Leaves fell in the grove. Orange, purple, yellow, and red. The setting sun shone into the tunnel of trees. The wind whistled away the smell of flowers, ash, and milk, allowing the scent of dead leaves and deciduous trees to blossom.  The leaves blanketed the sunlit path the son and his father walked, and even though they walked on a million leaves, their steps were only whispers.

 

The boy took two steps to his father's one. He wore a comfortable long-sleeved flannel shirt and jeans, and a short black waistcloth that had four vertical white lines down its middle, his family’s insignia. He did not like the scratchy boots his father made him wear, but it made sense. What else are work boots for except work?  He looked at his father and asked, “Is it true we can’t touch them?” 

 

The father kept his face forward, also wearing a checkered red and black flannel. He had a white well-trimmed but broad beard today, and his face wrinkled around his old silver eyes. A gentle smile crossed his lips at the question. “We can touch them. It is our bones that cannot,” he said, and the boy nodded, understanding. 

 

The father carried an engraved beech cane, a mahogany torch, and a steel axe with a handle made of bone.  “How do you always know what to bring?” The son asked, curious. This was the first time his father let him come to work. He always said it was too much for a boy so young, but his mother said something last night that changed father’s mind. 

 

“How do you pick what to wear?” Father always seemed to do that. Answer a question with a question. It was frustrating, but why did he pick what he wore today? Maybe he wanted to look like father, but that didn’t make sense because he hadn’t seen his father till right before they left, and the only thing his dad made him change was his shoes, while his mother put his waist cloth on to keep him warm. The truth was he wore what felt right. Not able to come up with a proper answer, the boy looked up at his father and shrugged. 

 

“The same is true for what I carry. I do not know why, but I will use them. Your mother is better at understanding this.” 

 

The boy gave his father a pointed look disappointed with the answer, but he chose not to argue with his father. He didn’t want to sour his first experience in the Grove. He looked ahead and saw the blinding light of the sun nearly aligned with the tunnel of trees. He spared a look behind him to the pitch-black darkness. His father told him that that’s how the tunnel worked. Pure light in front of you, pure blackness behind. 

 

The sun aligned perfectly with the tunnel of trees. 

 

“It is time,” his father said. 

 

Everything froze. The leaves gracefully falling before, now hung stopped in the air like marionettes with knotted strings unable to finish their show. The gentle breeze, once whistling, was hushed. The son was in such awe of the spectacle that he barely noticed the ruffling leaves on the path ahead. 

 

“Quickly now,” Father said running to the pile of moving leaves beckoning his son to keep up. The leaves were kicked up for a second and froze in the surrounding air. The boy continuously pushed leaves away that stuck to his shirt and pants while running.  

 

They arrived at the mound of leaves. The father went to his knees raking the leaves away. The son mimicked the motions of his father. As they dug the son saw a hand, an arm, a shoulder, a face. 

 

The dark-skinned man in the leaves gasped as he sat up. His face was withered and craggy. His hair was so thin most would simply call him bald. He let out a wet cough while father asked, “Can you hear me?” 

 

The man, surprisingly, laughed. It was an infectious laugh that made you feel like you were sitting at the hearth of your own home. “Yes, I can hear you,” he coughed out, with a smile and watery eyes. The old man looked from side to side noticing the bright light. “I take it I have to go there?” 

 

The father nodded as the old man looked down at his jeaned legs. He moved them slightly but winced in pain. “I can’t walk nearly as good as I used to. Could you boys lend a young whipper-snapper like me a hand?” His voice was worn and scratchy, but warm as the sun coming out after a rainy day. 

 

Father held up a palm shushing him and then braced himself under the old man's shoulder motioning his son to do the same. They both lifted the man to his feet. The old man let out a small cry of pain as they began to walk to the light.

 

As the boy touched the old man he could see the old man’s life. The hardship of being a child in the depression. Regretting the pointless feuds with family and friends. The birth of his children. Those same children going to school. Losing your job, and the rekindling of a long-lost friendship. The birth of your grandchildren and your family around you saying their last goodbyes surrounded by flowers and a rain of tears. All the hardships, the laughter, the joy, the love, flooded into the son as they walked closer to the light. With every step that the old man took toward the light, his footing became surer.

 

 The father pulled out the engraved mahogany cane and put it into the man’s hand. The boy let go of the man's shaking shoulder allowing him to take a few unsteady steps alone with the cane. The son and father stopped walking, letting the old man pace himself. The man continued to walk changing with every step, wrinkles fading, limp disappearing. The man let go of the cane allowing it to stand straight up, frozen in time, in the tunnel of leaves, as the man walked closer to the light of the setting sun. Once the man grew close enough to the light, he vanished with a burst of bright glittering yellow light as if a mass of fireflies were dispersing and returning to their homes. 

