Lizard at Arms, And More- "Thwarted"

Tale One

Thwarted

The year was 722 After the Fall of Mecha, in the city of Uragam, in the southwestern region of Tamalaria. Uragam was a town, to be more particular, in that it didn’t have all of the conveniences of a city. For instance, it didn’t have lunatics baying at the moon in the middle of the night while urinating on a street-torch post. Nor did it have constables ready and willing to drag people off down dark city alleys and thump them around with cudgels before sending them to the jailhouse for an evening. Uragam did, however, have one thing that every city in every region, in every land, in every Reality, has—a young Human man, of about sixteen, who is contemplating suicide.

James Michael Blake sat on the brass-framed bed in his upstairs bedroom wondering how things could have gone so wrong for him. The sixteen-year-old Human glared at his own reflection, taking in the blemishes smattered across his face, the narrowness of his bone structure, and the thick black bruise forming around his left eye. He could still hear the faint echoes of his parents trying to not let him overhear their concern for their only son. He couldn’t make out the words themselves, but could feel the overtones in the air itself. ‘Poor boy,’ those tones said, translating his parents’ vocal pitches into actual words. ‘How do we help him’?

“By leaving me the Hells alone,” he muttered to himself, his own voice cracking slightly as puberty fought for supreme control of his body. It had struck him late, that all-mighty Boxer that tended to uppercut males of all Races at exactly the most awkward and unfair of times in their lives. Or at least, that’s what they all thought at the moment they felt the impact in the form of a crackling voice and pimples. Or, in the case of Dwarves, the unsettling and irresistible urge to hack down a tree with an axe-like object, even if no real axes were on hand. Many were the unfortunate pets that had had to make due with being used as such instruments.

James Michael Blake, whose ragged tunics and commoner’s boots smelled of dust and old ink, helped his father, Ian, work in the local library on weekends. He took several stacks of returned books and shelved them, often carrying the stacks ten or eleven volumes high. His long, greasy black hair would often obstruct his vision more than the books themselves, and on more than one occasion, he had fallen flat on his ass after tripping over one of the books his clumsy father had dropped behind him. He earned a single gold piece for two days of four hours, shelving books with his dad.

James hopped off his bed, and his thin-soled boots clomped as he landed with all of his weight balanced in his heels. He teetered for a moment in the mostly sparse bedroom, his equilibrium thrown off kilter. Finding himself again, the pimpled boy knelt and reached one long, gangly arm under the brown wool blanket that hung over the side of the bed, grappling for the box he kept under there for safekeeping.

His hand slid over the cold pine floor, his skin rising in gooseflesh as dust skidded and parted on the ridge of his pinky, collecting up uncomfortably beneath his fingernails. Finally, James made contact with his query, and he grinned a small bit to himself.

James drew the rough, time-weathered box from underneath the bed. Only the dust that had been dragged along during its departure from its secret place clung to it—otherwise, the box looked clean and often used. The hinges were, in fact, a little worn, but there was good reason for that.

James opened the box, and revealed to himself, and the spider that had taken up residence in the far corner of the room between the wall and the sloped ceiling, a rather sizable sum of money. One hundred and fifty-six gold pieces, to be precise, which was rather a lot of money during that particular time period. His parents could have used this money to pay off the rest of what they owed on the house, because they only had one hundred and twenty gold pieces left on the thousand gold mortgage.

But with food, taxes, and other expenses to account for, they never seemed to do much more than barely get by on what they had for income.

No matter, James thought. I’ll leave this for them, and their worries will be gone. The mortgage, and me, he thought with a grim sense of relief. Atop the money, however, was a rather thin, black leather-bound notebook. This was his true treasure. He pulled the book out and put the box back under his bed. He stretched his legs out on his bed as he swung himself into a comfortable posture on his bed, opening the notebook to the first page.

The notebook hadn’t always belonged to him, it should be noted. It had, in fact, been owned by many people in its time, all of them dead and gone from the mortal coil. Its prior owner had died only six months before, something that James found altogether comforting in an eerie way.

James’s eyes scanned over the sloppily scrawled thoughts that had been panning through the book’s original owner’s mind as he prepared to do what James was now certain he must also do.

The man’s name had been Morten Vansick, an adolescent Elven male. ‘Let never the legacy of this book die, though we may ourselves do so,’ was the first sentence penned on the paper. ‘Let the rules be given as follows. Firstly, if you are in possession of this book, write down first your age, your Race, your gender, and the date. 213, Morten Vansick, Elf, male, 21^st of July, 544 A.F.’

James marveled at the dedication that the originator of this document, which he held most sacred, had for its creation. He continued to read on.

‘Next, account for the events that have led you to this place you are at, for whomsoever has this book vows that once recorded herein, they are truly and finally committed to taking their own life, in order to end their suffering.’

James had found the Sacred Book among the stack of tomes he had been asked to arrange on the library shelves half a year ago. At first, he had noticed that it was rather small, and, thinking it might be a children’s book, decided to look through it for illustrations. But there were simply words, in many different handwritings, and in one instance, in a language other than the Common Tongue. He had never gotten it translated, because the book somehow felt important to him from the moment that he finished reading Morten’s submission to the Sacred Book.

After this brief introduction of rules and Morten’s woeful times, the Elven youth had recorded exactly the method with which he intended to kill himself.

