"Rage, rage against the dying of the light"

I used to think death was a story best left untold.

Not avoided entirely, no Storyteller can truly avoid death, but handled the way one handles a sleeping bear in the corner of the room: acknowledged quietly, circled carefully, never touched, not to be hugged (I add this last one to let my wife know I do listen). I’ve told tales for years where death was a symbol, a plot device, a shadow passing over the hill before the hero’s return. It was never the hearth fire at the centre of the room. Never the voice that lingered after the applause.

For most of my life, I believed this was wisdom.

Now I wonder if it was simply fear wearing a Storyteller’s cloak.

The First Rule I Never Spoke

When I first began telling stories, more than a decade ago, I discovered something quickly: audiences will go almost anywhere with you, into forests of giants, across seas of fire, down roads paved with bones, so long as you carry the right tone.

But there was an invisible boundary I felt instinctively. Death, not as myth or metaphor, but as reality.

Not the theatrical death of dragons or tyrants. Not the poetic death that comes in fairy tales with a moral bow tied neatly at the end. But the real kind, the kind that sits in hospital waiting rooms, that happens suddenly on the street, that lingers in the silence of a phone call at midnight, that echoes in a house where one voice will never again answer back.

That kind of death felt too raw. Too personal. Too final. And so, I made an unspoken rule: I would tell stories around death, but not through it.

I told stories of clever fools cheating devils. Stories of heroes who returned from the underworld.Stories where death could be tricked, bargained with, or outrun.

But there was one story I could never touch. Even in practise I could never move beyond meeting the mysterious beggar.

A Story Never Told

“The Soldier and Death.”

It is an old tale, older than memory in some ways. A wandering story, passed through cultures and languages like a well-worn coin. It’s about a soldier, weary, poor, forgotten by the world he served, who encounters Death and, through cunning or chance, traps it in a sack.

At first, this feels like a triumph. No one dies. No one suffers loss. Families rejoice. The soldier becomes a hero.

Then comes the turning, the part that has always caught in my throat, even when I only read the tale silently. Without death, the world begins to rot.

The old linger in pain.

The sick cannot find rest.

The natural order fractures.

Life, without its ending, becomes a burden too heavy to bear. Eventually, the soldier must release Death, and when he does, he learns that even he cannot escape it forever. It is a story not about defeating death, but about understanding its place. About the terrible, necessary balance it brings. From the moment I first encountered this tale, I knew it was powerful. And I knew I didn’t have the voice to tell it.

Not because I didn’t understand it, but because, deep down, I did.

Avoidance Disguised as Craft

For years, I told myself practical reasons.

“It’s too heavy for audiences.”

“It doesn’t fit my tone.”

“It needs the right moment.”

But Storytellers are experts at self-deception. We know how to shape narratives, including the ones we tell ourselves.

The truth was simpler. I avoided the story because I avoided the subject.

Because death, to me, was theoretical. It lived in news headlines and distant memories. In the stories of others. In the abstract realm, where Storytellers safely harvest meaning without touching the wound itself.

I could speak of death symbolically. I could joke about it in tales. But I had not yet sat with it. Not truly. And so, the story waited. Like a door I walked past every day without opening.

The First Time Death Sat Beside Me

When death first came close, truly close, it did not arrive dramatically. There was no thunder. No cinematic moment. Just the slow, quiet erosion of certainty. My older brother died; he was less than a month from turning 50, and he was gone.

Even now, writing that feels strange.

Not because it is untrue, but because the truth still feels unreal in the way grief often does. It exists in two states at once: absolute and impossible.

When someone close to you dies, something shifts in the architecture of your world.

The illusion of invincibility cracks. You realise the ladder of generations is not endless. And suddenly, you are closer to the top than you ever imagined.

I remember the strange silence that followed the news, the emotional flood that hit me like someone had rammed me in the chest with a sledgehammer. The confusion, the numbness and then reality once more washing over me like a tsunami.

