The hallways were ash gray this time of night. An exit sign on either end spilled an ethereal neon glow onto the floor. It was silent save for the light hum of the air conditioner. Hecate could feel the slight breeze coming from the vents on the ceiling. As her eyes adjusted, the pristine walls were slick like varnish. She smelled linen. The New Los Angeles Hospice Center was in its sleeping hours. To Hecate, it was as if the Center were itself convalescing, readying itself for the big sleep.
She made her way down the corridor, then turned right and continued onward. As her slipped feet shuffled past, she squinted to make out the door number. Twenty one, twenty two, twenty three…
There were so many. So many souls she would aid in passing. Most were ready, some not. It didn’t matter, she would aid them anyway.
As she got to room twenty eight, she stopped. She put her left hand onto the door and slightly pushed, slipping in. The old woman, Margaret, lay on the bed sleeping. Her shallow gasps and wheezing drowned out the sound of the ventilation system above.
Hecate walked to the bedside, her hand brushing the regulator that Margaret had been using to administer medication for the respiratory disease that was killing her. As the devise toppled to the floor, Margaret’s eyes shot open. At first she didn’t recognize her hospice nurse standing over her, Hecate waited until recognition came and the woman tried to sit up. Hecate smothered a shiver as the old woman shook her head at the death she knew had come. Even if she wanted to stop it now, it was too late.
Hecate put a finger to her lip, indicated quiet. Margaret was too weak to scream anyway. Soon, her shaking limbs succumbed and she lay stolid in her bed. She watched as Hecate’s small fingers picked up a syringe and moved to the far cabinet on the other side of the room. She opened the glass, plucked the small bottle of Nembutal off the shelf and returned bedside. Margaret wanted to protest, shaking her head again. Hecate leaned in and heard the old woman whisper, “Wait.”
“It can’t be helped.” Hecate said out loud. The sudden volume crashed into the room like cymbals. She plunged the syringe in the Nembutal and pulled back on the plunger. Margaret’s face crumpled as she watched her nurse prepare the cocktail. Her knuckles white, she gripped the bed rail and wheezed loudly. Hecate waited, her face composed as Margaret thrashed in her bed.
“This was you.” Hecate said. “You cannot turn back now.”
Margaret wanted to roar, her hands in fists in front of her. But her body had long past given in to the ruin of time. Hecate was reminded of the Dylan Thomas poem. ‘Do not go gentle into that good night’. Hecate advanced until she hovered over Margaret, noting the old woman’s frantic trembling, the look of disdain in her eyes as she stared up. Hecate could tell she was having trouble focusing the dark. She blinked as if blind, gazing on something behind and to the left of where Hecate stood. Spittle ran down her chin and Hecate wiped it clean. The woman violently turned her head.
‘Rage, rage against the dying of the light’. Hecate placed her right hand on the woman’s forehead, felt the perspiration.
“Did I not tell you this would be how it is?” Hecate asked. She felt Margaret shudder, swallow hard. Then, Hecate felt them. She whirled as the bodiless filled the room. Their shadows blacker than the night cast opaque silhouettes onto the walls and floor. They were a mass, a solid black. They couldn’t be touched yet still they took up space.
Margaret didn’t see them. She didn’t have to. The creases in her forehead formed tight lines as she stared outward. Hecate sunk the needle into her left arm and pushed the plunger, sending the Nembutal coursing through Margaret’s circulatory system. Slowly, she withdrew the needle, placed it in her smock pocket.
“How long?” Margaret gasped.
“Not long.”
Margaret nodded, her lip quivered. The bodiless took notice. They moved as if dancing around the room. Margaret spotted them this time. She is betwixt and between. Hecate thought. Margaret looked up and around as the bodiless performed a kind of waltz around the bed. Her leathery face split into a smile.
“Do you see them?” She whispered.
“Oh, yes. Often.”
“Do they leave here with you?”
“They have always been with me so I suppose.”
Hecate felt the silence now surrounding her and knew the bodiless were returning to where they reside until called upon. It was a special kind of departure, like a warm breeze or the patter of a dog’s paws walking in front of you.
“Don’t be scared.” Hecate said. “When you get sleepy, just let the sleep come.”
“It’s not yet my time.”
“It is.”
“You did this to me.” Margaret said, a wail in her voice as it cracked. “You, lady death. This is you.”
Hecate slid her hand across the bed, onto the blanket and pressed her palm against the woman’s hand. She felt the little strength that Margaret still had, sensed her disappointment. Margaret pushed herself up into sitting position, a sharp wheeze, the hoarse cough as she gripped Hecate’s hand.
“I know your secret.” She said.
“It’s not a secret.”
“You’re Descended. A goddess without grace. Is that why you do this? Why this is you?”
Hecate found that she couldn’t wait to get out of the room.
