Papin was waiting for Death although he wasn’t sure which version to expect. His faith had taught him so many interpretations of the end that the anticipation was getting too much for him. He was propped up against a rock wall with his buttocks on soft, black soil. Aside from the pummelling in his unnaturally angled, cracked left leg, he felt lucid and alive. Behind and above his head was the moss covered ridge from which he had fallen. He knew the nearest town lay too far down the mountain-side. Feral beasts would begin prowling the wildwood soon and Papin didn’t fancy passing the night where he lay.
Where was Death?
The crowns of trees and shrubbery swayed in a prolonged breeze. The sun was dropping over the mossy ledge, and the trunks and boughs in front of him became imbued with a transient golden hue. Papin wondered why he obsessed about Death instead of angels. After all, his faith had taught him about those as well. Perhaps the idea of begging angels to save his life seemed beneath him. Or perhaps he already knew he was beyond their reach. He waited nevertheless. Night appeared from the roots of trees, stealing upwards and seeping into and smothering every other colour in its melancholy cloak. High above, angels passed by, ignoring him. God remained otherwise engaged.
Death continued watching Papin as darkness came.
photo from unsplash.com by Tom Barret