She Will Be Long and Sharp

The early morning night still gripped the rolling hills around me while Grace and I walked at the bottom of a slope. We fumbled upwards in pockets of shadows, partly unsure of our footfalls, and I took note of dawn as a sliver of light in the far away sky. Uphill, to my right, I could barely make out the shape of a naked, lone tree. And to my left, also uphill, rested an old abandoned, claw foot bathtub. Grace had just woken me from a fitful slumber. I rubbed my eyes with the pads of my fingers.

She kidnapped me yesterday. Grace had a habit of doing this. No explanation. "Just shut up and come with me," she would say. And who am I to argue with her? Besides, I was delighted to spend any time at all with her, especially ever since I learned she was still alive.

The shack in which she placed me the prior evening had been comfortable and warm, thanks to a radiating pot-belly stove. I dined on fresh fruit, exotic cheese, and red wine for supper. Despite these comforts, sleep managed to escape me. Probably because Grace disappeared shortly after delivering me to the shack, which was a wont that often sent an unnerving sensation up my spine. This makes sense though. She was constantly busy, administering her version of perspective to those in need of such. I've seen her work before; it's alarming how effective she is at giving people exactly what they need, good or bad.

I once watched her provide a man with a machete so he could chop off another man's hands. Conversely, I witnessed her save a baby falling from a building with a sudden gust of wind, which pushed the infant gently through the air to an awning below. Grace's job is certainly odd. I don't understand half the things she does, but I know that, in some way or another, they boil down to a proper amount of retribution.

We continued to walk together uphill.

"You slept poorly," she said flatly.

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"That was me."

"Oh," I said back. "Why didn't you let me sleep?"

"You and I both know you do your best thinking when you're tired."

"Right," I said, nodding at the hillside in front of me.

I glanced over at Grace and patted her naked shoulder gently. Strands of her long, thick, steel gray hair swayed over my forearm and it felt like a silk curtain. Her strange hair belied her youthful skin, which almost looked silver in the growing light. Grace rarely wore clothes because the exposure helped heal all the scars she chose to carry. It was also her job to take on and process scars when she deemed it time for people to let go of them. On her skin they would disappear over time. Some would go away faster than others, depending on their magnitude. I can always tell how busy she's been by how many scars are on her body. She had many that day at the shack. Her skin was rarely devoid of them.

"Here," she said suddenly. "Stop here."

"Why? I wanna be warmed by the sun at the top of the hill."

"You can't. You're not ready . . . not yet. You keep making stupid choices."

I looked at the ground and my face lengthened with shame. I knew what she was talking about. I wanted to explain, but with her such an effort would be wasted.

Seeing my reaction Grace calmly placed a hand on my forearm. I could feel her soft, grey eyes looking at me, but I continued to stare at the rich, upturned soil at my feet.

"When do you suppose they last plowed this field?" I asked in an even tone, trying to change the subject.

Grace ignored my words. The question admittedly held no purpose other than to fill the frigid air in front of me with puffs of white breath.

"She will be long and sharp," she said suddenly.

"What?"

"Long and sharp. She will be long and sharp."

"Who will?" I asked stupidly.

Grace sighed heavily, but punctuated the expression with a soft chuckle. I absentmindedly leaned over and picked up a smooth, round stone, which Grace immediately slapped from my hand. It landed in the dirt with a soft thud.

"No," she said curtly. "Long and sharp."

A single diamond tear welled in my eye and then streaked down my cheek.

"Very well," I said, finally looking at her. "But what shall I do now?"

Her eyebrows knitted, but eventually gave way to a comforting smile. The violent motion that dislodged the stone from my hand turned into gentle fingertips on my chin. She stood in front of me and her hot breath flowed up my nose. She smelled like lilacs and leather.

"For the time being," Grace said, "you will surrender to the cold. It's time for you to shiver."

And then Grace stepped away, but continued to stare deep into my eyes. She saw through me. She always did. No part of me could be secret to her. No lie could ever be told to her. In fact, I always had the feeling she’d sick wild beasts on me if ever I told her a lie; with frenetic violence they would tear my flesh away from my bones to dig out the sinful untruths.