It was simple and elegant, James had thought as he had read and re-read these passages time and again. The boy had decided to poison himself at the kitchen table, at breakfast, while his mother and father watched. He wouldn’t, of course, tell them what he was adding to his drink, so he told his parents months before the final day that he had decided to study Alchemy. He would then drink his fatal tincture, and be whisked away by Death himself into a world free of pain and oppression.

What the Sacred Book did not tell James, however, was what had eventually happened. But he would find that out for himself, soon enough. He would meet with Morten on the ‘Other Side,’ after he had taken care of himself here in the mortal coil. There, James would ask him how things had gone. He would ask all of the other former owners of the Sacred Book as well, and together, they would be free of their miseries. Or so, he hoped.

James heard the hollow thumping of slow footsteps coming up the steps toward his room, and he rapidly tucked the Book under his pillow and took out his school texts. The usual knock came at his door, so delayed, so afraid. His father, Ian Blake, there could be no doubt.

“Son,” came his father’s voice, sounding as old and dried out as the books he stacked. “What’re you up to, my boy?”

“Door’s open, da’.” James brushed his hair out of his face.

Ian Blake blew into the room like a will-o-wisp, his own stick-thin form appearing to have little more meat on it than the Grim Reaper. He smiled awkwardly at his only child, revealing a set of teeth that had more in common with coal carts than anyone might be comfortable seeing.

“Wha’ tchyou need, da?”

“Well, just wanted to talk, lad,” Ian Blake lied, wringing his hat as he always did when he was nervous or concerned.

James hated the way he wrung his only decent article of clothing, because in another month, the old idiot would have to go and purchase a new one at the cost of having food for himself. While James thought of his father as a buffoon, he loved him because he was a kind and caring buffoon. He always made sure James’ mother, Rachel, and his son had food to eat at all three meal times. Often, Ian would excuse himself from dinner by saying something like, ‘got some overtime to put in, don’t worry about my share,’ or ‘I’ve got an invite over to Freddy’s for supper’. Fred Shaft was the town’s librarian, and a sporting Minotaur once one got past all of the muscles and the rather intimidating way he used his horns to balance books as he carried them around the library. Always the books were red, and old, because the way he balanced them was by impaling them. In his library, most of the old books weren’t worth much due to decay, so he was willing to spare a few on such transparent scare tactics.

But James knew that there wasn’t overtime to be had, and he knew as well that if his father ate at Fred Shaft’s for an evening, he’d come home either sick with food poisoning from undercooked meat, or so bloated with food as to make him look sickly. Yet his father always returned about an hour after him and his mother had eaten, and said ‘no thanks, I’ve had some food while I was out’.

If I weren’t in the picture, James often thought, da could get something to eat.

“Son, how’d you get that black eye,” Ian asked, as lacking in tact as ever.

“Boy at school, da,” James said, deciding that his last hours with his father should be truthful ones. “Ye see, there’s this girl I sort of loik, in that funny way you and mum tried to explain to me was tot’lly natural last year, remember?”

Ian Blake’s cheeks flushed, an amazing feat, considering how little blood he probably had to spare such a gesture.

“Well, I’ve been talking with ‘er for months now, and she says she really loiks me, too. Only, when I asked her if’n she wanted to be me girlfriend, this large fellah in me class, Roy Brodart, knocked me so ‘ard in the face I think I saw the future,” James said, being completely blunt with his father.

Ian put his hand to his mouth and turned his head slowly away, and James felt awful for making his father worry so. After a minute of awkward silence, Ian spoke again to break the atmosphere.

“This girl, what’s she like, son?”

“Well, her name is Cindy Rockbeater,” James said, his eyes going slightly glassy as he thought of never seeing her again. It would be for the best, he had decided. “She’s a half-Orc, but before you go nutter on me da,” he ejaculated rather hurriedly, because he knew his parents frowned on Greenskin Races as a rule. “She’s very Human-loik, da! Good manners, pretty as a picture, and very kindly, loik mum,” he added, because he knew that compliments aimed at his mother always got rid of the stern look his father usually gave him when he asked to go and play with Goblin youths in his younger years. But no such expression came to his father’s face right now; instead, in his eyes, there appeared to be a soft sort of understanding, of empathy.

“So this boy, this Roy Brodart, why’d he hit you then, son,” Ian asked with a half-smile, overjoyed that after months and months of near-silence, his son was opening up to him again.

“Well, because he’s sort of Cindy’s boyfriend,” James admitted. “And he’s an Orc, da. That’s why the bruising is so bad off.”

Ian put a hand on his son’s shoulder reassuringly and gave him a brief clamp of fatherly affection.

“No worries, son. There’s plenty of fish in the sea. You think your mother was my first girlfriend?” Ian asked with a coy smile. He laughed aloud and moved away from James. As he was heading out the door, he poked his head back in for just a moment, which James expected—he still had his text books on his lap as his father said, “Now don’t be up too late studying, son! You’ve always got tomorrow!”

Long minutes flittered by on small angel wings before James retrieved the Sacred Book.

“No, I haven’t da,” he said as he pulled out the box, and wrote a note to his parents, instructing them to use the money he’d saved up to save themselves.

* * * *

Down in the basement, James withdrew a single, oblong tube from a set of glassware that he kept around. He had followed his mentor’s instructions precisely, making the scentless poison with the accuracy of a skilled assassin. Of course, most assassins didn’t kill themselves, he thought smugly. They weren’t worthy of the Sacred Book. They went around and killed other people, people who might be happy and want to keep on living, and for what? Money? Damned, they were, he thought as he held the vial to the light spilling in from one of the ground-level windows high on the basement wall. “Bottoms up,” he whispered quietly, quaffing the clear liquid with a single effort.

