Its a small room, roughly twice the size of walk-in closet, with a fireplace in the far end from the door. A law table made of cherrywood occupies one wall: a table so old, the top is jetblack from furniture wax and use. There are only two pieces of paper on it tonight. Two lounge chairs facing the fire which is banked down to embers, casting a dim glow about the room and onto the occupants of the chairs. Shadows creep and move about the room giving the impression the pair are not alone but surrounded by spirits.
“I’d imagine you’re curious about tonights meeting, huh Morty?” Says Death in his whispery singsong voice that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time: almost a whisper at the back of your mind, while giving the impression of being amplified on a concert PA.
I hesitate to answer. He knows my name, that its not ‘Morty’, and knows I no longer remember it myself. He just refuses to use it. He says if he called me by it, all the bad memories would come flooding back. Morty is short for Mortal, which I was at one point. Now I am just another of his detached souls wandering purgatory until I get recycled.
I look at him in profile from where I sit: the skin and flesh of his face paper thin, exaggerating his bone structure, eye orbs slightly sunken in giving a distinct ‘skull’ impression. His visage is not as severe as his reputation, but only slightly less so. “Well, its been nearly 100 years since I came here. And I am the only one I know that can not recall ANY of my time in reality. Maybe the boss has a plan in me, or you do; I don’t know. At least Lucifer is too busy to get involved. That gives some comfort to a detached soul.”
“T’is true. The imp has a big plan in the works on the otherside. He has his demons in high places over there and they are ready to make a mess of things. I’m expecting a flood of fresh souls soon.”
I chortle, “always something. What’s the boss saying about it?.”
“The usual ‘Silence from on High’. His promise to keep out of mortal affairs after the flood was a serious one. Now he just watches, snags the seriously bright souls as they detach and leaves the rest to Lucifer and myself. I keep trying to to raise a few up, but you see it; a lot of recidivism, and a big percentage go the wrong way and Lucifer gets them.” He rises from the chair, his lanky, near skeletal form accentuated by the somber light of the embers. He really does look like an animated skeleton. Standing at the shelf holding what few drinks he enjoys when he allows himself, he holds up a bottle of Port from Vienna. “1349” he sighs. “That was a very busy time for me.”
“You sound as if you miss it?”
“No. I hate those points. There is so little time to collect and organize the souls. Many get lost in the shuffle.”
“The whisperers?” I ask, refering to the souls wandering purgatory whispering to themselves. They congregate in the darker places and the susurrous nature of those areas drive the rest of us away.
“Look at the way they appear dressed. You see so many in peasant garb, you can see they are all the same time period. They were so superstitious then, and the plague ran so fast through Europe, I had to create helpers to keep up. And then they were here and their minds just cracked. It wasn’t what the Priests had prepared them for.”
“Helpers? And you created them? ” I ask. This is news to me. I find it hard to imagine Death creating anything.
“Well, you might recall the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Of course I was one of them, but I had to create the other three. I lose some of my strength by doing so, and I have to take it back when they have fulfilled their purpose, but Yes, I can create. To some small degree.”
He turns back to me, handing me a glass of the Port he recently held. A dull red flash in his eyes, possibly reflection from the fireplace, lends his visage a macabre air. I can sort of taste the port as I try a sip. Being a detached soul and not having a corporeal form has downsides.
“And that is why I asked you here tonight, Morty. I need more help this time around. The population is a hundred times what it was in the middle ages. I don’t have the resources to handle that flow currently.”
“You’re asking me to be a Horseman?” An emotional wave passes through my energy field, both positive and negative and the embers of the fire react to the conflicting rush.
“I’m not asking,” an odd sort of smile crosses his skull-like face, his teeth more visible than normal. “You’ll understand shortly.” As he settles back in his chair.
I take another sip of the Port: this one tastes stronger than the last. I realize that Death has given me a potion of some sort. My ‘body’ is changing; becoming solid and shifting. Shifting from the banker look I usually inhabit to something larger, looming even.
I look at my hand not holding the glass. It is getting larger and more filled out and begins drifting towards the end of the chair as the arm its attached to grows longer and larger at the same time.
“You’ll be War for awhile. Whats coming will be within your experience, which you will remember in full after the shifting of your energy field is complete. Your job is to collect all those fighters killed and bring them back here as fast as possible. I don’t want Lucifer getting his hands on them.”
“Why is that” I ask, a voice with a much deeper timbre than I am used to comes from the very physical body I am now inhabiting.
“He corrupts them, turns them into demons and releases them back into the warzones . He did it in world war two and the atrocities they did left so many wounded souls, that The Boss intervened and absorbed them. They no longer exist as individuals.”
I look down at Death, realizing I now tower over him. He looks up and smiles. “Like old times, you haven’t changed in a thousand years.”
“This time its gonna be brutal like we have never seen,” I rumble as the memories of fifty past lives and incarnations return.