“You speak truth.” She said “Now lay back.”
A clarity filled Hecate’s mind as Margaret settled into the bed and closed her eyes. She glanced left and noticed again that the bodiless had returned.
They’ve come back. Hecate thought. But why?
Her eyes darted around the room as the discarnate shapes moved to and fro. Back and forth. Their spectral forms inky in the darkness. She watched as they gathered closer, Margaret’s breathing slowed. She choked out a laugh.
“Silly goddess.” She said.
Hecate frowned, the bodiless circled the bed.
“What?”
“The secret is not lost on either of us, Titan.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I’ve known your secret for quite some time.” She giggled. “You’re Descended.”
“So, I’ve stated.”
“Yes child, but so was I.”
Hecate felt the air leave her lungs, heard herself gasp. For a second, she stood struck dumb, unable to process the grief she was experiencing. Her personal awareness stared back at her, as if from another body. Margaret’s face in repose, Hecate stared down at the mottled skin on her arms and hands. Even in the dark, she could make out the splotchy purple and red covering the old woman’s body. She wondered vaguely when the mottling had taken hold. Usually it’s within the last few days but Hecate had just seen Margaret yesterday and no mottling had been apparent.
She knew. Hecate thought. She knew that death was coming long before I even stepped through the door. Hecate reached down and pulled the bed sheet off of Margaret’s feet. There it was. The mottling had begun in her feet and spread to her hands all in one day. Yes. Margaret had known. But that wasn’t what disturbed Hecate. She heard once again the woman’s iron voice in her head. So was I. Margaret had been a Descendant. She too had woken up in a mortal body. But which? Which goddess? She had Descended into an aged, silvery-haired body. A crone.
Hecate stepped back violently and nearly tumbled. She covered her mouth. A Crone? She lurched forward and stared into the face of Margaret, looking for similarities. A mole, or cluster of freckles would confirm her worst fear. It couldn’t be. She thought. She had often spied in other women evidence of her own facial structure, wondering if her triple form had Descended right along with her essence. She knew she was the maiden form but there was a chance that her mother and crone forms had Descended as well. If they did, were there other, older versions of herself in the world?
Abruptly, Hecate touched Margaret’s face, traced her cheek bones. She had known. The old woman had known all along.
Wasn’t that evidence enough? Hecate gritted her teeth, shaken by the knowledge that Margaret had imparted on her death bed. As she gazed down, she wondered if she had, in truth, just administered a deadly jolt of Nembutal to herself. Was she now staring into the face she would become? There was no way to know for sure. Still, it was a long time before she could shake off the naked emptiness and leave Margaret’s room.
She made her way down the corridor, then turned right and continued onward. As her slipped feet shuffled past, she squinted to make out the door number. Twenty one, twenty two, twenty three…
There were so many. So many souls she would aid in passing. Most were ready, some not. It didn’t matter, she would aid them anyway.
As she got to room twenty eight, she stopped. She put her left hand onto the door and slightly pushed, slipping in. The old woman, Margaret, lay on the bed sleeping. Her shallow gasps and wheezing drowned out the sound of the ventilation system above.
Hecate walked to the bedside, her hand brushing the regulator that Margaret had been using to administer medication for the respiratory disease that was killing her. As the devise toppled to the floor, Margaret’s eyes shot open. At first she didn’t recognize her hospice nurse standing over her, Hecate waited until recognition came and the woman tried to sit up. Hecate smothered a shiver as the old woman shook her head at the death she knew had come. Even if she wanted to stop it now, it was too late.
Hecate put a finger to her lip, indicated quiet. Margaret was too weak to scream anyway. Soon, her shaking limbs succumbed and she lay stolid in her bed. She watched as Hecate’s small fingers picked up a syringe and moved to the far cabinet on the other side of the room. She opened the glass, plucked the small bottle of Nembutal off the shelf and returned bedside. Margaret wanted to protest, shaking her head again. Hecate leaned in and heard the old woman whisper, “Wait.”
“It can’t be helped.” Hecate said out loud. The sudden volume crashed into the room like cymbals. She plunged the syringe in the Nembutal and pulled back on the plunger. Margaret’s face crumpled as she watched her nurse prepare the cocktail. Her knuckles white, she gripped the bed rail and wheezed loudly. Hecate waited, her face composed as Margaret thrashed in her bed.
“This was you.” Hecate said. “You cannot turn back now.”
Margaret wanted to roar, her hands in fists in front of her. But her body had long past given in to the ruin of time. Hecate was reminded of the Dylan Thomas poem. ‘Do not go gentle into that good night’. Hecate advanced until she hovered over Margaret, noting the old woman’s frantic trembling, the look of disdain in her eyes as she stared up. Hecate could tell she was having trouble focusing the dark. She blinked as if blind, gazing on something behind and to the left of where Hecate stood. Spittle ran down her chin and Hecate wiped it clean. The woman violently turned her head.
