I guess that in reality there is no such thing as an actual Lord of Death (however, should someone, on fair grounds, claim that particular position I am the first one to admit my mistake). But for the sake of simplicity and this story, let us all assume that Death exists as an actual person. Now, if there ever existed such a being I would like to think he is somewhat alike the one I’m going to tell you about now. If, of course, one believed in Death as a person.

Honestly, to be completely fair now I feel I have to voice the possibility that Death, should he exist, might not be the kind of dark, brooding type we all think he is.

He could just as well be but 3 ft 4 inches tall, weigh in at about 700 pounds, braid his hair “Rastafarian”-style and walk around dressed in a big-patterned Hawaiian shirt and large, camouflage shorts about two sizes too small for his bulging stomach. He could wear huge, pink-rimmed sunglasses and a cap with the text “Go, Nelson” on. He could have a loud, sonorous laugh which, whenever heard, drives everybody around him to the brink of insanity. His teeth could be crooked, his nose too big for his face and his hands the size of a greased frying-pan. In other words, the average American Male.

To be completely honest it is only when one worries about Death that he becomes menacing.

Now, Death and I have had a close friendship for many years. It can be done, you know, without ever meeting each other face to face. We keep in touch with letters, e-mails and of course the occasional phone-call (a warning to you all: should you, by some freak of fate, ever get into a conversation with Death be prepared that he speaks the worst Oxford-English one has ever heard).
In our correspondence we share our deepest concerns and worries. Death often writes me on the subject of how hard it is for him to find actual friends. Kind of expected, since he is Death after all.

Well, anyhow, I received a particularly strange letter from him a couple of weeks ago. It all began quite innocently where he thanked me for the wonderful postcard I sent him during my vacation at the Bahamas. But not many rows later the letter got a more serious tone. It was so unusual of Death to speak in the kind of semi-poetic sentences he’d done in this letter that I immediately started to worry. As soon as I’d managed to interpret his many references to authors like Sartre and others I realized that he was well within a depression of the worst kind.

In my responding letter I tried very hard to cheer him up, but it didn’t seem to work. Two nights after my letter had reached him he called me.
“Yes?” I answered when the phone rang.
“Hello, Cat. It’s Death here.”
“Why, hello, Death. How are you feeling today? It is a while since we spoke, isn’t it?”
“I guess. Hey, you don’t happen to know if there are some abandoned islands somewhere in the Arctic Sea, do you?”
“Now, why would you like to go to the Arctic Sea?”
“Well, it’s the only place where no people goes around and snuff their lives all the time. I’m sick and tired of always having to be on call should some darned clod-head kick the bucket. I just want a real vacation.”
“I see.”
“Do you, really? I mean, I’ve heard about these people who walk into walls and stuff, you know, and I’ve always thought it a silly tradition. But yesterday I finally understood what it meant. I wanted to walk into a wall too. Only problem is that every time I try it I walk right through the bloody thing.”
“Walk into a wall? What on Earth are you talking about?”
“Well, I’m not completely daft, you know. I hear people talking and stuff and they always seem to reach the point where they announce that they’ve walked into a wall.”
“Wait a minute. I believe you have misunderstood. The phrase ‘hit the wall’ is merely a figurative kind of speech. It means that someone has worked so much that they’ve completely lost their will to exist and proceed forward. It’s stress-related, you see.”
“Really? Hunh, never would have thought so. What is it with all these people who can never seem to say things out straight? It’s so bloody confusing.”
“Oh, come now, Death. I can understand if you’ve experienced the kind of stress that leads to this particular break-down. You do have a rather stressful job. But what you have to do is to think positively and try to find the joy in your work again.”
“Joy? Where’s the joy in travelling around and taking peoples souls with me? Oh, alright, I admit it was kind of fun when I had the opportunity to snatch them away right under the Devil’s nose. But since the Devil retired I alone have the tough task of arranging my time so that I can manage to pick every soul up during one day. It isn’t really the job that bothers me, honestly. It is all the travelling. It’s so time-consuming and I barely get any time at all for my personal life. And besides, since the death-rates have increased so much it is much more difficult nowadays to find the time for picking them all up. I mean, during the Middle Ages and stuff people died from plagues, wars and so on but not nearly in the same extent as they do today.”
“Could it be that the population of the world has increased since the Middle Ages?”
“Of course it has. But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m referring to the fact that people die more rapidly nowadays. It can be hordes of people who die on the same hour. It was much easier when there were no such things as bombs and fire-arms.”
“I understand. You are right people die faster today than they did four hundred years ago. We are on the brink of over-populating this planet. And the bombs take thousands of thousands of lives in a single blast. But most often it all happens in the same location. It can’t be very hard to gather them all up, can it?”
“No, not really. Not since I bought my new vehicle. A van with a huge trunk and stuff. But it is really depressing, just the same.”
“I can see that. Well, have you ever thought about delegating some of your work? Employ someone to help you?”
“Not really. Who should I employ? Not many are interested or qualified, for that matter, to do my work. I guess I could talk to Father Christmas and ask if I could borrow some of his helpers.”
“Oh, really! You cannot ask Santa such a thing! Honestly, that wouldn’t be right. What would people say if their souls suddenly were guided to the realm of Death by someone clad in red and green clothes with a bell on the tip of his hood?”
“Well, who else would I ask? The Devil and his minions have all retired; God and all his angels are sulking because of the lack of belief in these modern times and the Easter Bunny one can’t even talk to. So, what should I do?”
“Hm, tough call. Why don’t you choose some of the souls you pick up and employ them? It could work out just fine.”
“Yeah, but that would mean I’d have to spend a load of time just holding interviews with the souls. I don’t have that kind of time.”
“Well, can’t you choose the souls that, in life, have taken the most lives?”
We thought about it for a while but finally Death sighed and commenetd that the lot of them probably were tied up in Hell. I was somewhat surprised to hear that Julius Ceasar and Alexander the Great were also spending eternity in the wamer place of the two. Anyhow, I was starting to feel really distressed by now and raked my brain in an attempt to find someone who’d fit into the Death’s requirements while not being in Hell.
“How about those communists? Are they all in Hell, too? The Soviet or old China?”
“No, not really, but I don’t fancy having a load of communists working for me. They’re so darned annoying with all their strange ideologies and that. Doesn’t fit my image, you see.”
“Wait up! The Spanish Inquisition! They’ve got the cloaks, they’ve got the means and they can’t all be in Hell since they confessed to God.”
“Hm, you’re on to something here. I think I’ll have a little talk with God and hear what he has to say. Thanks a lot. I’ll call you back later. Bye for now.”
We hung up and I sat down before my computer once again to finish the article I’d been writing on when he called. I had a rather tight schedule. The article had to be on the editor’s table before noon on Friday and today was Wednesday.

