Memento Cras

 

                It has always been forbidden in circles of Wizards and Sorcerers to tell another person the date of their death.

          It is discouraged, but not forbidden, to seek the answer yourself, by calling a meeting with the being substantial.

          Death rose from the pile of crumpled bones that had been assembled, standing quite tall over the Wizard, having to bow his head to not knock against the low ceiling, keeping his scythe by his side.

          Raising one boney hand, Death pointed to the young robed spellcaster and spoke in a voice that tore between starlight and muted the crackles of flames.

          “Teregrin Oakshire, for WHAT reason have you summoned me here?”

          Teregrin swallowed, finding it hard to look Death in the eyes.

          “A question, my Lord! But a single question, if it would please you!”

          Death crouched down, the empty sockets staring deep into Teregrin’s soul.

          “ASK.”

       Teregrin nodded, taking a deep breath.

          “What am I supposed to do with the rest of my life?”

          Death was motionless for a long while, so long that Teregrin began to wonder if he’d zoned out. But, just as he moved to poke the figure, Death stood tall once more, his face staring continually into Teregrin.

          “LIVE.”

          And Death turned to the door, waved it open, and left.

          Teregrin stood thunderstruck in place for a few moments, before rushing after the hooded figure.

          He found him at the front door, struggling to exit it with his scythe without scratching the ceiling.

          “That’s not what I asked!”

          Death paused, and looked at the man. In a moment of realization, he turned his blade slightly so it fit between the corners of the door, and stepped out, turning back to him. Standing at his full height, he was only a foot taller than Teregrin, but it was nonetheless an imposing difference.

          “Was it not? I could put down good coin that you asked what you were supposed to do with the rest of your life.”

          Teregrin stomped his feet impatiently.

          “No, not at all! I— I meant what I’m supposed to do with the time I have!”

          “And I answered ‘LIVE’, is that not an apt suggestion?”

          “You know what I mean!”

          Death shook his head, pulling a watch out of his cloak and winding it back.

          “I truly do not. If you’re pondering whether or not to sell it, I will mention you’d find reaping the reward for doing so quite difficult.”

          “No, I mean— Well, what job will I spend my life doing?”

          “Wizard, I assume,” Death stared at Teregrin’s robe and shrugged, like he was guessing.

          “How long do I have left to be a wizard?”

          “I will not answer that.”

          “Why not?”

          “It’s just a decorated way to ask when you will die.”

          “You won’t tell me when I’m going to die?”

          “No.”

          “Why not? It’s your job, isn’t it?”

          Death nodded, “And yours is a wizard, yet I hardly see that as reason to expect you for the spells for moving the planets, can I?”

          “But I don’t want to know just when I will die, I want to know—”

          Teregrin paused, “I want to know if I’ll become a great actor before I die.”

          Death looked out at the waters beyond the house and stepped off the porch, Teregrin trailing behind him.

          “Do you perform?”

          “No, not at the moment.”

          “Do you audition?”

          Teregrin paused in step, looking away.

          “No, not lately.”

          “Then it sounds like you won’t. Not until you start doing so, at least.”

          “But— But I want my life to be worth it! I want to know if I can achieve great things in my lifetime, and what path I should take.”

          “Sounds like you should get to figuring that out, then.”

          “You mean, I do stop being a wizard?”

          Death looked back at Teregrin, “No. I just said I wouldn’t tell you how long you had left, or what your life journey is, why would I hand out clues in abstract observation?”

          “I don’t know!” Teregrin paced in frustration, “I’m looking for answers! I want to know where I’m going, who I’m going to be! I want to know if I’m going to be worth anything!”

          Death slammed his scythe into the ground, causing a great wave to form in the waters nearby, flowing away from the shore.

          “To awful questions! Who am I to decide how you spend your time?”

          “But you’re Death!”

          “Yes, and last I checked, being Death did not give me the role of deciding how Teregrin Oakshire lives his life.”

          “But surely you must know!”

          “And if I do? What then?”

          “Then you can tell me what I’m supposed to be doing! You can tell me where to go!”

          “Yes, I certainly could. I could tell you your fate and constrain your life to a single outcome, wasting your chance to pick not just your death, but everything that lies between.”

          Teregrin went silent, and Death pulled his scythe from the concrete, swinging it over his shoulder, turning to leave.

          “Please,” Teregrin said, “just tell me where I go next. How much time I have left. Something.”

          Death paused.

          Coming to a decision, he pulled a red-and-gold pocket watch from his cloak and stared at it for a moment.

          “In three minutes, a freak lightning bolt will descend upon you and take your life, at exactly 2:59 PM.”

          The words hung in the air after they were spoken. Teregrin felt a cold, absent echo begin to climb over and freeze his heart. He sat, expressionless, upon the stairs.

          “Really?”

          Death nodded.

          “Is there anything I can do?”

          Death did not answer.

          So Teregrin sat. As he sat on those silent steps, he felt tears spring into his eyes. And soon, a wail escaped his lungs. A sound truly and earnestly from the lost heart of one who had no time left to give. His cry was loud and violent, distressed and human. His tears flew from his face and stained his shirt in dark patches, as all the chances of a life unlived slipped like sand from his fingers.

          “I didn’t— I thought I’d have longer! I thought I could do so much more, like I could meet someone amazing— Oh, god, I haven’t written my Mom in months, what will she think? I would give anything to hear her voice one more time, or to see my teacher again, or see more of the world, or— or— or just hug somebody! Something! Anything, please!”

          Death stepped close to the young man and swiftly enveloped him in an embrace. Despite his boney frame, he was warm and comforting. He placed his hand gently against the back of Teregrin’s head.

          And Teregrin sobbed, tears and cries flying in his distress, all until the moment it happened.

 

 

 

 

          Ding. Ding. Ding.

          The town clock struck three. Death let go of Teregrin’s body and stood. Teregrin opened his eyes.

          “W-What? Have I died?”

          Death shook his head.

          “Then is it still to come?”

          Death took a lighter and a small cup out from his cloak, and set them together as a little heating stand, pouring a white liquid inside.

          “Eventually, yes. But not by lightning, and not today.”

          “What? But you said—”

          “Yes. I lied.”

          Death took a little packet of brown powder and added it to the white liquid inside the cup.

          “That’s not a very kind joke to play on someone.”

          “It’s not a joke.”

          “But you—”

          “Told you falsely that you were going to die. And you noted you had nothing you could do to change it. You didn’t even try going inside.”

          “What a cruel trick!”

          “It’s not cruel, it’s life.”

          “Life doesn’t tell you that you’re going to die!”

          “Doesn’t it? It’s the one experience anyone can count on. You hear of strangers dying all the time, you morbidly count years you’ve spent thus far, reminding you of how close you’re getting to an immeasurable possibility. Memento mori, ‘Remember death’, a popular phrase in some places.”

          Death stirred the liquid with a small spoon as it bubbled.

          “Nothing good comes from knowing when you will die. Humans especially spend their eleventh hour either fighting the inevitable or lamenting not having the time to do everything they want.”

          “What are we supposed to do?”

          Death picked up the drink.

          “Live. Tomorrow may be your last day, so start your dreams now. You might live forever, so take your time to do everything.”

          “But I don’t have forever.”

          “That’s the spirit. Cocoa?” Death held the cup out to Teregrin.

          He took it slowly, and sipped the contents.

          “I’ve always recommended,” Death said, “That people think not of how to spend life, but of how to spend the next few moments.”

          “And what would you recommend I do next?”

          “Enjoy the cocoa.”