The Meaning of Death

Death in the King's Arms (or The Meaning of Death)

The peculiar punter:

It was an unseasonably cold night, and try as it may the modest fire that burned away in the King's Arms Inn did little to halt the advances of the harsh, frosty air through the gaps in its ancient windows. The 'hotel', as it is optimistically described on its creaky pub sign, offers three poorly equipped and scruffy rooms, and has as much success masquerading as a hotel as a London pigeon has pretending to be a bird of prey. The place was old and dusty, yet devoid of any genuine charm-a generous guidebook may stretch to say it has 'character'-like an old and interesting looking book written by a terrible author.
The bartender on duty, an unambitious young man of twenty four, was staring at the strange looking customer hunched on the stool in front of him. There were no other patrons at the bar, which only intensified his curiosity regarding the stranger, who proceeded to take another tender, nursing sip of his pint. He was in no danger of being caught staring as the shady figure had his head down. Whether this was a means of quiet meditation after a hard day's whatever it was, or a gesture that betrays his bitter resentment for his own existence (both poses he had seen performed more than once at this very bar) the young barkeep could not tell. One thing he did know for sure was that he had unusually bony fingers. Come to think of it he'd never seen such a fleshless, lifeless excuse for a hand in all his years, quite a feat considering the last four or five of which were spent babysitting ancient patrons on the verge of giving the proverbial bucket a good kicking.
After what seemed like an eternity the stranger's unnerving collection of fingers finally delivered the last sip of beer to his mouth which, along with the rest of his head, and come think of it his whole body, was concealed by a long, dark robe complete with a large baggy hood. The whole getup had the impression of something a priest from a twelfth century cult would don whilst conducting a rather nasty sacrifice for the Fertility Gods. The young lad wondered why until now this hadn't occurred to him as a curious garment to wear to the pub, or at all for that matter. He supposed he was too distracted by his hands. Now that he thought about it, he couldn't even recall the man entering the bar. It was as if he could only notice one thing about this man at a time, like the elusive specks of light behind your closed eyelids that slip out vision as soon as they're focused upon.
All of a sudden the bartender's head began to spin, and an array of vividly strange and morbid thoughts, like daydreams only in nightmare form, began to intrude on his otherwise tranquil, if not dull consciousness. After shaking himself back into reality he stared once more at the stranger. He couldn't help the feeling that he had something to do with that strange episode. Perhaps he was just feeling unwell, and this was just your average pub-going cult priest. Somehow he doubted it. He figured engaging in speech might go some way to providing answers to the thirsty riddle in front of him.
'Um-', he managed squeak, his voice catching in his throat the way it used to as a young teenager which produced a noise that carried all the thunderous authority of an anxious newt. 'Would you like another drink... sir?' He'd never addressed anyone in this pub as 'sir' before, but there was an iciness to the patron's presence that suggested he wouldn't hesitate to introduce the business end of a brick to any passing creature that merely looked at him in a way he didn't care for, so the side of formality was erred upon.
'I suppose it wouldn't do any harm'.
The shadowy customer's voice was disarmingly tranquil, yet frenetic at the same time. It was an audible paradox; a tone both rigid and jovial, like talking to a fun uncle at a funeral. It certainly wasn't the voice that our young bartender was expecting, which was more along the lines of the vocal lovechild of Bill Sykes and Hannibal Lecter.
'And there's really no need to address me as 'sir'', the not sir said, in a neither friendly nor hostile tone. There was an immense gravity to his voice. It resonated with an unnerving echo that gave the impression that it was coming from all sides, and yet it also pierced the ear with a decided unity.
'Oh, ok'. The barman mustered a nervous chuckle. 'Not one for formality?' he said, increasingly unrelaxed.
'You misunderstand.' The unusual client said with measured harshness. 'It's that I'm not in any way a "sir", or for that matter even a "he"'.
'A Sh-she...?' By this point the barman was confused as a professional footballer who'd somehow found himself playing University Challenge. The shadowy drinker did not dignify this with comment and continued.
'What I actually am is beyond your understanding of what you call biology. I suppose the easiest point of reference for you would be to call me an "it"'.
Our barman was sure that no gender-changing procedure could ever be so disastrous-or successful- as to warrant the results being labelled beyond all human science. His face betrayed his confusion.
'I am not human', the "it" said calmly, and upon the realisation that enigmatic riddling was getting nowhere, proceeded to spell things out.

