JasonSanjo
Your Overlord and Jester
The Caretaker
Author’s Notes: This is a short story, a one-shot, that I felt inspired to write and wanted to get off my chest. I’ve had similar ideas in the past, but this particular one came to me this morning as I lay in bed and I wanted to get it down on paper right away. It’s a bit existential, and a bit melancholy, and so quite different from what I usually write. It’s rough around the edges, but please keep in mind it’s all written in a single sitting without prior planning. I might do a clean-up at some point, but for now, this is what it is.
Feel free to give your thoughts.
Two men stood quietly before a grave in a vast cemetery. One was young, not even middle-aged, while the other was old, wrinkled, and walked with a cane.
The young man knelt at the grave. He gazed upon the marker lovingly as his fingers traced the words carved into the stone. The quiet moment was interrupted when the old man suffered a coughing fit, and the young man looked back, his features turning to concern.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” the old man said, batting the question away with a wave of his free hand, the other leaning heavily on his cane. He coughed a few more times before recovering. He took a deep breath and straightened as much as his old frame would allow. “I’m old, but I’m not that old. I have some years in me yet.”
The young man peered at the old man, traces of doubt mixed with concern written on his face. After a moment he nodded and turned his attention back to the grave.
“I still remember my father,” the young man said. “His face, his voice… but most of all, I remember the feeling of his arms around me when we hugged. The feeling as we both squeezed briefly before letting go.
“He wasn’t the best parent, and toward the latter half of his life he was pretty much always grumpy, but… he loved me, and I loved him. We both knew it, even if we didn’t say it much.
The young man rose and, without turning around, made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “That grave is my sister’s. We didn’t always get along, but what siblings do? Despite everything, we were still family… and she asked me to bury her here, next to our father.
“See that grave, over there? That was my best friend. We knew each other from kindergarten until the day he died. He asked to be buried here as well, alongside his wife.”
“How long have you been the caretaker here, anyway?” the old man asked, looking around at the multitude of graves surrounding them.
“Six hundred years today,” the young man said. “Ever since I buried my father.”
“That’s right, you told me. I remember now,” the old man said, nodding. “It’s a big anniversary. It’s why I agreed to come out here despite my condition, you know.”
“And I’m grateful for it,” the young man said. He slowly turned to face the old man. They looked at one another quietly for a long while before the old man broke the silence.
“How long has this cemetery been here?”
“Six hundred years, again. It started out as a piece of land I bought to build a house… then, as the years went by after my father’s death, I bought the surrounding plots of land as well and turned it into a full-blown cemetery.”
The old man looked around. His fingers tapped his cane nervously. “Business is booming, I see. How many people are buried here?”
“2,741,” the young man supplied. “I’ve buried everyone here, from my father onward. Family, friends, family of friends… I knew them all, though I admit some of the faces have faded with time.”
The old man’s eyes widened with incredulity. “You knew them all?”
The young man nodded. “This is a private cemetery, not a public one. I approve all requests for burial here, and I only approve those I know.”
The old man looked around again. His vision, blurry with age, did its best to take in the field around them, and the graves set therein. There were many, more than he could reliably count. He looked at his hands, resting on top of his cane. His skin was wrinkled and dry, but his grip remained strong for a man his age. He looked upon the young man once more.
“Why did you ask me here?”
“Well, the anniversary, for one,” the young man replied as he turned his back to once more behold the grave before them. “Plus, it seemed a good opportunity to have a talk.”
This was it, the old man realized. The young man’s back was turned, and his attention was completely on his father’s grave. Fumbling, the old man reached inside his coat and pulled out a sleek, metallic object. Slowly, with shaking hand, he aimed it at the young man’s back.
“You’re not the first, you know.”
The old man paused. At his age, even with the hearing aid, he’d barely heard the young man speak, and it took him a moment to sort out the words. “Not the first to try to kill you? I know. You told me about all the-”
“No,” the young man interrupted as he turned to face the old man. His eyes were moist with emotion. “You’re not the first to try to kill me out of compassion.”
The old man gasped and, in his surprise, lowered the pistol. “What?”
“There is one in every generation. And every time, it’s my best friend. You are the seventh.
