If Death Were A Horse

By Michele Acker

Excerpt

If Death took physical form, what would it be? A devil with forked tail and horns, or a skeleton in a black hooded cloak? That’s how most people perceive Death, as an evil presence that steals lives and captures souls. But what if Death wasn’t evil? What if Death was nothing more than an innocent soul forced to do the bidding of others? Might he not then have a different form, a comforting form, something out of our happy memories of childhood? What if Death were a horse, a carousel horse?

Every time he woke, it felt as if he’d been doused with kerosene and set on fire. There was no other way to describe the pain that rippled and burned under his muscles until he felt both lighter than ash and denser than stone. With the limited self-awareness of a child, all he could think was — it hurt.

After the twitching stopped, he caught his breath and took a step, almost immediately stumbling. He hadn’t always had four legs and each time he woke, it took him a moment to remember how to walk. Some nights were worse than others.

Reven tried to gauge the time. It was early still; the sun had barely set, turning the sky a bruise colored purple.

The first to rouse, he watched as his companions came to life. Glossy paint in a myriad of colors, blues, greens, silver and gold, softened into the dullness of living flesh and bodies moved, slowly at first and then with more certainty, detaching themselves from the supporting rods that held them in place during the day. Like him, none made a sound, only the whites around their eyes betraying their pain and fear.

Each night the pain grew worse as if they were living, or perhaps existing, on borrowed time. Some days it took every ounce of strength to wake up at all and after the first few nights, some of his companions chose not to wake again. He looked at them now, their bodies poised for flight, mouths open in a parody of laughter. Maybe they were laughing because they knew they were the strong ones and the others like him, who continued to cling so stubbornly to life in any form, were weak and foolish.

Off to the side were the two who’d chosen a different escape. They’d defied their master, or tried. Broken shells, bodies melted and twisted by powerful forces, they were left as a deliberate message to any who might have the same idea.

Where once there were twenty, now there was only nine.

“It’s about time you woke up, lazy excuses for horseflesh,” a voice called. “There are souls to collect this night.”

Reven—not the name he was born with but the only one he could remember—turned to regard his master. The man called himself Edward, though whether that was his real name or not, Reven didn’t care. In the end names didn’t matter. They obeyed him not out of friendship or duty but out of fear and the powerful desire to be human again.

“Come my pretties,” Edward said as he strode toward them, whip flicking with a muted snapping sound against his boot. “We have work to do.”

Reven turned, eyes drawn to the mural in the center of the carousel. Children’s faces peered out at them, forever caught in what Edward claimed were screams of delight. But he knew better. Screams of terror was more accurate, as children, taken before their time, were forced to exist in a hell of Edward’s making, compelled to look upon other children as they laughed and played, knowing they could never feel such freedom again. Edward loved his job. He reveled in their misery, engorged himself with their pain, took comfort in their fear. That’s how he chose them, by their screams. The louder the screams, the greater the terror, the more excited Edward became.

The only reason Reven and the others were free–––though freedom didn’t fully describe their condition, it was more an imprisonment of a different sort–––was because they’d been the first souls taken. Sometimes Reven wished he could change places with one of the children in the mural, but wishes had a way of turning deadly when you least expected it. For instance, he once innocently wished he could fly, now he could, but at what price?

For years it had been like this, the slow accumulation of souls, the repeated promises of redemption, the agonized yearning to be alive once more. But lately things had changed. The pace had increased. Instead of collecting one or two souls a month, now it was eight or nine, sometimes more, every night. Nothing was said, but Reven understood that Edward was growing tired of this half-existence, this almost-life, as much as the children he’d warped into service to be his soul collectors. Edward wanted to be free again, but in order to break away from the demons that controlled him; he had to purchase his life with the souls of a hundred innocents. Though Reven detested his job, he knew it was the only way to live again, and that was a goal he’d do anything to achieve.