I shivered at the thought of these beasts. I shivered from the cold.

Her face became dreadfully serious and her eyes finally stole away from mine, pointing to something in the distance, something in the darkness of this wretched, frozen hill side. I squinted in the same direction and saw a figure of a person perched in the silhouette of the lone tree. The branches mangled themselves as wicked black veins against the burgeoning light of dawn.

Fear struck me.

“Now that you are shivering,” Grace started, “you are ready. It is time for you to face three of my . . . well . . . let’s just say they are three of my employees. They work independently, but they act under my direction because of some favors I did for them thousands of years ago. I affectionately call them ‘The Grace Getters.’ They are the muses of grace. They are my muses . . . and they will show you what you need to know.”

Grace paused and sighed reverently.

“Go to him,” she said, nodding in the direction of the figure in the tree. “He is the first of three. His name is Bale.”

“What will he teach me?” I asked.

Grace smile again, looking back at me. “See? You do think better when you’re tired. Just go to him, my dear. And know this, he rarely takes leave of his tree, but if he does, be mindful not to touch him!”

“Touch him? What will happen if I -”

“Just heed my warning. Do not, under any circumstances, touch Bale.”

“Alright . . . okay! I won’t touch him.”

“Now go.”

I breathed in deeply, but couldn't hear my breath under the chattering of my teeth. I turned away from Grace and walked toward the tree.

It wasn’t far, only about 200 meters away. I watched Bale closely, attempting to assess my risk. Oddly, he actually seemed quite innocuous. As I grew closer to the twisted tree, I observed him squatting on a sturdy, low branch.  He furiously scratched the back of his head with grimy hands. I could hear the scraping of his fingernails against his dry, leathery skin.

Bale was human . . . but maligned. He looked frail, but possessed a strange, sinewy body. He had deep blue eyes that bulged from his eye sockets and a large mouth that extended well into his cheeks. He was hairless, save for a smattering of long, wispy hairs on his head and chin. One ear was grotesquely larger than the other and it flopped over. His hands were surprisingly long and his fingers ended with broken, overgrown nails. He wore no shirt, but covered his privates with a dirty, gray cloth, which looked like a loose-fitting diaper.

He sat on his haunches with bony knees pointed toward the sky.

I arrived at the tree with my heart constricted.

He saw me. Then he stared at me quietly. One of his eyes kept twitching uncontrollably. He scratched his chin.

And then I saw them . . . the red dots. He had open, festering sores all over his body. Some issued trickles of blood and others oozed a thick, white pus.

Bale’s mouth opened. His teeth were jagged, yellow, and broken. A sound came from the back of his throat, a sort of soft growl that sounded like broken glass scraping against stone.

“You’ve come,” he said.

“Yes, Grace sent me.”

His lips closed and he gave a soft grunt. “Yes, of course she did. Grace is my friend.”

“I see.”

“Grace is my friend,” he repeated.

“So she said.”

He gave another scratchy grunt. A string of pus fell from his leg and landed on a leaf, resting below the tree. The leaf sizzled and hissed and then shriveled up.  My eyes widened as I watched the leaf harden into a moldy nugget, like a deformed pit from a nectarine. Within moments the pit shook and cracked open. And from it some kind of beetle broke free and pattered away.

And then, the sore on Bale’s skin, from which the bug was born, completely disappeared.

I took a step back.

Bale laughed, which sounded like more broken glass on stone.

“Disgusting, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Um . . .”

He laughed again, amused.

“So, why did Grace send you?”

“Um . . . well, she said it was time for me to meet you.”

“She said that, did she?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm . . . yes, I suppose it is time. You’re close, ya know?”

“I . . . I’m close?” I stammered.

“Yes, you idgit!” he hollered. “Even I can see you’re close, but you talk like a damn fool.”

I suddenly felt incensed by his lack of manners, which gave rise to an empowered heat in my chest. I stood up straight and steadied my eyes on him.

