one person from another, confusing Second Son for Second Daughter, or Dancer for their dead mother. In the days before he finally died, he stared at any person who entered his sickroom with complete indifference. Second Son had tried to say goodbye, but it was useless. Stone could not see him at all.
Finally, the Deathsmen came to hasten his end. The Orcus family was sufficiently important to warrant not one, but three, members of the Brotherhood. Their father stood in the hallway, shaking with helpless fury as they glided past. When they were gone he rampaged through Stone’s room, tearing the medical equipment from the walls and smashing it to pieces on the floor.
Dancer never came to visit Stone after he became truly ill, not once. She pretended not to understand that he was sick.
Now, Second Son deactivates the monitor with a savage punch of the button. That bitch, he thinks. I’ll show her.
ELEGY
The Deathsman nudges Edward Penn’s body out of the way with his foot. He leans over the bed, casting a deep shadow across the patient who lies there. Mosley’s eyes remain closed in unconsciousness, but his breath becomes deeper and faster through his half-open mouth, as if he senses what is approaching. His sons stand respectfully and nervously on the other side of the bed.
“Your father’s work in this earth is done,” the Deathsman intones in his featureless voice. “Eternal contentment waits for him, and I am the Bringer of Peace. Do not grieve, for this is a moment of beauty and fulfillment. Rejoice, rather, for his accomplishments that are behind him and the glory that is to come. May the manner in which he lived and the manner in which he moves on be an inspiration to us all. Do you have any last words for him?”
The boys lean over Mosley. In turn, they kiss his forehead and murmur their love for him. Beneath his mask the Deathsman smiles sourly. At every terminus he attends there are tears and kisses and heartfelt words, but the sentiments are so often the same. Even the words and phrases the mourners use tend to be identical from one group to another, as if they all drew their thoughts from a single liturgy of grief. The Deathsman yearns for a spark of originality, a hint of transcendence.
Mercifully, the Mosley boys are not extravagant in their remorse. They step aside, and the Deathsman touches his fingertips to Mosley’s forehead. Mosley twitches once. His head sinks into the pillow as the will leaves his muscles. There is no more. The silver fingertips are instantaneous and painless.
After a respectful silence, the Deathsman asks, “Who is to be Caretaker?”
“I am,” says the older boy.
“Watch your father’s body and see that no disrespect is done to his person,” the Deathsman recites. “It is your duty to comfort any who are reluctant to accept his passage, and to silence any who would show disrespect to his memory. Will you accept this duty?”
“I will.”
“Good. You will have approximately ten centichrons alone with him.” The Deathsman walks to the door. “And if a nurse should come along,” he says over his shoulder in a less solemn tone, “have him put the doctor in a bed. He’ll regain consciousness in a few chronons.”
The room wraps itself around the Deathsman and contracts like a closing eye. He slips away into the gray world.
IT WOULDN’T HURT
“So what are you going to wear?” Cadell asks as he sifts through the clothes in his meticulously ordered closet. On the left, gray and brown cover-ups for everyday; in the middle, black and white patterned suits for special occasions; and on the right, a few choice outfits for truly special occasions in oh-so-hard-to-find color .
“Nothing,” Amarantha replies. “I’m not going.”
Cadell turns his head. Every sight of her is a revelation to him. She is lying naked on the bed, propped up on her elbows. Her soft emerald hair cascades over her shoulders. Her chin rests indifferently on one hand. The
Finally, the Deathsmen came to hasten his end. The Orcus family was sufficiently important to warrant not one, but three, members of the Brotherhood. Their father stood in the hallway, shaking with helpless fury as they glided past. When they were gone he rampaged through Stone’s room, tearing the medical equipment from the walls and smashing it to pieces on the floor.
Dancer never came to visit Stone after he became truly ill, not once. She pretended not to understand that he was sick.
Now, Second Son deactivates the monitor with a savage punch of the button. That bitch, he thinks. I’ll show her.
ELEGY
The Deathsman nudges Edward Penn’s body out of the way with his foot. He leans over the bed, casting a deep shadow across the patient who lies there. Mosley’s eyes remain closed in unconsciousness, but his breath becomes deeper and faster through his half-open mouth, as if he senses what is approaching. His sons stand respectfully and nervously on the other side of the bed.
“Your father’s work in this earth is done,” the Deathsman intones in his featureless voice. “Eternal contentment waits for him, and I am the Bringer of Peace. Do not grieve, for this is a moment of beauty and fulfillment. Rejoice, rather, for his accomplishments that are behind him and the glory that is to come. May the manner in which he lived and the manner in which he moves on be an inspiration to us all. Do you have any last words for him?”
The boys lean over Mosley. In turn, they kiss his forehead and murmur their love for him. Beneath his mask the Deathsman smiles sourly. At every terminus he attends there are tears and kisses and heartfelt words, but the sentiments are so often the same. Even the words and phrases the mourners use tend to be identical from one group to another, as if they all drew their thoughts from a single liturgy of grief. The Deathsman yearns for a spark of originality, a hint of transcendence.
Mercifully, the Mosley boys are not extravagant in their remorse. They step aside, and the Deathsman touches his fingertips to Mosley’s forehead. Mosley twitches once. His head sinks into the pillow as the will leaves his muscles. There is no more. The silver fingertips are instantaneous and painless.
After a respectful silence, the Deathsman asks, “Who is to be Caretaker?”
“I am,” says the older boy.
“Watch your father’s body and see that no disrespect is done to his person,” the Deathsman recites. “It is your duty to comfort any who are reluctant to accept his passage, and to silence any who would show disrespect to his memory. Will you accept this duty?”
“I will.”
“Good. You will have approximately ten centichrons alone with him.” The Deathsman walks to the door. “And if a nurse should come along,” he says over his shoulder in a less solemn tone, “have him put the doctor in a bed. He’ll regain consciousness in a few chronons.”
The room wraps itself around the Deathsman and contracts like a closing eye. He slips away into the gray world.
IT WOULDN’T HURT
“So what are you going to wear?” Cadell asks as he sifts through the clothes in his meticulously ordered closet. On the left, gray and brown cover-ups for everyday; in the middle, black and white patterned suits for special occasions; and on the right, a few choice outfits for truly special occasions in oh-so-hard-to-find color .
“Nothing,” Amarantha replies. “I’m not going.”
Cadell turns his head. Every sight of her is a revelation to him. She is lying naked on the bed, propped up on her elbows. Her soft emerald hair cascades over her shoulders. Her chin rests indifferently on one hand. The
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