 

The pair returned to the pile of leaves. The father rooted through and pulled out a small palm-length piece of purple string, and held it up to the perpetual sun. “Not much for your mother to work with,” he said as he pocketed the string. “But she did excellent work with this life.”  

 

The boy nodded. He had never seen his mother sow, but he knew she took it seriously. It was her task as this was theirs. “I felt his life.” The son said. “He had so much sorrow and so much regret, but by the end, I...  he realized what was important.” 

 

“And what was important?” His father prompted. 

 

The son wasn’t surprised by the question. His father loved to hear his thoughts on things, and he truly considered most words his son said. 

 

“Love,” the boy said, shocked by his pithy response, his eyebrows furrowed, “Is it really that simple?” 

 

The father chuckled. “Son, every human has a fire within them, but most spend their entire lives never realizing that this fire can only be stoked by others. They hoard their flames, and in doing so, smother it.” 

 

His son looked at him and said the only thing he could to show true understanding.

 

“I love you, Dad.” 

 

Father smiled from ear to ear. “And I love you." Rubbing his eyes, he stood up and ushered his son to walk beside him. They walked towards the light, but unlike the man before, they grew no closer to the vibrant sun

 

 

A blood-curdling shrill came from the leaves. The father ran to a mound that seemed to be the source, and the son ran behind him. They dug through the pile revealing a thrashing screaming man. His shoulder burbled with blood. 

 

“Can you hear me?” The father commanded over the screaming, and the son was shaken with an unbelievable sensation to answer him. The man did nothing, but look at them and continue to thrash bouncing leaves into the air where they froze soon after. 

 

“He’s still alive!" The father said sternly,  "We need to buy your mother some time.” He tore his sleeve and tied it to the arm above the wound. “I need you to put pressure on the wound like we practiced. Now!” The son snapped out of his stupor, jumped into action, and did as his father asked. 

 

The man’s life rushed through him. Born into an impoverished family the man took any opportunity he could. He lost his father and mother to war so instead of trying to stop it he joined it. Bullets whistle past you as you run through destroyed home after destroyed home fighting back the invaders. One strikes you in the arm, the pain is greater than you have ever felt. Your bones crack. Your heart races looking for a way out. You have so much regret, pain, loneliness, and anger. It can’t be time yet? 

 

The blood stopped. The man’s breathing slowed as he sat up seeing the two blood-stained men. He moved his lips, but nothing came out. The father pointed to his own mouth and then his ear while saying, “Can you hear me?” Once again, the feeling to answer reverberated through the son, but the once-bleeding man simply shook his head. 

 

“Your mother did it!” The father beamed at his son, and let out a sigh of relief before grabbing the torch from his belt. 

 

The father lightly blew on the torch, and as his breath crossed over the top of the torch it lit. The warm crackle of the flame matched the color of the leaves. The flame, surprisingly, moved like normal. 

 

The father raised the torch to a suspended leaf letting the flames engulf it. The leaf seemed to dance with energy. It slowly moved towards the dark unknown on the opposite side of the grove. Father assisted the man to his feet, handed him the torch, and pointed him to the dancing ball of light. He mouthed the words “follow." The man obeyed walking towards the darkness, alighting more leaves. They were like palm-sized suns bobbing up and down guiding the man through the darkness until he could no longer be seen. 

 

The son peered into the pile of leaves and saw no string. Father grinned, and the son reciprocated that smile. They saved one.

 

“He was so angry at everyone. Dad, why do they fight so much?” He asked while wiping his hands, turning the leaves a new shade of red. 

 

His father stiffened at the question and his lips drew to a line. He looked directly into his son's eyes. A million lives with a billion stories lived within those eyes.

 

“I do not know,” he said turning his head towards the light. He brushed off his own hands, got up, and offered his hand to his son. The son accepted the answer. There are some things that not even his father knew. 

 

“Is that why humans say we don't talk? Because they cannot hear us till they fully come to this place?” The son asked as they continued their stroll.

 

Father, happy to have a question he could answer, said, “We cannot speak to the living." 

 

“You still say so little?”

 

“A single phrase remembered forever is more powerful than a lecture forgotten,” father said.

 

A mound of leaves next to them moved slightly. The pair rushed to the leaves brushing them away. Nothing was there, but then they heard it. A wail came from the leaves. Father became frantic as he searched through the leaves, tossing them in huge handfuls. Mud covered their arms and shirts until they saw it. 

