean stone. Water boils in a kettle over the fire.

  “Her children are old enough, Dominik,” Death says to me. “You could let her go.”

  My hand stops. Heniek, her husband, notices my stillness. “Sir?”

  I want to tell Death off for what he said, but I don’t need Heniek worrying after my sanity on top of everything else. One of the few gifts Death gave me was the ability to see him, even when no one else could. Ever thoughtful, my godfather. I ignore him. “Is the water ready?”

  Heniek checks inside the pot. “Almost.”

  Death blinks out of sight, leaving behind a thin grey wisp in the shape of a man. It feathers apart in the shifting air, bringing the scent of freshly turned dirt. He reappears behind me, staring over my shoulder at the ruined leaf.

  “This is a good way to pass,” Death assures me. “Peaceful.”

  A log crumbles and the fire whispers with life.

  Death shifts back against Krysza’s bed, leans against the straw-packed mattress wrapped in a thin and threadbare cloth. He rests a hand against hers, and her fingers twitch. I hiss at him to stop.

  “The water’s ready.” Heniek is hesitant. He worries this cure will not work, that he doesn’t possess the kind of luck required for miracles.

  I go to the fire and ladle boiling water over the muddled leaf. The stone bowl becomes warm in my hands so I set it on the table. She’ll be fine in a few minutes.

  My godfather sits on the bed. He straightens his waistcoat, black — all he wears is black — his jacket, cravat, everything, worn and ruined like the clothes of an exhumed corpse. His skin is pale, bloodless, and his top hat casts a shadow which hides his eyes.

  “Mostly pain awaits her,” he says to me. “Her lungs will bother her, especially in the cold. Many people don’t have the opportunity to pass away like this, in bed, warm, surrounded by loved ones.”

  I sit beside Krysza, kicking at my godfather, but my foot passes through dusty smoke. He gives me a sad smile as I feed her the tea in small, slow sips. Heniek stands at the foot of the bed, his hands resting on Krysza’s toes. He tenderly rubs his thumb along the arch of her foot.

  Krysza stirs, and I step away, letting her husband rush to her side and take her hand. Her eyes open and she coughs weakly, but it’s just the fading rattle of her illness.

  I pack my things and leave before they can pin me down with gratitude and offers of payment. The sun is nearly set. Part of my walk will be in darkness. Hopefully the stars shine bright tonight. My breath clouds as I exhale.

  Death appears at my side, mimicking a human walk, his feet inches from the ground. “You’re a little too tenacious.” He clucks his tongue, a dry, rasping sound. “Quality of life should matter more to you than quantity. Someday you’ll listen to reason.” Then he laughs, and asks, “Or are you trying to avoid the anger that comes when you fail?”

  Healers aren’t perfect, and I can’t always get to the ill in time. Yet somehow, I am blamed for their passing. The curses that have been thrown at me would make even the best warrior check for his sword. “I don’t know how you deal with it,” I say.

  The mocking smile fades from his face. “I hope one day you learn.”

  “You could let them live, you know,” I point out, feeling sullen from the cold of the coming winter.

>   “I can’t, actually.” There’s a waiver to Death’s voice, a rasp of tired resignation. “I don’t make the candles, you see. I merely help put them out.”

  The chilled air reaches through to my heart and I draw my coat tight around me, turning up the collar to cover my neck and ears. Partly to shut out the cold, partly to shut out my godfather. I pull a letter from the breast pocket of my coat before buttoning it up.

  “Hoping for some kind words to warm you up?” Death was some yards ahead of me, then suddenly at my side, smelling of new graves. I hate that I know the scent.

  I ignore him in favor of the letter, but it only encourages him.

  “From that princess?” Death wafts up like the curl of smoke from a fire, hovering just over my shoulder. “My dearest Dominik,” he simpers, reading the letter. “Just as my father’s heart is weak with illness, my heart is weak for you.” He huffs. His breath does not steam, despite the cold.

