“Defeating Death”

DEFEATING DEATH
by Larry Hodges

* * *

Zargo glared at the postal worker. “Cretin! If you rearranged your route so I got my mail first, three hours earlier, then someday my work — defeating death — would end three hours earlier. 100,000 people on this sorry world die every three hours, and by getting my research materials to me three hours later, you’ve just killed 100,000 people!”

“We do need to work on our people skills, don’t we?” I said, my voice somewhat muffled from inside his robes. I was nibbling on a gerbil. Tasty. Yawning, I worked my way to the collar and peered out.

The postal worker timidly handed Zargo his mail and walked off, mumbling to himself. I knew that if the postal worker continued to come late, he’d be in serious trouble. Zargo was the Most Powerful Sorcerer in the World, according to the latest rankings in Sorcerer’s Digest, and it wasn’t healthy to make him angry.

Zargo glared after him, and then sorted through the mail.

“Aha!” he cried, holding up a small package. “This is what I was waiting for! Lizard toes, dragon lint, eye of squid, pinch of plutonium … yes, it’s all here!” He tossed the other items aside, including a new issue of Owls’ Life — I had a lifetime subscription — and raced to his laboratory to continue his research on defeating death. Immortality was his goal. Fine food was mine.

“Not so fast!” I said from inside Zargo’s robe. “You’re bouncing me around.”

“Then find another sorcerer!” he said, giving his robe another shake.

“Can I at least have my Owls’ Life?”

Zargo ignored me, shaking his robe even harder. I moved from under his bony arm to his belly, where he was softer and his shakes wouldn’t hurt so much.

“This is not exactly what I dreamed of when I was growing up,” I muttered. Zargo spent the rest of the morning in his lab, working on his immortality potions.

* * *

My name is Paulie. I am a sorcerer’s owl, a rare species with slippery reddish-brown feathers. Many years ago, I left my parent’s nest in Sorcerer Merlin’s robes to make my way in the world. Merlin was all right, as sorcerers go. He went far in the world of Camelot, mostly from advice from my dad, Archimedes, who also liked to lecture me.

“Son,” he said wisely, “you have to find your future elsewhere — you’re getting bigger and there just isn’t enough room in these robes for both of us.” So I left Merlin’s robes for the first time in my life.

A sorcerer’s owl lives in a sorcerer’s robes — duh! We are born, grow up, eat, sleep, grow old and die in a sorcerer’s robes. The only time we leave their robes is when we are old enough to seek out our own sorcerer and start our own nest. It’s a magical thing — once we get into their robes, they can’t get us out. They can’t even change robes — whatever robe they’re wearing when we get in they’re going to wear for the rest of their lives. (We’re fussy creatures and keep them clean, at least on the inside.) The most powerful sorcerers have tried to get us out and to change robes, and there have been whole issues of Sorcerer’s Digest devoted to these issues, but nothing works.

Few Sorcerers are happy about this. Just this morning Zargo again tried to get me out of his robes, using green flames he’d conjured. I’d been sleeping, but something woke me up.

“What the?” I’d gasped, coughing as I came awake, breathing in smoke. Holding my breath, I’d worked my way to the collar and was able to breath in fresh air. Then Zargo started screaming — his robe was on fire. Green flames licked over us as he batted at his robes. He raced to the bathroom and, fully robed, doused himself in the shower — and then shrieked when the water came out freezing cold. Buried inside his robes, I could not stop laughing. Neither the green flames nor the cold water bothered me as Zargo’s latest attempt failed. It put him in a foul mood.

Zargo worked until early afternoon, then put aside his books and potions. “Now, to serious business,” he said. “I can’t put up with late deliveries any more. I’m calling the post office to take care of this.

Ten minutes later, Zargo put the phone down, quite pleased with himself. The postal worker who’d been delivering his mail had been fired. Not only that, but the postal service had promised to make his postal deliveries first each day, ahead of all others.

“Only I could make convincing serum work over a phone line!” he happily said as he put away a potion.

“And only you would starve a poor bird,” I replied. “When are we eating?”

“OK, OK, I’ve had a good day,” Zargo agreed. “Even you can’t ruin that. Let’s eat.”

A few minutes later Zargo was bent over a bowl of his favorite fried gruel. He’d tossed a frozen shrew in the microwave for me. “You’d think such a powerful sorcerer could get fresh rodents,” I murmured.

