Free On Black Wings by Sylvia Storm Page B

in the wind. I run my hand across my headstone, feeling the cold marble, enjoying the great amount of work that went into this cold and stoic tribute to my life.
    Do I know who it is?
    No.
    Does it matter?
    I suppose not.
    I speak without looking up. “Did the person who carved this even know anything about me?”
    “Oh, likely not.” The voice gives me chills in its powerful and deep resonance. “Just another pointless bit of remembrance to those who will never enjoy the craftsmanship.” He steps next to me, a very tall man in dark clothes. “Still, it’s the thought that counts.”
    I don’t want to look at him, he’s just another figment of my twisted imagination, but I look anyways. He’s tall, and dressed in all black. He looks rich, very rich, with tailored clothes, perfect fits, and an air of importance to him. Black riding boots, black pants, a black shirt, and a scarred and marred face weathered by the sun. He’s an older man, and his white hair blows in the wind, long and pulled into a wispy tail on his back.
    His belt is covered by pouches for coins, some loose, others stacked up neatly in cylindrical stacks. A pair of riding gloves sits in an open pouch, neatly folded and put away.
    He turns to me, his eyes dark and penetrating, a pair of round banker’s spectacles resting on his nose.
    “A measure of your time for your ears, and three measures for your thoughts. What say ye, Jessica?” he doesn’t smile, just closes his eyes and nods to me in a knowing way. The edges of his lips are wrinkled and dead, cracked with years of anger or hatred, laughter or tears. “I’ve been waiting a while to meet you.”
    “I never imagined God would dress in black.” I look into the sky. I’m not fighting him, there’s no point. I look back towards him. “So I’m guessing you’re not him?”
    “Correct. Such tragedy for the youth to see thou hurt in such ways,” he says, “but alas, mercy is blind, and so is tragedy. You are very smart, perhaps too smart for your own good. Still, I think he did well by finding you.”
    “Who?” There’s a cloud drifting by, it’s so beautiful. I sigh as it floats away from view. “Who found me?”
    “Oh, my horse. I am a man of many needs, and many whom call to me. My time is precious, a currency of which I invest wisely.”
    “Your horse?” Somehow, I knew someone else was behind this. I drop my head, biting my lip. I stare at my grave, admiring the smooth stone and how it reflects the light. “Can I ask why?”
    “Why is a good question, the beginning of many answers, or the beginning of many endings. To understand that you need to understand me,” he says, looking my way. I don’t return the eye contact. “It is understanding the balance. And I don’t think many can, Jessica.”
    “I have nothing to lose, so try me.” I stretch, shifting my wings on my back. If he wanted me dead, I’d be in the ground next to myself by now. You don’t torture someone this much unless you want to prove a point. Or you’re just a sadist. Who knows, he might be both?
    “Come and see.” He offers his aged hand to me. “It is within my purveyance to lecture those just starting out in this grand world, for you see, my time with you is like gold, and you should spend it wisely. Come.”
    I look at him. His deeply wrinkled face smiles like death itself smiling at me under those spectacles. I oblige, again, there is no point at fighting my nightmares, and I feel it only makes it worse for me. I must be going mad, I surely must.
    I take his hand and we walk. It feels good just to walk. Even if it is through the fields of death, they are at least green and pleasant fields of death. We walk through the tombstones, his hand slightly clammy, but it warms to mine as we stroll together.
    I don’t know who he is. His clothes seem slightly out of place, hand-stitched, tailored impeccably well, with antiquated little frills, black pearl adornments, and loops here and there. An