  I fold the paper and cram it into my pocket. “You understand death very well, godfather, but you know nothing of life.”

  He appears in front of me, gliding backwards. “And you, as a healer, as my ambassador to the world, seem to know nothing of death.” Lights of the distant town shine through him. “Are you so easily swayed by her title and her offer of marriage? You cling to this life too much, for someone who should know better.”

  “Isn’t this what you promised my family?” I grip the letter in my pocket. “That I would have fame and wealth and standing? Why are you trying to turn me away from this?”

  “As your godfather, I’m to teach you about life and death.”

  “Then stick to the half you’re good at,” I snap.

  He shrugs, still floating just out of my reach. “I’m trying, but you mortals are stubborn.”

  The sun buries itself in the tree line, and the sky is a purple bruise deepening to black. Not enough stars to light my way, but I’m close enough to town that it doesn’t matter.

  “I’m ignoring you now,” I tell him. It won’t do any good, but I tell him anyway.

  Death only now notices the coming darkness. He rests his hand over his chest, and a light grows within him, warm like a flame, glowing pulses fanning out in little threads, like blood from a beating heart. He appears at my side, feet settling into the dirt. Though he leaves no footprints, he makes the effort to walk with me.

  “You have a big lesson to learn.” The teasing, the snide mockery, the sneers, all have left his voice, only a tired weight remaining. “And a small amount of time to learn it in.”

  I stop dead in my tracks. “A small amount of time?”

  He smiles that smile I hate, that smile of being the last to have to lay down his cards. “To me, all of you have a dreadfully small amount of time.” He waves for me to keep walking by his side. “I wouldn’t worry about it, if I were you.”

  “No,” I say. “I suppose you wouldn’t.”

  We continue on to the town in silence.

  The walled city lies on a hill by a wide river, water curving around it on three sides. Death hasn’t bothered me since I passed through the large gates, sitting wide open with only token guards protecting them. I reach for my papers as I enter, but they simply wave me through, suggesting an inn with particularly good beer. I thank them, and head for the castle.

  The king should have been resting in some warm palace, but by the time he finally admitted to being ill it was too dangerous for him to make the long journey. So he remained month after month in a damp castle, his health withering away.

  The princess, Anya, and I shared many letters in the months it took me to get here. The exchange started off formal, but that didn’t last long. I place my hand over the stack of letters, bound in twine.

  It takes a long time to convince the castle guard I need to see the king, and even longer to convince them he may need to see me. Only when Anya hears me arguing and steps in do they finally escort me to his bedchamber. As her father’s illness worsened, she began ruling in his absence. She mentioned in the letters that she was managing a few things. It seems she was being modest.

  As we walk, my hand accidentally brushes against Anya’s. I mutter an apology and pull away, but she reaches out and tangles her fingers in mine. She keeps her face turned away from me, but I can see she is fighting tears.

  I give her hand a small squeeze and whisper, “I wish we could have met under better circumstances.”

  Anya smiles tightly. “Perhaps you can make the circumstances better.”

  The king rests against a mound of pillows. His face is pale and drawn, eyes underscored in a charcoal grey and staring into nothingness. He takes in a stuttering breath, wet and sick, like a drowning man.

  And Death stands at the head of his bed.

  I stop in the doorway, staring, and my godfather holds my gaze. He shakes his head, no.

  Anya tugs me into the room. She doesn’t see him, none of them do, my godfather, all in black with hidden eyes staring down at their fading king. I release her hand to dig for my herbs and she goes to her father’s side, sitting in a high-backed chair beside the bed. The chair is settled deep in the rugs around the king’s bed. It has been there for some time.

  Death steps behind Anya, a thread of smoke trailing from him over her father’s body. He smiles down at her and places a hand on her shoulder. It goes through her, and she shivers.

  I take out a fistful of leaves, nearly everything I have, and begin muddling them.

  “You can’t save him,” my godfather says to me. “Or have you forgotten how this works?”

