The Chariot of Death

by Louis Tong

According to the legends in Brittany, nobody could escape the clutches of the Harbinger of Death—but the legends were wrong, because they did not consider a feisty girl.

This June evening, Cheri showed me again she had a very strong grip, holding my hand and leading me down the slope of the vista. She was my childhood friend, not a dog. I used to call her ‘sticky skin' when she was five because she had a plump and active body—untiring and constantly sweaty. Now at ten, she smelled of applesauce, and called me by the name I preferred, not my actual name, which was Trezekanarto. My actual name was the second funniest name in Brittany, sounding like someone who could read magical scrolls. The funniest name belonged to a lady teacher called Cliteron, especially she had a defective palate and when she said it, -on seems to sound like -us.

“Come on,” Cheri said, “Trezekan, you’re a boy and already two months older than me. You can walk faster than that! Trey to use ze legs kan you?”

I wasn't ten, I was seventeen and sensible. Cheri liked to think that I was ten and tenacious. She probably knew there was nothing in common between us, so if she made me ten, at least we had the same age.

We had taken the horses to the meadows, so for a few hours, we were free like birds. I came back whistling in the clear night, the song was Cheri Had a Little Lamb. Cheri looked like a black lamb to me, she mixed black paste of charcoal and herbs and applied it all over her face, and swore that this would fence off sandflies and any ticks. The only thing I applied on my face was called Pond's moisturiser, supposed to give me a brighter complexion, but never do, like Swedish facial cream.

Cheri was fearsome but not because of her dirty beggar appearance. The ground shook every time Cheri yelled, or yodeled. No difference to me. Walking with Cheri was only possible with earplugs, her voice went olei-ee olei-ee yo, thundered and blasted through my narrow head like a Rolls Royce rocket engine.

“Ha, ha. Your cheeks are mighty swollen,” I said between breaths, “even without any bee sting.” They definitely puffed up when she got excited.

“That's not acceptable,” Cheri said.

“What's not acceptable?” My nostrils fumed.

“You said my cheeks were swollen. As a description, ‘Swollen' is too general. You need to be more specific, am I full like the moon and desirable, or succulent like the blue purple agapanthus everywhere in Brittany?”

“Aga what? Panty what? Just because you are interested in my panties, I think you're a ruffian.” I sighed. “You win.” Clever bitch. You say the darnest things.

She was already Jack of all trades when she became a toddler. At that age, I couldn't even eat a strawberry, I could only grin and squash it between my thumb and index finger. She learned everything from some Mystic in the woods by the time she outgrew diapers. Even her diapers were branded Celtic.

“Shhhhh,” Cheri said. “I didn’t say panties. A cart was coming along the way.” The sound of wik, wik drifted to our ears.

I froze like a popsicle. “A broken axle?”

“Nit wit. It’s the owner that is more interesting,” Cheri said. “It’s Ankou, the wheelbarrow of Death.”

“Really?” About time. I'm finally going to see with my eyes this cart they all talked about so much.

We climbed up the ditch and hid behind hazel trees. From there, we could see without being seen. The cart was approaching.

It was pulled by three white horses in a harness. Two men accompanied him, wearing black and wide-brimmed hats. From far, they looked like a checkered table cloth my grandma had. One of them led the horse by the bridle, the other stood at the front of the cart, none of them fancied standing next to the Ankou. Perhaps the boss lacked personal hygiene—you know, someone could really sting after claiming too many death bodies.

“Stop!” The man leading the horses said.

“The ankle of the axle has broken,” the Ankou said. “Go and cut a new one out of a clump of hazelnuts here.”

Cheri smiled and her cheeks blossomed with a delightful look, as if someone offered her two scoops of Cantaloupe ice cream when she expected one. She seemed ready to river-danced from behind the trees toward the men, in her usual spectacular fashion.

I became squeamish. “Hold on, Cherie.” I caught her wrist. “What are you doing?”

“Help them, of course. The axle.”

“Okay, stop… Stop, please… I know you are handy… You’re great with anything mechanical and mathematical, Cheri. You’re gonna help these… these folks?”

She ignored me, wriggling her wrist and chubby palm out of my grip. She galloped to the cart, beyond my reach now. Why do I even bother. We were going to die a horrifying death, cherry style.

The man who said “stop” took off his hat. He turned out to be young guy with a shaved head and an old guy's waxed moustache. Twirling the sharp ends of his moustache, he inspected the broken axle and mumbled to himself, “Mind, mind.”

“Can I be of any help?” Cheri's voice rustled the maple leaves surrounding us.

The man looked up. His Corduroy jacket flapped spontaneously, revealing not a pistol but—

Arggggh. This must be what they called nipple-eye sore.

Don't look. Don't look. Not a pretty titty!

“In the name of Breton barks, don't you know, you’re supposed to wear something non-transparent under the jacket.” Cheri covered her eyes with the back of her fingers. Wait, what did she mean, the lad was wearing something transparent? Like a latex suit? This wouldn't happen unless you were in a pleasant dream and someone wanted you sexually.

Okay, this man wouldn't be kind forever so I needed to distract him. I waved my arms frantically. “AYE, THIS IS BOLLOCKS. LOOK HERE. SHE'S JUST AN OVERGROWN PUMPKIN. I AM THE ONE WITH THE BILLS, I MEAN, THE BALLS—BIG CELTIC BALLS. COME GET ME, YOU SOD. I'LL SHOW YOU MY SOUL, SEND ME TO MY GRANDPA—"

Then something unexpected happened.

The man in front of the cart stood up and cringed, still looking at Cheri. “Who is this dwarf of a girl? Her chee… her cheeks are bloated and ashen.”

I made a fist. Yeah, you ought to be afraid of my cheeky Cheri, lord of the screwdriver.

“Folly, folly, foul and folly.” The other man put the nails of his hand in his mouth and bit on them.

“The mark of the Devil,” the solemn Ankou said. “The brazen girl is just a vessel. We are not ready to face him today.”

Ankou was raisined in the face and pretzeled in the spine. At that particular moment, he looked like my second uncle on his death bed, not threatening at all, especially compared to Cheri, the bowling ball. He stood up. “Let’s run.”

The two men scampered away, followed by Ankou, leaving their cart. Ankou looked like Skippy the kangeroo, the two men like his extended lower limbs. The cart smelled like a used toilet, unflushed.

“What did I do?” Cheri screeched to stop, scratching her head, as if she missed recess time in school. “Just so you know, I wasn't going to ask for his autograph. How snotty he is.”

So, that was how we defeated Death. Not with magical spells, but with Cheri's stubby fingers and sticky skin. After that loopy day, our fame spread far and wide in all Brittany. Was that really Death? Never mind.