Young Writers Society

I see the rose again. It's still in the dirt, soaking up the blackened, charred mud as the blurry background brightens into a burning inferno. I feel the footsteps as they fall, soft and graceful, each sound an echo in my mind that pulses painfully. I hear the hissing, a low, constant sound that I can't place. I can't move, and the panic of being caught overwhelms me. I watch the rose begin to die as its doomed petals rot in the boiling mud, every pounding drop of rain shoving it into the ground farther and farther. I feel the heat from a distant fire, and struggle to pull my gaze from the rose. There is something in the distance that will help me to understand, I know it, but my body refuses to respond. I am forced to watch the rose melt into the char and slop.

Then everything stops. The rain is frozen in midair, the rose's cycle of decomposition is halted, and the heat does not waver, but remains one steady stream of warmth. Time has stopped moving forward, and has chosen to stand still.

The footsteps stop, and I see the outline of a woman's bare legs just behind the rose. She's blurry, and as she bends over to let a hand hover over the fallen petals, I make out just enough to realize she's completely bare. Long dark hair touches the ground, the strands blending perfectly with the mud and soot. She touches the rose, and it shrinks back into itself, collapsing into the ground at the base of the stem. She pulls her hand back, and brushes away the rot. A dew-covered sprout of a plant shines angelically with a dark green beauty, each thorn sharp and the leaves hiding away a new bud. The rose... is reborn?

The woman laughs softly, and the sound carries into my mind like a diving bird. It slams into me with wave after wave of gut-wrenching pain. Suddenly, she stops. And I locate the source of the hissing. She looks up, one finger to her lips, and her eyes flutter open. I see the color behind the hair that cascades over her features.

Red. Piercing, knowing red.

Someone punches me. Very hard. My eyes snap open, and I glare at the source, not quite remembering what I was dreaming about. "Wha..."

"Charm, wake up! What are you doing out here?!" I hear Vical, and frown. I'm really not in the mood for her right now. I reach out for my blanket, but touch something else. Damp strands of something... wait, is that grass?! I could have sworn I'd put down rugs on the floor, so even if I fell out of my hammock I wouldn't sleep in the mud. 

I rub my eyes so the groggy film of sleep fades away. I look around, squinting against the falling sun, confused. "Where am I?"

"In the middle of a field, you twit!" She hisses angrily, shaking me as she sits me up and presses me to her. Is she... actually hugging me? That's it, I'm still dreaming. I close my eyes and settle into her, smiling happily. Thank you, kind dream, thank you... "We've been looking all over for you since morning! You never came back last night. Where were you?"

Last night? "What about last night?" I ask, yawning. She pulls me back to look at my face, and I pout. I didn't realize how cold I was until I snuggled up to her apple-scented self. Vical has a motherly feel about her, I think. It's comforting.

"You went to put out flyers, and never came back." She growls.

My eyes fly open. I'm not dreaming. The flyers... something happened, and I was supposed to tell Joker, but I don't remember now... "I don't... remember. Vical, there was something real important I had to tell Joker, but I can't remember it now."

She looks at me blankly. In fact, she almost pales. "You don't need to talk to Joker."

"What?"

"You will not talk to Joker!" She screams, panic bleeding into her eyes. She grips my arms so tightly it hurts. "I don't want you anywhere near him, Charm; I mean it."

"Why!?" I grumble; I'm irritated now, because I hate loud noises when I first wake up. However, something in the back of my mind is telling me it's strange Vical is freaking out like this. She never acts like this. I mean, she'll get spooked by Joker, or whatever it is that she does, but she's never outright panicked about him. Especially not when it comes to me.

"He's dangerous, Charm. I'm serious, I don't want you to be around him for the next week or so. At least until he calms down."

"Calms down?" I'm so confused, and too tired to really put the pieces together. I just want her to spit it out and get it over with. 

Vical brings her hands up, slaps my cheeks, and squeezes them together, squishing my face. Holy freakin'... what the 'ell has gotten into her?

She turns my head, squeezing my face harder until I stare right into her green eyes. They glisten with fear, and I find myself gripped by it too. "I saw Joker choke Lith, Charm. I saw him wrap a hand around her neck and squeeze the breath out. They were arguing about a woman or something--someone he used to know--but they kept calling her 'Death'. It was so confusing..." She shakes her head, sighing in frustration. "But he choked her. She deserves a lot of pain, but not that. Not from Joker."

Terror seizes me, because I believe her. The raw honesty in her eyes tells me I can believe her. It scares the living 'ell out of me. "Joker...?"

"Don't speak to him. Avoid him. Stay near me, if you can. If you see him, hide. Don't speak to him till I tell you it's safe, okay?"

"Okay." I choke out, and she hugs me. What... happened? I can't remember last night, Joker's gone nuts, and Vical is hugging me. This is all so weird, I'm real tempted to take it as a dream and chunk it. "Okay." I whisper again, more for myself. I'm already thinking of good places to hide. Whatever happened last night, mixed with what happened to Vical... for some reason, it's making the fact that Joker harmed a circus member all the more believable. 

He's like a dad to me... why is this happening?

I glance over Vical's shoulder and feel her tremble from the cold. She doesn't have a coat on. How quickly had she run to search for me? How far has she wandered? I didn't know she cared that much. A happiness swells in my heart, and I smile, despite the shaking my knees have started.