For the first few minutes after consuming the poison, James Michael Blake felt no obvious change in his physical welfare. He sat in one of the old rocking chairs that his father and mother kept stored away in the basement, presumably for when they had company staying for a few days. They didn’t have much, but they liked to try to make everyone, with the exception of themselves, comfortable and without complaint.

Then, the sensation of a great huge worm, covered in tentacles and feelers, as well as juices that ate at everything they touched, slithered around in his stomach and lower intestines. “This is it,” he whispered reverently as he pitched forward in his seat and began hurling up his meager dinner.

Pain raced through his body, in particular his stomach, the waves synching up with the sloshing whitewash of his stomach’s contents as his body rebelled against him. Uh-oh, he thought, grimacing as he dropped to his knees, his left hand on his abdomen. It isn’t supposed to hurt like this!

He wretched back and forth, until finally he was doing little more than dry-heaving, because the inner sea of his stomach had completely dried up.

A strange little thought passed through his head then; the Desperation, the huge desert in the southeastern region of Tamalaria, had once been rumored to be a part of the ocean itself. A lot of stuffy-headed scientists had cited the skeletal frames of some ships as evidence of this, stuck half-up in the sand, but he had never really believed that such a thing was possible, until now. His own ribs felt as though they might poke through the lining of his stomach, shoring up like those great, ancient wrecks in the sands of the Desperation.

Finally, too much pain and too little energy conspired to overtake him. ‘Come on,’ he could hear the former say to the latter. ‘Let’s get the little prick’!

James barely managed to crawl on his right hand and knees to a clean and clear spot on the hard stone floor, and slumped over. A feeling of peace washed over him, as liberating as a slave being told he is free. He smiled a wan smile, and welcomed Death with an open heart. He was about to meet him, and he was about to be sorely disappointed.

* * * *

The Death of Tamalaria, or rather the Reality that Tamalaria inhabited, stood out on his front lawn, observing the way the grass swayed despite the absence of any wind. A golden mask-wearing entity stood a few feet to his left, a hand placed under the chin guard in contemplation. “It’s the best I can do, Grim,” Fate said.

IT SHALL HAVE TO MAKE DUE. I DIDN’T DARE TRIFLE WITH SUCH A THING, Death intoned in his typically flat voice. I HAVEN’T EXACTLY GOT THE KNACK FOR MAKING ANYTHING EVEN APPEAR ALIVE.

“Some day I’m sure you’ll get over that,” Fate said jovially. He looked at a timepiece of stone that Death kept on the porch of his squat cottage home. “Don’t you have an appointment?”

YES. A NEAR ME EXPERIENCE, Death said, guiding his scythe through the air, creating a rift in space-time. I’LL TALK TO YOU AGAIN LATER, FRIEND. FOR NOW, I MUST GO ABOUT MY DUTIES. Death stepped through the rift, and disappeared from his own personal space.

On the other side of the rift, he stepped into a squat, squalid basement with a stone floor, which was here and there caked in thick vomitus. The form of one James Michael Blake lay prone, half smiling, on the floor a few feet away.

Death pulled out his sand timer, gave it a glance, and nodded to himself with satisfaction. Putting the timer away in his robes (where he kept the things in there was his own business), he raised the butt end of his tool, and prodded James Michael Blake in his already sore ribs.

James felt a new pang of pain as something solid and wooden thwacked him squarely in the floating ribs. “Ow, son of a bitch,” he grumbled as he got himself into a seated position, holding his side. “I’m fine da, I just took sick,” he said, completely unprepared for his mentor’s advice to go awry. But when he rubbed his eyes and looked up, his heart skipped a few beats; Death stood before him, the front of his skull vaguely visible through the gloom of his eternal raiment.

“You’ve come for me,” he whispered, awed by the entity before him. He stood to his feet and began jumping up and down elatedly, laughing. “You’ve come! Oh, I’ve been so looking forward to meeting…” he trailed off when he looked down for where his body should be.

It wasn’t slumped on the floor, though, as he had expected it to be. Then he remembered the pain in his side from being poked with the blunt end of Death’s scythe. He looked sidelong at the Grim Reaper, and cocked an eyebrow. “I’m not dead, am I?”

NO, NOT EXACTLY, Death said, moving over to the rocking chair that James Michael Blake had occupied only ten minutes previous. YOU’RE HAVING A NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE, WHICH ENTITLES YOU TO A SMALL CONFERENCE WITH ME. Death leaned his scythe against the workbench a foot away from the rocking chair, and folded his hands in front of his face, his ancient, skeletal elbows making a soft clacking noise as he set them on the arms of the chair. IS THERE ANYTHING YOU’D LIKE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF? MAYBE ASK ME A FEW QUESTIONS WHILE I’M HERE? I’VE GOT THE TIME TO SPARE. Death’s tone went slightly sarcastic.

James’s mind reeled, his whole sense of Reality turned in several directions before his rational and philosophical minds, which had recently merged into a single process of thoughts, re-aligned.

“Okay, all right,” James began, assembling his questions. “Why didn’t it work? The poison, I mean,” he said. “I followed every step of the procedure, to the exact measurements. How come I’m not dead?”

Death grinned, mostly because that’s all you can naturally do when you haven’t any flesh on your face.