“Did I tell you how it all started? I was a child, enamored with the stories of the immortals, wise sages who helped all around them and saw to the correct course of nature. I wanted to be like them, and decided I would become immortal, too.
“In my teens, I did it. From then on my aging slowed, and eventually stopped entirely. Don’t ask me how I did it, but suffice to say it’s easier the earlier you do it in life – you’d be too old by now.”
The old man licked his dry, chapped lips. “I don’t want it.”
The young man nodded. “I know. After hearing my story, nobody’s ever wanted it, even after I offered to teach them how.”
He raised his gaze and looked around. “You know, despite all the people buried here, there isn’t a single one who’s my direct descendant. Not here, nor anywhere else in the world. I decided early on not to have children.
“At the time, I told myself it was because I didn’t want to perpetuate the genetically derived mental illness present on both sides of my family. I’ve told you about that, haven’t I?”
The old man nodded. “Yes, I remember.”
“Good. And yes, I certainly believed my own reasoning at the time, but in retrospect, I think I knew how hard it would be for me to bury my children, and their children, and their children. I would likely have taken my own life eventually. Not that I haven’t thought about it, mind you. My life hasn’t exactly been easy. But despite everything, I never did.”
“Aren’t there others like you?” the old man asked.
“Other immortals? The old stories certainly say so, but I’ve never met any. Not knowingly, anyway. It wouldn’t surprise me if they all took their own lives from grief… or had a compassionate best friend do it for them.”
The old man blinked to try and clear his vision, made blurrier by his own tears. “So why haven’t you? Why’d you the build the cemetery?”
“I decided the best thing I could do with my immortality was to preserve the memory of all those whose lives passed before my eyes. The people I loved, who also loved me. Their lives were short from my perspective, but each one was worthwhile, because they loved and were loved in turn. Each and every person buried here gave me the greatest gift they ever could. That deserves to be remembered.”
The old man didn’t resist as the young man stepped closer and gently took the gun from his grip and tossed it on the grass. The young man’s arms, as lithe and strong as they had been for centuries, slipped around the old man and hugged him lovingly. Now openly sobbing, the old man returned the gesture.
“When I die, I want to be buried here.”
“Thank you.”
Author’s Notes: This is a short story, a one-shot, that I felt inspired to write and wanted to get off my chest. I’ve had similar ideas in the past, but this particular one came to me this morning as I lay in bed and I wanted to get it down on paper right away. It’s a bit existential, and a bit melancholy, and so quite different from what I usually write. It’s rough around the edges, but please keep in mind it’s all written in a single sitting without prior planning. I might do a clean-up at some point, but for now, this is what it is.
Feel free to give your thoughts.
Two men stood quietly before a grave in a vast cemetery. One was young, not even middle-aged, while the other was old, wrinkled, and walked with a cane.
The young man knelt at the grave. He gazed upon the marker lovingly as his fingers traced the words carved into the stone. The quiet moment was interrupted when the old man suffered a coughing fit, and the young man looked back, his features turning to concern.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” the old man said, batting the question away with a wave of his free hand, the other leaning heavily on his cane. He coughed a few more times before recovering. He took a deep breath and straightened as much as his old frame would allow. “I’m old, but I’m not that old. I have some years in me yet.”
The young man peered at the old man, traces of doubt mixed with concern written on his face. After a moment he nodded and turned his attention back to the grave.
“I still remember my father,” the young man said. “His face, his voice… but most of all, I remember the feeling of his arms around me when we hugged. The feeling as we both squeezed briefly before letting go.
“He wasn’t the best parent, and toward the latter half of his life he was pretty much always grumpy, but… he loved me, and I loved him. We both knew it, even if we didn’t say it much.
The young man rose and, without turning around, made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “That grave is my sister’s. We didn’t always get along, but what siblings do? Despite everything, we were still family… and she asked me to bury her here, next to our father.
“See that grave, over there? That was my best friend. We knew each other from kindergarten until the day he died. He asked to be buried here as well, alongside his wife.”
“How long have you been the caretaker here, anyway?” the old man asked, looking around at the multitude of graves surrounding them.
“Six hundred years today,” the young man said. “Ever since I buried my father.”
“That’s right, you told me. I remember now,” the old man said, nodding. “It’s a big anniversary. It’s why I agreed to come out here despite my condition, you know.”
