Still alive - In Memoriam Sir Terry Pratchett

—THANKS FOR LETTING ME COME —said the tall, hooded figure carrying a scythe—. THIS IS OUTSIDE OF MY JURISDICTION.

—No problem —replied the pale young lady dressed in casual black clothes—, that’s what colleagues are for. We anthropomorphic representations must look out for each other, don’t you think?

—YES. YES, I SUPPOSE WE SHOULD. IT STILL IS VERY NICE OF YOU. THANK YOU.

—You’re welcome —said the lady, smiling.

Both figures stood unnoticed in a crowded room. Everybody, them included, was looking to a man that lied motionless on a bed. Only the face of the man was clearly visible, showing a peaceful facial expression framed by a bright white beard. The man was surrounded by his family, and a single cat was sleeping over the blanket, next to him.

—HE WILL BE MISSED.

—But he will also be remembered. He made a lot of people happy —she patted the cloaked figure in the back—, and he still will make a lot of people happy. Come on, go, don’t make him wait.

—YES…

The figure left his scythe resting on the wall and started moving towards the bed, avoiding the attention of the people gathered around the man, slipping between them and slowly, solemnly, reaching the foot of the bed. He took special care so as to not wake up the cat. He liked cats a lot, but he’d rather not be subjected to feline scrutiny right now. He wasn’t embarrassed of doing this, it was his job, it wasn’t his first time and it won’t be the last. But he still felt an awkward pinch of guilt when he called the man.

—SIR, IT’S TIME... —said the figure with all the gentleness he was capable of, but the bearded man did not move.

The hooded figure looked back to his colleague. Maybe the time was not right. Maybe it could wait. The lady had a sad smile on her face and an empathetic look in her eyes. It was time. It could not wait. He knew this, but it still seemed wrong.

—SIR, PLEASE, IT’S TIME —he insisted, clearly and carefully pronouncing each syllable.

The man opened his eyes and looked around, slightly confused, at first ignoring the bright blue eyes that stared at him from under the black hood. He quickly realised his situation and answered to the cloaked figure.

    —Ah, it’s you —the man looked perplexed and slightly amused—. I wasn’t expecting you.

    —SORRY SIR, IT SEEMED APPROPRIATE —Death pointed to Death, that was standing next to a door, smiling at them—. SHE AGREED.

    A smaller cloaked figure jumped out from inside the cloak of the bigger one. It nervously approached the bearded man and stopped at his arm’s reach.

    —SQUEAK! —it said, anxiously tip-toeing with its small skeletal feet.

    —HE ALSO WANTED TO MEET YOU —Death said, sounding as apologetic as he was capable of—. IT DID NOT SEEM AS APPROPRIATE, BUT I COULDN’T CONVINCE HIM.

    —It’s OK —said the man, patting the top of its skull—. Will I be able to meet all of you?

    —I DON’T KNOW, SIR. WE’RE OUT OF MY JURISDICTION. SORRY.

    —Stop apologising. It’s not your fault —he looked around him, with teary eyes—. I’d prefer to stay a while longer, but… I know...—he sighed, unable to finish his statement, and got out of the bed.

    He slowly and longingly looked to everyone who was there, with a smile in his lips and tears in his eyes. They seemed frozen in place, unable to see him, looking directly to the body on the bed. The young lady Death approached him, with a glint in one of her eyes, the one with the tattoo, that may or may not have been a furtive tear. She offered him a hand, and he took it.

    —Nice to meet you, Terry. I’m a big fan —she confessed.

    —I didn’t think you’d had much time to read —he joked.

    —I make some time for the books that deserve it.

    He chuckled. Then his eyes caught the sight of the door that was waiting for him. That door wasn’t in the room before. It seemed quite normal, but above its frame there was a plaque that read: “A Better Place”.

—There it is, isn’t it? —All the Deaths nodded in response—. Most depictions seem much more majestic.

—I USUALLY DON’T PAY MUCH ATTENTION TO IT.

—It’s not there for all people, either —pointed out Death.

—Have you peeked inside? —two Deaths shook their heads, the third one squeaked softly—. I see… would you mind helping me get there? I’m a little shaky on the knees.

—OF COURSE.

—It will be a pleasure.

Death softly put his skeletal hand in one of the man’s shoulders on one side, while Death offered his arm for the writer to take. The three of them crossed the room in silence, taking each step in unison, until they ceremoniously reached the door. Two sighs and a small creaking broke their silence.

—Well… —he said.

—WELL… —he said.

—Well… —she said.

—Thank you… really… I don’t want to go, but I appreciate the farewell party nonetheless. Thank you very much.

He straightened himself up, and dusted off his clothes. He suddenly seemed quite younger than a few seconds ago. He offered his hand for Death to shake, but she surprised him with a hug. It felt warmer than he expected. She kissed him on the cheeks, his white beard tickling her white skin. He then offered Death his hand to shake. He took it and, although his skeletal hand felt soft and dry, the blue light in Death’s eyes clearly reflected his tumultuous feelings. He turned to face the door and turned the handle. The door began to open, without so much as a single sound, but the man was interrupted by a clicking noise. The Grim Squeaker was running frantically towards him, carrying a black  hat. The writer smiled and touched his exposed head.

—I can’t believe I was going to forget that —he took the hat from the Death and gratefully shook his little paw—. Thank you very much.

—SQUEAK! —answered it, happily shaking it back.

The author adjusted his hat and looked once more to everyone present in that room, smiling sadly. He turned towards the door once more, turned the handle and, before completely crossing the threshold, spun around and with a small farewell flourish closed the door after him.

The Death of Rats, visibly saddened (for those capable of understanding its emotions), jumped to the arms of Death, who tenderly scratched its skull, while Death reached for his scythe, that was still resting on the wall.

—SOMETIMES I REALLY DON’T LIKE THIS JOB.

—SQUEAK! —agreed Death.

—Yes, I know —said the young pale girl—. And the pay isn’t very good either.

—HA HA HA. YES, THAT IS TRUE.

Without even a bit of ceremony all the Deaths left the room and time reluctantly returned to its usual flow.

On March 12 2015, a family lost a loved one, and an ever bigger family also lost a most cherished writer, thinker and overall wonderful person. Thank you, Sir Pratchett, for all the laughs, the puns, the surprises and the feelings. For all the worlds and characters. For everything. Thank you.

The Disc will keep on spinning!

“Do you not know that a man is not dead while his name is still spoken?”

Sir Terry Pratchett - Going Postal

P.S.: If you'd rather read it in PDF you can download the file here.