A COUPLE OF REASONS, Death said, waving his hands emphatically. FIRST OF ALL, THE GENTLEMAN YOU’RE REFERING TO WAS AN ELF, YES?

James nodded.

ALL RIGHT THEN, YOU’RE A BRIGHT LAD. FIGURE THAT ONE OUT.

James tried to remember the ingredients, but couldn’t think of one that stood out among the others. However, after a minute, he realized why that was, exactly.

“Because nothing in that formula is deadly to a Human being,” he said, realizing that he should have taken into consideration his mentor’s Race. “All right, you said that’s one reason. What’s the other one?”

SIMPLE REALLY, AND THE MOST IMPORTANT REASON. IT ISN’T YOUR TIME, Death said flatly, rocking the chair slightly.

“I decide when it’s my time,” James shouted. He then ducked his head and peered over at the door leading out of the basement, but he didn’t see any movement.

DON’T WORRY, NOBODY’S GOING TO COME DOWN HERE. NOTHING CAN INTERRUPT US, JAMES, Death said calmly. He reached into his robes and produced from them an ebony cup of steaming tea, which he sipped at.

James watched his robes, but no damp spot appeared. How does he do that, he wondered.

BUT MY TIME HERE IS SHORT. YOU’LL HAVE TO GO BACK TO LIVING SOON.

“So I was thwarted by my own short-sightedness. It won’t happen again.” James crossed his arms over his chest. “Next time you see me, you’ll be there to collect, count on it.”

Before he could so much as blink, Death was on his feet and had a single bone fist gnarled in James’s shirt, hoisting him into the air. Twin crimson lights flashed in his hood, pure rage boiling through.

ARE YOU GIVING ME AN ORDER, BOY, Death growled as smoke plumed out of his skull. BECAUSE BELIEVE YOU ME, THERE ARE TORMENTS FAR MORE ETERNAL AND UNBEARABLE THAN NOTHINGNESS, AND I CAN GUIDE YOU TO ANY ONE OF THEM! NOW QUIT BEING A LITTLE TWIT AND ACCEPT THAT YOU MUST LIVE! With that, Death tossed the boy to the floor, grabbed his scythe, and tore a rift in the air. WE SHALL MEET AGAIN, he intoned. He left the boy on the basement floor, and stepped through to his home once again. He smiled wickedly to himself as Fate strode over to him, a shining orb in hand.

“That was very good,” the astral being said with a chuckle. “You certain you don’t want a part in my play? You could take the role of one of the villains quite easily,”

Death just smiled to himself. I’M NO GOOD AT ACTING WITH AN AUDIENCE, he said, taking a look at Fate’s all-seeing sphere. I LIKE SMALL ACTS, THE ONES THAT REALLY MOVE PEOPLE.

* * * *

James Michael Blake left the basement, explained to his father that he had taken ill, and went upstairs to lie down. As soon as he hit the bed, he drew the Sacred Book from beneath his pillow and turned to the second entry, scanning briefly through the all too familiar passages. The second owner had been a Gnome woman, who had drawn out a simple plan. She had taken a length of rope and hung herself from a young maple tree near her home in Palen. Simple, effective, and guaranteed to work, James thought. He would get on that first thing in the morning.

James slept a dreamless sleep, waking up with the crowing of the roosters down at old Mr. Telwork’s poultry ranch. Anthony Telwork was a kindly old Human fellow, and at one time, he’d kept over a hundred chickens and roosters on the property. Now, too old to care for so many and too senile to be trusted to do so, his daughter had moved in and taken over, selling off most of the stock of hens to the local slaughterhouse and keeping the rest to live off of. James had thought the night before, just as he nipped off to sleep, that he would hang himself today. That couldn’t be, though, because it was Wednesday, his day to help Mr. Telwork take his bills around town and pay them off. He wanted so badly to kill himself, but he couldn’t let Mr. Telwork go by himself, and there wouldn’t be time to find a replacement to fill in on time.

But that wasn’t until noon, when he would be out of school. As he swung his legs over the edge of his bed, his mother came into his bedroom with a steaming bowl of soup and a cup of tea, setting them on his nightstand.

“Oh no you don’t, James,” she scolded, her worry-lines creasing her face as they often did when he was ill. She dashed over to him more quickly than usual, and James realized that his mother must have seen his wretch products on the basement floor. She forced him back under his blankets and brought his tray over, setting it on his lap. “I know you aren’t feeling well enough to go to school today, so you’re staying in. I don’t suppose I can keep you from helping Mr. Telwork, but that’s five hours off yet. And you aren’t to stay for a game of chess like you always does,” she added.

James winced slightly. He enjoyed playing chess with the old farmer—it seemed to give the elderly man hope where James had none. He may have wanted to die himself, but he saw no sense in making anyone else suffer because of him.

“All right, mum,” he conceded. “But can you send a note ahead? And tell him he’ll have to find a replacement soon,” James added before his mother left the room.

“Why’s that, deary,” she asked, concern mirrored in her eyes.

“I’ve, erm, got plans for next Wednesday,” he lied, watching his mother smile wanly.

“Of course dear,” she said, ducking out into the hallway.

James looked down at the tray on his lap. His parents loved him dearly, he knew. They would be saddened by his eventual and inevitable loss, but he would be certain to leave them a letter of thanks, and of course, the money he’d been saving. His death would help them live better lives, he reasoned, because he wouldn’t be on the long list of their expenses. And he wouldn’t have to suffer the humiliation of being beaten up by a half-mad Orc whose girlfriend he’d asked to go out with him.

