text: Once upon a time, there was a fisherman... Now obviously there have been a lot of fishermen, and there are quite a lot of stories about fisherman. This is not the story about the fisherman who caught himself an undine and brought home a wife, or the fisherman who hooked a crown inside a fish inside a fish inside a fish and became a king. This is not the story about the fisherman who had a magic rod that could reach around the world. Or the fisherman with the enchanted hook that could ensnare whatever you asked it to. And it's certainly not the story about the fisherman who had a miraculous net that could catch things which were lost. This is a story about a fisherman who had a rather unusual friend. The fisherman lived in the village of Rensk, which lay alongside the river Typhon, though nobody calls it that any more. Every day he would leave his house, make his way to the river and begin fishing. There he would remain until the dipping of the sun in the sky told him it was time to go home. Now what you must remember is that this was a long time ago. Back when you could meet the devil sitting on a tree stump, and dance with faeries in the shadow of the moon. Back when the world was a lot older and wilder than it is now. One day, as the fisherman sat by the river in his favourite spot, he noticed his luck seemed poorer than usual, the fish less willing to bite. As the morning wore on the fisherman became increasingly frustrated. Until, just as he was preparing to leave and try somewhere else along the bank, he noticed something glittering in the river bed. No doubt some trinket dropped further upstream. Carefully the fisherman reached into the water and deftly plucked the item from the mud in which it was lodged. A small and battered snuffbox lay in his hand. Finding it to be heavier than he expected, the fisherman opened the lid to see what was inside. As he did so, he heard a crack of thunder and felt a dull pain in his hand like the echo of a flame. Without thinking, he let the open snuffbox fall to the ground. All around him grew dark and the mouth of the snuffbox yawned wider and wider like a great cavern. When it seemed as if the snuffbox stretched from one horizon to the next and all about was black as night; there was a great rushing of winds and out stepped a tall, thin figure wrapped in a long black cloak. “Greetings” said the figure “I, am Death.” Now in those days Death was always getting trapped in snuffboxes, or sugar pots, or bound inside the shell of a walnut. Everybody knew a friend whose mother had an uncle who had met Death in some far off market place. It was no great trouble to anyone apart from Death himself to be trapped in a snuffbox. For the business of Death went on regardless, and we see only one of its many facets. You could no more inconvenience Death by trapping it in a snuffbox than you could diminish the darkness of night by closing the lid of a box. Nevertheless, Death was pleased to be free from his confinement and thanked the fisherman accordingly. Enjoying the day’s fresh breeze and the gentle babbling of the river, Death sat down on a nearby rock to appreciate his new found freedom. Somewhat at a loss and filled with curiosity about his new acquaintance, the fisherman returned to fishing. Glancing from time to time at the strange figure on the rock. Presently the man took out his lunch, a few small sandwiches wrapped up in brown paper. Death looked at them with curiosity, for while Death may know a great deal about the ending of life, he knows very little about the living of it. The fisherman, seeing Death’s quizzical gaze, offered him a sandwich. “But I have nothing to offer you in return” said Death in confusion. For Death is a thing of duty and exchange; Life for Death, mortality for eternity, and had never known a gift or a thing freely given. But the fisherman, handing over part of his lunch, merely smiled and said “What are a few sandwiches between friends?” Death politely ate the sandwich and pondered on the man's words. Or one word in particular. For Death is rarely a welcome companion, and if Death had any friends before this, no stories are told of them. By the time the sandwich was finished, Death had come to a decision. Death thanked the fisherman for his kindness, for his sandwich, and for his friendship then went on its way. The fisherman scratched his head, finished his lunch and returned to his fishing. No record is kept on Death’s opinion of the sandwich. Many months passed, and the fisherman thought little more of his strange encounter. Until on a still and quiet evening, while the fisherman sat at home, there was a single tap on his door; though he had heard no one approaching. Opening the door, the fisherman was surprised to see Death standing patiently on his step. An older man might have been afraid to see Death unannounced at his door, but the fisherman was young and had known no sickness in his life; so was merely pleased to see his unusual acquaintance again. “Come in my friend and warm yourself by the fire” exclaimed the fisherman, his initial surprise rapidly replaced by his usual amiability. And so Death entered his house as a friend. Little is known of what was discussed at this, their first true meeting as friends, but they talked long into the night and before he left, Death promised he would visit again. Soon they settled into a routine. From time to time there would be a gentle tap at the fisherman’s door and it would be Death, come for dinner. Occasionally the fisherman would be out walking when he would suddenly spot his