“You have a lesson for me,” I said curtly.

Bale squeaked at my sudden fortitude and his one eye twitched faster. When his eyelid calmed again, he spoke.

“Do you know what I do? Do you know why I have these sores all over?”

I pondered only a second and answered quickly, “Judging by Grace’s occupation, you must be the one to take on the sores of the living . . . just as Grace takes on the scars.”

“Hmm . . . close, my good man. Your guess is close. I do, in fact, take on sores . . . but not from the living. I take them from the dead.”

“But what do the dead care about sores? Surely, the dead are not affected by such festering vexations.”

Bale gritted his teeth – as if to hold back a wince of disapproval.

“You know nothing of the dead. You do not know how they walk. You do not know how they move on from this realm to the next. You do not know how they suffer. I take from them their sores so they may move on to the divinity for which they are meant to wield.”

“Well then, Bale, how is this of use to me? What lesson am I to glean from you?”

My tone mocked him and I stood tall.

But this was an affront to him and he leaped from his tree, shrieking loudly all the way to the ground.

My eyes went wide and my breath quickened.

Stumbling backwards, I tripped in the thick soil and fell flat on my back. Grace’s warning rang in my ears and I instinctively threw my hands up to protect myself.

Bale heaved sharp breaths into the air. Pus oozed to the ground at his ankles and more beetles formed. All of them ran away except for one, which raced up my pant leg and dug its pincers into my calf.

I screamed. I smacked the outside of my pants in the general area of the pain and I heard a crunch.

But it was too late.

First, I felt a tingling sensation grow from my leg and then it began traveling up to my groin. Soon my whole leg was numb and the feeling slithered up my torso.

“What is this!?” I screamed at Bale.

A smile curled on his ugly face and with a gentle voice he said a single word.

 “Venom.”

I looked back to Grace. I yelled her name, but she didn’t look up. She seemed busy, burying some kind of stake into the ground from where I had left her.

Bale stood over me and pointed a bony finger at my face.

“You will die now,” he said.

And then . . . I died.

Bale walked to my side and crouched on his haunches.

He waited.

Then he waited some more.

One of his hands cupped his chin while the other rested limply in the cold dirt.

And when he was sure I was dead . . . he touched me.

With deft hands he rolled up my pant leg and inspected the damage. The beetle was smashed. Bale scraped it off with the edge of his hand. My skin couldn’t feel his work. My eyes stared, unseeing, at a quiet, star-filled sky.

The gash from the beetle pincers had formed into an open sore. The pus flowing down my leg was yellow, but when it touched the ground it hardened and turned bright blue. When the shell broke open a brilliant, azure-colored beetle crawled out.

Bale scratched his head and sighed heavily. “This is gonna be a tough one,” he said aloud.

A voiced chimed softly from above him, “Get it over with, Bale. I have work to do.”

It was Grace.

Bale looked up at her and nodded. His voice relaxed, his eye stopped twitching, and he said, “Yes, old friend, I must be quick.”

He placed one of his long hands on my sore, closed his eyes, and began chanting in a mysterious language that seemed ancient. While Bale concentrated, Grace violently smashed the blue beetle with a rock. She pommeled it violently until it was a mash of guts and blue exoskeleton shards.

“I fucking hate the blue ones,” she said as she wiped sweat off of her forehead with the back of her hand.

Bale finished his prayers and removed his hand from my skin. The sore was gone.

“Your turn,” he said, jutting his chin in Grace’s direction.

“Good,” she replied, “we have time.”

She kneeled next to me and began spitting in the dirt near my shoulder. A small foamy puddle of her saliva formed there. When she finished that, she then mashed the dark soil into it, making mud. Bale helped by ripping my shirt open, exposing my chest. Grace dipped her forefinger in the mud repeatedly and drew a large cuneiform rune in the shape of a short lightning bolt directly over my heart. When she finished the symbol, hot steam began rising from it and it burned into my skin.

“We’re ready, Bale.” she said. “Now concentrate.”

