1. Arit

Chapter one

Arit

D eath is universal.

Death is constant.

It’s unavoidable.

It’s inevitable.

Death is a friend I know by name, for we have been together since time immemorial.

And death is my purpose, my reason for being.

Watching the rain fall on this leaden street corner, I feel not the cold nor the damp. I see not the purposeless rats scurrying from one place to another in an endless race they will never win. I don’t even notice the interminable cacophony, the ceaseless rabble a city this size demands.

Once upon a time, this corner looked vastly different. But I must say, the advancements in indoor plumbing and city sanitation have improved the smell considerably. Though I’m still on the fence as to which is worse, human waste and filth or the stench of exhaust and pollution. At least there are no longer bodies piled in the cart-rutted mud.

Waiting is sometimes the hardest part. For I do know death intimately, but her timing is impossible to predict.

The urge to move, like being pulled in by a rubber band, grows stronger. Tension in my chest and gut tells me I’ll be moving within moments, whether I want to be or not. Like any job, being a ferrier of souls comes with pros and cons, the inability to ignore my charges going in the latter. I’m still undecided if a billion-year lifespan is a pro or not, especially considering I didn’t ask for this job.

I suppose on some level I’ve always been envious of bipedal sentient beings, at least since they came on the scene. Their whims, their minuscule attention spans, their power of choice have long fascinated me. Of course, humans have fine-tuned that now that they can simply use a phone to have any and everything delivered to their doorstep, leaving them so utterly available to do whatever strikes their fancy next.

I have often wondered what it would be like to simply sit and watch a movie or take a vacation or find love. But the snap in my core reminds me such things are not meant for me, and I can’t even say I’m mad about it. It just is, as it always has been and will be forevermore.

Shooting forward, I grip my umbrella and command my chariot to rise above the street and cross over to where I know I need to be. A new, distant tug inside tells me I’ll be on my way again shortly, but first things first—yes, there. My new charge is ready, followed closely by the wails of grief and despair that have been my everlasting companions.

But I can do nothing about that, as my calling is to help the dead, not the living.

Lost and confused, Mrs. Edith Ann Henning glows radiant—a sure sign she was one remarkable lady who will indeed be missed. I approach, and with no need to introduce myself, she calms, her frazzled sunshine-yellow energy settling into one of peace and tranquility.

A sense of gratitude and acceptance washes over me as I encourage Mrs. Edith Ann Henning into the chariot with me, reminding me for the millionth time why this job isn’t so bad after all. For I am a shepherd of the sterling, the golden, the pure, and the pristine. As I weave my magic and the usual shimmering golden hue appears in front of us, I ease us through the portal and deliver my charge into her brilliant ever after.

And I must say, I have seen many, many gorgeous versions of “heaven,” as humans like to call it, but this one—with vibrant waving green grasses, effervescent white-hued clouds in a flawless cerulean sky, cheerfully dancing flowers dotted along sea cliffs, and the nearby shore of a pristine mountain lake—looks lovely.

As I watch, catching a few fleeting seconds of perfection, mirages begin to appear in the distance, vague at first, then solidifying as they grow closer. People. A tall man and a shorter woman. A child aged approximately six years. Dogs and cats, even a horse, appears. Mrs. Edith Ann Henning is home, resting in the cradle of her perfect version of bliss.

I might spend less than a minute—as time is perceived in the human construct—with each soul in my care, but it’s these moments, when I cross over into another’s utopia, that I recharge my own sense of self. Feeding is too crass a term to use here in nirvana, but it’s the closest to what I’m doing that I can think of.

My consciousness slowly fades as my arms extend away from my body and I float, thriving on the pure, untainted energy of this place. Time becomes meaningless as the vastness of life, death, and the universe unfold and refold, vibrating into infinity. It’s this process that recharges my existence, and I fall back into myself in time to see the shimmer of contentment slip away. I settle, fulfilled and renewed, back into my chariot, then turn and leave silently the way I came.

I’ve long gotten used to the jarring transition between this world and the next, so the noise and claustrophobia slink back on like a well-worn coat.

That distant tug I felt before transferring Mrs. Henning is back, but I can ignore it for the time being. I rarely have time to myself, so I take this opportunity to indulge in one of my favorite endeavors and head to The Met. Not only do I prefer The Met to MOMA, but I loved witnessing the Renaissance era take shape after the horrors of the Middle Ages. That was definitely a dark time in human history.

Letting myself in is easy as can be—I simply weave my magic and take my ethereal form. I can still see and function normally, but since I don’t plan on touching anything, I have no need to materialize. Plus, I don’t want to trigger any sensors.

I spend the next hour or so wandering from the American Wing into Egyptian Art and end where I usually do, staring at statues of ancient Roman and Greek warriors. If ever there was a time in human history where more perfectly toned and exquisite male bodies were on display, I must have missed it.

As a being who developed alongside mankind, changing and evolving as they did, I have seen many eras, many civilizations, and many cultures come and go. From the ancient peoples who discovered flint points and barely managed to create fire to modern man and their sophisticated technology, none were more pleasing for me to witness than the advancements of the ancient Greeks and Romans.

Seeing their strength develop in both mind and body—the philosophy, the arts, the sciences, government—combined with their ferocity in war, it was hard not to be in awe. Plus, there was one particular warrior I kept almost transferring, but somehow he managed to beat the odds every time. When I did finally take him to his greater reward, it was the first time I was ever truly envious.

Standing here, observing the plains and valleys of deeply toned muscles and a capable frame, I’m reminded of him yet again.

But the tug in my chest intensifies and draws me out of my darkest musings. There will never be anything for me that way. My path is infinite and defined. As long as there are human beings roaming this planet, so too shall I be.

There is no changing that.

Turning my back on those distracting memories, I will my chariot to move and am on my way to my next charge within moments.