“And I’m grateful for it,” the young man said. He slowly turned to face the old man. They looked at one another quietly for a long while before the old man broke the silence.
“How long has this cemetery been here?”
“Six hundred years, again. It started out as a piece of land I bought to build a house… then, as the years went by after my father’s death, I bought the surrounding plots of land as well and turned it into a full-blown cemetery.”
The old man looked around. His fingers tapped his cane nervously. “Business is booming, I see. How many people are buried here?”
“2,741,” the young man supplied. “I’ve buried everyone here, from my father onward. Family, friends, family of friends… I knew them all, though I admit some of the faces have faded with time.”
The old man’s eyes widened with incredulity. “You knew them all?”
The young man nodded. “This is a private cemetery, not a public one. I approve all requests for burial here, and I only approve those I know.”
The old man looked around again. His vision, blurry with age, did its best to take in the field around them, and the graves set therein. There were many, more than he could reliably count. He looked at his hands, resting on top of his cane. His skin was wrinkled and dry, but his grip remained strong for a man his age. He looked upon the young man once more.
“Why did you ask me here?”
“Well, the anniversary, for one,” the young man replied as he turned his back to once more behold the grave before them. “Plus, it seemed a good opportunity to have a talk.”
This was it, the old man realized. The young man’s back was turned, and his attention was completely on his father’s grave. Fumbling, the old man reached inside his coat and pulled out a sleek, metallic object. Slowly, with shaking hand, he aimed it at the young man’s back.
“You’re not the first, you know.”
The old man paused. At his age, even with the hearing aid, he’d barely heard the young man speak, and it took him a moment to sort out the words. “Not the first to try to kill you? I know. You told me about all the-”
“No,” the young man interrupted as he turned to face the old man. His eyes were moist with emotion. “You’re not the first to try to kill me out of compassion.”
The old man gasped and, in his surprise, lowered the pistol. “What?”
“There is one in every generation. And every time, it’s my best friend. You are the seventh.
“Did I tell you how it all started? I was a child, enamored with the stories of the immortals, wise sages who helped all around them and saw to the correct course of nature. I wanted to be like them, and decided I would become immortal, too.
“In my teens, I did it. From then on my aging slowed, and eventually stopped entirely. Don’t ask me how I did it, but suffice to say it’s easier the earlier you do it in life – you’d be too old by now.”
The old man licked his dry, chapped lips. “I don’t want it.”
The young man nodded. “I know. After hearing my story, nobody’s ever wanted it, even after I offered to teach them how.”
He raised his gaze and looked around. “You know, despite all the people buried here, there isn’t a single one who’s my direct descendant. Not here, nor anywhere else in the world. I decided early on not to have children.
“At the time, I told myself it was because I didn’t want to perpetuate the genetically derived mental illness present on both sides of my family. I’ve told you about that, haven’t I?”
The old man nodded. “Yes, I remember.”
“Good. And yes, I certainly believed my own reasoning at the time, but in retrospect, I think I knew how hard it would be for me to bury my children, and their children, and their children. I would likely have taken my own life eventually. Not that I haven’t thought about it, mind you. My life hasn’t exactly been easy. But despite everything, I never did.”
“Aren’t there others like you?” the old man asked.
“Other immortals? The old stories certainly say so, but I’ve never met any. Not knowingly, anyway. It wouldn’t surprise me if they all took their own lives from grief… or had a compassionate best friend do it for them.”
The old man blinked to try and clear his vision, made blurrier by his own tears. “So why haven’t you? Why’d you the build the cemetery?”
“I decided the best thing I could do with my immortality was to preserve the memory of all those whose lives passed before my eyes. The people I loved, who also loved me. Their lives were short from my perspective, but each one was worthwhile, because they loved and were loved in turn. Each and every person buried here gave me the greatest gift they ever could. That deserves to be remembered.”
The old man didn’t resist as the young man stepped closer and gently took the gun from his grip and tossed it on the grass. The young man’s arms, as lithe and strong as they had been for centuries, slipped around the old man and hugged him lovingly. Now openly sobbing, the old man returned the gesture.
“When I die, I want to be buried here.”
“Thank you.”