“Would you like a first-hand experience with the microwave?” he asked. An empty threat. I squawked anyway.

If I’d known what Zargo was like I would never have camped out in front of Zargo’s house after leaving Merlin’s robes so many years ago. There were hundreds of us owls, all looking for the chance to nest in the robes of The Most Powerful Sorcerer in the World. He’s regularly featured in Sorcerer’s Digest, often on the cover, in his trademark green robe and pointy hat with black polka dots. He can destroy a castle with a snap of his fingers, knock over trees with a glance, and blow up an enemy from a continent away, all while sipping coffee. Thankfully I wasn’t a continent away.

I watched the other sorcerer’s owls take their shots at Zargo, day after day. Zargo would come out to get the newspaper, or to water his lawn, or to get something from the shed, and one of them would fly at him, looking for an opening. His robe is open in the front, but it’s suicide to try to enter there, where he can see you. You have to hope for a distraction and sneak in at the bottom. At least, that’s the theory. While barely looking up — he seemed to have some way of sensing us — Zargo would wave his hand at any owl that came close and the owl would blow up. That’s right, just blow up, with a soft poof. A few feathers would fall out of the smoke to the ground and the next owl in line would take his spot, waiting for his chance.

I’d started out 77th in line, and it took a few weeks to work my way to the front. I sent off a goodbye letter to mom via messenger sparrow and prepared to become cinder #77.

Why had so many of us lined up to face almost certain death, just for the opportunity to nest in Zargo’s robes? Well, us sorcerer owls aren’t that high on the food chain. In fact, just about everything likes to eat us — wolves and goblins, lions and griffins, eagles and centaurs, you get the idea. But guess what? Put us in the robes of a powerful sorcerer and nothing can get at us — they have to get through the sorcerer first!

And what was the safest place in the world? Why, in the robes of The Most Powerful Sorcerer in the World.

It was finally my turn. Out came Zargo to get the newspaper, and I swooped in. It should have been my last action on this world. Only the owl that had been behind me — #78 — snuck in behind me and tried to butt in front of me. He probably hoped I’d distract the sorcerer. But Zargo waved at him (poof), and with robes fluttering behind him, nose buried in the newspaper, he turned to go back in the house. And that’s when I swooped in under his robes. He was careless; I was lucky; thus was born our “partnership.”

That was twelve years ago. Since then, I’ve had to put up with just about everything. Sometimes Zargo would spend weeks throwing spells and jabbing me with pointy objects, but all he did was hurt himself; spells and pointy objects just slide off my slippery feathers. Other times he’d curse at me for weeks. Often he’d just ignore me, wouldn’t even feed me. But he’d usually relent — did I mention that sorcerer’s owls that aren’t fed start to smell like a skunk? It’s not by choice, it’s biology. So we usually get fed.

We developed a regular routine, mostly made up of Zargo’s roars, my squawks, and the occasional grunts from the zombie in the guest room. Little did I know that our life was about to change … dramatically.

* * *

DAY 1

There was a resounding knock at the door at 6:00 AM.

“What the devil is that?” Zargo exclaimed.

“Huh … yeah, extra fat,” I murmured, in that sleepy state where I know what’s going on but don’t really want to.

Zargo ran to the door and tried to open it. But the door jammed. Exasperated, he ran to the window to see who had knocked. I painfully peeked out over his collar and saw someone in a black robe slowly walking away down the front walkway. The new postal worker?

“Hey, you!” Zargo yelled through the window.

“Yeah, chop suey…” I murmured, still half asleep.

The figure slid around the corner of the front gate and disappeared.

Zargo grabbed the door and tried to open it again, but it remained stuck. Irritated, he raised his arms — no door could hold him. But his irritation quickly changed to glee as he saw that the mail had been delivered through the mail slot, and he lowered his arms.

“Finally!” he said, nodding his head. “A competent postal worker who’s on time! I’ll excuse him this time for that knocking — but if he does it again, I’ll turn him into lice!”

“Yes, a nice slice of mice — on rice — would be nice…” I murmured.

“Wake up, you glutton!” Zargo roared, shaking his robes. I came fully awake, squawking.

Zargo sorted through the mail. Sure enough, there was another vital item for his research, along with the usual bills. There was also a strange envelope with a black silhouette of a hooded figure where the return address should be. Zargo opened it.

