The End; the Beginning

comidacomida copyright 2022

John's family had been well-off for generations, which meant that, when he fell ill, they were able to hire the best physicians in Maryland.  Medical science had not advanced very quickly in the colonies, but after America's independence there was an emergence in greater learning and, as scholars from across the pond began interacting more with the new country the exchange of ideas and discoveries led to the most advanced doctors coming to understand something of great importance: many of the worst diseases were caused by organisms unable to be seen by the naked eye.  With that in mind, excluding occasional visits from the doctor, John spent his time in his room alone.

He lost track of the days... and weeks... and months... and seasons.  He had been afflicted upon return from a trip up and down the Atlantic with his father and older brother, celebrating his maturity at sixteen and the upcoming expectation that he would soon join high society as a member of the family business.  International trade was incredibly lucrative for those who knew it well, and his family had been at it for generations.  That seemed so far back; two Christmases had passed with him sequestered and, as time wore on, he realized he was not getting better-- quite the opposite in fact.

Every day that went by, John awoke each morning feeling worse and worse.  By the time fall had come around yet again, the young man had lost the ability to get out of bed.  As the weeks waned he began to wonder if it would ever feel better.  That night he closed his eyes, praying when he opened them again that he would feel better.  In a way, his wish came true.

There was no pressure on his chest, inhibiting his ability to breathe.  When John sat up there was no dizziness accompanying the movement; he was able to take in a breath without wheezing and he didn't have the aches or pains in his joints more common among the elderly.  He had spent so long feeling horrible that it was a black-and-white difference; he no longer felt bad.  It took a few moments, however, before he realized that he also didn't feel good.  It was then that he slowly turned and looked back toward the bed... and saw himself.

The room around him was black; his body, still reclining prone in the bed looked so small, creating an almost minuscule canvas for the shadows cast across it.  John had heard before the people looked peaceful when they had passed; if what he truly saw was his mortal coil, the only thing he could consider of it was that he looked... ravaged.  The umbral dusk that surrounded him grew darker still and a voice like the sound of a million spider legs on tile crept through the inky night and set upon his ears.  "John Bingham... are you fearful?"

John slowly turned away from his cast off shell, moving to face a figure that was blacker than the night's shroud surrounding him.  It manifested before him, as if materializing out of the shadows themselves.  The being was a canine of some kind-- a wolf perhaps.  It had raven black fur except for its tail and head, both of which were skeletal-- bleached bones creating an off-white contrast to the rest of its inky fur.  Despite the question, John was, in fact, not afraid.  He spoke honestly, in a calm manner.  "No.  There is little left to afflict me that has not already been done."

The blackness continued to pool into the enormous wolf, leaving the room lit by moonlight; it felt almost peaceful in the stillness.  The four-legged creature cocked its head slightly, not unlike a puppy that heard an unfamiliar sound.  It stared at him with little red pinpoints in empty black eye sockets.  "You do understand that you have died...?"

The young man shrugged, looking first back to his body and then to the skeletal creature seated just outside an arm's length from him. "It stands to reason... yes."

The skull was incapable of showing emotion but, what it lacked, the rest of the being's form made up for in body language; it seemed curious.  "Do you know why I am here?"

John felt no need to be untruthful. "No."

"And you are not afraid?"

The young man shrugged again.  "I am already dead.  Is there a reason I should have to fear at this point, Mister....?"

Having been raised among well-mannered society, John realized he could not carry on a conversation without knowing his fellow interlocutor, and, since the wolf seemed to know him, it only stood to reason that an introduction be made.  The wolf, however, seemed to have a different inclination. "I am no 'mister'."

Attempting to remain cordial, John tried again.  "And then by what name should I refer to you if you dislike honorifics?  Just... 'wolf', or are you known by some specific appellation by which you should be addressed, Sir?"

The wolf continued staring at him, the red pinpoints of light unmoving and inexpressive.  With no more information forthcoming, the young man made a leap of logic.  "Are you Death then?  The Grim Reaper?  Thanatos?"

The skeletal creature huffed indignantly.  "You humans are always so quick to name things... does everything require a name?"

Not hearing a 'no', John was willing to move forward with that.  "Then you ARE Death... are you here to take my soul?"

Snorting dejectedly, his companion repaid his conjecture with a baleful glare.  "I take nothing, John Bingham.  I am a guide... nothing more."