Death Drinks Bitter:

'I am Death.' Death said. A rather long silence followed. 'Although did you know that my name actually derives from an ancient alter-dimensional word that simply means, "postman", I believe is the nearest human translation. For some reason you have all created the impression that I am in fact the one causing all the deaths'. If it had possessed such an organ, Death would have tutted light-heartedly. 'I simply go and collect the souls when their time is up'.
The barkeep looked down and suddenly realised why the stranger's hands looked so lifeless. They were in fact mere bones, not an inch of flesh on them. How did he not notice this before? He knew there was something horrible about this customer, but never had he thought for one second that the Grim Reaper himself had popped in for pint. He wondered if it was here for the landlord, or maybe diabetes Dave.
'Grim is hardly a way to describe a paying customer now is it?' the hellish postman said, although the word 'said' implies that these words came from someone else; this seemed to come from right within his own head. 'That's right, I can read your thoughts'.
Such was the young barman's sheer bewilderment that he may has well have witnessed a pack of two headed alien ferrets hover into the bar on a spaceship crafted to the exact likeness of Elton John.
'I can also tell that you're wondering why you didn't notice what I look like until now'. Indeed he was. 'This is simply because I have no distinct shape. You see, I transgress all dimensions perceived by humans, and thus have no consistent visual form. Once you knew I was Death your subconscious conjured up all the folklore and pop culture images of me that you could think of and projected them so that it has something recognisable to look at. The human mind is not developed enough to perceive another being beyond three dimensions, so I suppose it stands to reason that the best your simple brains can muster is an image of a decomposed person'. Evermore puzzled, the bartender stared hard at the one calling himself Death, and suddenly discerned two grim, gaping sockets that would normally harbour two human eyes. Beneath the great baggy hood nestled a fleshless face, leering at him with a skull's permanent grin. Death's skeletal jaw made no movements as he fed these words into the mind of the poor barman.
I should point out here that the only people I could persuade to read this story all the way through were bored elderly folk who were glad for the company and very impressionable children. So, for their sake I shall say only that what our young bartender said in this moment involved multiple four letter words peppered before, after and in between the phrase, 'What is going on?'
'Come now, don't make a scene' the reaper said with all the sympathy and understanding of a slave trader who has just been informed that one of the workers had taken a splinter to the big toe.
'So, how about this drink?' the reaper said, grinning.
'Wh- ok wh- how...' the bartender responded eloquently. He fumbled for a glass, a task that was successful in its ultimate aim but cost the lives of six others along the way, tumbling to the floor and causing a smash that seemed deafening in the silent room. While I invite you here to expel a good natured chuckle at the expense of our clumsy hero, let us also bear in mind that even simple tasks become a little more taxing before the ever watchful sockets of death incarnate.
The Scourge of Man refrained from harrying the boy any further for the moment, it was only natural that he needed some time to compose himself. It was in fact frowned upon for inhabitants of a spirit dimension to reveal themselves to humans unless the natural order of the universe dictates its necessity. Usually when a man's soul is removed from its fleshy chamber the shock and surprise only lasts for a few minutes before they themselves become interdimensional beings and quickly forget what it was ever like to be human. Our poor bartender, on the other hand, has seen Death and must now live with the memory, something very few in the history of man have had to endure. As for why the Lord of Shadows decided to make an unconventional appearance to this particular ale house, no one accept It Itself will ever know.

Big Ideas:

After a while our barman has calmed down immensely, soon able to form whole sentences without stuttering or crying, largely owing to the two to three pints that have now been consumed.

