The Horseman of Death had a cozily sprawling home. He'd chosen the land for the view of the river valleys before. And, for the lovely way the limbs and branches of a massive oak tree spread and dipped outside what would become the window of his study.
His own personal space where he could relax after a hard day of ..Deathing. Terrifying Christians who simply read his name, and the names of his brothers. Spreading his hand here and there to make a bit more room. Trying to cheat his brothers and compatriots out of their poker winnings, blogging about the most absolute to DIE FOR doughnuts in three states. Very serious business really, all accompanied by the susurrous whispers of oak leaves in the breezes.
Once a month, rain or shine, hell, high-water or a hare-lipped Pope (ha!), the four would meet over coffee and discuss ... Well whatever the four horsemen had to discuss really. Usually it was such apocalyptic things as what color one of them should paint the den, or whose girl friend at the time was the most absolutely adorable, or most horrifically psycho. Sometimes these two things went hand in hand depending upon which of the brothers' pretties they were discussing at the time.
And so it was that on the day of their meeting for this particular month, Death was running a little late. Had something to do with an argument with his housekeeper over whether the shower grippies should be duckies or kittens (he'd been leaning toward flaming skulls, but it seemed they didn't make shower grippies in that particular style).
Toweling his hair as dry as possible, Death hurried out the door. More than a little disheveled, and more than a little harried, he'd finish grooming himself in the car.
"How's it gonna look if you, I mean you of all people, slip in that shower? -- And who needs a shower that big? I mean really?!-- And wind up dead?!" In a sing-song, prissily high voice he'd mocked the woman and her arguments. Carefully out of earshot as he didn't put it past her one bit to grease just enough of his shower floor to make his split his head on a wall or something just to prove her point. And lamenting the good old days when employees and servants were properly afraid, even terrified of their masters and kept their lips zipped.
It wasn't until he was more than half way to his destination, and unforgivably late, that he realized he'd forgotten his ring. His Signet of power. Knowing he was in for all kinds of teasing misery for both offenses, he kept going. Better to take what was coming on the ring than to compound that by being even later than he already was just to go back and get it.
Death's housekeeper, one Meredeth Noble, chose that afternoon to air out the Study. Room was stuffy, smelling thickly of those damn cigars he smoked for hours on end with the doors and windows closed. Puttering, muttering under her breath, she wiped down surfaces and straightened books and pieces of art. But never once, not in the long years of her employ, touched the carved bone box that looked rather like a small brain at the left upper corner of his desk. That'd be worth more than her ears to mess with. And since the master of the house had quite a collection of preserved human ears in frames on the walls, well it wasn't just a saying.
When the phone rang her muttering ratched up a notch to grumbling as she bustled through the over-sized house to answer it. And completely forgot to close the windows in the Study.
Now, that oak tree? The one that'd drawn Death to this particular spot in the first place? Well, you see, it was home to a small, but well established family line of grey squirrels. Their bloodline had lived in the hollowed out places in the great tree's trunk for hundreds of generations. They had status in the local squirrel community. All but one that was.
He was a bit ...err, special yes. Different to say the least, though quite a few of the folk thought there was a bit of pack-rat or chipmunk hiding in his nut-hole. Slender to the point of seeming underfed, a constant embarrassment to his mother as they had plenty of food and their stores were such that they often gave to the less fortunate in the community to keep from seeming wasteful hoarders (as opposed to useful hoarders). His fur most often sticking up in wild tufts in truly odd places; the sort of places that had other squirrel parents tugging their children behind them when they saw him in the woods. Just because they could did not mean they should. At least not half so often as they thought that one did.
And, he had the most abominable attraction for shiny things, odd things. Things that squirrels had no right messing with. At least not decent Woof fearing squirrels.
So it was that on the day that Death forgot his Signet, and Ms. Noble forgot to close certain windows, this particular squirrel happened to be scamper-skulking along one of the lower branches of the Great Oak. Looking for something to do, and avoiding the bath his mother swore he needed to take.