"A guide?"

The Wolf inclined its head slightly; little rivulets of floating shadows had gathered around the top of its skull, forming what almost appeared to be ephemeral ears, which moved as it gestured and enunciated. "Many souls know how to go to where they belong.  For those that do not, I help bring them to their final destination."

John, while still not fearful, was honestly surprised.  "You mean... heaven or hell?"

The being before him scoffed.  "You humans and your religions... attempting to impose your order upon the world-- even worse than your need of names."

The young man didn't quite understand.  "So... are you saying--"

The wolf stared right at him. "Your final destination is a destination which is final... that is all there is to it.  You will be where you are meant to be, and that is where you shall be... for all of eternity.  Some souls need help getting to where they should be-- some refuse me as their guide and, thus, they remain here-- not alive and not at peace."

"Ghosts."

One of the wolf's shadowy ears flicked in irritation. "Again... you and your names.  They are spirits who are no longer connected to a body and are unable to go to where they should be.  If you wish, I will depart and you will experience this yourself-- but a warning: I will not return if refused, and this in-between place will be your final destination."

John was not afraid; he was curious.  "No... I-- I believe I would like to see where I am meant to be, Mr. Wolf."

His guide's skeletal tail flicked dismissively.  "No 'mister'."  And, with that, he walked out of the house right through the wall.  It took a moment for John to realize that he was meant to follow; it was his first time passing through a solid object.  If he had time to consider it he might have found the experience genuinely unique but, as he emerged to the world beyond he saw that the wolf was already trotting far ahead and the young man had no time to consider it at length.

His guide did not deliver him somewhere or take him on a moonlit road.  The wolf did not ascend with him into the air.  John followed his four legged companion through cityscape and countryside, lingering sometimes in some areas and completely passing over others.  He had no understanding of the passage of time, identifying neither day nor night.  Instead, he followed after the wolf, visiting villages, towns, and cities aplenty, always several steps behind as the skeletal creature encountered others in much the same way as it had first interacted with him.  Unlike with John, however, most of the dead the wolf met said little, and simply nodded to him before looking upward-- they were bathed in light and, invariably, they disappeared in a blinding flash.

* * * * *

It was probably the hundredth time John had watched it before he bothered engaging the wolf in discussion again.  They moved quickly and tirelessly across the fields of what John presumed to be somewhere in the Southern US-- he remembered reading about cotton fields.  "What happens to the people when they stand in the light?"

The wolf didn't bother looking back at him. "They move on to their final destination."

John didn't miss a step, and also didn't bother holding back his next question. "Why haven't I been visited by the light?"

His guide continued moving, facing forward as it spoke back at him. "You are not yet ready for your final destination.  Different souls need different things."

The young man picked up the pace so he could get closer to the wolf before asking his next question.  "What about you?  Why haven't you gone on to your final destination?"

His guide came to an immediate stop and turned to regard him; there was a hardness to the stare, but it was neither aggressive nor accusatory.  "I am from a time before the light."

That statement made no sense-- not in any way John could connect in his mind. "Do you mean... you were never alive?"

The Wolf's red pinpoints lowered slightly, no longer looking at him. "No... I lived... once... long ago."

"What happened?"

The pair of crimson dots snapped back to look at him.  "I died."

The two continued along their path without another word spoken for quite some time.

* * * * *

John was struck dumb when he saw the young woman step away from the light.  In the hundreds of souls he saw find their final destination he had never seen one turn it down.  The body she left behind was easily in its eighth decade and yet the lady who had refused the spotlight looked scarcely a year his senior.  She did not interact with him or with the wolf, ignoring them as if they weren't even there-- she meandered off toward a destination John could not fathom.  "What was that?"

The wolf, who had sat silenty as the woman disappeared, stood back up and started off in another direction with purpose.  "She rejected the light... and will remain wandering this plane."

It was the first time John had seen what the wolf had told him could happen the very first time they met.  The entire thing didn't occur in the way he'd expected. "You didn't try to help her?"

His companion let out a gruff grunt.  "I knew she would reject the light in the same way I understand that you are not ready for yours.  Do not question my understanding."

John, as usual, had to rush to keep up, but he'd long since stopped worrying about physical exertion; he could match the wolf's pace without tiring.  "What makes you such an expert on this anyway?  Were you chosen, or something?"