  I haven’t, of course. Death stands at the foot of the bed, I can heal. Death stands at the head of the bed, I must step back. He allows me to gather the herbs which grow at every entrance to his domain, he shows me who I can heal, and from there flows my fame and fortune. Thus far, I have not crossed him.

  And how far have I gotten for that?

  “Please,” I ask one of the servants, “bring me boiling water?” He whispers to someone just outside the door and gives me a nod.

  Death doesn’t leave his station at the head of the bed. “Don’t do it.” He leans against the bedpost, a bit of dirt tumbles off his coat and bursts into dust, floating gently to the ground.

  The water arrives quickly, and I pour it over the leaves, letting it sit for a few minutes. Anya stares at the brewing tea. A question sits on the edge of her lips, but she won’t ask it.

  “I know it seems just a simple tea,” I say, “but it’s a rare leaf.” I give her my best version of a reassuring smile, avoiding Death’s gaze. “Trust me.”

  “Dominik!” my godfather snaps. “You know the rules.”

  I walk to the bed, tea in hand, and Anya steps away, giving me room. The king’s breathing is thin, the sound of wind blowing over reeds growing by the water. I place the cup against his lips.

  Death leans over my shoulder. Cold air passes by my ear, carrying with it the scent of dry clay. “Don’t.”

  The tea hovers just at the king’s mouth, ready to spill over. My hand shakes, and I pull the cup away.

  “Dominik?” Anya touches my elbow. “What’s wrong?”

  I thrust the cup into her hands and wave over the servants. “Help me,” I say, grabbing one of the bed posts. I point at the other posts and shout, “Help me turn the bed!”

  They hesitate, and Anya shouts, “Don’t just stand there! Do as he says!”

  Everybody in the room rushes to the bed and grabs a post, pulling as hard as they can. I don’t know why I think this will work. How could this ever work?

  Death’s face appears before mine. I can see his eyes. Red, angry, and eternal. My legs give out and I fall back, releasing the bed.

  “What are you doing?” He speaks with a thousand voices, and I scramble away.

  Everybody is so focus
ed on turning the bed around that they don’t notice me, staring into nothing. My fear is suddenly swallowed by rage. “I love Anya,” I hiss, “and I’m tired of travelling the country, a new inn every night. I did that for you. But this? This is for me.”

  They finish what I started, and Death is now at the foot of the king’s bed. He snarls at me, his mouth wider than any human’s mouth could ever open, teeth bared. I shut my eyes against it and grab the cup from Anya’s hand. The king’s mouth drops open and I give him the tea.

  Death cries out in rage. The sound tears through me, and I drop the cup to cover my ears. He attempts to strike me, but his fist passes through me, leaving a trail of smoke smelling faintly of brimstone. I’m frozen, unable to move. My godfather has never lashed out at me before.

  He draws in a deep breath, every tendril of dust and smoke twisting back into his body. His eyes go dark, lost in shadow again.

  “We’re done.” He turns his back to me. “Never use those herbs again.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, quietly, so no one else will hear. I want to point out how he was at the foot of the bed, so I didn’t technically break our rule. But I know better. I know what I owe him. I wouldn’t have been in this room if not for him. I could have more, but I could also have less.

  Death stops for a moment, but does not turn around. When he speaks, there’s such a sadness, such a weariness, an ache settles into my chest. “I hear that more times in one day than you will say it in your lifetime. I hear it enough to know you don’t mean it. And by the time you do, it will be too late.”

  I climb back to my feet and watch him walk away. I try for another apology but it dies in my throat. It isn’t that I fear he doesn’t understand. He does understand, completely, and it weighs on him.

  My godfather walks to a tall window. Thin, graying light streams in through the warped glass. “Do not cross me again.” Threads of light pass through him and strike the floor. His face is once again shadowed, but thin lines gather at the corners of his mouth, giving the impression of a tired frown. “I will not be so lenient next time.” And he vanishes, curls of dust fading away in the setting sun.