Rhapsody

Moonlight spilled through dusty window, past the heavy curtains, scattering onto the carpeted floor. Equipment beeped loudly, a heart monitor indicating the struggling existence of a fragile life, held only by the machinery and the will of the mortal soul. A frail old woman lay on the bed, her hair white and wispy, wrinkled skin resting on the stiff nursing home pillow, arms twisted up with clear tubes and wires. Her breathing was shallow, an oxygen mask over her mouth. The plastic wristband read Judy May Harvey, 86 years, Room 28, the last reminder that the worn out body had once been lively and fit, so full of the promise of life. Judy’s eyes began to roll behind her lids, the folds of skin fluttering open. Even in her old age, she still had the uncanny knack for knowing when a foreign presence was approaching.

Quite as a phantom, unnoticed by the small collection of nurses and disempowered elderly, a figure, invisible to the mortal eye, travelled the halls. Dressed in a black robe, hood pulled over the eyes, footsteps nothing more than a whisper or a draft on human ankles, scythe in hand; Death had come to claim a victim.

It wasn’t often the Reaper came himself, usually he sent a follower, what could be considered a minion of sorts. How else was one meant to keep up with all the deaths the modern world afforded him? But tonight was special. The Angel of Death was on a mission. Poor Judy Harvey, on the brink of bereavement, was the martyr, the specimen chosen for Death’s display of power.

Standing in the doorway, ominous and awe inspiring to anyone capable of seeing, was the Grim Reaper. Judy Harvey had been afforded that privilege, her eyes wide as they fell upon the figure that mortals fear; the physical manifestation of their own mortality. The beeps of the heart monitor began to accelerate, the oxygen mask fogging with every low breath.

“Do not fear me, Judy Harvey. I mean you no harm.” The voice was surprisingly pleasant, soft and masculine. It sent comforting waves through Judy’s body, relaxing her, easing her heart. The hand holding the scythe was not bone, but flesh, pale as the moon, but solid and corporeal. Death began to approach, his footsteps silent on the carpet. Standing beside the bed, he reached out his free hand, beckoning to the soul of the old woman.

“Come, my dear. It is time to go.” Face enshrouded in shadow, scythe gleaming in the dim light, Judy hesitated, unsure.

“Do not worry. Take my hand, and the rest will follow,” he said, seeming to have read Judy’s mind, easing her fears. Her small, frail hand trembling, she lifted it from her side, reaching for the hand of Death, for the end of her suffering. Gently, the figure took his charge’s hand, the monitor flat-lined, and the body flopped. Death stepped away, melting into the shadows, as the carers and nurses rushed in to find the limp body in the bed. In his hand, Death held a glowing blue orb, floating in the air. The former soul of Judy Harvey, as pure as the day she was born.

Melting through the walls, Death transported himself outside the building, into an alcove in the gardens. There, another figure, smaller and more feminie waited, leaning against the wall. He approached, the soul held tenderly in his hand. The female figure pushed off the wall, emerging from the shadows, dressed in a black miniskirt, black knee high combat boots, and a zipped up black hoodie with a matching tank top underneath.

“Was the scythe really necessary?” she asked, pushing a lock of black hair from her snowy face, behind her ear. Her eyebrow was raised, a joking smile on her full, red lips.

“I like to think it sets the mood.” Death teased, holding out the soul for the young woman to take. She obliged, slipping it gently down the neck of an ornate silver flask on her hip, closing the lid.

“Come on, dad, you know you just like to show off. And for the record, that was very anticlimactic, compared the myths.” The girl retorted, her hands on her slender hips. Her skin was as pale as the moon, fingernails painted black and purple.

“Yes, well, we can’t all be as humble as you, can we Luna?” Death chuckled, pulling back his hood, revealing the handsome face of a man who appeared to be in his mid forties. His eyes were blue, with crow’s feet just starting to show; smudges of grey could be seen throughout his short, black hair, a small sheen of stubble on his strong chin. He too had snowy white skin, and a scar trailing from his left temple to his jaw. Luna rolled her eyes, the right electric blue, the left jade green, a wry smile on her angelic face. Still chuckling, Death took his daughter’s hand, and they melted into the shadows. Within an instant, they were standing in the surrounding forest, ancient trees growing around them to form a small clearing.

“You ready to go home?” he asked, holding the scythe a few feet off the ground. Luna nodded, taking a step back.

“Do your thing, Roger.” She chortled, using his mortal name. Roger rolled his eyes good-naturedly. Holding the gleaming silver scythe above his head, he bought it slicing down through the air, straight into the ground, tearing the dimensional fabric. A great, glowing gash reaching almost 10 feet from the forest floor stood before them. Roger gestured to Luna, to come closer.

“Come, it never stays open for long.” He commanded. She obliged, stepping through the rift, her father close behind.

For a few seconds there was only darkness, but as the fissure closed, colours began to return. The sight of a great, Victorian manor house, surrounded by soaring, ancient trees stood before them. A man in his sixties, hair white and receding, wrinkles sprinkling his face but with a tall, strong posture, dressed in a simple black and white suit advanced toward them.