Inside was a nearly blank piece of paper, which Zargo held up to read. At the top of the letter was the same black silhouette of the hooded figure. Below it was scrawled one word, in blood red: “BASEMENT.”

Zargo shook his head. What could this mean?

Zargo walked to the basement door. It had been boarded up ever since an incident involving a rather unfortunate former assistant and a rather unfortunate game of ping-pong that had gotten out of hand. (”Magic and ping-pong,” Zargo had solemnly said, “don’t mix.”) Zargo frowned at the boarded up door. Then, coming to a decision, he made a gesture. The boards fell away like wet tissue paper, revealing a blank wall. Zargo stared in surprise.

“That’s not possible!” he exclaimed. “That’s where the door to the basement is, only it isn’t there!”

“Then you boarded up the wrong place, dummy!” I said.

Zargo ignored me. ” I will break through the wall, because the basement is there!” He again raised his arms and pointed both at the wall. Sparks flew from his fingers to the wall, but nothing happened to it. Creasing his brow, he tried again, but with more power. A solid blast of light shot out of his fingertips into the wall. Again, nothing happened. It should have been blasted to bits but wasn’t. The commotion woke the zombie in the guest room, which grunted, then went back to sleep.

“Not even a mark!” I exclaimed, peering out of the robe. “You’re getting old and fat.” But I was somewhat concerned. Rarely was there anything that Zargo couldn’t do — much less something as simple to him as breaking down a wall. I’d seen him, with just a glance, freeze a train going at full speed. (And then slip on a tree root as he fell in rather undignified fashion on top of me.)

“This can’t be!” Zargo said of the still-blank wall. He tried several more times. There seemed nothing he could do. But he looked scared — what could possibly thwart his power?

All he could do was return to his work. “I will defeat death!” Zargo exclaimed. “I don’t need a basement for that.”

“Even if it kills us,” I retorted, but Zargo ignored me.

“My work is almost complete,” Zargo continued. “Soon I will have the secret of immortality — and I will bestow it upon all of humanity! For a small fee, per person, of course,” he added.

“Such a do-gooder you are,” I said. My owlish smirk was hidden in his robes.

“What will it take to shut you up?” Zargo asked.

A few minutes later, I had my Owl’s Life and Zargo had peace and quiet.

* * *

DAY 2

Once again there was a resounding knock at the door at 6:00 AM.

Zargo raced to the door, determined to give the new postal worker a piece of his mind and a special spell he had prepared. But once again the door jammed, and all he could do was watch through the window as the hooded postal worker walked away. Exasperated, he raised his arms and lightning shot out at the door. The door didn’t seem to be affected. Zargo’s eyes went wide as he leaned over to inspect it.

There wasn’t a mark.

“This can’t be,” he said solemnly. What was happening to his great powers? Not to mention his house. In irritation, he pointed at the piano in the room. It burst into flame and crumbled to dust.

“So much for my piano lessons,” I said.

“OK, so I’ve still got my powers,” Zargo said. He pointed at the window and lightning shot from his fingers — but the window wasn’t scratched. Zargo tried again, but the window proved as impervious as the door.

“This is impossible,” Zargo said. “Nothing — nothing! — can stand up to my full powers.”

“Except an owl in a robe,” I reminded him. “And the basement wall. And the front door. And the windows.”

Zargo closed his eyes and concentrated for a moment. He hadn’t used all his powers on the basement wall, door or window — it took a lot out of him to do so. “All of my powers — Now!” With that, he pointed both hands at the door. Sparks, lightning and sprays of pure energy shot from his fingers. The colors were mostly orange, but as he continued throwing everything he had, the colors turned to yellow and then pure white. Bursts of refined energy exploded by the door, and only a rapidly improvised shield protected the rest of the room — and the sorcerer, owl and mail — from rather nasty burns. The room filled with fire and smoke. The curtains went up in flames and the rest of the room began to burn.

The door didn’t have a mark.

Zargo fell to the floor in exhaustion, next to the small stack of mail that had been pushed through the mail slot. With a strain, Zargo waved his hands and put out the fires. Then, with a groan, he fell asleep. Magic was tiring.

“What about breakfast!” I cried. I received no answer to my squawking for many hours. I finally went back to my beloved Owls’ Life.