THEY WON’T BE ABLE TO HANDLE IT, YOU KNOW, a familiar and eerie voice intoned from his bedside, almost causing James to jump and knock his tray to the floor. Death had taken up a seat next to his bed on the right side, opposite the door. THEY CARE TOO MUCH FOR YOU. DO YOU REALLY WANT TO HURT THEM LIKE THIS?

James went instantly from frightened senseless to furiously indignant in a second’s time. “Wha’ tchyou know about it, huh,” he nearly screamed at the incarnation of Death. “You’re Death itself!”

HIMSELF, Death corrected, raising a single bony finger.

“Whatever,” James rasped, taking up his spoon and ladling some of the warm broth into his mouth. He nearly choked on it, his throat was so raw from the vomiting the evening previous. But it finally went down, and he felt much better for it. He turned to make a remark to the Grim Reaper, but Death was nowhere to be found. A rift in the air by Death’s seat sealed closed behind him.

After finishing his soup and his tea, James’s throat and stomach felt much better, soothed and filled. He lay in for a while before getting out of the bed and getting himself ready to go to Mr. Telwork’s ranch down the road. His father, Ian, had already gone to work at the library, and his mother fretted over him only briefly, reminding him that he wasn’t to stay extra and that she had sent a note to the old farmer stating such.

“He didn’t send a return note, of course, but I don’t think he minds,” his mother said with a smile.

James gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and was out the door and into the dusty streets of Uragam.

James hummed to himself as he made his way down the street towards the weathered poultry ranch, and his heart skipped a few beats as he noticed a long line of people out in front of the old farmer’s house.

What is going on here, he wondered.

Francine Telwork, the farmer’s daughter, was out on the front steps, tears streaking down her face as a doctor came out of the house and shook his head.

“No,” James whispered as he rushed to the line of consoling friends and acquaintances of the old man and his daughter. They were all here, apparently, to mourn the loss of old Mr. Telwork.

James bumped and pushed his way through the crowd, many of whom made comments along the lines of ‘hey, show some respect’, or ‘what are you doing?’

James didn’t even try to talk to Francine, who was sobbing so hard that her shoulders shook as the Elven doctor tried to tell her that her father went peacefully. He ignored the doctor as well, and dashed inside the simple farmhouse, making his way to the back of the first floor. The door was slightly ajar, and he kicked it open, revealing to himself old man Telwork’s room. On the bed, Mr. Telwork was smiling the smile of the blameless and happy; Death stood near another rift in space-time, and a strange blue light glimmered and sparked jovially behind him.

“You bastard,” James yelled at the Grim Reaper, who looked up at him, away from the sparkling light, which he ushered through the rift with a gentle hand. “Why him? Why now? He never hurt anybody, he was a good man! Why d’you have to take him now?”

Death said nothing, but instead took out an old-fashioned sand timer, the bottom of which was filled with sand. Not even a speck remained in the upper bulb.

BECAUSE, IT WAS HIS TIME. HE DID NOT RESIST IN THE SLIGHTEST. HE WAS, IN FACT, RATHER GLAD TO SEE ME.

NOW, IF YOU’LL EXCUSE ME, JAMES, I MUST GUIDE HIM TO EVERNIA, THE HEAVEN OF THE LESSER GOD MOGUN. Death slipped through the rift.

James tried to follow after, but the rift had sealed itself shut behind the Grim Reaper.

Desolated, James sat on the edge of the bed, and held the hand of the late Mr. Telwork. No wonder he hadn’t sent a reply note, he thought.

“He couldn’t,” James whispered to no one in particular. He looked at the old man, squeezed his hand once more, and left the home of the old farmer, feeling cold and dejected.

The old man’s daughter moved to take hold of his arm, to speak with him, but James just shrugged her off as he exited the house and then the property.

Tonight, he thought, I’ll do it. “I just need some rope,” he said, moving away from the ranch and off towards the marketplace.

* * * *

“You’re certain I’m allowed to do something like this,” Fate asked his long-time friend, Death.

Death produced James Michael Blake’s sand timer, and Fate nodded. “So, it isn’t his time. In that case, I believe the Histories can be made to make a side note of this event.” Fate made the slightest of changes to the world below his astral home. A single wave of his hand was all it took—the rest, he would leave up to the Histories, as he usually did.

“Did you ever think about actively interfering?” he asked Death, who was looking down on the mortal coil below. “You know, just to see what would happen.”

I’VE THOUGHT ABOUT IT ON SOME OCCASIONS, Death admitted with a sigh. BUT THIS DOESN’T COUNT. HIS TIME HASN’T COME, SO WE HAVE TO PUSH HIM IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION FOR A WHILE. NOTHING WRONG IN THAT, he reasoned, though the words sounded slightly hollow, even to him. The Histories, he realized, had most likely already mapped all of these events out to the tee. They were frustratingly omniscient like that.

“I suppose you’re right. By the way, Truth has been asking after you,” Fate said as an afterthought.

OH?

“Yes, she claims that you and she had an appointment, a sort of, well, mortals call it a ‘date’, I believe.” Fate’s tone took a teasing note.

