On a Pale Horse (22 page)

After a moment, the man spoke again. “If it was me, Death, know what I’d do?”

“That old woman, my client,” Zane said. “She reminds me of my mother.” And what a mass of guilt lay there, tying into his conscience like the lines of the hospital machines.

“She’s somebody’s mother,” the man agreed. “It’s her son who pays for all this foolery. Thinks he’s doing her a favor, making her live beyond her time or will. If he really loved her, he’d let her go.”

“Doesn’t he love her?” Zane had killed his own mother because he loved her, but then had doubted.

“Maybe he thinks so. But he’s really just getting even. He’s a mean man, and she brought him into this world, and I guess he just never forgave her for that. So he won’t let her leave.”

Something snapped. “Death shall
not
be denied!” Zane said. He marched back to his client’s section. He found switches on the equipment and clicked them off.

“Oops!” The nurse was on it immediately, as the machinery bleeped alarm. She turned the switches on again.

Zane ripped out wires and tubes. Fluid spurted.

Now the nurse became aware of him. “
You
did it!” she cried, horrified. “You must stop!”

Zane caught her in his arms and kissed her on the lips. She felt the skeletal embrace and fainted. He set her down carefully on the floor.

He saw that automatic failsafes were stopping the leaks in the torn tubes. The bleep-bleep alarm was more strident; soon other nurses would hear and come. He could not be sure the job was done.

Zane picked up a chair and smashed it into the stand supporting the bottles of life-preserving fluids. Glass shattered, and colored liquids coursed across the floor. He put his foot against a console and shoved it over, indulging in an orgy of destruction that was the overt expression of his long-suppressed emotion.

At last he stood over the old woman, chair raised to bash in her skull if need be—but he saw that now the job had been done.

He set down the chair and lifted out her soul, gently.

There was a smattering of applause from the other patients as he put away the soul and walked out through the ward. All these people were on artificially extended time, so were able to perceive him for what he was.

“But I am a murderer—again,” Zane protested weakly, now suffering reaction. Never before had he actually killed—in his role of Death. There had been grim satisfaction in the act—but surely he had added an awful burden of sin to his soul.

“I wish it was me you come for,” one of the others muttered.

“You can’t murder our kind,” the old man said. “Any more’n you can rape a willing gal.”

Zane paused. “How many of you feel that way?” he asked. “How many really want to die now?”

A murmur traveled along the ward, like a ripple of
water. “We all do,” the old man said, and the others agreed.

Zane pondered briefly. He heard the running footsteps of others in the bowels of the hospital, becoming aware that something was wrong. Time was limited.

He had done his assigned job; he had collected the old woman’s soul and in his fashion had redeemed his murder of his mother. He had now done openly what he had done covertly before. He had shown that even Death himself would have made the same decision Zane had, long ago. But had he done his human job? These people were being denied their most fundamental right: the right to let life go.

“You know it would be mass murder,” he said.

“It would be mercy,” the old man said. “My grandchild is going broke paying for me, because the doctor says she must—and for what? For this? For eternity in a hospital ward, too sick to move, let alone enjoy life? Hell can’t be worse than this—and if it is, I’ll take it anyway! At least there maybe I’ll have a chance to fight back. Cut me loose, Death! There’s more’n just us patients suffering here; it’s our families, too. They’ll cry a while, but soon they’ll heal—and maybe they’ll still have a little something left to live on.”

Zane decided. He was already doomed to Hell for his violations of the standards of his office. What did he have to lose? He wanted to do what was right, regardless of the consequence. These were his clients, too.

He went to the service area of the ward. There was the main circuit box. He yanked down all the handles.

Power died in the ward. Darkness closed in. The machinery stopped running.

There was an immediate outcry. Hospital personnel rushed in. Someone groped her way to the circuit box, but Zane stood before it. The nurse felt a skeletal hand close on hers, pushing her away from the box. She screamed in sheerest terror.

“That is the horror you have been visiting on these patients,” Zane told her. “Death-in-life.”

No one could reverse what he had done, this time.

–
7
–

A few days later, once more caught up on his schedule, Zane paid Luna another call. This time she smiled when she saw him. “Come in, Zane; I’ll be ready in a minute.”

“Ready?”

“You’re taking me out on a date, remember? Somewhere interesting, so we won’t be bored with each other.”

Zane had really had more talking in mind, for their last dialogue had affected him profoundly, but he didn’t care to say that. True, aspects of their talk had been uncomfortably candid, and the notion of her paying off the demon still bothered him. But a portion of his self-doubt and disgust had eased significantly after their last meeting, and he hoped for similar positive impact in the future. After all, how could he object to anything about her, after what he had done at the hospital? That had made ugly headlines on Earth as well as in Purgatory!

He looked at Luna’s paintings as he waited for her. They were beautiful. She was much more of an artist than he had been. The colors were clear and true, and the auras realistic. It was hard to believe that a person whose soul was presently slated for damnation in Hell could do such excellent work. He was getting to like Luna better—and that realization caused him to wonder again why the Magician had wanted the two of them to know each other. Surely it was not merely because they were compatible or had a common interest in auras.

Luna reappeared—and this time she was stunning. Before, clothes had converted her most of the way from neutral to attractive; this time they had completed the transition. Bright blue topaz glinted from a band placed in her hair, and green emerald was set in her slippers; the rest of her between these two made the beauty of the gems pale.

“How do you like me now?” she inquired archly.

He was cautious. “I thought you didn’t really care for me. Why are you making yourself so lovely?”

She grimaced prettily. “I told you my deepest sins, and you didn’t reject me. That’s worth something.”

