Death's Door

a tale of bittersweet revenge

Long ago, the village of Fhalraven existed somewhere between London and elsewhere. It sat on the coast all dressed up with a lovely white sand beach, a beautiful forest of ancient oak trees, and then, of course, a magnificent castle made of glistening white marble. Some say the castle was grander than Buckingham Palace itself, but perhaps that was a bit much. The village also sported a matching marble wall and a natural river beyond it that glistened in the summer sun, creating the prettiest little moat you’ve ever seen. Most walls and moats are built for protection from invaders, and Fhalraven was no different, but this wall also served another purpose. Because of it, the Fhalraven family had been around for so long that people assumed they’d been there forever.

The summer Gathering at Fhalraven was an exclusive invite that the finest lords and ladies from London and elsewhere clamored to get. Strangely, without it, no one could find Fhalraven, even though the maps clearly marked its location. The Fhalravens long claimed an ancient magic protected the village, preventing it from being found unless invited by one with the family’s blood. It not only protected the village, but the Fhalraven’s themselves. The family was famously long-lived and it was rumored that Death could only find them when they ventured outside it’s walls. At times, growing weary of life, members of the Fhalraven family would show up in London where they passed and were buried in the family graveyard. It was a small graveyard for such an old and distinguished family, but that only fueled the rumors.

Needless to say, Death was not happy about this place as he was, and always had been, inevitable–everywhere except in Fhalraven that is. He had never found it, even after centuries of seeking it out. Every time he came upon a member of the family in London, he would question them of Fhalraven’s location. Upon their constant denial of his inquiries, he would offer them a longer life and riches beyond their imagination if they would give him a clue about where it was and how it was protected. They always scoffed at him, for they had already lived a long life, and in that life they had riches beyond compare. They would all tell Death just before he collected them that he was not invited to Fhalraven, ever, and he didn’t expect that to change anytime soon.

Each time this happened, Death would sulk about for weeks. The only solace he had was delivering these “lost souls” (as he called all from the Fhalraven family) to his brother in Hades, ignoring the point of delivery in his appointment book. They may have had a long life, but they will have a longer afterlife he mused. But it still deeply irked him that this family could scorn his sole duty in the world–to collect people at their appointed time. With the Fhalravens, their appointments always came and passed without Death doing his job.

All of this continued until one Friday afternoon in London when Death was scheduled to collect a stableman from one of the better families. This stableman was not a freeman like others, he was a boughten-man and that never sat well with him. As usual, Death enjoyed a bit of delayed torture, and rarely took people without some kind of glib conversation. He enjoyed offering them something insignificant in hopes it might make their passing easier if they bargained for something with Death and got it. This stableman would be no different, or so he thought.

“I’m here to collect your soul for the afterlife.” Death said as he looked away, disinterested. Almost down to the person, they would look at him and say, “who me?” like Death had accidentally called upon the wrong person, which as we all know never happens. Still, he would chuckle at the irony each time. It was a game he was used to playing, and he’d learned to play his part well. Some people would plead their reasons to live––family, children, and things left undone or unsaid. Others would try to bargain with Death by offering riches, homes and villas, and other trinkets. The pleas were repetitive and tiresome. He was Death, and for all but the Fhalravens, nothing could be said or done to obviate the appointments in the Book of Life, where upon birth he took his ancient quill, spun a series of mandalas, and recorded each new soul’s time of death. He’d learned long ago that there was no rhyme or reason to the time people were allotted. The only thing left open was where the collected soul would be delivered, which was measured by a soul’s deeds in life.

His brief reminiscing was interrupted by the stableman from whom Death had expected the typical pleading, but instead his eyes raised hearing an offer he’d not heard before. A grin spread on Death’s face as he paused, thinking about what the stableman had just said. He was actually thinking about this man’s offer, which was an odd feeling. Having heard the stableman say it out loud, it now seemed so obvious and Death wondered how he had not thought of it himself. Placing his attention on the stableman, he replied. “What would you want–in exchange?” This was a new territory for Death. He did not make any deals, ever.

