The Guardians of Death: A Short Story

© 2013 Scott Cresswell, Flickr | CC-BY | via Wylio

Lyle celebrated her twelfth birthday nearly a year after the end of The War.  It was a long, oppressive war that left the world impoverished, broken and depressed.  Like many children her age, Lyle’s father had died in The War, leaving Lyle, her mother and her grandfather together in their two room apartment.

Lyle’s family situation wasn’t unique, but she considered herself lucky. She didn’t have any memory of her father, any grief that plagued her soul during the bitter cold nights of winter.  She was an infant when he died and all she had were photos of him in his Army uniform, holding her tight like he knew what his future held.

All the fatherly things that fathers do for their little girls had been assumed by her grandfather. Her mother worked when she could find it, and her grandfather stayed at home in their small apartment; he cooked (his potato casserole was Lyle’s favorite), did the cleaning when he felt able and tended to Lyle like a daughter, tucking her in bed and telling her bedtime stories when work keep Lyle’s mother late. They shared giggles, lots of hugs and both loved stargazing, especially in the winter months when the air was clear and the stars seemed brighter.   “It’s in the darkness, “ her grandfather would say, “that you can see the stars.  And it’s in the winter night that our eyes can see them most clearly.”

Lyle knew her grandfather was getting old. His cane became more of an aid with each passing day. And she know – from the stories told to her by her friends — that one day the Guardians would come unannounced and take grandfather away. The Guardians, she was told, were a group of people commissioned by society to shield us from the pain of dying and death. The War, they said, caused too much heart-ache and the state of the world was too depressed to confront the realities of death. “It’s just better”, Lyle was told, “that the Guardians deal with it. They’re professional. It’s their job.”

Lyle dreaded the day her grandfather would leave. And the older she became the more she feared it. Like a specter that grew longer with the setting sun, so her dread of grandfather’s death grew each passing day.

And then it happened. She came back from school and … gone.

Tears streaming down her face, she begged her mother,

“Where is he? Why can’t I see him? Is he dead? Is he in pain?”

The questions flowed as profusely as the tears.

And Lyle’s mother did the best she could …

“He’s very close to death … probably a couple hours … he’s with the Guardians at their home … they’ll take care of him …. that their job.”

Lyle ran to the bedroom. The answers didn’t satisfy. She slammed the door shut and devised a plan. As soon as the apartment had become quiet, Lyle jumped out of bed, grabbed her winter coat and tiptoed out the back door.  The stars provided enough light for her to make her way to the Guardians’ home.

In and out of the back door came the Guardians, carrying dying bodies in and going out with the dead ones.  Dressed in their black clothes, they moved effortlessly, methodically and solemnly.  It didn’t take long for Lyle to find an opening in the rhythm to enter.  She slipped inside and slowly made her way down the darkly lit hallways, peaking into the various crowded rooms, looking for her beloved grandfather.  A lone, decrepit figure strode up and down the hallway, keeping watch over the hundreds of those dying and those already dead.

In the corner of a tightly packed large room she found him.  His chest rising and falling at a slow pace.  Eyes closed.  Unresponsive.  She grabbed his hand.  And whether by miracle or reflex, he grabbed back.  A grip that was at first tight, but as the night continued, slowly lost it’s strength.

She awoke in a daze, not knowing how long she had fallen asleep.  Perhaps an hour or more.  Lyle was so used to falling asleep next to her grandfather, that she must have crawled into his small cot at some point in the night.  His body was cold.  His lips a blueish gray.  His face a ghostly white.  He was dead.

Wiggling out of the cot and onto the floor, she knelt down beside him and — like he had done for her so many times — ran her fingers through the strands of silver that graced his familiar head.  She began to cry, but these weren’t the empty tears of hopelessness and confusion she had cried a couple hours earlier.  These were tears full of memory, of love; tears of grief.

Within seconds, the figure of that old, decrepit Guardian stood at the doorway.  His keen eyes identified the source of the crying and he barked:

“Don’t you understand how dangerous this is?! Don’t you understand that once you touch death” he took a deep angry breath, “it will never, ever leave you?”

In as much defiance as a twelve year old could muster, she leaned over and kissed her grandfather’s cold face.  Tears dripped from her nose.

And then words welled up from Lyle’s deep and out of her mouth:

“This is my grandfather.  And this was my final act of love!”  

The words came with such power from such a small person that the Guardian was momentarily shocked.  The room Lyle was in was dark and the dim light from the hall outlined the Guardians frame, obscuring his face from her sight.  He stood taller, gathered himself, puffed out his chest and replied,

“We are the Guardians.  This is OUR job because you cannot and should not do it on your own.”

Lyle quickly retorted in a simplistic but honest statement, “I can do what my heart tells me I can I do.”

The Guardian stammered, “Leave now.  You are not meant to see this.  You are not meant to be here.”

She trotted out of the room, past the Guardian and quickly proceeded out the back door as the Guardian shouted, “You had better wash your face and your hands … !!!”

Lyle walked back home.  It was still dark, but the stars seemed brighter than ever.