Short story in progress

Part three.

******

With the go-ahead given, Christina was next led into a small paneled room with a table in the center. Death touched one of the panels and it slid back to reveal a glass box, which he carefully moved to the table.

"Now," he said, "comes the difficult bit. I've got another staff for you, just made. But it kills the living; so if you touch it now you'll die. You've got to trick it into registering you as deceased. It can only kill you once. And that's what this little contraption is for."

The box had little for detail. Even the pegs it stood on were glass. The two sides Death had touched were clear, as was the top and bottom. However, the other sides were different. One was tinted pale red, the other pale blue.

"To handle the staff, you must be immune to it," Death lectured. "This is the ticket. It will hold your soul for you. Only place your hand against the red glass to draw your soul out, and then (if you can function) place your other hand on the blue to regain it. If you hold both sides at once, you'll start looping in and out of yourself, which is probably harmful. I haven't used it, so I wouldn't know. But don't ever remove both hands at once; there's a good chance your soul will get seperated, and I know that causes permanant damage. That's all you need to know... so whenever you're ready, Christina."

Fear rose in her as she looked at the little box. Doubts assailed her. "Will I be at all changed?" she murmured.

"You'll never die,' Death stated impatiently. "Otherwise no, no changes unless you cause them yourself. Get on with it or hit the road."

Christina glared at him, as he knew she would, and braced herself. Leaning forward she gently rested the palm of her hand on the red glass.

That was all it took.

First her memories drained away. The past, even five minutes, was forgotten. There was only here and now.

This lack of awareness didn't alarm her, or even strike her as odd. It had little importance. In fact, everything had little importance.

Her will to do things, to look, move around...that went away as well. Had she been thrown in a lake, she'd have made no effort to save herself.

The other still more intangible elements of her soul also got caught in the box. She was left standing there, hardly breathing, brown eyes utterly vacant. You could tell the box had something in it, as it was clouded over with purple-gray condensation. Death watched all this happen with great interest.

When several minutes went by, and it became clear that she was unlikely to move by herself, he stepped forward and removed her hand from the glass; then guided her from the room.

His staff was propped in the hallway, and her's had been put next to it. The only difference between them was that his looked extremely old,and her's was freshly varnished and just made. It all but had wrapping paper on it. He handed it to her without ceremony. In her state, she wasn't fit to appreciate it.

She took the staff blankly. Then her heart gave out and she crumpled to the floor. Death knelt and checked for a pulse. Found none. And no soul to stand up and be escorted to the station.

So he brought the glass box to her, thanking his lucky stars that he'd had the forethought to toss Isabella into the gardens. Then he positioned her left hand so that when he let it go, it fell against the blue side and remained there.

He didn't wait for signs of life, merely bustled off to the kitchens to ask his cook to pass the brandy. He'd read it was a good antidote to unusual shocks.

******

"Can I please let go now?" Christina asked groggily as the last of the coloured mist evaporated. She'd been there for over fifteen minutes.

Death tapped his steepled fingers together and deliberated. "You feel perfectly normal?" he asked.

"I'm quite alright. Just a bit tired is all. Now where is Isabella?"

"Still outside, and I can assure you she's fine. And you're apt to feel tired for a few days, considering you've just been killed-"

"-I think she should come inside now," Christina persisted, starting to grow anxious. Death, after swiftly examining the box, gave her leave to remove her hand and jumped up to fetch Isabella from the gardener's care.

Christina sat up and ran a hand through her hair, wincing as she encountered knots. Then she realised an angel was sitting a polite distance away, with a brandy decanter and a goblet by his side.

He was, for the most part, a typical church's depiction of an angel, with huge snowy wings and a white robe, though he'd rolled the sleeves up. His eyes were green and he had blonde hair, though he'd tied it back from his face. These were odd enough, but no church angel was ever depicted with a tall, puffy chef's hat.

"You're the chef," she stated. He smiled in response and poured her a drink.

"Algernon Barclay," he said with considerable pride, handing her the goblet. Crystal, she realised on taking it.

"Christina Abbott," she answered before downing the brandy and nearly choking on it. It had been a long time since she'd had spirits.

"I have to say I'm enormously grateful to you and your daughter," Agernon said when she'd caught her breath. "It was so dull before I had someone else to cook for. On a regular basis, you understand. Before, I'd usually have to invite old friends, and it's quite impossible to play host when you're cooking breakfast. I'm indebted to you. And I do hope you're enjoying the food?" he added anxiously.

Christina remembered Death saying he was tempermental on purpose, and smiled at the thought. "I've loved everything you've served so far," she said honestly. "And so has Isabella."

No more was said until Death came back with the girl. She said curiously, "mother, what are doing on the floor?"

Death cautiously picked up the box to store out of harms way as Christina said "just resting dear. Now come along with me. We'll go for a walk and I want to hear all about your day..."

(And that's where I stop today)