The stableman cleared his throat. “I know I can’t cheat you. You would eventually just come for me again. I only ask that you deliver me to Heaven instead of–well, I’ve done some bad things.”

Looking at the appointment in his book, the stableman was not lying. He was to be delivered to Hades, but perhaps Death could pull off a switch. He had repeatedly done the opposite with the Fhalravens, certainly Hades would allow him this one misplacement. Hades would still be ahead with the bonus Fhalravens that fell to his domain over the years. Death tapped his finger on the book in thought.

Seizing the moment, the stableman spoke up, hoping to seal the burgeoning arrangement. “I would never tell a soul of the deal and if I do, then you can consign my soul to Hades.”

Death had to admit, the chance to finally catch up with the Fhalravens was enticing. With a flick of his wrist, he closed the book, looking at the stableman. “You will not speak to a soul of this arrangement.” Death said matter-of-factly. However, being who he was, Death would never take a deal that was presented to him. It was in his nature to be much more diabolical. “But if you do speak to another soul of this, then all of your offspring and their offspring for five generations will be sent to Hades upon their passing, regardless of their deeds in life.”

The stableman hesitated. It was a steep price that Death had demanded. A simple slip of the tongue and his family would be cursed, but he knew that this would be the best deal he would get. He took a deep breath, raising his eyes to meet Death’s, and made one last plea. “Yes, of course it’s a deal, but if I may implore you for one more thing. Please cut my tongue out so that I cannot ever be tempted to speak of this. It is the only way I can be certain not to saddle my family with such a burden.”

At this point in his life, Death rarely felt anything, and it was almost to where he’d forgotten how, but today was different. Tossing the stableman’s severed tongue to the ground, Death’s heart had a strange sensation–a spark of hope. Even though he wasn’t able to enter Fhalraven himself, he now had a plan, all thanks to a vengeful stableman who liked to read. Perhaps he would finally catch up with the Fhalravens and end their vile magic. He swept the stableman into his arms and, spreading his dark wings, he rose to deliver on his part of the bargain. A moment later he quietly slipped the stableman through a secret doorway, one that Death closely guarded.

With a renewed purpose, Death spread his wings, leaving immediately for a stable in London to speak with a young footman named Michol who was bound to the renowned Khampbell family. Death motioned for Michol to join him and they silently strolled through the winding streets of London, arriving at an ancient cemetery. Working their way through the ornate mausoleums, they arrived at a stone bench by a small chapel overlooking a grey and desolate pond. Michol was uncertain of the point of the meeting and Death had not spoken a word as they sat shoulder to shoulder on the bench. Death cleared his throat, his eyes trained on the pond as he took his appointment book out, and then Death did something he’d never done before. He showed Michol the next entry in his book.

Michol’s face went ashen. “You’re here to collect me? I’m dead?” He asked.

Tapping his finger on the time of the appointment, Death spoke slowly. “No. It’s not quite your time yet, but soon.”

Michol swallowed hard as the color returned to his face. “I don’t understand. Why tell me this?”

Death turned, his eyes connecting with Michol’s. “You have a greater purpose, but to see to that you must keep your sword sheathed this afternoon. It is a fight you cannot win. Can you do that?”

Michol nodded. “I can, but what do you ask of me? I know Death does not barter with men.”

“It is not a barter, it is a simple pact. You right your father’s passing at the hands of the Khampbells, and at the same time right some missed appointments.” He said, tapping the pages of the book. “Does that interest you?”

“It does.” Michol said, his eyes growing dark. He deeply resented being bound to the Khampbell family. They treated him as less than human and literally worked his father to death. In fact, he resented all the privileged families of London and elsewhere, which was something Death was relying on.

“We have a deal then?” Death asked, extending his hand.

Michol hesitated. “But you haven’t told me–” His voice trailed off as he looked at Death’s outstretched hand. “Okay.” He said, shrugging his shoulders as he reached out sealing the deal. “Agreed.”