Later that day, Zargo awoke. He had a massive headache and was extremely hungry. So he feasted on roast beef and fed me some guinea pig that tasted like it had been in the refrigerator too long.

He next spent some time trying all of the widows in the house, but all were impervious to his powers. Something blocked him from going up the fireplace. He tried knocking down the walls, but none would budge. There was no way out of the house.

The mail had been delivered that morning, but Zargo hadn’t looked at it yet. He sorted through it — and there it was. Another envelope with the black hooded silhouette. At the back of both of our minds was the word in yesterday’s mail.

“Don’t open it!” I cried.

Zargo tore it open. Inside was another sheet of paper with the silhouetted figure. On it was scrawled, in blood red, the word “BEDROOM.”

Zargo raced to where his bedroom should be, ignoring my squawks. Where the doorway should be was a blank wall. We both stared at it for a time. The zombie in the guest room peered out the door, wiped some slime off his rotting green face and went back to bed.

Zargo walked back to the living room, his eyes bleary. He spied the phone. He grabbed it and put it to his ear. How embarrassing it must be for him to have to do this — The Most Powerful Sorcerer in the World dialing 911! But before he could dial, the sound of maniacal laughter came out of the speaker. He put the phone down and lifted it again, trying to get a dial tone, but the laughter continued. He slammed the phone down. My eyes grew wide — something owls do well.

Zargo spent the day paging through dusty manuals and old copies of Sorcerer’s Digest and cursing. That night, having no bedroom, he slept on the bed in the guest room. We got little sleep since the zombie snored.

* * *

DAY 3

At 6:00 AM, Zargo was at the door, waiting. When the postal worker dropped the mail through the slot, he poured out all the powers that a half-night’s sleep and two hours of incantations had brought back to him. His powers shot to the mail slot, to shoot out at the postal worker, ready to turn him into a substance so repulsive it can’t be described. Only Zargo had such power.

But his powers stopped at the mail slot. The postal worker walked away. The mail lay on the floor.

There was no point telling Zargo not to look. Again, there was the envelope and the piece of paper with the black silhouetted figure. This time the scrawled word in red was “LABORATORY.”

“NO!” Zargo cried. He ran to the lab — but it wasn’t there. Gone was his work, his books, everything he valued. There’s nothing more pathetic than the sound of a grown sorcerer sobbing. But I did note later that day when his mood changed from despair to determination.

The days and nights went by much more slowly now.

* * *

DAY 4: “GUEST ROOM”

DAY 5: “KITCHEN”

DAY 6: “BATHROOM”

DAY 7: “DINING ROOM”

DAY 8: “STORAGE ROOM”

DAY 9: “HALLWAY”

* * *

Despite the most powerful spells by the Most Powerful and Determined Sorcerer in the World, we huddled together in the only room left, the living room. With no kitchen, we had to make do with various scraps, and let’s just say I didn’t smell too good. Losing the bathroom made it, well, a lot worse. When the guest room went away, Zargo had no bed to sleep on. (But at least the zombie was gone, which was good — sharing a room with him was spooky.) Worst of all, I’d left my copy of Owls’ Life in the dining room, and so it too was gone.

* * *

DAY 10

The mail dropped through the door slot. But this time there was a difference: the door opened a crack as the mail was dropped through. Zargo threw the door open and started to yell after the postal worker — but stopped when he saw that the postal worker was standing on the doorstep, unmoving, silent, his face hidden by the hood.

Anyone with common sense wouldn’t have touched the mail, would have moved to the farthest possible place in the room. Zargo picked up the mail.

He stared at the hooded postal worker. This was his chance to finally use his powers against this person. There was no rush — the postal worker couldn’t possibly get away fast enough. So, lips pursed, under the scrutiny of the silent and still postal worker, Zargo sorted through the mail. He found the envelope that he knew would be there. He opened it and brought out the enclosed sheet of paper. The silhouetted figure on the paper seemed especially black today.

I peeked out from behind his robe to look at today’s message. There was only one room left. But the words “LIVING ROOM” weren’t scrawled on the piece of paper.

Another word was written in blood red.

The word “YOU.”

Zargo froze, seemingly unsure of what to make of this. I had no such problem.

“I’m outa here!” I squawked, and for the first time in twelve years, fluttered out of Zargo’s robe and flew to the farthest part of the living room. I tried to make myself small.