“Because I’m no better!” he replied. “How can I condemn you? You were helping your father, while I—”

“Was helping your mother,” she finished, completing the rehearsal of their excuse for being together, which somehow seemed necessary for each of them. “We’re both well tainted. Anyway, until we know what my father had in mind, there’s no sense in letting it go. I confess you’re not the man I would have chosen on my own—”

“And you aren’t the woman I was slated for—”

“Do you think Fate had her fickle finger in this?”

“I know she did. She put me in the office of Death by arranging the thread of my life to terminate right when my predecessor was getting careless. I suppose Fate even steered me past Molly Malone, where I got the gun I used. Whether Fate would have done this without the behest of your father, I don’t know.”

“Never trust a woman,” Luna said seriously. “Fate least of all.”

Zane smiled. “I’m a fool. I do trust Fate. She helped me get started as Death. The truth is, my life was hardly worth it before. Of course, I know I’m nothing special as Deaths go.”

“I would hate to encounter something special in Deaths, then,” she murmured. “That episode at the hospital—and I think I recognize your touch in that Miami riot, too.”

Zane smiled. “It was no riot. But it illustrated the point. I let too many clients go free, when I can, and I take some I’m not supposed to, and I waste time talking to others, trying to make it easier for them. The Purgatory News
Center is having a field day with my exploits. I don’t know what Purgatory did for humor in the news before I came along.”

“You’re too well-meaning, and too trusting.”

Zane looked at her, and was daunted again by her sheer beauty. “Surely I can trust you, though!”

“No.”

“No? I don’t understand.”

“Put on your Deathcape,” Luna said abruptly.

Zane glanced at her again, startled. “I don’t know. This is personal, and I don’t like to mix—”

“I want a date with Death,” she insisted. She turned her face to him and looked him in the eyes and smiled, and her eyes seemed lambent. He could not deny her, though he knew it was deliberate artifice.

“My suit is in the car,” he said. “But—do you really want to be seen with Death?”

“No such worry. People don’t see Death unless they are clients.”

Not entirely true, but close enough. Zane proffered her his arm, and they walked out to the Deathmobile.

The night was dark, with a drizzle threatening. He fetched his cape and gloves and shoes from the car and donned them.

“Now you are truly elegant,” Luna said. “I never realized before how handsome a well-dressed skeleton could be. Kiss me, Death.”

“But my face is not—”

She leaned into him and kissed his lips. “Oh, you’re right!” she exclaimed after a moment. “A bare skull! Alas, poor Yorick, I kissed him. An infinite jest!” She brushed off her mouth with one hand as if removing sand.

“Death is no pleasant date to most people,” Zane said, disturbed by her attitude. What was motivating her? “You should see the mail I get.”

She smiled as if this were a pleasant invitation. “Yes, let’s see your mail. Do you actually answer it?”

“Yes,” he said, embarrassed. “It seems only right. No one seeks out Death, in any manner, without good reason.”

“That’s touching. You are a decent man. Show me a letter.”

Zane reached into the dash compartment and brought out a letter, turning on the interior light of the car so they could read it. It was written in a rather neat juvenile script; it normally took many years for a person to reduce his script to adult illegibility. Children tended to write letters more than adults—at least they did to his office—for what reason he couldn’t quite fathom. Maybe it was because their beliefs were more literal.

Dear Death
, he read.
Every night Mommy makes me say my prayers, and thats okay I guess, but they scare me. I hafta say If I Should Die Before I Wake I Pray The Lord My Soul To Take. Now Im afraid to go to sleep. I lie awake most of the night and then I daze out in school and Im flunking something and please Death I dont want to die right now. Is it okay if I sleep a little at night without having to die? Love Ginny
.

“Suddenly I see what you mean,” Luna said. “That’s awful. That poor little girl—she thinks—”

“Yes. When I first read that letter, it made me so angry I broke out in a sweat. That prayer seems to equate sleep with death. No wonder she’s afraid. How many children
expect
to die before they wake—because of that sinister message put in their minds? I would never do that to any child of mine!”

“She’s pretty literate, but she hasn’t mastered the apostrophe yet,” Luna remarked. “It must have been an act of real courage to tackle the source of her fear like that! Zane, you must answer this letter right now.”

“What can I say to her? I can’t promise not to take her; she might appear on my schedule tomorrow.”

“But you can reassure her that death has nothing to do with sleep.” Luna brightened. “Let’s do it now. You can phone her!”

Zane was uncertain. “She would think it was a cruel joke. Who ever heard of Death telephoning people?”

“Who ever heard of Death answering letters? I gather your predecessor didn’t. She’s a child, Zane! She’ll believe. A child won’t be surprised by a phone call from an Incarnation. That’s the way children’s minds work, bless
them.” She hauled him back to her house and fetched the telephone and proffered it to him.

He sighed. Maybe this was the best way. He accepted the phone and called the Information operator for Ginny’s city of Los Angeles, using the child’s address to run down the number. Soon the phone was ringing. Zane felt suddenly nervous.

“Yes?” It was obviously the girl’s mother.

“Let me speak with Ginny, please.”

“But she’s asleep!” Actually, it was not as late in Los Angeles as in Kilvarough, but children retired earlier than adults.

“She is not asleep,” Zane said, his quick ire rising. “She is lying awake in the darkened room, terrified that if she sleeps, she will die before she wakes. Do not make her say that prayer any more. That’s not the way God takes souls.”

“Who are you?” the woman asked sharply. “If this is an obscene call—”

“I am Death.”

“What?”

Of course she couldn’t assimilate that. “Please fetch Ginny now.”