He'd nearly made his escape to the ground too, when a strong gust of wind moved his branch closer to the hole in the house that had its force field disarmed. And he saw it. He saw today's prize. Possibly the biggest prize any-rodent in the tree or forests had ever found. A huge, pale walnut. Sitting right there in the open, a gift from Woof (who giveth and taketh away, whose paws bring both life and death, whose teeth turned all folk into gooey bits to feed the forest with their passing...).
Now, he knew he shouldn't go into the Big One's hole, it was more dangerous than the hole of the last Woof in the neighboring country. Once, generations ago the greatest warrior the Tree had ever sheltered, had gone in there. He hadn't come out again. Though, there were legends that his body remained, poised on the edge of launching attack, just behind the head of the Big One whenever he went into that particular chamber of his hole. Forever frozen, never to return to the Tree. He'd been the very bravest among them. And a personal hero of our young lay-about squirrel.
When he as sure no one was looking (especially the Iron She), he'd skittered in through the opening, bitten back on his curiosity (now wasn't the time to explore really) and run up the leg of the stump where the Woof Sent Walnut rested. The shell was harder than he'd thought it would be, and tasted funny in his mouth when he tried to gnaw it open. Plus there'd been the Bzzt! that'd thrown him back off the stump with a funny numb-shaky in his limbs and a might puff! in his tail and fur.
Stubborn, and not to be beaten by some nut, Woof Sent or not!, he'd scrambled back up, and with a series of careful, and mighty (there must be a lot of nut-meat in there, it was very heavy) foot nudges -- and a lot of leg shakes and trembles from the Bzzt-- pushed the nut off the stump.
And crow-chittered in triumph when the shell burst, clean in two, after hitting the stone flooring below. With a thankful nod and bow of his head, and a rather disrespectful flick of his poofed up tail at the frozen body of his hero (come to think of it, why was there a bit of Tree on an other wise smooth run?), he'd bounded down to claim his prize.
Swaggering forward on all fours with joyous hops that ended in quarter turns, he approached the split nut.
And sat back in confusion when he looked inside.
What in the name of Woof's Bowels was this?
His own personal space where he could relax after a hard day of ..Deathing. Terrifying Christians who simply read his name, and the names of his brothers. Spreading his hand here and there to make a bit more room. Trying to cheat his brothers and compatriots out of their poker winnings, blogging about the most absolute to DIE FOR doughnuts in three states. Very serious business really, all accompanied by the susurrous whispers of oak leaves in the breezes.
Once a month, rain or shine, hell, high-water or a hare-lipped Pope (ha!), the four would meet over coffee and discuss ... Well whatever the four horsemen had to discuss really. Usually it was such apocalyptic things as what color one of them should paint the den, or whose girl friend at the time was the most absolutely adorable, or most horrifically psycho. Sometimes these two things went hand in hand depending upon which of the brothers' pretties they were discussing at the time.
And so it was that on the day of their meeting for this particular month, Death was running a little late. Had something to do with an argument with his housekeeper over whether the shower grippies should be duckies or kittens (he'd been leaning toward flaming skulls, but it seemed they didn't make shower grippies in that particular style).
Toweling his hair as dry as possible, Death hurried out the door. More than a little disheveled, and more than a little harried, he'd finish grooming himself in the car.
"How's it gonna look if you, I mean you of all people, slip in that shower? -- And who needs a shower that big? I mean really?!-- And wind up dead?!" In a sing-song, prissily high voice he'd mocked the woman and her arguments. Carefully out of earshot as he didn't put it past her one bit to grease just enough of his shower floor to make his split his head on a wall or something just to prove her point. And lamenting the good old days when employees and servants were properly afraid, even terrified of their masters and kept their lips zipped.
It wasn't until he was more than half way to his destination, and unforgivably late, that he realized he'd forgotten his ring. His Signet of power. Knowing he was in for all kinds of teasing misery for both offenses, he kept going. Better to take what was coming on the ring than to compound that by being even later than he already was just to go back and get it.