Zargo was staring at the postal worker, a question on his lips. Then, with sudden resolve, he raised his arms. It was time to have it out, man to man, or rather sorcerer to postal worker. He was The Most Powerful Sorcerer in the World. He would use his full powers. He would kill this strange postal worker. He had many ways of doing so. Thus began their battle.

From Zargo’s palms, pure energy shot at the postal worker. Three distinct deadly spells flew from his fingertips. From his mind came the vapors of a death wish. He had unleashed his full arsenal.

The postal worker laughed at the futile attack and pulled his hood back slowly. Zargo looked into the face of Death … and died. A few sparks sputtered out of his hands as he fell to the ground and lay still.

Considering he was The Most Powerful Sorcerer in the World and his life’s work was to defeat death — well, death, not Death — it was a rather short “battle.”

The skeletal figure now turned to me with a toothy grin. Then, out of its mouth came that maniacal laughter that had come from the phone! Every feather on my body stood on end. The creature slowly raised its hand and pointed at me. Its lips formed the word “You!”

There had to be some misunderstanding. I tried explaining to the creature that I just lived here, that I’m no ally of Zargo’s — but it advanced toward me, still grinning. I didn’t think it had good intentions.

This would be an even shorter battle. And so I did what any terrified owl facing death from Death would do — I threw up, all over Zargo’s nice Persian flying carpet, which he’d stolen from some kid he called a lad in something or other. It was burned a little anyway, from Zargo’s attack on the door.

The creature advanced on me, still with that maniacal laughter, closer and closer. There was nowhere to go. Except one. It had been a long time.

I took a deep breath and dove into the creature’s black robes.

The creature’s laughter took on a decidedly different tone — a somewhat high-pitched squawk. Then it lowered in pitch and became anger. Extreme anger. After thrashing about for a moment, he tried pulling me out. He reached into his robes with his bony fingers, but couldn’t get a grip on my slippery feathers. After realizing this wasn’t going to work, the creature stopped and thought for a moment. And then smiled. A tooth fell out of his mouth and bounced on the floor.

The creature began to shake, side to side. Harder and harder he shook. The creature moved with lightning speed, whipping about, trying to buck me out. He twisted, he turned, he screamed, he jabbed at me with his bony fingers — jabs that would have knocked an elephant off its feet, and didn’t always slide off my feathers smoothly. He slammed against the walls of the house, and they went down, leaving us in the middle of piles of rubble. He did everything he could to get me out.

But he couldn’t.

Did I mention it’s a magical thing?

OK, the magic’s not perfect. Those bony finger jabs hurt! And the walls he slammed against were hard. But I hung on, and on, and on, for days and days. Crowds gathered to watch, there was round-the-clock TV coverage, and we even made the cover of Sorcerer’s Digest and (yes!) Owls’ Life.

The battle went on for weeks (boy, was I hungry — and smelly!), but even Death has his limits. I first noticed he was slowing down a bit after a month of jabbing and slamming me about. I also noticed he was holding his nose sometimes. Finally he collapsed and lay still. He looked … well, dead. And he was.

I had defeated Death.

Everyone soon knew the story of my struggle with Death. I was a hero, an actual celebrity. However, I also learned a strange thing had happened — everyone had stopped dying. Without Death, there was no death. I had accomplished Zargo’s life work for him.

The best part was that us sorcerer’s owls no longer had to face death whenever we try to nest in a sorcerer’s robes!

I now roost in the robes of a far friendlier sorcerer. As the centuries have passed I’ve traveled the world with him, meeting elves, dwarves, hobbits and men on various quests for rings and other things. I met a nice girl sorcerer’s owl, and she joined me in the robes, where it was getting rather crowded. Our descendants roost in the robes of unwary sorcerers to this day. Even as I do, since nobody dies anymore. We are facing a rather unfortunate overpopulation problem, but the sorcerers are working on solutions like expanding the planet or colonizing the moon and other silly ideas.

The lifetime subscription to Owls’ Life continues to be a bargain.

* * *

Larry Hodges, of Germantown, Maryland, is an active member of SFWA whose short stories have sold to a variety of venues such as Abyss & Apex and Arkham Tales. He’s a graduate of the six-week 2006 Odyssey Writers’ Workshop, the 2007 Orson Scott Card Literary Boot Camp, and the 2008 Taos Toolbox Writers’ Workshop.

Categories: Original Stories