IT ISN’T LIKE THAT, AND YOU KNOW IT, Death lied. I DON’T HAVE A GREAT DEAL OF EXPERIENCE WITH EMOTIONS. ONLY SINCE YOU AND I STARTED HAVING THESE LITTLE GET-TOGETHERS. AND DAMN YOU FOR IT, Death grumbled mostly to himself.

“Look, he’s at the market,” Fate said, peering into his sphere. He didn’t have the same range of sight as Death, and for good reason. Death would never confide in Fate what that reason was, but he let Fate know all the time that he hid something from him. Lack of knowledge frustrated the astral being, and Death rather enjoyed watching that golden mask tint slightly red.

Death turned his attention down to James Michael Blake, who was about to commit yet another mistake.

* * * *

“Look, sonny, that’s the only length wot I’ve got,” said the exasperated Gnome merchant. “Should be long enough to keep the dog in the yard,” he said. James had explained that he had a dog that needed to be kept in the yard until he could find it a new home, and the Gnome, while he was a businessman, and didn’t really care what the rope was for, really only had one length of rope. That very morning, he could have sworn he had more. But his tally book, despite his memory, recorded five sales of rope, accounting for the rest of the rope. His cash drawer even added up, much to his relief. Gotta lay off the sauce, he thought to himself.

James was frustrated, but he bought the only remaining rope anyway. He had been worried that it wouldn’t be long enough, but he would manage. James asked for a dark colored bag in which to carry the rope home, so ‘nobody’ll nick it,’ along the way. After all, he had reasoned with the merchant, if somebody wanted all of the rest of the rope he’d had, chances were someone might try to take the last bit without having to pay, right?

The Gnome gave James a grin and nodded. “That’s proper business thinking, son.” He stuffed the rope into a black cloth sack. “Ever fink of becoming a merchant?”

“No, thanks. I don’t think it’s going to matter much what I want to be,” James said with a mirrored smile, thinking to himself, except for a corpse.

The Gnome had misread this statement, and gave him a low grunt. “One of those there predetermined sort of careers, eh? Family tradition or somefing loik that?”

James said yes, thanked the merchant for the rope and the sack, and headed to the outskirts of the town. The smiling faces of children at play gave him a mild pang of regret as he passed them on his way to the old hickory trees on the hills just west of town. He had been happy like that, once. But with his parents’ misery, the beatings he was certain would continue when he returned to school, and the uncertainty of what the future might bring him, he was able to push aside his regrets easily. He would, after all, be better off dead.

Past the businesses in the western district, beyond the fenced in areas holding goats and cattle and other various forms of livestock, James made his way to the low hills just outside of the town. A small copse of hickory trees stood atop the hills, and James smiled softly to himself. He had written a new letter for his parents, and had it kept in his back pants pocket. After all, many children came up to this hill to play their silly little games, and they would surely return to town and ask an adult why the boy swinging from the tree wouldn’t come down, and why his neck looked hurt.

He now stood amid the tall, ancient trees. They looked as dead to him as he was hoping he would soon be.

James dropped the black cloth sack, and took out the length of rope. James had, several times throughout the years, dressed up as a hanged man for Terror Day, one of Tamalaria’s most widely celebrated holidays. Young children, and sometimes grown men (when they are desperate for attention or sweets), dressed themselves in costumes and went door to door, begging off for free candies. As a result of his experience, James knew exactly how to tie a noose, which he had just finished doing in the time only a professional executioner should take. James turned around, and looked at the hickory.

He hadn’t brought anything to stand on, because that would be, frankly, overly suspicious. But the tree he had selected for his purposes had several low hanging branches and multiple foot and handholds, so he would simply climb the tree, tie the opposite end of the rope around a branch, and, with the noose already around his neck, throw himself off. His neck would most likely be broken before he suffocated, he reasoned, but in case it didn’t, he would die anyway. It would just take a few extra minutes, he thought, which was no bother when he considered that the end result would be worth the extra wait.

James made his way up the hickory, his long fingernails gathering up bits of bark as he climbed. These trees were old, so he wasn’t at all surprised that the bark wouldn’t stick. The holds, he was happy to note, however, were plenty sturdy enough to support him.

Halfway up, James was now a good fifteen feet over the ground, and decided it would be sufficient. With the noose around his neck, and the other end in his left hand, James started to crawl out on a relatively thick limb, and reached the midpoint in a minute. He had loved climbing through trees like this as a child, his father always right beneath him, ready to catch him if he fell out. But he never did, despite his mother’s warnings and his father’s open arms.

James secured the rope’s opposite end around the branch, ensuring that it wouldn’t be long enough to let his feet reach the ground. Despite the height, he was a tall boy, and he had to make certain that the rope wouldn’t dangle too much. Satisfied with his perceptions, James leaned over the side of the branch, and dropped.

In most cases, this would be the part where the tragic suicide of a young teenage boy is stopped by someone nearby. In this case, that wasn’t going to be necessary. For a moment, James dropped, eyes closed, towards his final destination. There was the powerful, mysterious sensation of true weightlessness, as though he were afloat in the air as fish were afloat in the sea. But as the weight on the rope dropped, in the form of James’s body, a previously unspotted flaw in the rope caused the length to tear, and then immediately after that, snap. James’s neck was rubbed raw and pulled a little, but the flaw in the rope was so serious that his full weight hadn’t even been transferred through the material before it snapped.