To the human's surprise, the wolf stopped dead in his tracks.  More surprisingly, the normally dominantly straight, skeletal tail almost started to tuck.  The voice that emerged from the creature sounded even more haunted than usual. "No."

That wasn't an answer.  "No?  'No' what?"

The wolf-about faced, stalking toward him as its red eyes glowed more fiercely than usual.  "The rest of my litter-mates were chosen... but not me."

"What do you--?"

It didn't let him continue his questioning, growling over him. "There were seven of us.  I was the smallest, and our mother had died.  The other six were chosen... but I was left to the snow."

John was left confused, adrift in the wolf's mercurial emotions as it let down its stoic mask, demeanor changing with surprising celerity.  The story spilled out of the creature-- he had known the humans of a far distant past-- back before electricity-- before farming or cultures or even buildings.  His people had been some of the first to join humanity; he had been a wolf who would have one day become a dog.  His siblings had been adopted by humans after their mother had died, but not him.  He had been a runt, and the humans had no need for him-- he had died alone, exposed to the elements.

Eventually, the wolf finished his words, head hanging low; a softly glowing tear trailed down the length of his skull. "Humans have a desire to name things... except for that which they have no need."

The young man finally realized just why the wolf had been so disinterested in introductions. "You have no name."

The Wolf snorted, giving its head a flick to shake away the tear.  "I have always been alone.  I have no need for a name, John Bingham."

Death; the Grim Reaper; the skeletal monster facing him could easily have been a frightening being.  John knew right away that he had no cause for fear and, despite the wolf's tempestuous emotions, he still felt no fear; he was beyond the point where fear mattered.  He still had a sense of empathy, though.  "I'm sorry... I know what it's like to die alone."

His companion let out a scornful 'ha', tail flicking with the sound. "John Bingham-- everyone dies alone... even when surrounded by loved ones, they must make that transition alone... that is why I am here.  I help guide them so they do not have to find the way on their own."

Even if the wolf hadn't meant to elicit John's reaction, the statement had an effect on him, and the young man found himself tearing up.  "That's... horrible."

Wolf was not so moved. "It is life.  It is death.  It is the way of things.  I do this so that others--"

John waved the explanation away.  "No.  I mean YOU... there wasn't anyone there to help YOU when you died."

The skeletal wolf's muzzle opened as if to provide a counterpoint, but it eventually closed, no words having come out.

* * * * *

There was no sense of the passage of time for John in the realm beyond life that was not his final destination.  The world around him continued to change but attempting to look at it often gave him the impression of trying to make sense of a cloudy, fun house mirror.  He knew that years had been left alongside the path he'd walked but he didn't quite realize just how much time he'd spent with the wolf until his guide came to a stop one day, shadowy ears rotating as if to focus on some far-off sound.  "You will attend me on this event, John Bingham."

It was the first time the wolf had specifically invited him to join him for meeting a newly dead soul.  They walked into the city together, walking side by side.  Every few steps the wolf's furry tail would brush against his leg; although he was dead, John could clearly feel the sensation of the wolf's-- one of the few available to him.  He honestly didn't remember when it was the wolf's tail fur had regrown, but the young man knew that it had wagged more often since that time.

John didn't realize that they were in Baltimore until they approached the outskirts; the city had changed so very much, but the young man recognized his family's home immediately.  The wolf walked straight through the gate and John followed as his guide explained "We are here for your elder brother's grand daughter."

Time HAD passed; the announcement struck John dumb and he came to a stop. "I--"

The wolf also stopped, turning to regard him.  "You will speak to her."

"...why?"

Rather than answer his question, the wolf only countered with "Are you afraid?"

John was ready enough to say he was not, but he couldn't completely say that truthfully.  He was not fearful, per se, but he was out of his element and hesitant.  "I don't know what to do."

The wolf stared at him.  "You have seen me do this many times; you know what to do.  Do not tell her who you are; acknowledge that she has died; help her find the light.  Do you feel that you can do this?

John swallowed the hesitance.  "Let's... find out."

* * * * *

It had taken a long time but, after what John determined was at least a century together, he finally decided on something.  "I have it."

The skeletal gaze of the wolf beside him looked up quizzically.  "What do you have, John Bingham?"

"Your name."

The wolf let out a gruff huff. "This again?  I have already told you, John Bingham: I have no name."

John didn't relent.  "That's only because you haven't ever been given one, oh mighty Death... he who is the reaper of souls."