Death grinned. “So be it.” He took the ancient quill from his pocket, striking through the next entry in his book and making a notation before closing it. Looking to Michol, he explained the plan and Michol nodded in agreement.

Death rose, stepping to the side of the pond. “Let us meet me here when you have fulfilled the bargain.”

Michol nodded and turned to set upon the plans laid out. The end game of his charge from Death was to end not only the tyranny of the Khampbell family, but that of the Fhalravens and the other privileged families attending this year’s Gathering. Michol knew that the year’s invitations had been sent and received as he’d been instructed to help the stablemen make preparations to attend. He’d also been told that he would be joining the Khampbells at the Gathering as their Contender, which was not surprising since Michol was a stout young man with an innate athletic ability. The houses celebrated their Contenders, but one’s selection was a death sentence. Each invited house brought a Contender for a series of gladiator style fights called the Bloodletting. Even if Michol were to survive against the other house’s Contenders, he would still have to defeat the Fhalraven’s champion, which only happened on very rare occasions. Given his meeting with Death, he was now excited to attend the Gathering. In fact, he was so excited that he spoke with Contender’s from a few of the other invited families in London and lit the fuse. Now, if only he could think of a way to reach the Contender’s from elsewhere.

For days, Michol pondered about how to reach the other Contender’s attending the Gathering from elsewhere. It was above his station to employ a messenger, and regardless, the message that was to be delivered was too traitorous to be committed to paper. Discovery of the plan that was a millennium in the making was not an option. He continued to be vexed by this problem until one day he was offered a fateful opportunity. A carriage-man directed them to prepare a carriage for a week’s travel. Lady Khampbell was to travel to her sister’s estate on the edge of elsewhere. This indeed was a rare occasion and Michol approached the carriage-man and asked if any protection was needed for the trip. The retinue for the trip had already been set by the Lady herself and, given Michol’s attendance at the Gathering later in the summer, the family didn’t want to risk any ill harm to Michol so she’d opted to take the footman named Brently for protection.

“Brently,” said Michol. “He’s too young, and green. The Lady will not be safe with Brently. There are hooligans and thieves along those roads. Only I’ve the experience to see the signs they leave.” Michol pleaded with the carriage-man to speak with the Lady, but he refused, and as they continued to argue, Lady Khampbell came around the corner subtly clearing her voice to draw attention to her presence.

“Is there a problem here carriage-man?” she asked.

The carriage-man nodded and gave Michol a stern look, but Michol disregarded both his eyes and his words and stepped toward the Lady.

“My Lady, pardon my forwardness, but Brently is not experienced enough for this trip. He is young and still learning the ways of the thieves on the roads. Please, for your safety and the love of the family, take me rather than Brently or perhaps take us both, and I can use it to share some experience he’ll need after the Gathering this year.” He said trailing off but clearly intimating that he wouldn’t be around later to train Brently.

Lady Khampbell turned to the carraige-man asking if there was enough space in the carriage for a driver and two footmen. Begrudgingly, he acknowledged that they could repack the provisions into the larger carriage, but questioned whether it was necessary for the trip to her sister’s estate.

“Trips to my sister’s can always be a bit frightful, so I believe I’ll take up this footman on his offer.” The Lady never called them by name, just by the title of what people did for her. It was her way of always reminding the slaves and hired help that there was a difference between her and them. For one, she had a name, and they did not. Michol did not feel any guilt about the lies he’d just told. His sole purpose was making sure he’d be going to an estate in elsewhere, an estate that had also been invited to the Gathering, and that is how Michol was able to light the fuse in elsewhere just as in London.

