|
Late One Summer by Richard Ankers  Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast. Lady Death came calling late one summer's evening. She swept across the meadow like a cloak of black frost, flowers wilting in her wake, cicadas screaming, coming to a rest at my peeling, wooden gate. I rubbed at my eyes like a cartoon character, stared from my whisky glass to Lady Death and back again. As the sun dipped beneath the low rolling hills in a last flash of sparkling diamonds, I placed my glass aside, levered myself out of my grandma's rocking chair and stepped off the porch. Lady Death never moved. Only the gentle flapping of her ragged shawls as they caressed the lush grass beyond my manicured lawn gave her away. A cold fear took me then, a trembling hesitation. I found myself unwilling to close the distance between she and I. The flagstones I'd laid with weathered hands seemed as rocks protruding from a crashing, obsidian ocean. I wobbled, a tipsy sensation flooding my mind and body, but held steady. Lady Death shifted in her stance, a display of impatience I had no desire to cure. "Evenin', Mister Johnson!" hollered young Jonny Smithson, the paperboy. I often saw Jonny returning home from batting practice, his family the only ones who lived further into the back of beyond than I. "Evening, Jonny!" I called back. "Lovely night for a ride." "S'ppose." He laughed and biked away. He never saw Lady Death there. Why would he? Jonny was just setting out in that labour called life whereas I neared its end. It didn't mean I wanted to leave it any more than he did, just that fate decreed I would. I lowered the hand I hadn't realised I'd raised and placed it and its twin firmly in my trouser pockets. Lady Death would find no greeting from me. The last speck of light departed with a rose-tinged flourish, revealing a sky packed full of stars. I ignored Lady Death's freezing presence and eyed the cosmos with the same interest with which she eyed me. I couldn't see her eyes, of course, but I felt their iced stare. Beyond the veil of ripped lace that covered them, those jet-black orbs assuredly observed me. I shuddered and craned my neck higher. I'd always loved stargazing. It made me feel less alone. Cloudless, the night unveiled itself in resplendent finery, a whiff of wisteria and the hooting of an owl a perfect accompaniment to, except for Lady Death's lingering ghost, a spectacular evening. She seemed unimpressed when I returned my eyes to her, tapping my gate with bony fingers, their clickety-clacking a stark reminder of the situation. Three deep, steadying breaths later and I stood less than two yards from my nemesis. "Evenin', Mister Johnson!" hollered young Jonny Smithson, the paperboy. Like the bullet he was, Jonny shot past. He must have been late home from batting practice. "Evening, Jonny!" I called back. "Lovely night for a ride." "S'ppose." He laughed and sped away. There was something about the way he biked off, something unnatural, too fast, almost like a fisherman had hooked him and was reeling him in before he could break the line. I wanted to shout out, be careful, but I knew he wouldn't hear. He never heard. I returned my attention to the impending doom that was Lady Death. She'd stooped down to cup a dandelion in full seed. With the care one might have afforded prized crystal, she picked the thing from where it grew, lifted it to her shadowed lips and blew. Nothing happened. How could it? Death had no breath to expel. A great swell of regret swept over me then. For some reason, I felt so sorry for Lady Death that I might've wept, or screamed, or both. The inability to complete so simple a task as blowing away dandelion seeds was a travesty. That's what I thought, anyway. As if in agreement, her bony claws trembled with rage or fear or both. She released the dandelion, which tumbled over the gate, glided to earth, withered, then died. I hung my head as a cool breeze dampened my exposed skin. The south wind often brushed the evening meadows with late summer dew. I'd sit on my rocking chair swilling whisky, sometimes straight from the bottle, one moment staring out across dry, dark grasses, the next, wetted wisps of night. Beautiful in how it happened so fast. Yet another of God's little miracles. That was my opinion, for what it was worth. A chirping cicada snapped my mind back to the present, its wings a broken violin. That's what I'd thought it was until realising Lady Death drew her index backwards and forwards across the top of the gate. I wanted to shout stop that, give over, be on your way, but fell dumb before that most mystifying of beings. "Evenin', Mister Johnson!" hollered young Jonny Smithson, the paperboy. Jonny shot past like a stone from a slingshot. Most probably late home from batting practice. "Evening, Jonny!" I called back. "Lovely night for a ride." "S'ppose." He laughed and peddled away. Jonny hadn't seen Lady Death's looming presence. He might as well have been hitting a home run, eyes glued to the ball, oblivious to everything but the impending swish of his bat, his moment of triumph. If Lady Death had noticed Jonny, she gave no sign. Instead, she wavered on the periphery like an obsidian sheet hung out on a windy day. Her flapping, unheard by human ears, scared an owl that hooted and flew away. A stoat squeaked and scampered across the dirt road. A toad capitulated with one last croak. She laughed at the latter, expanding and contracting like some cancerous lung. I was grateful for Lady Death's petty exuberances, more grateful than I'd been of anything in my entire existence. She'd cut Jonny some slack, I was as sure of it as I was the borders of my yard. And that's when I did something I thought I should have done a long time ago. "Please, won't you come in?" Lady Death dipped her head in regal fashion, something flashing beyond the veil that obliterated her visage. She waited for me to unlock the gate, then swept into the yard, over the flagstones, and onto the veranda, where she sat opposite my rocking chair on a stool I used to put my feet on. If it hadn't been Lady Death herself, I might've asked her to move, but decided against it on account of being cursed for all eternity. I perused my flourishing garden as I made my way to sit beside her like a Captain inspecting the troops. Offering her a glass of whisky, which she refused with a waved claw, I retook my seat and downed the mahogany liquor in one. "Lovely night," I said. Lady Death nodded. "Not a big talker." She shook her head. "Do you come here often?" I enquired, then slapped my head in exasperation, knowing full well she did. In the end, I decided to just sit there and make the most of another beautiful evening. The company might've been unusual, but Lady Death was not an unpleasant character to be around. I savoured another glass, inhaled the crisp air and fell silent. "Evenin', Mister Johnson!" hollered young Jonny Smithson, the paperboy. He came to a skidded stop outside my garden gate, sending loose dust and dirt into the air where it congealed like a muck-strewn ghost. I thought it odd that Jonny had stopped. He never stopped. I waved all the same. "Evening, Jonny! Lovely night for a ride." The lad cocked his head to one side as if confused by my words. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, adjusted the sports bag he always wore tight to his back, and straightened his cap. "Every night's good for a ride, Mister Johnson. That's what I think, anyway." "I expect you're right." "I was hoping you might," he replied, and smiled the nicest smile I'd seen since my Margaret passed. "Don't suppose I'll be seeing you again." His words were so matter-of-fact, not a question but a simple declaration of truth, that I just smiled back like the gap-toothed old fool I was and toasted him with my finally empty whiskey bottle. Jonny nodded a return and adjusted his cap to avoid it flapping from his dark locks. He waved a goodbye like his hand was stuck in glue, then slowly biked away. Richard M. Ankers is the English author of The Eternals Series and Britannia Unleashed. Richard has featured in Expanded Field Journal, Love Letters To Poe, Spillwords, and feels privileged to have appeared in many more. Richard lives to write. Links: Website: richardankers.com Twitter: @Richard_Ankers
1 Comment
|