Bale closed his eyes again and began humming a mantra. Grace placed both of her palms on my chest, stretching her fingers wide.

“Cover your ears,” she commanded. “This is gonna be pretty fucking loud.”

Bale did as he was told, but continued to chant. Grace stared at my face. Her fingers flexed. Her heart raced, but she breathed evenly.

Grace inhaled deeply and then, with the lungs of a titan, she screamed, “Live!”

Her cry stretched over several seconds. The magnificent power of her voice knocked Bale over and dirt exploded in all directions.

And then . . . I opened my eyes and breathed. I saw burgeoning light. I saw fading stars. I saw Grace’s face over mine. I saw Bale nearby, brushing flecks of dirt off of himself, but staring at me with quiet, reverent eyes.

Grace helped me to my feet, which were shaky and numb. I felt groggy at first, but my attention snapped into form when Bale spoke.

“I must be off,” he said.

“Of course,” answered Grace. “I'm glad I got to see you.”

Bale grinned wide. “Agreed,” he said. “Hopefully, we’ll see each other sooner than a few hundred years, okay?”

“Okay,” she said.

“As for you, my good man,” he said, pointing a twitchy eye at me, “I would shake your hand, but I can only touch the dead. Be well.”

And with that he turned on his heel and walked back to his tree. When he reached it, to my amazement, the tree shivered and moved. It took on a different shape entirely and one branch even reached down to pat Bale on the shoulder gingerly. They walked away together and disappeared into a valley still dark with the waning night.

“That was weird,” I blurted.

Grace chuckled.

“That, my friend, is an understatement. Now, take my hand while you get your bearings. We must walk back to where we started.”

I peered over the field of rocks and dirt and spotted the stake I saw Grace fussing with earlier. We walked toward it. When we arrived, Grace promptly let go of my hand and busied herself with a rope that appeared to be braided from a series of long, thin hair-like roots. I had no idea what plant they came from. The rope seemed intensely durable and was about three feet long. Grace tied an impossible knot at both ends and tightened one around the stake in the ground, which was as thick as my arm with an eyelet at the top. The stake was rusted steel and didn't budge at all when I gave it a decent kick.

Grace laughed.

“It’s not going anywhere,” she said. “Now, give me one of your feet.”

I did as I was told and Grace began tying the rope around my ankle.

“Uh . . . what now?” I asked finally, growing nervous.

“This is the second trial, my dear. Brace yourself . . . you’ll need your creativity for this one.”

“Oh Grace, can’t we come back to this tomorrow or something?” I whined. “Ya know, I did just kind of die and came back to life. I’m a little tired.”

“Hush,” she said, playfully slapping my thigh. “Dying is nothing. There are worse things than dying.”

She finished tying the knot and pulled it aggressively tight.

She continued talking, “For instance, drowning in a river of warm blood and then being brought back with brain damage would be worse than dying, especially for you who fears being alive without your faculties.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, “that'd be awful.”

With that, Grace’s eyebrows suddenly knitted together and her lips pressed tightly over her teeth. She slowly walked backward away from me uphill, leaving me tied to a damn stake in the gully of a hillside.

“What the –," I began. “Where are you going?”

“I can’t . . . I can't intervene. You must go at it alone,” she said somberly.

I realized I would now face the second of “The Grace Getters.”

“Who is this second muse of yours, Grace?” Who is it!?” I hollered.

“Blood,” she whispered. “It is every drop of blood that has been shed since the beginning of time.”

“Blood?” I said in disbelief, but just as I uttered the word a wave of warm liquid splashed over my feet and against the backs of my knees.

I looked down. I looked behind me. An awful heat rose in my chest. A river of thick, crimson blood had appeared in the gully in which I stood. The roof of the shack I spent the night in barely poked above the liquid’s surface and would soon be overtaken . . .

. . . and so would I.

Another wave hit me and the blood rose to my waist. The stake I was tied to had disappeared. I reached down to give the stake a tug. Nothing. I made desperate attempts to untie Grace’s knots, but it was no use. They held fast.