friend strolling quietly beside him and together they would travel down paths and tracks that the fisherman would swear had not been there before. They would wander for hours as Death went about his appointed task, and the fisherman saw many strange things on those days. And so it continued. Months might pass between visits, sometimes it could be as long as a year. But eventually, the Fisherman would always hear a soft tap upon his door, or see the gentle shifting of black fabric from the corner of his eye and know that his old friend Death had come to see him. Each time, Death would apologise for his lengthy absence, for not having come to visit in so long; but every time the fisherman would smile and reply, “No matter, what are a few months between friends?” One day, while the two were out walking, Death turned to the fisherman and said “For many years you have welcomed me into your home, and yet I realise now that you have never visited mine. Come, I must make amends for my poor manners.” The fisherman received the invitation without fear, knowing it was offered with kindness. He knew his friend had no need of tricks or deception, that if his time were to come then that would be the end of it. There would be no discussions. And so they began their journey to the home of Death. They walked for what seemed like hours, though the sun never moved in the sky as they drew steadily closer to mountains whose names the fisherman did not know. In time they came to a valley nestled at the base of one of the great mountains, and in this valley there sat a small house. The home of Death. But I shall not describe it here, for those who Death has welcomed into his home are few, and we are not one of them. What I may tell you is this; through the house there is a cave. It extends deep into the mountains and as far as is known it never truly stops. The walls and floor are carved from the rock itself, a smooth and unblemished obsidian. And in this cave there are caverns without number and in each cavern there are candles. Thousands, millions of candles. More than can ever be counted. And these candles burn with a flame like none you have ever seen. For Death's home is a place of perfect stillness. No breeze stirs the air and no tremors shake the earth. The flames of the candles do not flicker or dance, each stand as steady as rock, as if carved from gleaming glass. Through this cave the fisherman was led until the two of them stopped in a cavern seemingly no different to any other, by a shelf that looked like all the rest. Death gestured towards the sea of candles and spoke: “Each of these candles is a life. Some burn long, some burn short; but, in the end, all burn out. That is when I come for them.” The fisherman looked at the dazzling array of flames in wonder. “This one is yours.” Death continued, pointing. At first the fisherman was unsettled to see such a thing. But as he looked at his candle he saw that it was tall and proud, no doubt with many years left to burn and his mind was put at ease. With that the two of them returned to Death's house for what I imagine was a rather strange meal. Many nights in the years to come the fisherman would dream of that cave, of its many candles and of his friend walking its endless labyrinthine halls and corridors. In time the man fell in love and married. At first his new wife asked him questions about his old friend, “Who is he? What does he do?” and so on. But each time she asked, her husband would give her the same reply, with a small smile and a wink, “Only what he must, and nothing else.” His wife never grew tired of asking, and after every visit would repeat the same questions, to the same response. Until one year, when the sickness had been laid thick about a neighbouring village and many had lost their lives. Word came from the village that his wife’s sister was afflicted and not long for the world. The fisherman's wife packed a small basket full of her sister's favourite treats and set off to visit her one last time. When she returned, the fisherman knew his wife had seen his old friend about his work, which in times past she had been so curious about. Never again did she ask who his strange friend was or even enquire after him at all, and the fisherman never learned what words may have passed between them. Years more passed and the fisherman and his wife were blessed with a child, a baby girl; and for a time they were happy. Yet from the moment of her birth, his daughter was a sickly thing, fragile and frail as if she were knitted not from flesh and bone like the rest of us, but rather cobwebs and starlight. His neighbours whispered and gossiped in hushed tones as he passed; that while his newborn was certainly beautiful and fair, she was altogether too delicate and surely was not long for this world. The fisherman pretended not to hear such idle chatter, but every day his brow grew more furrowed and his heart heavier. At night the fisherman lay awake listening to his daughter's troubled sleep, leaping from his bed at her slightest cough, watching over her while she slept in her crib. Soon the fisherman became filled with a dread for when his old friend might next come to visit. He had seen King and Emperors, bishops and popes, sorcerers and enchanters, rich men and poor men, saints and murderers, all plead with his friend, offering him anything they could for just a little more time. But nothing would stay his friend’s hand from his appointed duty. The fisherman knew that eventually his friend would surely come. Soon the fisherman no longer left his house