The Old Man
Having seen the derelict church near the end of a rural town, Death walked through the nearly-abandoned roads where most of the houses were for sale. There were quite a few houses; some were small and dainty while others were more accustomed to wear and tear, being built like corporate buildings. Most of the houses were abandoned — probably since most of the population had left for the Big City — and town residents were seldom seen outside of downtown; that was where the population coalesced.
Death, with her hands in her pockets and still wearing her all-black attire, stopped at each house to view its architectural elegance; unfortunately most of them lacked beauty but some were quite nice to see. However, the houses were old and alone. They had been betrayed by their close ones, and now stood motionless, listening to the hollowing winds.
It wasn’t long till Death stumbled on the church. It was a poor thing, which begged for piety. Its foundations were merely two floors and it stood short and its psyche was easily bullied by its Big City counterpart; there the church stood like a tower, watching over its worshippers. This church however was more cubic and had its white paint falling off on the outside. Overgrown weeds and teenager-trees littered its front porch and there were no windows, save one long oblong cylinder fitted at the front, near the right side. It used to have a chimney but it was discontinued after the 1960s. Now that old chimney was enjoying its retirement in a warehouse, in a distant city where the churches too stood like towers.
Death went up to the door — it was brown and had mold on the borders — and knocked on it. There, after a few seconds of contemplating her actions, Death was introduced to the old priest whose hair had gone white. His purple robes were cut too short, so they dangled near his knees; there were yellow-stained stockings over his hairy legs. The old man, surprisingly, did not wear glasses; he didn’t need them. His vision was a camera.
“Are you the landlord?” the old man said, raising his head to get a better look at this goth woman.
“No.”
“Then are you interested in buying this church?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here? There’s a better church in the Big City.”
“I’m here for a little sightseeing.”
“What?” the old man said. His hearing was not so great so he had to stick out his ear to hear Death talking.
“I said: ‘I’m here for a little sightseeing’.”
“What’s there to see but old houses with sale signs? Go downtown or something.”
“Well, sometimes there’s more than what you actually see. Sightseeing isn’t just about seeing; you have to take in many other factors: the smell of the city, the weather that pounds on you at any moment, and how generous the charities are. Then you need to worry about travel and what car model you want to drive in and how much gas you’re willing to buy for the trip. But I don’t have to worry about traveling; I have my own way.”
“So,” the old man said, with a cruel and irritated look on his pimpled face, “you’re a sightseer, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Then get the hell away. I don’t need new-generation bastards looking for the meaning of life by doing some ridiculous things here.”
About to shut the door on Death, Death said, in a hurried fashion:
“Do you like to listen to music?”
“Eh?”
“Music. Do you like to listen to it?”
“Well, it was an old pastime of mine; it doesn’t matter to you.”
“Well, I know a nice studio somewhere here. Would you like me to guide you?”
“Get the hell out.”
And with that said, the old man shut the door, making the church itself shudder. The old man went, still in his robes, to the makeup-shift bed he had put on the side. He sat down on its foamy floor, which was soft like muddy loam, and put his blanket over his shoulders. The church was blanketed with a mute silence. But then, while resting, he heard something coming from the door. Faint whispers and melodies penetrated through the wooden door.
Oh! Rest above in light of day
And you with Death will go away
From dreams and things you saw in life
And you who walked towards your strife
♪ But rest with me; you’ll hope and find
The memories you left in mind
And come with me; you will enjoy
Your time again as a young boy ♪
But then your head then seeks away
To all the false and taken ways
But then realize the broken dreams
Can once outflow that narrow stream
♪ But rest with me; you’ll hope and find
The memories you left in mind
And come with me; you will enjoy
Your time again as a young boy ♪
♪ But rest with me; you’ll hope and find
The memories you left in mind
And come with me; you will enjoy
Your time again as a young boy ♪
♪ But rest with me; you’ll hope and find
The memories you left in mind
And come with me; you will enjoy
Your time again as a young boy ♪
♪ But rest with me; you’ll hope and find
The memories you left in mind
And come with me; you will enjoy
Your time again as a young boy ♪
The old man once again opened the door and saw Death with a small box in her right hand. The little box, its little lid now opened, was plaited with an obsidian tone. The old man looked over the box and saw a little recording device attached to the side still playing. The old man scratched his bald head and said:
“That song: where did you get it?”
“Well, I was sightseeing and happened to find it. Do you know what song this is?”
“Yes. It’s ‘Rest with Me’ … by the woman who used to be my mother.”
“There’s more like that in the nearby studio. Would you like me to guide you?”
The old man’s glassy eyes shone in the afternoon darkness.
“Yes.”
The old man went out with Death and walked the pavement.
“I think,” Death said, walking a little behind the old man, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
A few moments later, the old man had not known he had crossed realms into the Sleepy Plains. And then, he suddenly felt a great drowsiness overwhelm him. Death made him lay down on one of the many empty beds. Others were sleeping as well. Death put the white sheet over him and put the little box beside him. She turned it on so only he could hear it, for a time that almost seemed to be an eternity. The old man closed his eyes.
Thank You for reading. I’ll be gone for while after this. Don’t miss me —
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Ibn Nas © Poems and Short Stories, and Some Other Things in Between
