11. Arit

Chapter eleven

Arit

D etermined to follow my purpose, to shove all thoughts of Nixon and his tender hand against my face aside, the next few weeks are a struggle, even for someone like me who has never faltered from his path.

Over the many long hours of reflection I’ve endured when I’m not being called, I’ve concluded that there is a reason humans and reapers live as they do, as separate beings coexisting in the same time and space without interacting. Humans are beguiling, but humans like Nixon are bewitching.

For countless centuries, millennia really, I’ve observed humans forming attachments. I’ve witnessed devotion, passion, hatred, envy, jealousy, and a multitude of other emotions—words I have had little understanding of—and always found their ways, their declarations and acts of bravery or selflessness, heartening, but I was indifferent. Detached and aloof by nature.

I didn’t understand. None of it affected me.

And that is why my path now has a branch.

Until Nixon, there was only me and my singular, linear existence. Now my path has a before and an after.

And I’ve got to say, I’m not sure which is worse.

Rai and Khan have both been busy, asking around on my behalf. Even though I’ve told them not to bother, there are whispers now, and the reaper community is talking. Despite our nomadic and solitary existence, I’ve encountered more reapers in the last two weeks than I’ve seen in years. And all of them are watching me.

“I don’t know what they expect to happen,” I mutter, perched in my usual spot on the church roof with Khan on my right and Rai on my left. There are three other reapers, each companionless, in various spots within my field of view. One, a young-looking man, sat on a ledge almost directly across from us, while the other two are females of indeterminate age, at opposites ends of the street, bookending the man currently staring in my direction.

“Probably nothing,” Rai acknowledges first. “They’re just curious.”

“We’re all curious,” Khan comments. “No one has ever heard of a human and a reaper having the kind of connection you have with Nixon.”

“Connection or no, the situation is quite irrelevant. Despite the fact that Nixon literally ran away from me when I even hinted at who or what I might be, he’s human, in case anyone forgot. In terms of longevity, human lifespans are fleeting at best.” The twinge in my chest is not from a new charge calling out to me. Over the last two weeks, I’ve become familiar with the ache missing Nixon has created inside me. It pains me just to consider the idea of him not being around.

As long-lived as we reapers are, I’m all too aware that this moment—Nixon’s lifetime—might be all I get. If the previous four thousand something lifetimes are anything to go by, whatever fluke or twist of fate is occurring right now, there is absolutely no guarantee that history will repeat itself. And the more likely probability is, it won’t.

Which makes what I have with Nixon all the more special.

And now I understand why reapers, young and old, have left their posts to come see for themselves the one reaper who is visible to his charge.

Rai is frowning when I toss a sidelong glance her direction. “You know that’s not entirely true,” she admonishes, making me slump away from her watchful gaze. “Every life is relevant. Whether human, animal, supernatural, or unidentified, every life has a purpose. Every life has significance. The timespan is what’s irrelevant. Even us reapers, as long as we live, are not permanent. But we have purpose. Whether that purpose lasts one hour, one day, or one century, it’s all valuable. It’s all relevant. You know this better than anyone, Arit.”

“And my purpose is to ferry souls, just like yours is. Nixon’s ability to see me shouldn’t change anything.”

“But it does, Arit. It changes everything. Have you ever stopped to consider what his purpose might be? Why Nixon is the first human to ever see a reaper while masking? Perhaps fostering your connection with him is part of your purpose. Is also part of his purpose. If Fate has changed the course of your path, your purpose then becomes to follow that new path, does it not? Maybe being a reaper isn’t all you’re supposed to be.”

Khan hums in consideration, but neither of us reply.

Could what Rai said be true? Am I meant to follow this new path?

The millions of years I’ve spent following my one directive tell me no, I’m not. I’m a reaper. My path is clear and uncomplicated. Precise in its parameters. But I also can’t ignore that something has changed. Is that something me? Or is it Nixon? Or… does it even matter?

That twinge inside me that aches when I think about another six million years without knowing Nixon tells me that, yes, despite my better judgment, whatever we have matters.

But how can I return to him if he’s afraid of me? Of what I might have to tell him?

That look of horror on Nixon’s face, the trembling hands held out to stop me from following—those are the moments that haunt me.

So what am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to be if not a ferrier of souls?

Even after our small group disbands and we all head our separate ways, our charges needing our assistance in their transitions, I can’t help but ponder these thoughts in endless circles.

My purpose.

Nixon’s purpose.

How Fate has rewritten the rules, and I no longer know the stakes.

But whether Nixon is meant for me or not, I still manage to find joy in helping others. As dawn breaks on another warm summer morning in the city, I ferry Matthew Carter St. John, aged nine years, to his perfect utopia, an endless amusement park full of roller coasters, carnival games, and all the cotton candy he can eat.

Witnessing these moments, this purity of youth and spirit, will never get old, no matter how people change or what evolution has in store for the human species. There is no greater joy than giving this ever after to my people. If only the loved ones left behind knew, the tears they cry are for them. For there are no tears when the soul is pure and the perfect heaven is waiting.