for fear of meeting his old friend somewhere along the path. Every knock at the door, every crunch on the garden path he would jolt, expecting his friend had come to take his daughter from him. But some things cannot be avoided, old friends among them. At last the day came when he heard a gentle tap on his door. There, waiting for him, was Death. While in his youth he had known no fear upon receiving such a guest, now his heart trembled. “Greetings my old friend, how have you been?” he asked. For it is a terrible thing to turn away a guest, no matter who they may be. “I am well” intoned death. “Please excuse my long absence, it has been some months since last we met.” The fisherman, as he always did, merely smiled, “No matter, what are a few months between friends?” To the fisherman's relief, his old friend began to walk and gestured for the fisherman to join him. With each step that took Death further away from the house, the fisherman's heart grew lighter. He barely paid attention to what he said and didn't even notice where they walked until a familiar valley came into view. Presently he found himself in Death's home once more. The two friends sat down to share a meal as was their habit, and Death left to bring the freshly prepared dishes in from the kitchen. Now alone, the fisherman was suddenly overcome with a desire to see for himself just how much time his daughter had. Getting up from the table he made his way to the entrance of the caverns that sat behind the house. He wandered through the cave as he had done many times before, his feet carrying him without conscious thought, to his own candle still nearly as tall and proud as when he first laid eyes on it. There, next to it, he found a tiny candle that he knew could only be his daughter's. So small that the flame burnt almost level with the shelf on which the candle sat. The Fisherman stared at the candle which resembled not much more than a thimbleful of wax with a wick no larger than an eyelash. Then he stared at his own candle, still tall and proud after all these years. He knew what he had to do. Fiercely the Fisherman gripped his own candle in his hand. Gently he raised it up from the stone shelf on which it had rested, unmoving, since the day he was born. Carefully he brought it closer to his daughter's own tiny candle. Ever more carefully he tilted his candle and let some of the liquid wax at its top overflow and trickle down to the small candle below. Imperceptible at first, as each new drop of wax joined his daughter's candle, it grew ever so slightly taller. The Fisherman smiled as he turned his candle a little bit more, and the candle below grew noticeably bigger. His plan was working! In his mind he pictured the delicate young baby, now with time enough to grow into a woman. His heart buoyant, he resumed his task, a stream of wax cascading down to the candle below. Hours fell from his candle, then days, then months, then years... And for perhaps the only time in all the aeons that have yet been and in all the aeons that are yet to come, a candle in Death’s cave flickered and wavered. But the fisherman did not notice and continued to tilt his candle yet further. In a blink of an eye the faltering flame was extinguished, drowned in the onrush of liquid wax. The fisherman’s heart stopped and for one brief merciful moment he thought it was his own candle he had foolishly extinguished. Then he only wished it was. His daughter's candle sat below him, its brilliant flame snuffed out. The fisherman was as still as the candles surrounding him, as if he were carved from the very same stone as the cavern itself. Then he felt a horror which few before or since have felt. Desperately he tried to relight his daughter's candle, bringing his own flame as close as possible, he held the burning wick against the now lifeless one. Willing with all his might that his candle should relight his daughter's. Intently he focused on the flame and the wick, ignoring the hot wax that poured over his fingers. Seconds that felt like years passed. The fisherman staring so hard at the wick he almost thought it might burst into flame from the intensity of his gaze alone. Just as all hope left him, when he was certain all was lost, a second flame leapt to life, his daughter's candle burned once more. Joy overwhelmed him. But in an instant he felt a searing pain in his hand. So intently had he been watching the flame he hadn't noticed his own candle had burned down to where he was gripping it. Instinctively, reacting to the pain, he let go and watched as his candle fell towards the ground. With a rushing as of a great wind, like that he had heard many years before, his friend Death now stood beside him; a single hand outstretched to catch the falling candle. Sitting safely in Death's palm, was the fisherman's candle. Death's gaze passed between the now tall candle on the shelf, burning once again, and the tiny one in his palm, hardly more than a scrap of wax and a wick no larger than an eyelash. The fisherman saw that Death knew what he had done and he felt ashamed for trying to trick his old friend. Death closed his hand, and when he reopened it, the candle was gone. “When you entered my home you had many years left to burn. Now they are gone.” said Death. For the first time since they had met, the fisherman thought he heard sadness in his companion's voice. “No matter,” said the Fisherman looking over at his daughter's candle burning tall and proud. “What are a few years between friends?” And with that he passed through the cave, to the lands that lie beyond.