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Shorts
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| The Game | |
| By Snodlander | ||||||||||||||||||||
| 07 May 2007 | ||||||||||||||||||||
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Death stood over the bed. The old man was asleep. Or at least, he appeared to be asleep. In actual fact, Death knew, he was unconscious, the ravages of time numbing his brain as it destroyed the rest of his body. From beneath his robe Death produced an hour glass. Not long now. He was patient. All things in their time came to him, ultimately. The door opened, and in crept a small girl, her life-force gushing from her like a summer fountain. She carefully walked to the old man’s side and stood looking at him wide-eyed. The little girl on one side, Death on the other. “I love you, Granddad,” she murmured. She looked up and appeared to look Death in the eye. “Hello,” she said. Death, invisible to all save those he was about to release, looked around. The room was empty. “Hello,” she repeated, staring straight at him. “Hello?” said Death, uncertainly. “My name is Sarah.” “Yes,” agreed Death. All souls were known to him. “Who are you?” “I have many names. I am Azrael, Thanatos, Moran, Valdis. I am all man’s Doom. I am Death.” “Hello, Death. I’ve got three names: Sarah Eloise Carpenter. I’m five.” “Hello Sarah. I am as old as life itself.” She appeared to be satisfied with the reply. She looked around the bedroom, settling at last on the old man. “This is my Granddad. He’s tired a lot. I mustn’t play with him too much, Mummy says, but he likes telling me stories, when he’s not too tired. He used to be a sailor in the navy. What do you do?” “I reap men’s souls.” “What does ‘reap’ mean?” “Harvest.” “What does ‘harvest’ mean?” “It means… I collect men’s souls,” replied Death testily. He took out the hour glass again, even though he knew the time was not just yet. “Are you here to rape my Granddad?” “REAP! I am going to reap your Granddad, yes. It is his time.” “Do you reap ladies as well as men?” “Indeed.” “Do you reap little boys and little girls too?” “When their time is due. At some time I reap all souls.” “Are you going to reap me?” Death looked at the blinding aura around the troublesome child. “Not for many years.” She nodded. She looked around the room again, humming a couple of bars over and again, off key in a high pitch. Death checked the hour glass again. It was, of course, unthinkable to reap a soul before its time, but he began to wonder whether, in the ineffable plan of things, anyone would notice an old man dying a couple of minutes early. “Do you want to play a game?” asked Sarah. Finally, Death was on territory with which he was familiar. “Many have challenged me to a wager on a game of chess. All have lost. As a blood relative it is your right, but should you win a year for him, you must forfeit a year of your own.” He thought a chess table into existence, hovering in the air before him. “I spy with my little eye, something beginning with ‘sir’” “Sorry?” asked Death, a stranger in a strange land once more. “I Spy. That’s the game we’re playing. And I spy something beginning with ‘sir’.” “Sir?” “Yes, ‘sir’. ‘Sir’ for snake.” Death looked down. “There is no snake in here.” Sarah laughed. “No, silly! I spy something else beginning with ‘sir’, not a snake.” And she laughed again at such a ridiculous idea. “What do you spy?” asked Death. “No, you have to guess. Haven’t you ever played I Spy?” “I have never played I Spy” “What, never?” she asked, incredulously. Death shook his head. “OK, I spy something beginning with ‘sir’, and you have to guess what the thing is. That’s the game.” The chess board winked out of existence. Death looked around the small bedroom. How many things could there be beginning with ‘S’? It was a ridiculously easy game. “Sheet.” Sarah giggled. “That’s a ‘sher’, not a ‘sir’” “Sash, on the window” “Nope.” “Skeleton” She giggled harder. “Where’s a skeleton?” Death pulled the sleeve of his robe up. Sarah’s eyes widened in fascination. “Wow!” “So, skeleton?” prompted Death. Sarah shook her head, eyes fixed on his arm. Self-consciously Death dropped his sleeve. “Skin?” “No.” “Scythe.” “What’s a scythe?” “This,” Death said, brandishing his scythe in his hand. “I use it to usher the soul from this mortal coil.” “Nope.” Death looked around the room again in desperation. “Ceiling?” “Nope.” What else was there? The room was sparse. A wardrobe, a chest of doors. Lamp. Picture. “Ship!” cried Death, pointing to the picture. “Nope.” Perhaps it wasn’t in the room. “Sky?” Sarah shook her head emphatically, smiling. “You’re freezing cold. Give up?” This was ridiculous. She was a five-year-old child. Philosophers, scientists, the cream of mankind’s intelligentsia had all challenged him, and had all failed. “Skin?” “You’ve already said that.” “Socks?” He was getting desperate now. He wasn’t wearing any socks, but she wasn’t to know that. “No.” Death scoured the small room. There was nothing else. Nothing at all. “There is nothing else beginning with ‘sir’.” “Yes there is,” she said smugly. There was nothing else for it. “I… I give up. What was it?” “Stick!” she shouted, pointing at his scythe. “But I said that!” objected Death. “No you didn’t. You didn’t say ‘stick’” “No, but I said ‘scythe’. That’s what it’s called. It’s a scythe!” “But it’s on a stick,” she countered. Death looked at the scythe. It was true that the handle was made of wood, and so, technically, could be regarded as a stick. “Do you want a go?” she asked. “I do not believe that is allowed. Please hold still a moment.” Death carefully, slowly swung his scythe. The pointed passed over her head, slicing a little cloud of golden aura free. He motioned with his hand and the golden cloud floated over the old man’s face. As the old man breathed in the cloud disappeared through his nostrils. “Goodbye, Sarah Eloise Carpenter.” “Are you going?” “For now, Sarah. For now.”
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And the way he struggles to come up with an answer...had me laughing...enjoyed this one. 
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