I had to cut the rope. I had to work quickly.

Breathing deep, I dove down. Through the current I searched the soil at my feet, looking for a stone with an edge. I could see nothing. I felt around blindly and frantically.

A round stone. No.

A curved, but dull stone. No.

I had to come up for air, but I held on, lungs burning. I could feel sediment and debris swiftly floating by my hands. I dug deep into the dirt . . . and then I felt it jutting out, a long and sharp rock. I jerked it loose and rose to the surface.

My body imploded with air and I coughed blood from my mouth. The level was up to my chest. I inhaled quickly and submerged again.  I found the stake and began working the stone on the rope against it. I had barely cut it before I needed to come up for air again. When I did, I could no longer have my feet on the ground. I took more desperate breaths, wading above the stake. If I didn’t cut the rope, this would be the last time I would breathe air.

I concentrated. The blood rose to my chin. I felt the rope taut at my ankle. I gripped the stone in my hand. I closed my eyes and inhaled all I could from above.

Each move, from then on, had to be precise. I pulled myself down with my tether, found the cut I made earlier, and sawed at it with mechanical, even strokes.

It finally started giving. I avoided panic, though my air had run out and I was feeling light-headed. I was tempted to give up and let the warmth of the blood cradle me into a sweet sleep. I turned the stone over and cut from the underside with sharp, pulling motions. And just as I was about to open my lungs to blood, the tether came loose.

I pushed off the head of the stake with my foot and exploded from the river. The current was already sweeping me away. Luckily, I’m a strong swimmer and made my way to the shore not far from Grace. I rested face down in the dirt with the long, sharp stone still gripped tightly in my hand and warm blood lapping at my feet.

Grace walked toward me then helped me up. My clothes were soaked. I looked back at the river, which had leveled out, but had no signs of receding.

The blood on me had run cold. I began shivering again.

Grace was unusually quiet. I looked at her and she averted her eyes from me and swiped the pads of her fingers under both eyes.

“Are you crying?” I asked. I had never seen Grace cry. She was normally stoic and neutral.

“Yes, now leave me be,” she answered.

“No,” I returned. “What is it?”

Grace sighed – as if to remember something from a long time ago.

“Fine, fine!” she blurted. “I lost someone close to me in the river of blood. They never got to the third trial. I am forbidden from helping at this stage; I had to sit and watch them drown. It . . . it killed me to see you struggle, to see you come up for what could have been your last breath.”

My jaw went slack. Grace had never spoken of this, even when we were in love years ago.

“Oh, don’t fuss about it.” Grace said, already regaining her composure. “Go on and get cleaned up.”

She forced a smile and pointed behind me to the abandoned bathtub I saw earlier. It was steaming with hot water.

I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the clean water gingerly, which promptly turned red. I dunked my head under and the water turned even darker. When I came up, Grace was sitting on the edge of the tub, legs crossed away from it, and one hand resting in the water. She looked as though she was paying homage to the moment.

“The blood is so nutritious, but it can kill you in a quantity too great,” she said softly.

I nodded while squeezing the excess blood water from my long hair. Grace looked at me and smiled. She was clearly relieved at my escape from blood death.

“What’s my third trial, Grace?” I asked after a few peaceful moments of our eyes staring at each other.

“He’s here now,” she said through her smile while pointing her chin over my shoulder.

I turned in the water, gripping the side of the tub, and spied two dark, robed figures heading in our direction. One was over 7 feet tall and the other was one third that size. The taller figure carried a massive scythe and each time the butt of it hit the ground the water in the tub rippled.

I sighed heavily and my eyes rolled, looking back at Grace.

“Death? Really? Ugh, I hate that guy. He’s so annoying and always chattering.”

“Come now,” Grace started, “show your respect, dear. You’re lucky he’s late. You would have died today had he been more punctual.”

I sighed again. I hadn’t seen him since my aunt’s funeral when he tried to recruit me as his replacement. As the two sauntered toward us, I exited the tub and put on the fresh clothes Grace playfully shoved in my gut.