“Conrad! Good to see you!” Roger smiled, greeting their manservant fondly. Conrad smiled, bowing his head. There was a grey-blue sheen to his skin, suggesting something artificial.

“Master Addams, Miss Luna, welcome home. I trust the lesson went as planned?” Roger smiled widely, patting his daughter on the back,

“It did indeed, my good man! My little girl is going to be a natural!” A great air of adoration was present in his voice, his free arm around Luna’s shoulders.

The three began to walk back to the manor, the eternal darkness of the Underworld surrounding them. Luna remembered the first time she had seen the moon. So big and white and round, the sight had blown her young mind.

The doors of the manor house loomed before them, large, ornately carved oak, inlayed with a gold doorframe and handles. Two granite golems dressed in metal armour, holding razor sharp staves stood on either side, stoic and strong; their hard muscles bulged out of the confining metal plates. They moved, perfectly synchronized, to open the doors. They nodded solemnly in acknowledgement of their master.

“Excellent work, boys!” Roger praised in a booming voice, removing his cloak with a great flourish, revealing simple black slacks and a dark blue button up shirt, handing it and his scythe to Conrad, who passed them to a nearby maid, the doors shutting behind them with a loud, echoing thud. Luna lingered in the foyer as her father and Conrad climb the stairs, disappearing around a corner, Roger talking animatedly, his arms gesticulating wildly.

Luna motioned for one of the house cleaners to come closer. She held out the silver flask,
“Take this to the Soul Fields, please.” The lady nodded, hurrying away with it in her hands. The Soul Fields were where all newly acquired souls went to cross over, to begin again.

The voices of Roger and Conrad soon faded, the young girl slowly making her way towards the giant, curved double staircase that dominated the northern end of the foyer. Her heavy boots thudded against the black marble floors, echoing around the massive room, filled with antiques of varying sizes and shapes. Vases, statues, paintings on the walls, large, ornate, stand up and wall candle holders and a chandelier, also dotted with candles, hanging from the ceiling; everything screamed ‘EXPENSIVE’. The stairs were carpeted in lush, deep purple runners, the railings plated gold, gleaming in the candle light.

Luna trailed her hand along the smooth surface, her footsteps muffled by the carpet. She walked through the empty halls, passing door after closed door, arriving at the entrance to her bedroom. A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she once more took in the piled boxes; the once comforting room had become bare and lonely. Luna walked over to her window seat, a forlorn expression on her beautiful face as she sat on the lush, purple silk pillow, staring through the glass, out onto the endless planes of the Underworld. Craggy mountains stood tall and proud in the distance, forests spread out among them, dotted with immense fields of wildflowers. It seemed to stretch on forever, the borders of their world blurring in the darkness. Her home was beautiful, but forever shrouded in night. There was no sun, no stars. Luna had seen it, the sun, once, when she and her father had stayed a little past sunrise. She was only small, maybe seven years old, and did not have the protection of a cloak and hood; when the rays touched her skin, a painful, bright red rash began to spread, boils sprouting on the surface. Roger had tucked her into his robe and rushed them home. The poor young girl had been in pain for almost two weeks.

Luna remembered clearly the day that Roger had told her they were moving.
She sat in one of the many, overly stuffed chairs of their private library, a large tome in her small, white hands. Roger rolled his eyes at the sight as he entered the room, smiling wryly at the name on the spine.

“Anna Karenina?” He teased lightly. Luna peeked up from over her book for a second before her gaze returned to the pages.

“It’s a classic.” She replied, her voice calm and quiet. Placing a bookmark in between the pages she closed the heavy volume, placing it on the small, elaborately carved wooden table beside the chair. “I assume you want to discuss something?”

“Don’t get flip with me.” Roger wagged a finger at his daughter jokingly.

“I think you’re spending far too much time working. You’re starting to speak like a mortal.” Luna giggled, pushing some hair behind her ear.

“Har, har, funny.” He said sardonically, voice in a monotone, “Seriously, Luna. We need to talk.” Roger’s voice took on a solemn edge as he came and sat on the arm of the chair. Luna knew to pay attention; she didn’t often see the serious side to her father, and knew when she did it was very important. He hesitated a moment,

“Sweetie, l know this is very short notice, but I’m not going to stall. I’ve decided it would be best for us to move to the mortal realm.”

Luna blinked blankly, “Excuse me?” her voice was weak, strangled.

“Honey, I’m worried that you aren’t getting enough social exposure, living in the Underworld as we do. There are no kids your age around. Also, socialising would help you as a Reaper in the long run. You would be able to blend in better with the mortals, increasing your output and efficiency.” There was a pleading edge to his voice; it was obvious that Roger so desperately wanted Luna to agree, and not to have to fight her every step of the way.

Despite being the Grim Reaper, he was not fond of violence. The young Reaper loved her father immensely, and knew of his dislike for fisticuffs. So she simply nodded, her face blank and expressionless.

