What dreams may come

The raven regarded the van making its way up the dirt track with cool disinterest. Paintwork glinting cheery red in the afternoon sun, it trundled at the head of its own comet trail of dust, to finally come to rest at the farm gate.

Leaving the engine running the driver hopped out of the vehicle, pausing briefly to pick up a package from where it lay on the passenger seat. The drive had been a long one, and the man's pale blue shirt was stained with sweat. He reached into a top pocket, emblazoned with a crest and the words "Royal Mail", and withdrew a pair of spectacles. Settling them on his nose he peered at the package. Clear cellophane enclosed the latest edition of the "New Scientist", bold letters proclaiming the lead story - "The fountain of youth?” The postman shrugged and read the address on the label.

Mortimer D. Heath
Tuinneasach Farm

"No postcode, no nothing", he grumbled as he looked up to make sure he had the right place. Sure enough a hand painted sign on the gate confirmed that he had finally reached his destination.

Beyond the gate a narrow rutted track ran perhaps half a mile between two fields up to the farmhouse itself. A low single storey dwelling almost obscured from sight by overgrown trees and bushes in what would have once been its front garden.

The postman walked over to the gate, looking for a latch to open it. He jumped as the raven which until then had been silent, gave a harsh screech and took off, gliding over one of the fields. The postman calmed himself, chuckling and shaking his head. He watched as the bird swooped low over perfectly regimented rows of corn and came to rest on a fence post further up the track.

Turning his attention back to the gate he noticed that the raven's previous perch was in fact a mailbox. Faded lettering was still visible on the worn and cracked paint.

M. D. Heath

"Good enough for me" he muttered to himself as he unlatched the box and placed the magazine inside.

From the farmhouse window, Death watched as the postman got back into his van and returned the way he came. Dust signalling his departure as it had heralded his arrival.

For a long time Death stared out of the window, his ageless eyes gazing out over the fields to the road, and to the post-box at the gate. He had no need to collect the package. He knew what it meant already.

His time was over.

The details didn't matter. Perhaps it was some new genetic breakthrough, or an advance in computer technology. It made little difference.

Doctors and scientists had been fighting him for centuries, he reflected, and with certain notable exceptions they had been winning. This was simply the final blow - the killer blow. He smiled at the irony of that thought.

With a wistful sigh he turned from the window and took a look around. The interior of the farmhouse was dark and cool, despite the cheerful fire which crackled in the hearth, and the heat outside which made the air shimmer.

Shelves filled with books and papers lined the walls, and yet more books were scattered around, on tables, desks and even the floor. Haphazard towers of literature made traversing the room an adventure story in itself.

Death loved to read. Books, scripts, poetry, anything he could get his hands on, especially when he was the subject of the writer’s attention. Every word written about him added some more to his substance and being. From Coleridge to Pratchett, each story gave him a little more personality and, if he was being honest, more than a few quirks. He would miss riding through the night, scythe in hand, striking terror into mortals. Games of chess against his old rival Life, playing Battle of the Bands with Bill and Ted... "Good days", he thought, "good days..."

Outside, the sun sank deeper in the sky, touching the clouds in crimson hues. Death picked his way carefully through the book strewn room and made his way outside. Silently he stalked across the farmyard to a barn at the back of the house, and with a gesture beckoned the doors to open.

Within he could hear the rustle of hay as something stirred, and whickered expectantly. Death moved softly across the bare earth of the barn floor towards a stall at the far end. A flick of his wrist and the stall door was unlatched allowing the beast to emerge. With pride he beheld his steed. Never had such a horse existed, and nor would it exist again. Stronger than any knight’s charger, and swifter than the swiftest Arabian stallion, his pale horse had been his companion for centuries. Taking hold of the stallion's halter he led the magnificent animal outside.

Across the yard a gate lead to an open moor. Death paused for a moment before opening it. Would it matter if he set the horse free? Would it still live in mortal imagination or would it fade away just as he would? Death chuckled to himself, how many times had he heard similar enquiries?

"I don't have the answers, I just end the questions", he murmured to no-one in particular as he reached up and removed the bridle from the pale destrier at his side. A slap to the flanks sent the horse thundering across the moor land. At the crest of the hill it reared in the dying rays of the sun, its menacing call echoing across landscape.

Death grinned proudly and crossed the yard back to the barn. As he was about to close the doors once more he noticed a familiar object lying half buried under a bale. Reaching down he grasped the handle and freed the item.

"Well well well", he whispered, "my old scythe"

Glancing over his shoulder he noted the final rays of sunlight glinting over the hills. His eyes gleamed.

"I wonder...." he mused as he hefted the scythe.

Quickly he centred himself in the yard, wiped the blade of the scythe on his robe with a smooth stroke and held it aloft.

The last of suns rays beamed over the crest of the hill and into the farmyard. Deaths eyes narrowed and with a movement almost impossible to conceive, he sliced the very last ray of sunlight neatly in two.

Death grinned in satisfaction. "I still got it" he remarked triumphantly as he turned smartly and headed back into the house.

The deepening twilight had plunged the interior into a musty gloom. An aged tallow candle stood on a sideboard just inside the door. Death clicked his fingers, and it sprang into life. The flame cast flickering shadows as Death made his way once more back to his reading room.

Within he rested his scythe behind the door as he closed it and, candle in hand, stalked across the room to the bookcase. Running a bony finger across the shelf he examined the titles by the light of the candle. Some he paused over for a moment and then continued, before finally settling on a green leather hardback.

"How fitting", he thought, removing the book from the shelf. As he crossed the room towards the fire, and the comfortable chair which was positioned beside it, he opened the book and read the first lines inside.

"That is not dead, which can eternal lie..."

Nodding, he took his seat by the fire as outside twilight deepened into night. Settling in he prepared to continue reading, but as he did so another book lying open on a side table close to the fire caught his eye. Carefully he closed the book he held, and laid it on the floor. His eyes glowed in the dying embers of the fire as he picked up the other book he had spied and began to read.

"To sleep! perchance to dream. Ay theres the rub. For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come........"


The (very) end