It seemed a matter of minutes to Death before Michol appeared at the pond in London where Death had last seen him. Since their last meeting, Death had been busy collecting the souls of the deceased families that attended the Gathering after they were cast into the stream in the village flowing out to sea, where Death was waiting on a skiff to collect them. The first collected were the Khampbells–Lady Khampbell, Lord Khampbell and their accursed off-spring. Followed quickly thereafter by the retinue of other well-to-do families of London and elsewhere. Death thought of the families invited to this year’s Gathering, the final Gathering, and how excited they must have been upon receipt of the invitation unbeknownst what was waiting for them this final year. Death grinned at each soul as he slowly collected them. After seeing the last body flow out, Death looked at his appointment book. All the souls had been collected, that is, except for the Fhalravens.

Returning from his moment of reflection, Death looked to Michol. “Welcome. What of the Fhalravens?”

“It’s done.” said Michol as he shared that the Fhalravens were most certainly dead. Michol recounted that he and the other Contenders joined in a stealth attack the evening before the Bloodletting was to begin. The surprise was for the victors as they floated the bodies of the families down the river. But the Fhalravens fate was different. Those appointments would remain broken as the corpses of the Fhalraven family were not buried. They were scattered about the courtyard to decompose and be ravaged by crows. Their souls consigned to forever wander the desolate village. All but the Fhalravens were cast from the city and its doors closed, forever sealing their souls within the walls of their own magic. Upon hearing the story from Michol, Death relished his revenge. Reflecting on his own life, he knew that an eternity left to endless wandering and seeing the things from life that could no longer be enjoyed was a greater pain to inflict than even Hades.

While Death was in thought, Michol hesitantly spoke. “Do you have a name? I’d like to thank you for what you’ve done.”

Death turned to the pond, his gaze far away. “People have called me many things over the years. I recall having a name like you, but eventually I was simply known for my job and was called Death. But it’s time for me to step down.” Death spoke this as he led Michol away from the pond to the small chapel. The large iron lock on the door fell into Death’s hand as he spoke words to it. The wooden door creaked loudly as Death pushed it inward, entering the chapel with Michol following closely behind.

Death paused, looking to Michol. “You may call me Fedull, for on this day I will once again become Fedull and you will take the mantel and the name Death from now on.”

“But, I don’t understand.” said Michol. “I’m not–” He paused, the realization spreading over him as Death placed a final checkmark in his appointment book.

Unlike the other souls Death had collected, this time he didn’t chuckle at the fact that denial is always the first response when people are being collected. But Michol, true to form, did just that until Death saw the realization wash over his face.

“I’m dead.” Michol said looking to his body seeing the battle wound. A battle he had won, but at the ultimate expense. “But how am I here?”

Death recounted to Michol how the other Contenders, not wanting Michol to remain forever jailed in the lost village of Fhalraven, took his bones out with them, giving him a proper burial. That is how Michol passed to this moment.

“What now?” Michol asked.

“Now is the time of delivery.” Death said as he looked at his book and his face was blank, any emotion gone long before. “But you have a different path than the appointment book. You are to take my place and I will move on as you too will do someday. But when that day comes for you, like me, your appointment calls for delivery to Hades. People maybe not be able to cheat death, but Death can cheat death. I have a secret, a well-hidden secret, in this old chapel, which you may tell no one of and only use sparingly, for if it’s discovered––well, Hades will come for you.” Death walked over to a simple, nondescript wooden door behind the altar. “This is a backdoor. I will pass my mantel to you and enter. It is my time. You too, will know your time.”

Michol had many questions, but before he could ask, Death opened the door from which a brilliant light emanated. Michol’s vision adjusted, and they looked upon the tongueless stableman.

“Dad?” Michol said.

Death stepped forward toward the door and paused, looking to Michol and then to the stableman. The stableman could not talk, but the tears in his eyes were clear and Michol shared them. Without a moment of hesitation, Death put his hand on Michol’s back and pushed him through as he spoke. “Please, tell no one of this door.” Death knew he had to be quick about it or he might’ve changed his mind. What little love left in his heart faded as he walked from the church, replacing the iron lock behind him.

Death stepped away from the old church passing along the pond’s edge. Crows watched as he passed looking at his appointment book. He had some collections to make and deliveries to do.

People say that Death always wins, but he knew on this day that was not the case.

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