Cricket201905-06

Death leaned forward and took from her brow her royal crown. He
put it on his head and rocked back and forth.
“Where are my attendants?” she asked, but Death did not reply.
“Where is my nightingale?” she whimpered, and Death swept its long,
bony arm out, indicating the mechanical jeweled bird that now sat at the
bottom of its gilded cage, stiff and useless.
“Am I to die alone?” she cried.
But even as Death nodded grimly, a small, sweet voice replied, “No,
Your Highness. I am here with you.”
“Who is that?” she whispered weakly.
A small, gray form bobbed into view and perched beside her bed, right
beside the bony visage of Death. It was the nightingale. He did not seem
afraid of the empress’s visitor. Rather he bobbed his little head and asked
if they would like to hear a song.
Empress Wu did not dare to reply, but Death nodded his head in
assent, so the nightingale began to sing.
The song was more beautiful than any song that had been sung in the
court before. Here was a tune reserved mostly for moonlight and lonely
fishermen. Here was the tune that filled the room with innocent longing
and wind-kissed, moonlit seas. Here was the song that broke hearts and
mended them again in the
space of a heartbeat. The
song was short, but it left
everything altered that it
touched.
The Phantom Death
who spoke to no one,
spoke now. “Once more,
l it t le bi rd.”
“Yes,” said the night-
ingale. “I will give you a
song, but you must return
her crow n.”
“All right,” agreed
Death, who had no use for
worldly things. He put the