In this poignant short story by Charity Bishop, Death becomes the silent witness to the birth of a child unlike any other, a child who will one day undo him. Told with quiet reverence and lyrical grace, Death and the Child explores the mystery of mortality and divinity through the eyes of the eternal reaper himself. What does it mean when the embodiment of death meets the source of life?

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It seems impossible that a small child should be responsible for so much. He is a mere infant, hours old, lying in his mother’s arms on a mound of hay in a cavern-stable. His cries sound like those of any other child, loud and piteous. His nose wrinkles, like any other child. His eyes are barely open, his face red, his fists tight, like any other child.

Yet, he isn’t like the rest.

I have heard children’s cries before. I have borne witness to their arrival throughout the ages, in stone huts and in the palaces of Egyptian pharaohs. I long heard their echoing voices, their unanswered questions in a bombardment to their parents, their laughter and their cries of pain, anguish, and torment. I have watched them from afar and up close, when it is their time to die.

I have seen them sacrificed and honored, taken them within an instant of their arrival in the world or days later. Or watched them grow to adulthood and found them on the battlefield or white-haired in their final years.

This child is the firstborn of Mary. Other firstborns have passed through my arms. I have held kings and paupers, their cries indistinguishable from one another. Here lies the greatest king of all, but there is an absence of silk and gold. There are no jewels, no fine cloths, nothing more than a thin piece of linen and a hay-filled manger.

It is almost an insult.

The animals, an assortment of donkeys, sheep, even a cat, watch him with interest, quieter than usual. Beyond them are the faces of the shepherds, creeping in from the rocky terrain outside the dismal inn. There was no room, not for a king, much less a poor man’s child. Joseph and Mary are no different from the rest… or so they thought.

Angels stand unseen around him, his tiny face screwed up into a massive yawn. I feel their excitement.

This is how God will save the humans from the emptiness of my realm and its eternal sleep. Their one and only chance to escape the inevitable. They will pass through me, but not get lost in me.

This child, this man and God in one.

How wonderful it must be to be human, to touch, and hear, and commune with him as he gets older. But I will watch from a distance, eternal, ancient, but still much younger than the spirit within that human form.

Look at him, the other entities say to me in wonder. Look at him and see!

None of them minds my presence. All share the angels’ budding excitement.

He is the solution, the one who will change everything, who will defy and alter death itself.

He sees me where his parents cannot. He sees all of me, the many faces I have worn, the many tasks I have done. He sees the flaming sword in my hand at the gates of the Garden. The bloodstained battlefield of the Assyrians. The ruins of Sodom and Gomorrah. He sees what has not yet happened, the echoes of my future, when at long last, my service for and against the humans will reach its end, because of him.

For I am Death, and he is their Salvation.

About the Author: Charity Bishop writes historical fiction, historical fantasy, and suspense novels that explores the darkness in human hearts, and the light that refuses to be extinguished. Discover her books.