 

It was a tiny human. A very tiny human. It was lying on its stomach in a garment that covered its entire chest and legs. The father flipped him over putting his mouth to the child’s blue lips and breathed for it. Its chest rose and fell, and then it didn’t. The father kept breathing and started to push with two fingers on its chest. The boy, stunned, looked in the direction of his home. Please, Mom, he thought, you can do this. 

 

The baby stopped crying. Stopped moving. Stopped breathing. It opened its eyes to see water floating just above its face, frozen drops that reflected the beckoning sun. Tears from father’s face. The son looked at the axe at the father’s waist worried about what would happen next. 

 

He held up his hand to his son. “Your waistcloth.”

 

“What?” 

 

“Now,” his father said. The son untied his black waistcloth with shaking hands. The father took the cloth and wrapped it around the infant. It cooed and smiled at the warmth. It seemed to enjoy having its arms tight against its body. It started to whimper and the father calmly said, “Can you hear me?” The whimpering immediately stopped. He started to walk with the baby in his arms towards the light. 

 

The boy ran after his father and pulled on his arm. “Where are you taking it?” He was confused, it was so young and had no business going to the world of dreams so early. 

 

“It is our charge,” the father said. 

 

“Why don’t we take it to the dark? Back to its home.” 

 

“You may try if you like.” The father offered the baby to his son, and the son greatly took it. He felt the life of the infant. Being brought into a scary and bright world, being hungry, being scared, being held by a warm man with a deep singing voice while falling asleep. Waking up in a bundle and unable to breathe you move but your arms don’t work the way they should. You cry but the pillow muffles it. You don't have the strength to roll over. And then you are here being held again. 

 

The boy snapped out of his vision and began to walk toward the darkness. He took a few steps but realized that something was wrong. He lost his balance, clutched tightly to the infant, and fell to the leaves. He looked down at his feet and was horrified. The skin and muscle had decayed away revealing snow-white bones. The baby started to cry from the fall. 

 

“There is a reason humans see us as only bones in their world. The strings of fate affect us more.” The father offered a hand. “Our bones kill them. Even if you brought him to his home, he would die again.” 

 

The son grabbed his father’s hand and was hoisted to his feet. He took one step towards the light and his feet became normal again. “So there is nothing we can do? This isn’t fair. Why do some get so much and others get so little?”

 

 The baby continued to wail. 

 

“Some strings are harder to mend than others. Your mother is wonderful, but not every life can be saved. Let us guide him to the next life.” The father started to hum the song he had heard from the memory.  The child immediately calmed. Once they grew close to the light. The infant vanished like the others.

 

They returned to where they found the child and saw several feet of sky-blue string. So much life was lost. 

 

“Your mother will be able to use this son. A single young life lost can save hundreds of future threads.” It was true, but it still felt ridiculously unfair. 

 

They continued to walk towards the light saying nothing until the father left the path and started walking into the wood. “Father?” The son asked. 

 

“There is something I must see.” 

 

They walked up to a tree like many others, but it had one remarkable difference. Not a single leaf rested on its branches.

 

“Is it dead?” The boy asked. 

 

“We can only hope,” the father responded taking his axe off his back and slicing off a single branch. The father looked at the branch, his face sullen as he looked at his son.  

 

“We Support those who suffer. We Guide those who are lost. We Care for those who cannot. We Live for the dead. We are Death,” the father said in a whisper, the four tenets of their order. "A new season of cold and pain is coming. And I will not be there to guide you." 

 

The son looked to his father, concerned. “Dad, what are you talking about?” 

 

“Son, it's my time.” The father reached over and clutched his son's shoulder. 

 

Lives raced through the son. 

He was a baker making bread for his family. 

A slave escaping from his torturer.

An artist painting a miracle. 

He was a doctor. A patient. A writer. A saint

A sinner. A politician. A teacher. A craftsman. 

Life after life after life after life surged into him. 

He was a woman trying to make ends meet, but hit by something on her way home with her kids. 

He was a man depressed with the life he was given, and choosing to give it back. 

He was a proud father taking his wonderful son through a colorful and beautiful grove for the first and last time. 

 

 

 

Leaves fell in the grove. Blanketing the sunlit path that Death laid upon. Orange, Purple, Yellow. Red. The setting sun shone into the tunnel of trees. The wind whistled away the smell of flowers, ash, and milk, allowing the scent of dead leaves and deciduous trees to blossom. Death sat up and looked side-to-side seeing nothing but the strewn leaves, a tree that bared no leaves, and a pitch-black string resting in his hand. 

 

“Dad?”