I didn’t know what to do with death when it came in that form — not as a character, not as an idea, but as absence. A voice that would never again mumble its “how are you doing” over our annual Christmas call. A presence that would never again share a memory.

No story I knew prepared me for that.

And for a long time, I did what I had always done.

I ran away from it.

The Storyteller’s Paradox

Storytelling is often described as a way of processing life. But what people rarely say is this: Sometimes life moves faster than your ability to tell its story. Some experiences remain wordless for years. Not because they lack meaning, but because they hold too much of it.

After my brother’s death, I did not suddenly become a Storyteller of grief. I did not start telling sombre tales about loss. Instead, I leaned even more heavily into humour. Into wonder. Into stories that ended in triumph.

It was not a conscious decision. It was subconscious survival. Storytelling, for all its magic, is also exposure; there is no protective barrier, no shielding. And I was not ready to stand in front of an audience holding something so raw.

So again, I left “The Soldier and Death” untouched.

Waiting.

The Second Arrival

A Year passed almost to the day.

Time did what time always does: softened edges, blurred sharp pain, layered life over loss.

And then death came again. This time, quietly. This time, intimately.

My cat died, my beautiful Gingy Beastie. To some, that might seem small compared to losing a brother. But anyone who has loved an animal knows the truth: They occupy a unique space in our lives. They are companions without complication. Witnesses without judgment. Creatures who share our daily rhythms so completely that their absence echoes in every corner of the home.

My cat’s death was different from my brother’s. Not less painful, but differently shaped. It was closer to the texture of everyday life.

It was in the space on the couch.

The quiet at feeding time.

The absence of a familiar weight at the foot of the bed.

And because of that, it confronted me in ways I could not avoid. Death was no longer an abstract visitor. It had become a constant presence. A quiet teacher.

The Moment of Realisation

It happened gradually. Not in a flash. There was no dramatic revelation. But one day, I realised something: For years, I had been telling stories full of life. About joy, struggle, cleverness, resilience, and magic. But I had avoided the one story that underpins them all. The story of endings.

And I began to understand why “The Soldier and Death” had remained silent in me for so long. Because, to tell it honestly, I would have to accept something I had resisted: Death is not merely the antagonist of life. It is part of its structure. Its meaning. Its rhythm.

Without death, stories do not matter. Without endings, there is no urgency. No transformation. No depth. Death is not the opposite of storytelling.

It is what makes storytelling necessary.

Learning to Sit with Silence

In storytelling, we often fear silence and fill it with words, gestures, and humour. But grief teaches a different lesson. Sometimes silence is not empty. Sometimes it is full.

I began to experience a different relationship with silence. Not as something to avoid. But as something to listen to. And in that silence, I began to hear the faintest echo of a story I had long refused to tell. It did not come as a clear narrative. Not at first. It came as fragments:

An image of a weary soldier walking alone.

The weight of a sack containing something unseen.

The sound of a door closing on Death itself.

And beneath those images, a feeling. Not fear. Not sadness. But recognition.

The Voice Returning

I cannot yet fully tell “The Soldier and Death.” Not completely. Not in the way I know it deserves. But something has changed. For the first time, when I think of the tale, I do not feel resistance. I feel a quiet pull. As though the story has been waiting patiently, understanding that I needed to live it before I could speak it. Because that is the truth, many people do not realise about storytelling.

Some stories are not meant to be told immediately. Some must ripen inside you. Some require life experience as their final ingredient. And some, like this one, demand that you confront the very thing you most wish to avoid. And now I understand the guidance that MW gave me all those years back (he knows who he is, but sometimes I’ve noticed he doesn’t like the full shoutout, but thank you).

Death as a Teacher

In both losses, death taught me something unexpected. Not about endings. But about presence. After a loss, you become acutely aware of time. Of moments. Of small, ordinary interactions you once took for granted. You realise that every conversation is finite. Every shared laugh is temporary.Every connection exists within the boundary of eventual separation.