A grin broke out on the older man’s face.
“That’s my girl! It’ll be worth it, you’ll see!” He kissed his daughter’s forehead happily, rushing from the room. Luna sat in the chair, her book forgotten.

Even after almost three weeks, her emotions were still in turmoil. She didn’t know what to think. Part of Luna wanted to hate her father for uprooting them from the only home she had ever known, but she understood his motives. Roger was only doing what he thought was best, though it still hurt.

Luna spent the rest of the night trying to keep occupied while the serving golems packed the rest of her room. In the Underworld, the way to tell whether it was night or day was by the fireflies. Hordes of fireflies came out when the temperature began to drop; the light on their bodies is a small flame, warm enough to heat your hand, but not enough to burn if you’re careful. When she gazed out from her window, it looked like little twinkling stars were zooming around in the fields and the forests.

Morning approached fast. Luna once again sat on her window seat, gazing absently. She sighed when Roger entered, silent as he always was. He placed a hand on her shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze.

“Everything will be fine, hon.” He soothed, “We’re leaving in ten minutes.” Roger strode from the room, quietly shutting the door. Luna stood. She was already dressed to leave, having changed before the golems had washed and packed all her clothes. In her long hair were several different coloured extensions, her large, bright eyes were surrounded thickly with eyeliner and black eye shadow and on her hands were black, fingerless leather gloves.

Trailing slowly to the door, Luna stopped to pick up her bags. First, her backpack, filled to bursting with books of all kinds, then her suitcase; large, royal blue, and filled with essentials, such as clothes, shoes and toiletries. Moving to the entrance, she looked back at her empty room, sighing dejectedly as the door swung shut behind her. Luna walked through the halls, coming to great foyer stairs. Down below, serving golems were busy packing the invaluable antiques for storage, awaiting the master’s return. They ignored her as she walked past them, following their orders to the letter. You could always rely on a well created golem to get the job done.

The great double doors were open, and Luna could see her father in the yard, directing the placement of the last few items onto the mover’s truck, Conrad beside him, a clipboard, and pencil in hand. The two men looked over at her approach, smiling; the scythe in Roger’s hand.

“Ah, Luna, you’re just in time! We’re just finishing up here, and then we’ll be ready to go.” Roger was grinning widely; this was all a big adventure for him. He was like a giant kid in the candy store of existence. The young Reaper raised a sceptical eyebrow at her father.

“How in the hell are you going to get that into the mortal realm without attracting suspicion?” she pointed to the truck. Roger grinned widely, his eyes crinkling at the sides

“Don’t worry. Conrad has taken care of it. Haven’t you, Conrad?” He clapped the old man on the shoulder. Conrad chuckled.

“I have done my best.” Glancing down at the clipboard, he made a great flourish with the pencil and handed them both to Roger, “Everything is ready to go, Master Addams, at your command.”

“Wonderful! Okay, time to close ‘er up, boys!” the Reaper gestured to the golems, who marched in unison to close the roller door on the back of the truck, latching each side. Conrad bowed slightly at the waist.

“I shall meet you at the door when you arrive at the house.” With that, he walked over to the truck door and jumped in, gracefully for an old man. Roger pulled himself and his daughter a few feet back, and it was just then that Luna noticed the alignment of palm sized, dark purple crystals in a circle around the truck.

“Transporter Stones?” she asked, incredulous. Transporter stones were rarely mined anymore, after it was found that they were being sold on the black market to people such as shady jewellery makers and crime lords; unsuspecting mortals who didn’t know the destructive power the stones held if used improperly. Roger simply nodded.

“I got my hands on some about a century ago. Never had a use for them until now.” He shrugged nonchalantly. The thing with Transporter Stones was that when one broke, it would start up an internal beacon, which, when in proximity to its other half, would begin to glow purple, becoming brighter and brighter the closer you got. They could never be rejoined, but it served as a good homing signal.

Luna had never seen Transporter Stones in action before. One of the golems moved to the edge of the circle, bending to place the last stone on the ground before hurrying back to his place next to the truck. Suddenly, the stones began to light up, growing brighter with each second, a throbbing deep purple light. The air crackled, letting off sparks and jolts, the visible bands of energy looping every last stone together into an unbroken ring. The light began to move, the energy travelling from one stone to another. A mighty wind picked up, kicking up the dust and dirt and whipping Luna and Roger’s clothes and hair about them as the power began to rise and link over the truck; a dome of purple before their eyes. With a great flash and a crack like thunder, it was over.

The pair uncovered their eyes, blinking away spots. The truck, along with Conrad and the golems, had disappeared; the Transporter stones only black lumps of rock on the ground. Roger walked up and gently nudged one of them with his toe. It turned to dust on contact.

“That’s the problem with Transporter Stones; they’re only useful in small bouts.” Sighing, he turned back to Luna, smiling gently. “Time to go.” he said.

Luna nodded, smoothing down her ruffled clothes and hair. She watched as he tore at the dimensional fabric once more with his beloved scythe, holding out his hand for her to take. Luna took the careworn hand in hers, both carrying suitcases, as they stepped through the portal, the doorway to their new home.