James was deposited hard on the hill below, landing in a gasping, sore-throated heap, gagging and wheezing for air as he rubbed his throat. His eyes were still pressed shut, the sudden rush of blood to his head giving him an acute headache. But his eyes snapped open when he heard something over his head creak; when he looked up, he watched as the hickory branch snapped and fell off of the tree, landing three feet behind him. A familiar aura filled his senses, and he found himself looking at the skeletal feet of Death.

SO, HOW’S THE WHOLE KILLING YOURSELF THING GOING? Death asked as he looked at his fingernails, which, it should be noted, weren’t really there.

James took the noose from around his neck and threw the rope at Death as he screamed an animalistic, wordless shout.

“Why are you doing this to me?” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

Death winced a little, and snapped his bony fingers on his free right hand.

The land around James and Death drained of all color, the world shifted into a sort of shades of gray color. One of Death’s handy little tricks was pulling himself and any number of people outside of the confines of Time.

I HAVEN’T DONE ANYTHING, Death intoned as he took a seat on the fallen hickory branch. TO TELL THE TRUTH, THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT YOU’RE SO UPSET ABOUT.

James thought about this for a moment as he continued to rub his throat.

“I’ve been thwarted again,” James said sulkily, sitting down next to Death. The astral incarnation of mortality at its end put his right arm around the boy’s shoulders and gave him a brief shrug.

MIND TELLING ME WHY YOU’RE TRYING SO HARD IN ANY CASE?

James just shrugged his shoulders and harumphed rather loudly.

“You know that, don’t you,” he asked, turning to look into the darkness of the Grim Reaper’s hood. He could just barely make out the skull therein, and he thought he saw a pair of twinkling lights in the eye sockets.

NO, JAMES, I DON’T, Death said softly, a trace edge of hesitation in his voice. He really didn’t know what the boy was thinking, but he had a decent idea. I’M ASSUMING IT HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH LIFE NOT GOING YOUR WAY.

“Well, there’s a lot of reasons, actually.” James Michael Blake removed his hand from Death’s bony shoulder. It was too friendly a gesture for his liking from a being such as the Grim Reaper. “You see, it started a while back. A couple of years ago, actually. I sort of noticed that my folks didn’t have much.”

MUCH WHAT?

“You know, personal effects. Belongings, that is,” James said, trying to explain a concept that was as foreign to Death as the idea of a world without lycanthropes was to him. “My parents don’t make a whole lot of money. My mother works sometimes as a seamstress, and my father works in the library, shelving books.”

YES, YOU SOMETIMES HELP HIM, Death said.

“That’s right. Well, I noticed that my parents did everything they could for me, but they don’t have much of anything to show for it. I sort of figured, you know, maybe they’d be happier without me around.”

James regretted the words as soon as they left his tongue, and now, looking into the blaring red lights in Death’s face, his heart dropped toward his crotch. Oh man, he thought, maybe he’s going to do it now! Do I really want to die? I thought so, but certainly not because of something I said!

HAPPIER? HAPPIER, Death raged, flinging his skeletal hands toward the skies.

Bright white lightning flashed down all around them, and James Michael Blake skittered back and away from the head Horseman of the Apocalypse.

WHAT IN ALL THE HEAVENS AND ALL THE HELLS MAKES YOU THINK YOUR DEATH WILL MAKE THEM HAPPIER? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW TRAUMATIZED THEY WILL BE IF YOU GO THROUGH WITH THIS COURSE OF ACTION? Death reached down, grabbed James by the front of his tunic shirt, and hauled him up off the ground, bringing the boy eye level with him.

Crimson light spilled from Death’s eyeless sockets, and he snarled like a beast at the mortal adolescent. THERE ARE MANY THOUSANDS IN THIS LAND LESS FORTUNATE THAN YOURSELF, BOY. SOME ROT AWAY IN DUNGEON CELLS, FORMULATING THEIR ESCAPE, OR MAPPING OUT THEIR LIVES AFTER THEIR EVENTUAL RELEASE. THERE ARE WANDERERS TRAPPED IN DESERTS WHO CONTINUE TO SEARCH FOR WATER. IN SOME REALITIES, BECAUSE THIS ONE ISN’T THE ONLY ONE, HA HA, NOT BY FAR. Death threw his head back for a moment to laugh further. He tossed James back down into the dirt, and let the light in his eyes fade to a calm, loamy green. THERE IS A MAN, A HUMAN MORE THAN A THOUSAND YEARS OLD, WHO SEEKS TO CURE WHAT AILS THE GREAT TOWER THAT IS THE AXIS POINT FOR THOUSANDS OF THESE REALITIES. HE HAS LOST MANY FRIENDS IN HIS LIFE, AND WAS THE KILLER OF HIS OWN MOTHER. YET STILL HE MARCHES ON, CONTINUING WITHOUT REGRET. YOU, JAMES MICHAEL BLAKE, HAVE NO MORE RIGHT TO END YOUR OWN LIFE THAN ANYONE ELSE. IT IS NOT WHAT FATE HAS ORDAINED, Death said, his tone now actually soft, sympathetic. NOW, GO ON ABOUT YOUR BUSINESS, JAMES. AND BY THAT, I MEAN THE BUSINESS OF LIVING.

Death clapped his hands together, and the world around James turned dark, and then pitch black. He had passed out.

* * * *

When James woke up, he found himself in his own bed, looking up at the worried faces of his parents. Oh boy, he thought, here come the questions.

But the first question out of his father’s mouth surprised him, and made him thankful that someone was looking out for him. “Son, didn’t anybody ever tell you to make the game loop after you tie the rope to the branch?”

