-Are you a blacksmith?
The voice behind him came so unexpectedly that Vasily even flinched. In addition, he did not hear the door to the workshop open and anyone come inside.
—Have you tried knocking? - he answered rudely, slightly angry both at himself and at the prompt client.
- Knocking? Hmm... I haven’t tried it,” answered the voice.
Vasily grabbed a rag from the table and, wiping his tired hands, slowly turned around, turning over in his head the rebuke that he was now going to give in the face of this stranger. But the words remained somewhere in his head, because a very unusual client stood in front of him.
- Could you straighten my braid? - the guest asked in a feminine but slightly hoarse voice.
- That's it, right? End? - Throwing the rag somewhere in the corner, the blacksmith sighed.
“Not everything yet, but much worse than before,” answered Death.
“It’s logical,” Vasily agreed, “you can’t argue.” What should I do now?
“Straighten your braid,” Death repeated patiently.
- And then?
- And then sharpen it, if possible.
Vasily glanced at the braid. And indeed, several dents were noticeable on the blade, and the blade itself had already begun to ripple.
“That’s understandable,” he nodded, “but what should I do?” Pray or collect things? It’s just my first time, so to speak...
“A-ah-ah... Are you talking about this,” Death’s shoulders shook in silent laughter, “no, I’m not behind you.” I just need to fix my braid. Can you?
- So I didn’t die? — the blacksmith asked, quietly feeling himself.
- You know better. How are you feeling?
- Yes, it seems normal.
— No nausea, dizziness, pain?
“N-n-no,” the blacksmith said uncertainly, listening to his inner feelings.
“In that case, you have nothing to worry about,” Death answered and handed him the scythe.
Taking it into his instantly stiff hands, Vasily began to examine it from different angles. There was work to be done there for half an hour, but the knowledge of who would sit behind me and wait for the work to finish automatically extended the deadline by at least a couple of hours.
Stepping with weak feet, the blacksmith approached the anvil and picked up a hammer.
- You are... Take a seat. You won't stand, will you?! - Putting all his hospitality and goodwill into his voice, Vasily suggested.
Death nodded and sat down on the bench, leaning his back against the wall...
The work was coming to an end. Having straightened the blade as far as possible, the blacksmith, taking the sharpener in his hand, looked at his guest.
“You will forgive me for my frankness, but I simply cannot believe that I am holding in my hands an object with which so many lives were ruined!” No weapon in the world can compare with it. This is truly incredible.
Death, who was sitting on a bench in a relaxed position and looking at the interior of the workshop, somehow noticeably tensed. The dark oval of the hood slowly turned towards the blacksmith.
- What did you say? - she said quietly.
“I said that I can’t believe that I’m holding a weapon in my hands that...
— Weapons? Did you say weapons?
“Maybe I didn’t put it that way, it’s just...
Vasily did not have time to finish. Death, jumping up from his seat with lightning speed, a moment later found himself right in front of the blacksmith’s face. The edges of the hood trembled slightly.
- How many people do you think I killed? - she hissed through her teeth.
“I... I don’t know,” Vasily squeezed out, lowering his eyes to the floor.
- Answer! - Death grabbed his chin and raised his head up, - how much?
- I-I don’t know...
- How much? - she shouted right in the blacksmith’s face.
- How do I know how many there were? - Trying to look away, the blacksmith squeaked in a voice that was not his own.
Death let go of his chin and fell silent for a few seconds. Then, hunched over, she returned to the bench and, sighing heavily, sat down.
- So you don’t know how many there were? “- she said quietly and, without waiting for an answer, continued, “what if I tell you that I never, do you hear?” Never killed a single person. What do you say to this?
- But... But what about?...
- I've never killed people. Why do I need this if you yourself are doing an excellent job with this mission? You yourself are killing each other. You! You can kill for the sake of pieces of paper, for the sake of your anger and hatred, you can even kill just like that, for fun. And when this becomes not enough for you, you start wars and kill each other in hundreds and thousands. You just like it. You are dependent on someone else's blood. And do you know what's the most disgusting thing about all this? You can't admit it to yourself! It’s easier for you to blame everything on me,” she fell silent for a while, “do you know what I was like before? I was a beautiful girl, I met the souls of people with flowers and escorted them to the place where they were destined to be. I smiled at them and helped them forget about what happened to them. It was a long time ago... Look what happened to me!
She shouted out the last words and, jumping up from the bench, threw the hood off her head.
Before Vasily’s eyes, the face of a very old woman appeared, mottled with wrinkles. Sparse gray hair hung in tangled strands, the corners of the cracked lips were unnaturally drawn down, exposing the lower teeth, crooked fragments peeking out from under the lip. But the most terrible thing were the eyes. Completely faded, expressionless eyes stared at the blacksmith.
- Look who I've turned into! Do you know why? - She took a step towards Vasily.
“No,” shrinking under her gaze, he shook his head.
“Of course you don’t know,” she grinned, “you made me like this!” I saw how a mother kills her children, I saw how a brother kills his brother, I saw how a person can kill a hundred, two hundred, three hundred other people in one day!.. I cried, looking at this, I howled from misunderstanding, from the impossibility of what was happening, I screamed in horror...
Death's eyes sparkled.
“I exchanged my beautiful dress for these black clothes so that the blood of the people I was seeing off would not be visible on it. I put on a hood so people wouldn't see my tears. I don't give them flowers anymore. You turned me into a monster. And then they accused me of all my sins. Of course, it’s so simple... - she stared at the blacksmith with an unblinking gaze - I’ll see you off, I’ll show you the way, I don’t kill people... Give me my scythe, you fool!
Having snatched his weapon from the hands of the blacksmith, Death turned around and headed towards the exit from the workshop.
- Can I ask one question? - was heard from behind.
“You want to ask why I need a scythe then?” — stopping at the open door, but without turning around, she asked.
- Yes.
- The road to heaven... It has long been overgrown with grass.
Translated from Russian · original on wisdomlib.ru