“Well, hello there!” said Death cheerfully.

“Good morning, sir!” Grace said, extending her hand to greet him. They shook hands. Grace pulled away, shaking off the grip of Death.

“Woo, still pretty cold!” she exclaimed, massaging the freezing hand with the other.

“Hello Death,” I said flatly.

I knew better than to shake his hand. I didn’t have Grace’s constitution. I would have died immediately.

“Hello, my good man! It’s been a bit . . . since your aunt’s funeral, right?”

“Yes,” I answered, biting my tongue.

“And this must be your new recruit,” Grace said, shifting our attention to the girl at Death’s side.

The child was beautiful and no more than 10-years-old. Her hair was platinum white and straight and her eyes shone a brilliant ice blue. Her expression was serious and stern, but she lovingly clutched onto Death’s robe with a porcelain-colored hand.

Death patted her on the head with a bony hand.

“Show your respect, sweetie,” he commanded gently. “This young lady is my boss and this man is no slouch.”

Death had never complimented me, which made my body relax. He was probably more amenable because Grace was standing next to me. Usually, he’s mouthy and insufferable. The little girl released her hand from his robe and bowed before us with a down-turned face.

“What’s your name,” I asked her.

“She doesn’t talk much. Her name is Quinine,” explained Death.

“How pretty,” said Grace.

“Quinine? That’s interesting,” I interjected.

“Yes, both her parents died from malaria deep in the Amazon. I gave her that name when I took her in. It seemed appropriate and she liked it much better than Kimberly. You can also call her Quin for short if you like. She’s fond of that too.”

“Hi Quin,” said Grace, smiling at her. Quin’s face relaxed and she returned the smile.

“How long will her training be?” I asked.

“Oh, two or three hundred years. It will depend on her, but she’s picking up the job pretty fast though. She’s been under my care for only a couple years now and she’s already ushered at least a thousand deaths all on her own. A real natural she is. She can even carry my scythe for a good 20 minutes now. She’s been practicing. Haven’t you?” he said, pointing his eye sockets at her.

Quinine nodded quietly.

“Speaking of which,” Death continued, “it’s time for your final trial today.”

Grace nodded.

The palm of my hands grew sweaty and cold. I had been dealing with death all morning, but this seemed different. Death was standing in front of me. If I screwed up, he’d be right here to take me.

“What must I do?” I said finally.

Death looked at Grace.

“May I?” he asked.

“By all means,” she answered, opening an acquiescing hand in his direction.

Death bent at his waist and whispered in Quinine’s ear. She quickly nodded and tottered off some 10 paces away and stopped. She faced us, and then folded her tiny hands together. She breathed deep in concentration and exhaled some indiscernible word, an utterance more powerful than her small frame seemed able to carry. She stood solid and waited.

Death nodded an approval to her and then turned to me.

“I understand you died this morning?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered with a quivering lip.

“Good. And then, you almost drowned in the river of blood shed by the forbears of all time?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm . . . yes, you have died and then you almost died. And now . . . now, you must contend with the worst element found in death. You must carry it.”

Death paused. Silence seemed less quiet than usual; actually, it screamed from every direction. Death and Grace peered at each other. Grace’s eyes were serious and she swallowed hard. Quinine remained motionless.

Scythe in hand, Death stepped closer to me. His look was so eerie that my soul was tempted to surrender to him without a fight, just to get him to stop looking through me. He raised his scythe high in the sky, temporarily blotting out the beginning of dawn and then brought it down with a swift, agile thrust into the earth.

The ground shook. A sonic boom sounded from far away.

The scythe stood fast on its own. The soil just around it blackened and then turned to dust. The river of blood behind me bubbled. I looked back and noticed the current had suddenly changed directions.

“Things always change when death is around,” I said aloud, turning back to Death and Grace.

They both nodded.