Game loop, James thought with wonder. That’s right, if you’re setting a rope trap for a rabbit or other small game, you make the loop after tying the end to the branch of choice.

“Your mother and I appreciate your effort, and it was very nice of you to try to get us dinner fresh,” his father said with a sarcastic grin, looking over at James’s mother. “But if you’re going to try and hunt, ye should learn how to, first.”

James sat up slowly, running a hand over his neck, which throbbed painfully at his touch. He looked back and forth from his mother to his father, who both beamed at him with love and pride. When they leave me alone, he thought, I’m getting rid of that book. Once and for all. I don’t need it after all. He looked over at his father, a sudden impulse coming over him.

“I do want to learn how to hunt, dad. I think I’m going to quit school for a while,” he said. Neither parent protested his decision, both of them just smiling and nodding amiably. Another thought passed James’s mind. “Hey dad, who brought me back home?”

“Oh, I did,” his father said, scratching his short beard roughly. “This big, dark drink of water came to the door, told me you’d almost gotten yourself hung trying to set a rabbit trap. Tell the truth, I had a hard time lookin’ at him, if you kennit.”

James thought he knew exactly what his father was talking about, but left it alone.

His parents told him to get some rest, and as soon as they were out of his room, he dropped to the floor and reached for the book, only to find a single, folded piece of parchment. On it, he read a fine, curly handwriting. He was surprised to find that the letter wasn’t written in all capitals. That voice of his, he thought, certainly sounded like it should be.

‘To James:

I have taken the book away from you, and for your own good. Trust me on this, if nothing else; it isn’t your time. And don’t bother to ask when your time is. Like your elderly friend, whom I so recently took from the world, you will not know until it is done. Remember, James, that the world is not a fair place, and so, life is not fair. That doesn’t mean it isn’t worth living.

-Grim’

As soon as James ran his finger over the last word, the parchment crumbled into dust.

James smiled to himself, and decided that the next day, he would head to the library, as usual. However, he wouldn’t be working. He’d be reading up on how to become a hunter.

The next morning came, and took away some of the rawness of his throat, though not nearly all of it. His mother had made him a large meal, for which he thanked her, and he ate like a wild animal.

“Dad, hold up a minute,” he said, topping off his coffee and backing away from the table. “I’m coming with, but I’m not working today.”

James Michael Blake explained his purpose in coming to his father, who nodded and seemed to positively beam at his boy. If he proved to be a competent huntsman, the Blake family would never again have to spend money on meat or fruits. James would provide all the food they needed.

Slightly behind them, keeping himself well out of mortal sight, Death floated along through the crowded streets. GOOD, he thought. THE BOY IS HEADING TOWARD HIS DESTINY. STILL, I FEEL A LITTLE GUILTY.

He followed the Blake boys, father and son, into the library, where both men obviously felt at home. James headed directly for the reference section, and his father for the owner of the library, to prepare for another day’s work.

James took out a book on game hunting and sat at one of the long tables next to the older metallic bookshelves, which the owner was in the process of replacing with oak ones. Too heavy, the owner had said, and too dangerous if they fell. How right he was… how right he was. A half-Orc, having come in to move the books off of the old shelves and move the old metal units out, accidentally bumped into the opposite side of the unit James was sitting next to.

Death cringed as the unit came toppling down on top of James Michael Blake, crushing the life out of him.

Death moved over toward the shelving unit, and the dead boy beneath. He had hated himself for his deception the day before, but it was necessary. If the Histories got too out of whack, reality would stretch too thin, and the gods, including Fate, couldn’t allow that. Nor could Death, and thus, he had done what needed to be done.

Regardless of his thoughts on the matter, he still felt guilty. He hovered over the boy’s body, and swung his scythe down through the ethereal level of his being. The bluish form of the boy’s soul floated up and out of his body, and Death could see he was smiling. “So, what was all that stuff you were saying yesterday about, Grim?”

THESE ARE DIFFERENT CIRCUMSTANCES, Death said, feeling a little lame. DON’T WORRY, YOUR PARENTS WILL GRIEVE, BUT THEY’LL GET OVER IT IN A FEW YEARS. YOUR FATHER IS GOING TO FILE A LAWSUIT AGAINST THE OWNER, AND TURN THIS PLACE INTO A BOOKSTORE.

“Does he do well?”

THAT’S PUTTING IT MILDLY, Death said, breathing a sigh of relief. The boy wasn’t angry at him, at least. It was almost as if he just accepted things as they were, so long as his parents did well.

HE AND YOUR MOTHER ARE GOING TO BE RATHER PROSPEROUS, YOU HAVE MY WORD ON THAT, which was at least the truth. He’d already checked with Fate that morning, and his gold-faced friend had given him his assurance on the matter. COME NOW, WE’LL DISCUSS MANY THINGS ON OUR WAY DOWN THE PATH, JAMES MICHAEL BLAKE. I’LL ANSWER MOST QUESTIONS YOU MAY HAVE, he said, putting an amiable hand around the boy’s shoulders.

“All right, first question,” James said, stepping toward the rift in time-space that Death opened with his scythe. “Who wins the soccer match between the Desanadron Destroyers and the Traithrock Crushers?”

AH, THAT, Death said, smiling to himself. WELL, I’M NOT A BETTING MAN, BUT LET’S JUST SAY A LOT OF PEOPLE ARE GOING TO LOSE MONEY ON THAT ONE.