'-So, what...Why are you here?' the pint-pourer mustered.
'Every few centuries I like to indulge in a few intoxicating human beverages. Life as a multidimensional spirit does not leave much room for physical gratification.' The barman was relieved it was only beer It was after.
'I also thought I'd try and learn a little more about you strange fellows. You're the most curious creatures I've ever collected souls from. You spend your days utterly miserable, killing each other when diseases and nature aren't doing it for you, then endlessly wailing and moaning when I come to collect you. "Loved ones" this, "unfinished business" that. It seems you all resent being a human until the very day you cease to be one'.
'So, you want me to teach you what it means to be human?'
'Certainly not. The verb to "teach" suggests the transference of knowledge from one party to another. Are you suggesting that you know the true meaning of your life?'
'No, I suppose not.' the barman conceded, somewhat deflated.
'Your role is very much a passive one. If I am to understand the idea of identity I figured would have to spend time with a human being outside of my usual harvesting duties.'
The barman gulped a small gulp at the sudden realisation that he himself would be 'harvested' someday. He wondered whether it would be a fond reunion. Would Death even remember this encounter in decades (he hoped, in any case) down the line? He supposed it depended on how successful Death was in Its objective. Then a thought both chilling and vitalising swept over him, a question that rang and rattled through his mind, bouncing frantically within the perimeters of his skull. What would happen if death was successful, If It came to understand people? Would It stop taking souls in a bout of empathy? (Or was it 'sympathy'? He was always confused by the difference).
This unspectacular barman was now confronted with the dizzying prospect of rendering humankind immortal. He rather quickly warmed to the terrifying idea. It filled him with delicious anxiety, and he couldn't help grinning the grin of terrible optimism that broke out on his face.
'I wouldn't get any big ideas', he heard a voice in his head say. Not his own voice, there was no chance of a human's own brain reigning itself in once it was engaged in such lofty thoughts. No, it was our dear friend Death, speaking telepathically again. The barman jumped, as though someone had burst through his bedroom door during a private moment.
'Even if I managed what I came here to do, I'd have to keep collecting the souls. It's the way of the universe, I'm afraid.'
So our publican had to abandon the idea as quickly as it came to him. It all happened so fast that he didn't even have time to be disappointed. Nothing left for it, he thought, than to poor Death another pint and make the most of Its unusual company.

The Big Questions:

Naturally in the presence of a multidimensional super-being, once all fear and confusion had completely subsided, the barman realised that Death must have many answers that have thus far eluded the grasp of humankind. Three to five pints have been consumed at this point.
'-So what exactly happens when we die?' he asked as he slid a brimming pint glass across the bar towards the Reaper's expectant claw.
'I'm afraid questions of that magnitude are impossible for me to answer. Or, better said, for you to understand. Unless you happen to speak any interdimensional languages?' He did not. 'It would be rather like asking you to describe a colour you've never seen before'.
'Oh', he said, needless to say a little disappointed.
'I can only give answers that the human brain can reasonably process within its own capabilities'.
'What about God?' the barman said.
'What about him?'
'Well, does he exist?' the barman said with a somewhat understandable urgency.
'Who knows?' The barman was more than a little perplexed that Death Itself did not know. 'There are so many different versions of 'God' that your species have mustered up. It could be that deep within the brain there exists the capability to detect the presence of beings from a higher dimension. This would certainly explain the universal appeal of what you call religion'. Death took a hearty sip of beer. 'You managed to work out that I exist, so perhaps there is indeed a 'God' somewhere who has decided to pass its time meddling in the affairs of people. Given that there are infinite dimensions, it'd be no surprise if I simply haven't come across it yet'. Death took another sip. How was It even drinking?
'Then again', Death concluded, half gasping from the enjoyment of his beer, 'it could just be a species-wide jerk reaction to my existence; your own delusional way of coping with the fact that one day, as sure as the rising and setting of the sun, you will die'.
After this grim, albeit poetic note the barman supposed that was religion more or less covered. He had little to contribute for himself other than a vacant and submissive nod.

