—THANKS
FOR LETTING ME COME —said the tall, hooded figure carrying a
scythe—. THIS IS OUTSIDE OF MY JURISDICTION.
—No
problem —replied the pale young lady dressed in casual black
clothes—, that’s what colleagues are for. We anthropomorphic
representations must look out for each other, don’t you think?
—YES.
YES, I SUPPOSE WE SHOULD. IT STILL IS VERY NICE OF YOU. THANK YOU.
—You’re
welcome —said the lady, smiling.
Both
figures stood unnoticed in a crowded room. Everybody, them included,
was looking to a man that lied motionless on a bed. Only the face of
the man was clearly visible, showing a peaceful facial expression
framed by a bright white beard. The man was surrounded by his family,
and a single cat was sleeping over the blanket, next to him.
—HE
WILL BE MISSED.
—But
he will also be remembered. He made a lot of people happy —she
patted the cloaked figure in the back—, and he still will make a
lot of people happy. Come on, go, don’t make him wait.
—YES…
The
figure left his scythe resting on the wall and started moving towards
the bed, avoiding the attention of the people gathered around the
man, slipping between them and slowly, solemnly, reaching the foot of
the bed. He took special care so as to not wake up the cat. He liked
cats a lot, but he’d rather not be subjected to feline scrutiny
right now. He wasn’t embarrassed of doing this, it was his job, it
wasn’t his first time and it won’t be the last. But he still felt
an awkward pinch of guilt when he called the man.
—SIR,
IT’S TIME... —said the figure with all the gentleness he was
capable of, but the bearded man did not move.
The
hooded figure looked back to his colleague. Maybe the time was not
right. Maybe it could wait. The lady had a sad smile on her face and
an empathetic look in her eyes. It was time. It could not wait. He
knew this, but it still seemed wrong.
—SIR,
PLEASE, IT’S TIME —he insisted, clearly and carefully pronouncing
each syllable.
The
man opened his eyes and looked around, slightly confused, at first
ignoring the bright blue eyes that stared at him from under the black
hood. He quickly realised his situation and answered to the cloaked
figure.
—Ah,
it’s you —the man looked perplexed and slightly amused—. I
wasn’t expecting you.
—SORRY
SIR, IT SEEMED APPROPRIATE —Death pointed to Death, that was
standing next to a door, smiling at them—. SHE AGREED.
A
smaller cloaked figure jumped out from inside the cloak of the bigger
one. It nervously approached the bearded man and stopped at his arm’s
reach.
—SQUEAK!
—it said, anxiously tip-toeing with its small skeletal feet.
—HE
ALSO WANTED TO MEET YOU —Death said, sounding as apologetic as he
was capable of—. IT DID NOT SEEM AS APPROPRIATE, BUT I COULDN’T
CONVINCE HIM.
—It’s
OK —said the man, patting the top of its skull—. Will I be able
to meet all of you?
—I
DON’T KNOW, SIR. WE’RE OUT OF MY JURISDICTION. SORRY.
—Stop
apologising. It’s not your fault —he looked around him, with
teary eyes—. I’d prefer to stay a while longer, but… I
know...—he sighed, unable to finish his statement, and got out of
the bed.
He
slowly and longingly looked to everyone who was there, with a smile
in his lips and tears in his eyes. They seemed frozen in place,
unable to see him, looking directly to the body on the bed. The young
lady Death approached him, with a glint in one of her eyes, the one
with the tattoo, that may or may not have been a furtive tear. She
offered him a hand, and he took it.
—Nice
to meet you, Terry. I’m a big fan —she confessed.
—I
didn’t think you’d had much time to read —he joked.
—I
make some time for the books that deserve it.
He
chuckled. Then his eyes caught the sight of the door that was waiting
for him. That door wasn’t in the room before. It seemed quite
normal, but above its frame there was a plaque that read: “A Better
Place”.
—There
it is, isn’t it? —All the Deaths nodded in response—. Most
depictions seem much more majestic.
—I
USUALLY DON’T PAY MUCH ATTENTION TO IT.
—It’s
not there for all people, either —pointed out Death.
—Have
you peeked inside? —two Deaths shook their heads, the third one
squeaked softly—. I see… would you mind helping me get there? I’m
a little shaky on the knees.
—OF
COURSE.
—It
will be a pleasure.
Death
softly put his skeletal hand in one of the man’s shoulders on one
side, while Death offered his arm for the writer to take. The three
of them crossed the room in silence, taking each step in unison,
until they ceremoniously reached the door. Two sighs and a small
creaking broke their silence.
—Well…
—he said.
—WELL…
—he said.
—Well…
—she said.
—Thank
you… really… I don’t want to go, but I appreciate the farewell
party nonetheless. Thank you very much.
He
straightened himself up, and dusted off his clothes. He suddenly
seemed quite younger than a few seconds ago. He offered his hand for
Death to shake, but she surprised him with a hug. It felt warmer than
he expected. She kissed him on the cheeks, his white beard tickling
her white skin. He then offered Death his hand to shake. He took it
and, although his skeletal hand felt soft and dry, the blue light in
Death’s eyes clearly reflected his tumultuous feelings. He turned
to face the door and turned the handle. The door began to open,
without so much as a single sound, but the man was interrupted by a
clicking noise. The Grim Squeaker was running frantically towards
him, carrying a black hat. The writer smiled and touched his
exposed head.
—I
can’t believe I was going to forget that —he took the hat from
the Death and gratefully shook his little paw—. Thank you very
much.
—SQUEAK!
—answered it, happily shaking it back.
The
author adjusted his hat and looked once more to everyone present in
that room, smiling sadly. He turned towards the door once more,
turned the handle and, before completely crossing the threshold, spun
around and with a small farewell flourish closed the door after him.
The
Death of Rats, visibly saddened (for those capable of understanding
its emotions), jumped to the arms of Death, who tenderly scratched
its skull, while Death reached for his scythe, that was still resting
on the wall.
—SOMETIMES
I REALLY DON’T LIKE THIS JOB.
—SQUEAK!
—agreed Death.
—Yes,
I know —said the young pale girl—. And the pay isn’t very good
either.
—HA
HA HA. YES, THAT IS TRUE.
Without
even a bit of ceremony all the Deaths left the room and time
reluctantly returned to its usual flow.
On March 12 2015, a family lost a loved one, and an ever bigger family also lost a
most cherished writer,
thinker and overall wonderful person. Thank you, Sir Pratchett, for
all the laughs, the puns, the surprises and the feelings. For all the
worlds and characters. For everything. Thank you.
The
Disc will keep on spinning!
“Do you not know that a man is not dead while his name is still spoken?”
Sir
Terry Pratchett - Going
Postal
P.S.: If you'd rather read it in PDF you can download the file here.
