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By Geoffrey Hart
Previously published as: Hart, G. 2020. At Death’s Door. Allegory 38/65 (Nov. 2020).
The old woman in the threadbare black cloak knelt in her garden, not sweating despite the warm sun beating down upon her. With skillful flicks of her wrist, she beheaded the dandelions and other weeds that had sprouted here and there amongst the flowers with a gleaming silvery sickle. As the sickle swept through each stem, the plant crumbled instantly into dust and blew away on a coolly refreshing wind. Her long, silken grey hair was caught up in a severe bun, but a few strands had escaped to bedevil her. Periodically, she wiped one from her eyes so she could concentrate on her work. When she held her head just right, one could see shadow of what must have been a stunning beauty in her youth.
“That’s a lovely garden.”
Death looked up and saw a petite young woman leaning against her white picket fence. “You’re too kind.”
The woman smiled. “No, I really mean it. It takes dedication and care—and lots of love—to cull the weeds so diligently. I’ve never managed to keep my dandelions under control since the city banned the use of herbicides.”
Death waited patiently. Taking a deep breath, the younger woman went on. “If I could have a few moments of your time, I’d like to speak to you about death and what comes after.”
Death snorted, then took a closer look. The woman’s charcoal pantsuit was immaculate, and she was overly well groomed for modern tastes. “You’re not one of those blasted Mormons, are you? I thought I’d made it clear I was not to be disturbed.”
“Heavens no! I’m here on an entirely secular mission.”
Death raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“No, really. I sell life insurance. Anyway, so what have you got against the Mormons?”
Death rolled her eyes. “Nothing really. They seem like wonderful, earnest people, and their intentions seem good. But you know what is paved with good intentions?”
“The new beltway around the city?”
Death winced at the pain in her knees as she rose to her feet. Under her forbidding gaze, another handful of dandelions sprouted with unnatural vigor. She sighed and tucked her sickle into a pocket of her cloak, where it disappeared, leaving nary a bulge.
“I need a break. Would you like a cup of tea?”
The young woman nodded, a brilliant smile breaking across her face. She held out a soft, uncallused hand. “Nancy.”
Death hesitated a moment, then took her hand and shook it gravely. “You can call me Belle.” When that evoked no response, she sighed and held open the gate. “Please come in.”
Death’s home was immaculately kept, but had a slightly musty smell, as if the windows were never opened. She showed the younger woman into a well-appointed living room strewn with expensive antiques, and beckoned her guest to sit on the couch. It was thinly padded and deeply uncomfortable in a way that implied deliberate and malicious design rather than casual incompetence. Worse, thick plastic sheeting snugly covered the back and cushions, revealing but protecting the fabric. Nancy looked around. The narrower side of the room was taken up entirely by a wall of books—something rare enough that she took out her smartphone and surreptitiously took a selfie, books in background, while pretending to check her messages. The longer wall was occupied by several dark paintings. One in particular caught Nancy’s eye. It showed a beautiful auburn-haired young woman in a mulberry dress cut in an antique style. Barefooted, she knelt upon a bed of grass amidst a copse of small trees. A knight knelt above her, craning towards her as she pulled him down using a loop from her scarf thrown around his neck. By his side, a lance lay upon the grass. His armor was speckled with rust—or what might have been dried blood. She shuddered.
“You like it? That was me in a younger and more romantic age. I’ve grown quite fond of it over the years. More than the poem, really.” Death had returned, bearing a tray of tea supplies.
Nancy tore her eyes from the painting. “The poem?”
Death smiled sadly. “Never mind. Irrelevant literary allusion. May I pour you some tea?”
“No milk or sugar, please. I’m watching my weight.”
Death nodded acknowledgment and poured, placing the cup on a saucer and handing it to the young woman, then poured herself a glass. Into it, she dropped two lumps of sugar and a healthy glug of cream.
“I love your ceramics.”
Judging her moment, Death held it up to the light. “Bone china, of course. If you hold it up to the light, you’ll see it’s translucent. I love it for its sense of impermanence.”
Nancy took a long sip, smiled, then held her half-empty cup up to the tired light streaming in from the window. “Lovely! The tea is delicious. May I have more?”
Death nodded, and refilled her cup. “So you said that you sell insurance...” she encouraged.
Nancy nodded enthusiastically, took another large sip of her tea, then placed it on its saucer with a muffled clink. “Yes. I work for Mutual Life, and we’re introducing a new product tailored especially to the needs of senior citizens like yourself. She continued on for some time, clearly relishing her mastery of the details, while the left side of Death’s mouth periodically twitched upwards, unnoticed by the eager saleswoman.
“So, in conclusion, we feel this is precisely the right product for someone like you. If I might be so blunt, did your husband have such a policy?”
“I’m afraid I never married. Somehow I never quite found the time.” A momentary sadness passed across her face, and her eyes flickered towards the knight.
“That’s so sad!”
“It has its compensations. More tea?”
“No thanks. If I have more than a cup, I can’t stop peeing.” She blushed. “Pardon me. I’m usually not so blunt.”
“We are all of us slaves to our body. I hope I haven’t wasted your time, but I really have no need of life insurance.”
“Well, even if it’s true you have no descendants…” She waited a discreet beat. “Then perhaps you have relatives somewhere?”
“No, I was an only child. Sort of.” She sighed. “It’s complicated.”
Nancy furrowed her brow. “Funeral expenses?”
“That shouldn’t be a concern.” She paused a moment, shrugged. “I have more than adequate resources.”
“Philanthropic causes you might want to donate to?”
“I’ve spent my life on philanthropic causes. I feel no need to do more.”
Nancy’s brows furrowed and she looked around the room, seeking the inevitable cat fur. “No pets to care for?”
Death shook her head.
Nancy wrinkled her brow. “Funds to care for your lovely garden?”
“Apart from the dandelions, it largely takes care of itself. The dandelions are a concern, however. Without constant vigilance, they’d overwhelm the garden.”
Nancy’s relieved smile lit up her face. “Well, if I can’t convince you to try out any of our insurance products, perhaps I can introduce you to one of our partners. We’ve arranged for favorable prices on a range of goods and services, including gardening.” She looked at the older woman expectantly, then seeing nothing more technological than a rotary-dial telephone in the room, sighed and rummaged in a pocket of her suit jacket. “Here’s my card. Please don’t hesitate to call me if I can introduce you to our gardening contractor, or if there’s anything else I can do for you.”
“You’re very gracious, young lady. Thank you.”
Nancy rose, beaming. “Thank you very much for the tea. It was delicious.” She hesitated a moment. “Umm. Might I...?”
“Down the hall, second door on the left.”
Once the young woman was safely out of earshot, Death shook her head. "You haven’t the faintest notion of who I am, have you?" she whispered.
When Nancy returned, Death took her hand and gently shook it. “I do hope I’ll see you again some day.”
Nancy was so pleased she failed to notice the wry twist of Death’s lips. “That would be lovely, Belle.”
The story was inspired by La Belle Dame Sans Merci, the poem by John Keats about a knight’s intense but unheeding love of death. The painting is, of course, the famous Waterhouse painting shown in the Wikipedia article.
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