Immature Content:

Once the afterlife and religion had proved themselves to be disappointingly fruitless topics, our new friends' conversation moved on to something equally pertinent to the human condition. Between five and seven pints have been consumed.
'-So why exactly does masturbation mean we're not an advanced species again?'
'It's a primitive way of achieving pleasure; triggering your own reproductive organs for the sake of the sensation itself. It's always puzzled me. The very same humans that elevate the species: saints, scientists, leaders, have all at one point sat in solitude stroking and prodding themselves in an attempt to simulate the sensation achieved by reproduction'. Death took a pensive sip of beer. 'Come to think of it, I've come to collect many souls who'd perished during the act.'
'You have?' The barman couldn't tell if he wanted an elaboration or not.
'Certainly. Many have picked up the curious hobby of choking themselves near to death while they go about the business. I suppose it gives them a cheap thrill, trying to narrowly escape me'.
'Ah', the barkeep said uncomfortably. He'd certainly heard about it, but with equal certainty had never considered trying it out for himself.
'Perhaps it makes them feel powerful. Either way, they end up in my satchel of souls one way or another' (there is of course no such things as Death's satchel of souls, but Death thought he'd cater to the human's need for physical description. He also discovered some time ago that these lowly folk love alliteration). The barman had little to say to this. 'In any case', the Dark One continued, 'whether one elects the near fatal manner of proceeding or the regular, it makes little sense for the species'.
'Well, when you put it that way...' The pint-pourer said meekly. 'I actually think it's kind of clever'. If the reaper had eyebrows it would've raised one. 'Well...' the barkeep ventured, 'If you think about it...' This was indeed the first time the man had ever thought about it in this much depth, but as a fervent participant in the activity he felt for once like a legitimate authority on the matter at hand - pun very much intended, if you were wondering. '...If you think about it we've kind of... tricked nature, I suppose. I mean, we've taken something that's supposed to only do something functional, and turned it into something fun'. While our minimum-wage hero was far from stupid, trying to sound authoritative in an anthropological argument had the same effect for him as three children hidden in a large trench coat and a hat stumbling into a shop and asking for cigarettes.
The Dark Spirit's hypothetical eyebrow did not lower. This man is certainly no Plato, It thought; and It'd know, they'd been acquaintances in the after-world for a few thousand years now. Great chess player, he mused.

History is written by the victors (and those who happened to have a pen handy):