Death's housekeeper, one Meredeth Noble, chose that afternoon to air out the Study. Room was stuffy, smelling thickly of those damn cigars he smoked for hours on end with the doors and windows closed. Puttering, muttering under her breath, she wiped down surfaces and straightened books and pieces of art. But never once, not in the long years of her employ, touched the carved bone box that looked rather like a small brain at the left upper corner of his desk. That'd be worth more than her ears to mess with. And since the master of the house had quite a collection of preserved human ears in frames on the walls, well it wasn't just a saying.
When the phone rang her muttering ratched up a notch to grumbling as she bustled through the over-sized house to answer it. And completely forgot to close the windows in the Study.
Now, that oak tree? The one that'd drawn Death to this particular spot in the first place? Well, you see, it was home to a small, but well established family line of grey squirrels. Their bloodline had lived in the hollowed out places in the great tree's trunk for hundreds of generations. They had status in the local squirrel community. All but one that was.
He was a bit ...err, special yes. Different to say the least, though quite a few of the folk thought there was a bit of pack-rat or chipmunk hiding in his nut-hole. Slender to the point of seeming underfed, a constant embarrassment to his mother as they had plenty of food and their stores were such that they often gave to the less fortunate in the community to keep from seeming wasteful hoarders (as opposed to useful hoarders). His fur most often sticking up in wild tufts in truly odd places; the sort of places that had other squirrel parents tugging their children behind them when they saw him in the woods. Just because they could did not mean they should. At least not half so often as they thought that one did.
And, he had the most abominable attraction for shiny things, odd things. Things that squirrels had no right messing with. At least not decent Woof fearing squirrels.
So it was that on the day that Death forgot his Signet, and Ms. Noble forgot to close certain windows, this particular squirrel happened to be scamper-skulking along one of the lower branches of the Great Oak. Looking for something to do, and avoiding the bath his mother swore he needed to take.
He'd nearly made his escape to the ground too, when a strong gust of wind moved his branch closer to the hole in the house that had its force field disarmed. And he saw it. He saw today's prize. Possibly the biggest prize any-rodent in the tree or forests had ever found. A huge, pale walnut. Sitting right there in the open, a gift from Woof (who giveth and taketh away, whose paws bring both life and death, whose teeth turned all folk into gooey bits to feed the forest with their passing...).
Now, he knew he shouldn't go into the Big One's hole, it was more dangerous than the hole of the last Woof in the neighboring country. Once, generations ago the greatest warrior the Tree had ever sheltered, had gone in there. He hadn't come out again. Though, there were legends that his body remained, poised on the edge of launching attack, just behind the head of the Big One whenever he went into that particular chamber of his hole. Forever frozen, never to return to the Tree. He'd been the very bravest among them. And a personal hero of our young lay-about squirrel.
When he as sure no one was looking (especially the Iron She), he'd skittered in through the opening, bitten back on his curiosity (now wasn't the time to explore really) and run up the leg of the stump where the Woof Sent Walnut rested. The shell was harder than he'd thought it would be, and tasted funny in his mouth when he tried to gnaw it open. Plus there'd been the Bzzt! that'd thrown him back off the stump with a funny numb-shaky in his limbs and a might puff! in his tail and fur.
Stubborn, and not to be beaten by some nut, Woof Sent or not!, he'd scrambled back up, and with a series of careful, and mighty (there must be a lot of nut-meat in there, it was very heavy) foot nudges -- and a lot of leg shakes and trembles from the Bzzt-- pushed the nut off the stump.
And crow-chittered in triumph when the shell burst, clean in two, after hitting the stone flooring below. With a thankful nod and bow of his head, and a rather disrespectful flick of his poofed up tail at the frozen body of his hero (come to think of it, why was there a bit of Tree on an other wise smooth run?), he'd bounded down to claim his prize.
Swaggering forward on all fours with joyous hops that ended in quarter turns, he approached the split nut.
And sat back in confusion when he looked inside.
What in the name of Woof's Bowels was this?