“Carry my scythe. With it, you will carry the weight of death and all of its elements. Carry it . . . to Quinine and release it unto her. She will help you the moment you gently place the scythe in her hands. She will take on the terrors, the fears, and the abominations of death . . . but you must carry it to her. If you do not, if you drop my scythe anywhere other than into her willing hands, then she has been instructed to place you directly into your worst fear, to maim you at your neck, leaving your mind intact to suffer the prison of a motionless body for the rest of your life.”

The feeling of burning electricity charged my skin. I raised fingertips to my forehead and they came away damp with sweat. I looked to Grace for support. She said nothing and her eyes were far away. The chill of the air around me dissipated; I warmed it with a strange heat brought on by the notion of carrying death and facing paralysis, the worst of my fears.

I sighed and stared at the thick wooden handle of the scythe for several moments.

I sighed again.

I raised my shaking hand to it and I could already feel the screams on my fingertips. And then suddenly my hand retreated to my chest; it rested there over my heart while I contemplated my actions. I was about to carry all of death a mere 10 paces. I really considered the notion and it was difficult to imagine.

Think about it. If someone asked you to carry world-wide death for even just a few seconds, would you be able to do it?

I had to.

I had to be swift, for no mortal is prepared to carry such a weight. My breath leaned into the forthcoming weight. My hand harnessed all the moxie it could find in my heart.

Silence.

. . . and with what seemed like a sudden jump into a dark chasm I gripped the scythe with both hands, jerked it from the earth, and began walking it to Quinine.

The screams were deafening. Dying and dying and dying everywhere in my skull. The weight of the scythe alone was daunting and it threatened to burst from my arms to the ground. I grunted and my face contorted under the strain of constant and overwhelming death. I began seeing visions of the dead and dying. People, animals, plants, everything wailing in gut-wrenching pain.

Halfway to Quinine I began sobbing. Tears flowed from my eyes like the release of ancient, glacial floods. My legs were growing heavy. I hugged the scythe to my chest. My head became dizzy and my vision blurred.

I fell to my knees.

Grace inhaled a short, anxious breath and instinctively leaped forward to help me, but Death grabbed her elbow. She screamed in pain from the blast of furious cold issued from his hands. I couldn't look at her. I had to concentrate, but I wanted nothing more than to run to her and bring her comfort.

And this became my purpose to go on.

With a colossal effort I heaved myself back to my feet. The visions were unbearable and they continued with great ferocity. People being murdered. Dreadful accidents. Violence in war. Loved ones suffering. I blinked my eyes. Quinine was only a few steps away, stern-faced and obedient. And then, weaving between the screams and visions I somehow heard Grace whisper.

“She will be long and sharp,” she said. “She will be long and sharp.”

My heart swelled. A hidden chamber of my love unlocked . . . and I finished the walk to Quinine. She smiled affectionately as she took the weight of death from me. When the scythe had fully rested in her hands, I collapsed to the ground. My whole body shook and writhed in the dirt. Dreadful, uncontrollable screams issued from my lungs. I frantically pawed at my head to remove all I had just experienced.

And then I vomited.

Shoving Death aside, Grace ran to me. She knelt behind me and began smoothing the hair out of my face. My screams subsided to whimpers and then, I began breathing softly. My body stopped convulsing. My heart stopped racing.

I looked up at Grace. “They won’t stop,” I implored. “The thoughts won’t stop.”

“Yes, I know,” Grace whispered. “Believe or not, Death has given you a great gift.”

“What? This? How can these awful screams and wretched visions be a gift?"

“Yes,” Death interjected, walking closer, “the gift of perspective. From now on, until the day you die, you will know, with unparalleled conviction, the difference between right and wrong. Because of what you carried, you will consistently make better choices. You will consistently know what love to throw at fear.”

“He’s right,” Grace concurred.

Exhausted, all I could do was nod.

“Well Grace, my dear, if you no longer require my services, then I will take my leave. Quinine and I have a bit of ushering to catch up on.”

Grace helped me to my feet. I nearly fell over, but she held me up.

“Of course,” Grace said. “Thank you, Death. It was good to see you again, old friend, and I was very pleased to finally meet Quinine.”

I nodded respectfully to Death.