A few hours have passed since we last joined Death and Paul in conversation. I realise now this is the first time I've told you his name. My apologies. Paul is his name, and at this point Paul had found himself a little drunk. A glance down at the nine empty pint glasses in front of him confirmed his suspicion. Death was slurring and hiccupping as well. Paul wondered how a multi-dimensional being had the ability to get drunk, or even drink at all. He thought better of asking. His questions never seemed to get anywhere, and besides, Death had just mentioned something that sounded far too intriguing to interrupt.
'Not everybody actually died in the way that you are told they did-'. Death paused gracefully to hiccup. 'There are many lies.'
'What do you mean?' Paul enquired.
'Well', Death began in a half-belch, a remarkable achievement for one with no organs. 'For example. You're aware of 1067?'
'10-what?'
'1067. The battle of Hastings.'
'That was '66...' Paul said, the first and last thing he would say in the night with any conviction.
If Death had a person's face, it would at this point be squinting and looking quizzically around the room, as if tracking an invisible fly, before finally realising his error.
'Yes. Of course. 1066. So, a question for you: how did Harold Godwinson, king of England, die in the battle?' Death's sockets looked expectantly at Paul.
Even in the haze of what was now ten pints of master brew he detected a trick question, but he obliged nonetheless.
'The French hit him in the eye with an arrow. Went into his brain'
'That's what they would have you believe! Haha!' Death was curiously jovial. Was that even possible? 'What really happened was...'
Now, if I were to type out the story exactly as Death told it, the amount of stutters, slurs, digressions and tangents that occurred would make it too great in length and too little in coherence to make it worth either my time or yours, so I'll take it upon myself to explain it on His Deathliness' behalf:
The common account goes that the Anglo-Saxon king, Harold Godwinson, died in glorious battle courtesy of an arrow to the eye that went into the brain. The battle of Hastings was a rather busy day for Death, but given that It is an omnipresent being, It managed to mop up the souls and also take note of the real sequence of events that lead to the demise of poor Harold. Fighting on the side of the English (although 'fighting' is a rather flattering description of what he was actually doing, we'll give him the benefit of the doubt) was a young man named John, who, like most reasonable people would be, was scared witless by the carnage around him and the general prospect of taking a sword to the face. Showing an impressive turn of foot despite his mead-oriented physique, he made a break for the hills, but in his haste managed to run into the unsuspecting King Harold, propelling him head first onto a nearby rock. In a heady mixture of fear, guilt and more fear, young John spied a stray arrow on the floor of the battlefield. To glorify the King's legacy and, more importantly, prevent anyone finding out that he had in fact bowled him over with all the grace of a six-legged clown at a rodeo, he strategically impaled poor Harold's lifeless head, proclaiming in his most loud and authoritative voice that the king had fallen graciously in battle. The rest, as they say, is history, but naturally dear John made sure that it was his version that was remembered, lest some monks decide to create a woven account of the whole affair. He doubted it, but you can never be too careful, he thought.
Though Paul predicted full well that such a story was coming, he nonetheless found himself amazed and amused in equal measure. 'Wow, who'd have thought...' he said.
'And that's just the beginning. There are-' Death paused for another hiccup '-a lot more misleading deaths than that. You'd be amazed'.
Paul listened in wonderment as Death revealed more truths about the demise of some famous figures. Here are my own personal favourites:
The victims of the man known as Jack the Ripper were in fact          members of a league of assassins belonging to a secret          anti-establishment society. 'Jack' was a high-profile member of          the nobility, and was a priority target for quite some years. Their          disguise of preference for their operation was innocent prostitutes.          John, as was his real name, was somehow able to fend off the          attempts on his life which naturally took place late on foggy nights          as the innocent man made his way back from the ale house.          Unfortunately for him, the police became suspicious of the          increasing number of deaths that linked back to him and denounced          him as a prostitute murderer. They pursued his trail, forcing him to          live a life on the run, but after hiding at the homes of some of his          aristocratic connections that believed his innocence and a number of          bribes to the police, he remained undetected.

Abraham Lincoln, despite his popularity, was immensely          disheartened at the multitude of right-wing and bigoted American          population. For all his success, he realised his task as president          was ultimately futile, and staged his own death by convincing a          suicidal alcoholic who looked remarkably like him to take his seat          at the theatre and be shot by Lincoln himself, disguised as a          wayward assassin. He lived out his remaining days staying with a          friend who owned a rum shack in the Caribbean.

Leon Trotsky was indeed killed with an ice-pick, but not in          fact wielded by an assassin. One day as he sat in his office          contemplating the philosophy of his beloved communism, he came to          the sudden realisation that it can never actually succeed in a          modern society owing to the greed of human nature. Feeling suicidal,          yet eager to bring his formerly beloved system down and save          millions of lives, he ceremoniously killed himself with an ice-pick          he had lying around from a hiking trip, hoping that it would jolt          people into questioning the whole thing. However a certain Joseph          Stalin, eager to carry on his tyrannical reign, instead denounced          Trotsky as a heretic and fabricated an elaborate assassination story          that claimed one of his agents had in fact introduced the climbing          implement to poor Leon's face.