John didn't miss the faint mirthful flicker of the wolf's tail; his guide rarely ever rose to the bait, but the young man could tell that he enjoyed the banter nevertheless.  Even so, his companion's gruff tone was dripping with exhaustion. "This again?  I am not death.  I do not reap souls."

The young man continued laying it on thick. "He with a skull for a head, and a scythe for cutting fate's skein."

It was one of the longest-standing jests John had come up with; the wolf certainly wasn't capable of using farming implements but, when they had first met the creature's skeletal tail had resembled the blade of a scythe.  The wolf refused to see it, but John had repeatedly attested that myth and legend often had some basis in reality, and had therefore the wolf's tail had evermore been referred to as his scythe-- even after it had regained its fur.  The wolf, as always, did not choose to engage.  "You are as foolish as ever."  His scythe, however, wagged just a little.

John decided he had chided his friend enough.  "Your name is Clay."

The wolf-- Clay, cocked his head to the side, furry ears perking up quizzically.  "Clay?  Why THAT name?"

The young man took one step closer so he could kneel down.  He gently reached out and ran his fingers through the wolf's thick, black neck fur.  "Some creation myths say that mortals were made out of clay... you were mortal, just like me-- we are born, and then we are subjected to death... so: Clay.  You're Clay."

Wriggling his wet black nose, Clay blinked, his amber eyes gleaming in the moonlight.  "And I do not get a say in this?"

John smiled, reaching out to pat the wolf's furry forehead.  "No.  We don't ge to choose our names-- other people name us."

The Wolf worked his tongue in his muzzle, trying the name on for size. "Clay... Clay... and what if I do not like 'Clay' as a name?"

The Human slowly wrapped his arms around the Wolf's shoulders, giving him a gentle hug. "Do you really not like it?"

Clay rubbed his head against John's cheek, nuzzling his neck softly.  "I do like it.  Very much, John Bingham.  Thank you."

Something had changed, and it took John a moment to realize it as he slowly disengaged.  Looking around he saw the same old indistinct surroundings of the blurred living world, but it wasn't quite as dark.  He turned to regard Clay; the young man couldn't remember when it was that the wolf's skull had filled in or that his eyes were no longer balls of light, but what really struck him as new was that his companion, for the first time he could ever recall, looked truly happy.

Clay's ears swiveled suddenly and the wolf's expression returned to neutral, with a hint of sorrow.  "It is time, John Bingham."

The human's mind had been working in one direction, but the wolf's sudden statement brought his thinking to a stop. "Time?  For... what?"

John's existence had been an absence of almost everything; his final years had been identified by an all encompassing pain so, originally, its absence was a blessing.  Since then, he had come to realize that he also had no real sense of pleasure, or heat, or cold, or anything that did not involve interacting with his lupine guide.  In that moment, however, illuminated by a powerful, all encompassing golden light, he felt warmth... overwhelming, gracious, glowing warmth.

Clay spoke softly, tears dampening his furred cheeks.  "It is time for you to go to your final destination."

John had been enveloped by the sensations coursing through him, but his companion's statement cut through all of that, leaving him with a deep pang of coldness.  Trying to peer out of the curtains of light he asked "But... what about you?"

The Wolf shook his head, fur beginning to shed off of it as the skin started flecking off.  "I have existed for thousands of years alone, John Bingham... Here, guiding souls to their final destinations-- it is where I belong.  This is MY final destination." 

John didn't know what the future held.  He had spent over a century heading toward what was supposed to be his own final destination; it was the ultimate goal and, suddenly facing it, John realized how wrong he had been.  When he had died, John had believed that he had reached the point beyond fear.  When he'd cast off his mortal coil he wrongly thought he had nothing more to lose.

Reaching out, the young man grabbed tight hold of Clay's thick fur.  The wolf let out a yelp of surprise, eyes going wide as the fur around his face quickly regrew and, by the time John had pulled himself free of the magnetic pull of the blinding light, the two lay on the ground, panting heavily, gazing at one another.

Clay spoke first.  "John... what have you done?!?"

It was John's turn to smile knowingly.  "Exactly what I was supposed to do-- I found my final destination... right here.  Just like you"  He leaned forward, gently touching his finger to the wolf's nose.  "WITH you."

At the end of their lives both had known abandonment and loneliness, but that was one thing neither had to fear any longer.