“Thanks . . . I guess,” I said to him.

“Ha! See you ‘round, kiddo.”

“Hopefully, not too soon,” I returned.

He chuckled.

Quinine handed the scythe back to Death. She placed one hand in his and waved to Grace and me with the other.

“Bye,” she said with a sweet voice.

And then, they both turned and walked away. Grace and I watched them for a while. Quinine began skipping, still holding Death’s hand.

“What a spectacle,” I said to Grace. “I can’t believe that guy works for you.”

Grace smiled at me, lips pressed together, and rested her head on my shoulder for a moment. When Death and Quinine had finally disappeared around a bend, we both sighed.

“Well, you've had a hell of a morning, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, something like that,” I returned.

I kissed her temple and beckoned her to walk with me to the top of the hill so I could finally be warmed by the sun. The light was about to spill forth over it. We walked for a bit, but then she stopped.

“I can’t go with you,” she said suddenly.

“What? Why?”

“Listen, when you were carrying death, I said to you ‘She will be long and sharp.’ Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

“Who did you think of when I said that?”

“Well . . . I . . . uh – “

“Go on now, you can tell me. Who was it?”

“Well, I don’t know who she was, Grace? But I saw a woman.”

“Describe her.”

“She was tall. She had strange, brilliant eyes that seemed to change color. She had a smile that put the sun’s energy to shame. And I remember the overwhelming feeling that she had seen things like I had, that she had learned lessons similar to me, that she was prepared . . . ready for the things I was.”

“Yes, that sounds about right,” Grace said. “I saw her too and now you know why I had to leave you when I did those years ago.”

It hadn't occurred to me Grace ever had any reasons at all for leaving me. I recall that dreadfully sad moment of being left hanging, not knowing what to think. I remember the feeling of stars exploding in my chest. I remember how scared I was that I would never see her again. I remember how it took her feigned death for me to change my love for her into one meant for friendship. And so, in time, my grief withered and my love grew again – like it always did with me when love was smashed to smithereens. With each end of a relationship, with each of these “love deaths,” I found new direction and new strength and new reasons to trust again. With each end, my personal mires had given rise to a love greater than I had previously known.

“You have finally arrived,” Grace said, seeing the understanding in my eyes.

“Arrived where?” I asked.

“Not to 'where,'” but rather you've arrived to ‘her,’ to the one who is long and sharp.”

“I have?”

“Yes,” Grace said, giving me her warmest smile. “Now, go to her.”

And with that she embraced me close, kissed me on the cheek, and glanced at the top of the hill. I peered in the same direction, eyes squinting through the growing light. The outline of a woman stepped into view. Seeing her for the first time, I felt pure awe wash over me. Her silhouette seemed majestic; her figure, alone, redefined beauty. She stood with her back straight, her chin slightly forward and her head held high.

I walked toward the mysterious woman. I didn't look back, but behind me I could hear Grace sigh wistfully and turn away from me. As I grew higher on the hill, I could hear her steady footsteps sloshing through the soft, wet earth left by the deluge of blood that, by then, had completely receded. The woman above would later tell me how Grace stepped into a small shack painted a deep red, but never came out. Therein, I'm sure Grace vanished to continue her important work elsewhere, to take on more scars.

Grace was gone, but not absent at all in light of all the heartache I had suffered over the years; my history with her and the support she relinquished unto me during those hateful times were still with me . . . and from her I gleaned powerful lessons. Through back-breaking personal reflection, from my heart doing all kinds of crashing and burning, and with Grace's undying presence, I had become more whole than I had ever been.

All this and more, I carried to the woman at the top of the hill.

And then, I was suddenly standing in front of her.

The morning sun filtered through her dark hair. Her eyes glittered and when I stared into them I felt as though I was committing a crime. In one moment her eyes possessed the color of emeralds, in the next they shifted to ice blue, and finally they rested at a deep grey. I was certain she could see right through me. My thoughts were clear. My care and compassion had gathered to a steady calm.

I would be warmed by this woman. I would be embraced by all that she was, long and sharp.