The Other Side:

Around twelve pints have been consumed. Somebody dies.
Paul was feeling the effects of the night's merriments. He struggled to wrestle his surroundings into any form of comprehensible vision and felt he may as well have been viewing the world through 3D glasses from the vantage point of an upside down merry-go-round. Our friend Death must have been in a similar state, though his cold, dead sockets and poker face grin gave nothing away.
All of a sudden Paul felt a small vibration pulsate through his chest. It proceeded in a gentle but menacing rhythm, ceaselessly rippling through him. He was sure he could make out the quiet melody of a song drifting through the ether. Paul was panicking. He looked up, and as his eyes met Death's stone cold stare, he knew. He thought a million thoughts in that one moment, yet his head felt empty. Memories unremembered for years swiftly and gently clouded his mind like an ethereal mist, caressing him and whispering to him all of their feelings and sensations before dissolving in an instant. He saw Death slowly reach out a grizzly skeletal hand, the hand that would take him out of this world, away from all he knew and all he loved. Death's unforgiving claw made a path straight for Paul's heart, reached into his top left shirt pocket, and retrieved a mobile phone, still vibrating and blaring out an incredibly annoying ringtone.
With a somewhat reinvigorated appreciation of his own existence, Paul exerted an extortionate effort to press the answer button and put the phone to his ear. He could only just decipher his father's voice.
'Hi Paul. Terrible news I'm afraid, son. It's your Grandmother, she's passed away. They reckon it was a heart attack. Let me know when you're back home from work. Your mother could use some support right now'.
The next thing Paul could recall was straining all the muscles in his face to lift his heavy eyelids, and once the faculty of vision returned to his intoxicated sockets he found his surroundings to be standing at a strange angle, with the floor and ceiling to his left and right as opposed to the traditional above and below. Upon recognising the kiss upon his cheek of the cold and sticky floorboards that laid the foundations of the pub, he soon realised that it was his own horizontality that was causing his environment's jaunty new posture, and slowly began to pick himself up from the floor.
Two factions of pain waged war on his head. One was quickly identifiable as severe dehydration; as familiar as it was unwelcome. The other, he gathered, must have been the result of his head greeting the floor on his way down to a non-consensual kip masterfully choreographed by alcohol and gravity.
He looked around for any sign of his otherworldly companion. Death was nowhere to be seen. There was no way he dreamt the whole episode, he thought. It was so real. Although as his memories of last night became more and more elusive and his headache evermore present, he began to doubt himself.
All of a sudden he noticed strange tickling sensation that seemed to run down the back of his head, like a cool liquid had been poured over it. He reached a hand round to identify its cause only for it to return reddened with blood. He felt the steady stream reach his neck and shoulders, before dripping to the floor. Even in his current state Paul could see that he was in a spot of bother and needed to call someone, but his attempts to reach his phone were fruitless, dizzied both by his loss of blood and the alcohol levels within it. As he felt consciousness leave him he could just about discern a tall dark figure looming over him. It had two bottomless pits where its eyes should be, and where one would normally find a mouth and lips, only a white, grinning jaw bearing a large set of exposed teeth.
'Death', Paul mumbled, meekly.
'That's right'. Replied Death, with a characteristic lack of sentimentality.
'I don't feel so good', was all Paul could muster.
'I imagine not. Come now, the suffering won't last much longer'. A bony hand reached over Paul's head.
This time Paul's life did not flash before his eyes, but drifted slowly into view, each memory and thought seeming to last whole seconds. He thought of his family and his friends. He tasted his tenth birthday meal again, and felt sick again on his first roller coaster ride. He thought of his innermost confessions. 'I didn't think Star Wars was any good to be honest' he murmured, barely audible. He never dared tell his girlfriend, who had every collector's edition.
Paul flashed a vacant smile towards his most unusual of drinking buddies, who would now take him from this world to the next, as It had done since man took its first steps.
Paul would be found two hours later by Janet, who comes to clean up in the morning. She would scream and call an ambulance but it would, of course, be too late. There would be a modest funeral, with no shortage of tears and prawn sandwiches. In years to come, Paul would be forgotten by the world, which continues to turn on its axis without him.
A sad end to the tale, I know, but take comfort in that away from this world, what appears here as the clap of thunder begins with the rumble of laughter at the Afterlife bar which, as we all know, never closes, and never will. Though it is impossible for me to describe to you his exact surroundings (I would need to write at least six novels just to describe what the ears of the Afterlife bartender look like), let me assure you that Paul laughs there in eternity. If you don't believe me then one day, far from this one I hope, you will find out for yourself.