I watch the setting sun, and realize I must have slept through the whole night and day. I look into the red, and something makes me sick. The red... that disgusting, horrible red...

Mental images of blood dripping, roses rotting, and burning towns flashes behind my eyes until the images settle on two eyes that flutter open, revealing that cold, smiling red, devious as the thief that could steal anything.

I hug Vical tighter, and cry. Because I'm scared. Because I find I suddenly can't trust Joker anymore. Because everything has changed.

I feel... hunted. 

*****

We open the book, sit down on the crate, and wait for the Joker. Jester lounges on the desk, her eyes smiling at us as we flip through the aging pages. We read a few paragraphs, and recognize the text. We have this book as well, but we had not realized that Joker read them as well.

The Laws Of Life, Death, And Fate. A rare book that's impossible to find if you don't know exactly what you're looking for. Some people believe in a God. Others believe in spirits. There are a few who believe in many gods and goddesses. But us--and apparently, the Joker--look upon Life, Death, and Fate as the three forces that control our cycle. Our belief is not a religion. It is a respect we hold for forces out of our control.

We scan the words as we rustle through the book, seeking the page that a bookmark rests. When we open the pages and see the slip of ribbon that holds the page, we also find a painting. Brilliantly colored, the picture depicts a woman sitting on a rock ledge, looking at a field graced with autumn, a steaming mug in her hands. Her dress is almost exotic-looking with how it cuts and flows, exposing the shoulders but hiding the neck. We look at her the curve of her cheeks, the bowed lips that curve into a slight smile, and the glimpse of red eyes behind dark chocolate locks of hair that partially hide her features, and we smile, because we know the face. We saw her eleven years ago, shortly after the death of a friend. She comforted Joker, and we believe he fell in love. Then one day, she was gone, and we never saw her again.

Joker hasn't been the same since then. 

We let our smile fade slightly as we move the painting from the page. What a strange place to hide the painting of a lost love. Our smile drops completely when we look at the picture on the page of the book. We had forgotten this section, for it had been a long time since we had read its contents. The picture was of a woman, dark hair flowing about her, her arms spread wide as dark, wispy lace curled around her body. Souls reached up for her, gripping her feet and legs, knowing she was their only salvation. Her eyelids are slightly open, and we see the red of her eyes. We see the familiar facial features. We see the slight, devious smiles that curves her bowed lips. And we look at the title of the chapter.

The Lady Death.

A choked scream falls from our parted lips like a dying animal; its breathlessness takes away any volume from the shriek, and only we can hear it as it echoes through the tent. Those red eyes seem to glint as they stare at us, the title glaring in our face as we remember the contents of the book. Even as we reread the sections--as we turn the page and come to the circumstances--we know. The words pop out like saplings in a bare field.

Death shall only leave her realm and enter the any given human realm if there is a disruption in the flow of the cycle, and a mortal soul is caught in the human realm. 

We skip ahead, and once again the words catch us.

Death must free any soul who remains in its body even after passing.

We remember our friend that had died; recalled her horrid murder. She had been waiting for another member to meet her just outside the camp. We think his name had been Siv... soon after he had found her, he had succumbed to suicide. We had always gotten the feeling that her soul haunted us. We had sensed the tension in the town we were visiting, along with Joker and Lith. But we chose to say nothing to the rest of the group. If we had spoken, she may have staid in her tent. She may have lived. They both might have.

We skip several pages, and find the familiar paragraph.

Death must never feel hatred nor love for a mortal soul. Death must never accept hatred nor love from a mortal soul. Death shall never come into contact with a mortal soul more than once in that soul's lifetime. If a mortal soul confesses hatred or love, that soul's memory must be wiped, and the soul must be removed from its current body and purified. If Death confessed hatred or love to a mortal soul, Death shall be removed from the cycle permanently and the soul must be purified.

The tent flap opens, and we turn to face Joker. He sees the pages, and we let him. "Joker."

"Persol."

"You've met the Lady Death."

"As have you." He says, not denying our accusation. We an't be surprised, at this point.

We frown, and stand. It does not matter that we are a third of his height. It does not matter that we are 12 years old. Joker has known our intelligence since he found us eleven years ago, shortly before we saw her. Our mind had developed strangely, and we are now smarter than several hundred men put together, and can hold far more information than the average person. We have devoted this 'extra space' to the circus and to our own personal interests. "Did you know who she was when you met her?"

"I did not. She told me, and gave me the book. I thought she was crazy." He smiles, and we do not understand why he has opened up so freely. Perhaps he knew that we would find out eventually. He knows us well. "But then she freed Aira's soul, and I believed her."

"You saw it happen."

"I did."

"And then she left?"

"No. She left a few days later. She never said goodbye." He whispers sadly, but we see the glimmer behind it, and we know. We know what he is thinking. So we voice it.

"She never said goodbye, so she never intended to stay away."

Joker smiles, and sits down next to us. "Precisely. I know that if you found out, and if you came to the same conclusion, it must be true. You're smarter than I could ever be,"

We agree, and smile brightly. "When she returns, we would like to speak with her. To converse with Death itself holds the opportunities of a billion books. We wish to learn."

"And so you shall," he says, taking the book from our hands. He replaces the painting, closes the volume, and returns it to his desk before pulling out a stack of financial papers. "Now there is one more person who awaits her return."

We nod. The anticipation will kill us.