Cold.
It embraced him like death. Biting wind whipped though his body. Sea spray salted his face. The man walked haltingly along the storm-racked shores like a specter drawn back to this strange day of the year -- Dia de los Muertos.

Ironic.
His birthday, November 2nd, the Day of the Dead, now to be his death day. He welcomed the thought. Collapsing onto a rock, he stared at the burly sea, toward the gray-ghost horizon, to pelicans flying in low formation over kelp beds. Soon the chill would finish him; the sea lap him off the rock to some mother-nothingness of final rest.

Words of the poet Lermantov flickered through his mind, in Russian, phrases from a lonely stanza memorized long ago:

"I walk the road alone...
emptiness heeding God...
star conversing with star...
to sink into oblivion and sleep..."

The fragments tumbled into him, unbidden, as if they had been learned by heart to serve as a last will and testament to himself before he vanished into the void without a trace.

In his mind, the God of the Dead twined around the Lermantov verse until the man's thoughts resembled an eerie, rhythmic dirge, a lament chanted simultaneously in Russian and Spanish.

"Dios de los Muertos. Ya na darogu. Dios de los Muertos.
Pusteenya vnyemlet Bogu. Dios de los Muertos. Ya na darogu..."

Aching with exhaustion and grief, he cherished the single hope that death would find him swiftly. He closed his eyes, lapsing into unconsciousness, in a freezing tempest, by the howling sea near the end of day.

Death hovered over the man, waiting.

A voice. A woman's voice reached his ears. So far away. What did she want? He wanted sleep, death. Not the sound of a woman. Must be a dream. Go away, voice! Let me go.

The voice persisted. Then he felt something. A touch, on his face. The voice came closer. He understood the words.

"Sir, do you hear me? Please wake up. Wake up. You are very cold. You must come away from here. Please sir, hear me. Let me help you."

Now his hands were being touched. Warmth. Oh. God, no! Where had she come from? He was so tired. He couldn't come back for her, for anyone. He didn't have the will or the strength.

The man let out cry, warning her to leave him alone. A wave crashed menacingly close by. He tried to melt into the direction of the wave.

"Yes, yes, that's it. Move your body. Let me help." The voice sounded relieved and urgent at the same time. He felt her hands touching him, pulling at him.

"There isn't much time. The tide is coming in. It is very dangerous. You could die out here!"

He realized now she was yelling at him over the wind and surf. He wrenched himself away from her and, with an agonized cry, left the numbness of his death spell to confront her.

"I want to die, woman!" he screamed back at her over the storm. "Don't you understand? Leave me alone."

Upright now, he felt pain ripping through his body like hounding furies. Then he saw her. Long wind-whipped black hair framing a pale round face with piercing dark eyes gazing at him in amazement. They looked at one another for a long time, both unable to move.

Another powerful wave collided with the rock, covering them with salt spray.

"Come," urged the woman, grasping his hand. "You must come with me."

He followed her, dully putting one foot in front of the other, too fatigued, too discouraged to resist, wondering idly if this woman might actually be death herself come to fetch him.

As they stumbled forward in the tumultuous twilight, he noticed they headed for a grove of cypress trees to a clearing beyond. She led him to a small cottage, the last shard of light fading as they reached the door. They entered silently.

How warm it feels, he thought, as she closed the door on the wild forces of nature wailing and whirling in the darkness.

The man waited quietly while the woman lit several oil lamps that afforded gentle light, revealing a cozy, tidy room. He noted a wooden table, some chairs, a small kitchen and a fireplace which his host set about lighting. The simple ambinace of the cottage swept over him like a memory of lifetimes ago, hardly remembered, but welcome somehow. She shifted two of the chairs close to the fire and motioned to him to sit.

"Please warm yourself."

He did as asked, surprised how agreeable the heat felt. Falling into a reverie as the flames grew stronger, his physical chill and pain began to subside.

She handed him a glass. "Drink this."

Brandy! The sensation of it in his throat startled him. She watched him with steady, concerned eyes as he took another sip. He noticed she was wearing a thick pullover sweater and jeans and that her hair had been combed and clipped at the back.

"Thank you," he said quietly, "Thank you."

The sound of his own gratitude rallied him and he found himself marveling at the raven-haired woman who had delivered him from his appointment with oblivion.

She offered him some soup and bread, observing how he relaxed more with each passing moment. After he had eaten, they sat by the fire which now blazed cheerfully under her care.

In time, she asked, simply, "Why did you want to die?"

"No hope. Everything lost. Nothing to live for"

"How old are you?"

"49"

"I just turned 50," she said, nodding slightly, "Please, tell me what happened."

The man looked into that face with the clear and steady eyes and realized they were the kindest and most understanding he had ever seen, life-giving eyes.

Then he poured out everything to her: all the madness and sorrow, the failures, despair and desperation, the cruel turns of fate that had brought him to these November shores to die, a healthy man who had lost the will to live.

As he recounted his tale, the exhaustion began to leave him. The power of her listening seemed to draw the death out of him. She nodded, asked occasional questions, wincing when he spoke of his deepest pain. How long he talked he didn't know. But he saw she had kept the fire crackling brightly.

When he finished, she asked, "Do you still want to die?"

"No, dear lady, no. You have snatched me from the land of the dead and, truly, I wish to live."

"Then I have something for you." In a few moments she had opened a bottle of ruby-colored wine, setting it on the table to breathe. "Funny, I never expected to taste this. I left it for others."

Suddenly, the man asked, "What were you doing alone out there in that horrible storm?"

She gave him an odd look and, holding his gaze, took something out of her pocket.

"I think this will explain," she said softly, handing him a piece of paper. "I left it here before I went out."

The man shuddered involuntarily as he unfolded the note.

"To Whom it May Concern:
Today is my 50th birthday. I am too alone and too full of sorrow to continue living. I am returning myself to mother sea. Do not grieve. I have lived enough. Peace,
Elizabeth"

He looked at her in disbelief. "But you can't have...you..." His voice trailed off.

"It's true," she nodded, handing him a glass of the wine. "Odd as it may seem, you saved my life tonight."

For a long time only sound the wind and fire interrupted the silence between them.

Finally, the man stirred and slowly raised his glasss to the woman. "Happy birthday, Elizabeth," he said softly.

The woman smiled, returning his toast, "And to you, sir, many happy returns of the day!"