Hollow Stones

So I'm walking down this street off the main road. It's cobbled, and with a lot of horse dung. Perdition Street, they call it. Funny how people think of such names for streets where they live, when that's the last place they are looking to go to.

I have to pick up this package tonight. The rest of my workers are busy elsewhere. I like it though. Brings my old job memories back wherein I personally used to pickup all the packages. Nostalgic, of times very very old.

My walking stick makes funny noises on the stones of the street. More of a "Top, Top" that a "Tap, Tap" as you would normally expect. Hollow stones? Possible. Geology was never my subject. I'm more into philosophy. Although not many would agree with what I think and believe.

The house where I need to pick up the parcel is an old cottage, set with bright burning fires in the windows. The curtains are drawn back. The light of the hearth shines brightly onto the street, illuminating the path leading from the gate to the house. I like fire. I think it's one of the purest things that man has ever learned to use, and yet has never been able to command it.

I walk up to the front door, it is open for me. I enter, walk to the small crowd of people around a couch on the rug in front of the hearth. An old man, wheezing heavily, barely able to open his eyes, sits on the couch, covered in a heavy blanket, the weight of which is further restricting his breathing. But he prefers the warmth to ease in breath. His time is at an end.

I put my hand to his brow, and he looks up. Only he looks into my eyes, and he smiles. That is a smile of a man who has lived his life well. He has nothing to be regretful of. He has lived a life full of joy, love, caring, happiness and charity. I smile back at him. I slowly help him up to his feet, as he holds my hand, and I carry him supporting his arm around my shoulder. And I carry him out the door, out on to the street, where my walking stick starts Top-Topping again on the hollow stones.

My carriage is at the end of the street. I help him up the steps into the carriage. I take the driver's seat, and I drive away with him in the coach behind me.

I stop at the gates. I lead the old man to the chubby gatekeeper. The gatekeeper is surprised, and draws his eyebrows so far up that you'd think they'd hit the sky.

"This one is yours. I have no right." I say. And I help the old man hold the gatekeeper's hands. I walk away, my stick now a trident, this time Tap-Tapping on the path. My tail swishes behind me, and my throne waits for me.

Despite what you think, I was, am, and always in my heart, will be, an Angel of Light.