‘Rage, rage against the dying of the light’. Hecate placed her right hand on the woman’s forehead, felt the perspiration.
“Did I not tell you this would be how it is?” Hecate asked. She felt Margaret shudder, swallow hard. Then, Hecate felt them. She whirled as the bodiless filled the room. Their shadows blacker than the night cast opaque silhouettes onto the walls and floor. They were a mass, a solid black. They couldn’t be touched yet still they took up space.
Margaret didn’t see them. She didn’t have to. The creases in her forehead formed tight lines as she stared outward. Hecate sunk the needle into her left arm and pushed the plunger, sending the Nembutal coursing through Margaret’s circulatory system. Slowly, she withdrew the needle, placed it in her smock pocket.
“How long?” Margaret gasped.
“Not long.”
Margaret nodded, her lip quivered. The bodiless took notice. They moved as if dancing around the room. Margaret spotted them this time. She is betwixt and between. Hecate thought. Margaret looked up and around as the bodiless performed a kind of waltz around the bed. Her leathery face split into a smile.
“Do you see them?” She whispered.
“Oh, yes. Often.”
“Do they leave here with you?”
“They have always been with me so I suppose.”
Hecate felt the silence now surrounding her and knew the bodiless were returning to where they reside until called upon. It was a special kind of departure, like a warm breeze or the patter of a dog’s paws walking in front of you.
“Don’t be scared.” Hecate said. “When you get sleepy, just let the sleep come.”
“It’s not yet my time.”
“It is.”
“You did this to me.” Margaret said, a wail in her voice as it cracked. “You, lady death. This is you.”
Hecate slid her hand across the bed, onto the blanket and pressed her palm against the woman’s hand. She felt the little strength that Margaret still had, sensed her disappointment. Margaret pushed herself up into sitting position, a sharp wheeze, the hoarse cough as she gripped Hecate’s hand.
“I know your secret.” She said.
“It’s not a secret.”
“You’re Descended. A goddess without grace. Is that why you do this? Why this is you?”
Hecate found that she couldn’t wait to get out of the room.
“You speak truth.” She said “Now lay back.”
A clarity filled Hecate’s mind as Margaret settled into the bed and closed her eyes. She glanced left and noticed again that the bodiless had returned.
They’ve come back. Hecate thought. But why?
Her eyes darted around the room as the discarnate shapes moved to and fro. Back and forth. Their spectral forms inky in the darkness. She watched as they gathered closer, Margaret’s breathing slowed. She choked out a laugh.
“Silly goddess.” She said.
Hecate frowned, the bodiless circled the bed.
“What?”
“The secret is not lost on either of us, Titan.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I’ve known your secret for quite some time.” She giggled. “You’re Descended.”
“So, I’ve stated.”
“Yes child, but so was I.”
Hecate felt the air leave her lungs, heard herself gasp. For a second, she stood struck dumb, unable to process the grief she was experiencing. Her personal awareness stared back at her, as if from another body. Margaret’s face in repose, Hecate stared down at the mottled skin on her arms and hands. Even in the dark, she could make out the splotchy purple and red covering the old woman’s body. She wondered vaguely when the mottling had taken hold. Usually it’s within the last few days but Hecate had just seen Margaret yesterday and no mottling had been apparent.
She knew. Hecate thought. She knew that death was coming long before I even stepped through the door. Hecate reached down and pulled the bed sheet off of Margaret’s feet. There it was. The mottling had begun in her feet and spread to her hands all in one day. Yes. Margaret had known. But that wasn’t what disturbed Hecate. She heard once again the woman’s iron voice in her head. So was I. Margaret had been a Descendant. She too had woken up in a mortal body. But which? Which goddess? She had Descended into an aged, silvery-haired body. A crone.
Hecate stepped back violently and nearly tumbled. She covered her mouth. A Crone? She lurched forward and stared into the face of Margaret, looking for similarities. A mole, or cluster of freckles would confirm her worst fear. It couldn’t be. She thought. She had often spied in other women evidence of her own facial structure, wondering if her triple form had Descended right along with her essence. She knew she was the maiden form but there was a chance that her mother and crone forms had Descended as well. If they did, were there other, older versions of herself in the world?
Abruptly, Hecate touched Margaret’s face, traced her cheek bones. She had known. The old woman had known all along.
Wasn’t that evidence enough? Hecate gritted her teeth, shaken by the knowledge that Margaret had imparted on her death bed. As she gazed down, she wondered if she had, in truth, just administered a deadly jolt of Nembutal to herself. Was she now staring into the face she would become? There was no way to know for sure. Still, it was a long time before she could shake off the naked emptiness and leave Margaret’s room.