I had but managed to jot down a couple of sentences when the phone rang again. I sighed, saved the document and went to answer the call. It was Death again, sounding more distressed than ever.
“It didn’t work. The Inquisition was busy elsewhere,” Death said as soon as I’d put the phone to my ear.
“What a bummer.”
“Yeah, tell me about it! But God offered me to borrow some of his Crusaders instead.”
“Well, what’s the problem then? The Crusaders ought to know what to do.”
“I guess, but honestly! They’re always talking in that weird, uppity way. And just when you’re the busiest the wags start to pray and stuff. And I don’t like the colour white, anyhow.”
“Oh, piffle. I think you’re a bit childish right now. What has a colour to do with anything?”
“Well, I don’t like it!”
I sighed. What could I do?
“Why don’t you employ the souls from the American Civil War, then? They were blue or grey.”
“Naw, I don’t like Americans either.”
“What about some financial mogul, then? The kind that’s prepared to walk over bodies to earn money. Or politicians, for that matter? Or perhaps the Scots?”
“Oh oh! That’s an idea I like. I really like the Scots! They’re so fashionable.”
“You could talk to Joan of Arc too.”
“I’ll try it, but I don’t think she’s interested. Sorry to bother you again but it feels so much better to talk to you. I call you later.”

We hung up again and I managed to remember what I had been writing before his second call. The rest of that evening was blissfully calm and the phone stayed silent.

On Friday morning I turned the article in, relieved that I had been able to finish it on time. When I got home the red light on my answering-machine was blinking. I pushed the button and listened to the message.
“Hello there, machine, it is Death here. I just wanted to call Cat and tell her it worked out just fine. I’m in the middle of negotiating the terms of employment with Wallace and the Bruce. But I guess she’s not home so I’ll call her later. I would be very thankful if you could tell her I called. Nice talking to you, machine.”
I pulled a sigh of relief, happy it had all worked out.

He called me later that evening and we spoke for an hour and half. He thanked me profusely for my support and ideas. He even let me speak to his new employees. They were very courteous and I told them I was happy that they’d agreed to help Death. After that we hung up and I sank down on my couch to watch some television.

Death still writes me now and then. He even calls once a week, updating me on the latest happenings. As far as I know he and his employees are doing their job quite effectively. But I can’t help but think that it would be so much nicer of the leading countries to disarm their bombs, if only to relieve Death from some of his work-load. But that won’t happen, I’m afraid. War will always be a frighteningly common event and people will die in hordes, thereby forcing my dear friend and his employees to work hard. As for myself, I’m actually looking forward to meeting Death in person. We will have so much to talk about.

Anyhow, that was my story. I hope you have all understood the context of it and that it has given you something to think about. Especially the fact that death might not be the kind of heart-less, cold presence you all think he is. He, too, has his problems and concerns and we should all think about that before we do something that will increase his burden even more.
As for now I, Cat, wish you all a good night and a good, long life.


©Calendula