This awareness can feel frightening. But it can also be transformative because it sharpens attention and deepens gratitude. It changes the way you listen, both to people and to stories.

And it reshapes the way you tell them.

The Shift in My Storytelling

Over the past years, I have noticed a less subtle change in my work. I wrote about this in a previous blog. I had run too far from the truth, filled my tales with humour and quips to hide from the harsh realities.

Lately, my telling has started to change; my stories still carry humour. Still carry wonder. Still invite audiences into worlds of imagination. But beneath them is slowly developing a deeper current. A quieter gravity. A recognition that every tale, no matter how light, exists in the shadow of mortality.

Not in a morbid way. But in a truthful one. Because the greatest stories are not those that deny death.

They are those who acknowledge it — and still affirm life.

Why We Avoid Death

Looking back, I understand now why I avoided the subject for so long. Not because I was weak. Not because I lacked courage. But because avoidance is a natural human instinct. Death represents the ultimate unknown. The final boundary we cannot cross and return from.

And Storytellers, perhaps more than anyone, are uncomfortable with mysteries we cannot resolve. We like answers. We like arcs. We like closure. Death offers none of these.

It is the one story that refuses to be neatly concluded. And yet, paradoxically, it is also the story that gives meaning to all others.

The Soldier at the Threshold

I often imagine the soldier from that old tale standing at a crossroads. Holding the sack that contains Death itself. Feeling the weight of that impossible responsibility.

In many ways, I think that image mirrors our own lives. We all carry a version of that sack. We all hold, somewhere in our awareness, the knowledge of mortality. Most of the time, we keep it tightly closed. We pretend it is not there.

But occasionally, life forces us to open it. To look inside. To confront what we have tried to ignore.

And when we do, we discover something surprising:

Not only fear.

But clarity.

The Slow Emergence of Voice

Today, I am still not ready to fully tell “The Soldier and Death.” But I am closer than I have ever been. I can feel the story forming inside me. Taking shape. Finding tone. Connecting. Learning where silence must sit between words.

Because telling a story about death is not about reciting events. It is about holding space. About allowing audiences to feel something they may also have avoided. And that requires more than skill. It requires vulnerability. Honesty. And patience.

What Death Has Given Me

It may sound strange to say this, but loss has given me gifts. Not gifts I would ever choose. But gifts nonetheless.

It has given me:

A deeper empathy for others.

A greater appreciation for fleeting moments.

A clearer understanding of what truly matters.

And a profound respect for the stories we carry but cannot yet tell.

Most of all, it has given me the courage to begin approaching the one story I could never find the voice for.

I know now that one day, I will tell “The Soldier and Death.” Not as a performance alone. But as a conversation. With audiences. With memory. With the parts of myself that once turned away from the subject entirely.

When that day comes, I suspect something unexpected will happen. The story will not feel heavy. It will feel necessary. Because in the end, death is not a story about endings.

It is a story about the preciousness of what exists before them.

A Final Reflection

For many years, I believed avoiding death made me a better storyteller. Now I understand the opposite is true. To tell the fullest stories of life, one must also acknowledge its limits. One must be willing to step into uncomfortable territory.

To sit in silence. To accept that some truths cannot be softened or reshaped. And to recognise that the most powerful stories are not those that promise immortality — but those that illuminate the beauty of impermanence.

The Voice, Slowly Rising

Today, I stand somewhere between silence and speech. Between avoidance and acceptance. Between the Storyteller I once was and the one I am becoming.

The story of “The Soldier and Death” is no longer locked away. It is stirring. Breathing. Finding its way toward the light.

And when I finally give it voice, it will not be the story of defeating death. It will be the story of understanding it. Of recognising its place in the great rhythm of existence.

And of learning, at last, that to speak of death is not to diminish life — but to honour it.

Because every story, in the end, is shaped by the same quiet truth:

It matters precisely because it cannot last forever.