by K. N. Parker
another tragedy that happened to me. Would you like to hear this story?” he asked, and she nodded once more.
His mouth started to move and words flowed from his wrinkled lips in the form of a poem, or at least that’s how she started to hear it. But what she suddenly felt was not the sensation of listening, but the sensation of being; she felt as if she were a participant of his story; a story that went like this:
Once upon a lifetime, of whose I will not say, but it may very well be my own,
I did a fair bit of ferrying and I did it all alone.
And one day, I came across a farmer, very old yet still very able,
As he worked with a scythe in his hands on a field of crops of some unknown staple.
And he saw me and welcomed me with open arms and he asked, ‘Is it my time?’
And I answered truthfully, as I always do, ‘Yes, I am afraid it is. You are well past your prime.’
And ready was he, but before he perished wanted to have one last conversation,
So he asked me to listen, and listen I did, without hesitation.
And he told me of his family, the members of which had passed well before him and whom he loved a lot,
And he told me of all his dreams and all his nightmares, and which of which came true and which did not.
He told me his beliefs and some were silly and some weren’t quite,
But a silly one was one of a dragon he had seen that he thought was an exquisite sight.
We had spoken for hours and with no one around to grieve,
He exclaimed to me that he was now quite ready to leave.
And as he lay down he confessed to me of his dying wish, to die with his trusty scythe at his side,
And he folded his arms with a final breath and he closed his eyes and died.
And as per the farmer’s last wish, I picked up his tool,
But before I could lay it down beside him another came and screamed at the sight of me, he screamed like a fool.
And so, with tool in hand, I made a hasty retreat,
And now I am forever known as the terrifying skeleton in a hood with a scythe, and with that, my story is complete.
Her senses returned to her, and she was once again simply standing within the shadow of a large and dark figure in a large and dark room, and she said, “That was a lovely story, but if you’ll forgive me for saying, sir, I fail to recognize the tragedy in that.”
“Well, you see my dear, before this no one had seen me except those who were to die. And I sympathized with this farmer, and because of it I lingered for far too long. And because I lingered I was seen very briefly by someone who was very much alive, and the story of my incorrect visage spread throughout the years. And now I appear in literature and in songs and in people’s visions and in people’s nightmares as something to be feared, as something dreadful and horrendous, and I like to think of myself as anything but. I know I may not look it, but I am kind and I am loving. I was so in my former life and am so now. It was from that day forward that I began to employ the souls of those that died tragically, for I could no longer ferry myself for the fear of being accidentally seen again.”
“I now see the tragedy in that, sir. I see it very plainly,” she said so truthfully. She looked to his left and noticed a long stick with a long and curved blade attached to it leaning against the windowsill that reminded her of the bones of a bird that might have possibly lived at one time or another.
“And is that a souvenir?” she asked of it.
“That is indeed,” he said as he turned and looked at the scythe that once belonged to an old farmer––that was now his––with deep sorrow. “A reminder of that day.”
“And this sir, may I finally have a look at it?” And she moved for the smoky file on his desk, but he grabbed it and put it back in its place in the cabinet most likely made of bone.
“I’m sorry. My story seemed to have taken up all of your time. The other answers will have to wait for another occasion. I believe you are due to collect a Miss Wilkinson.”
The small figure in black lifted her head as if she smelled something rotten in the air, or as if she had heard a strange voice in her ear, then turned her attention once again to the dark figure incorrectly identified as Death and said, “You are most correct sir. I shall make my leave now. I thank you for your time.”
“You are most welcome my dear. And I thank you for your visit. You may come again,” he answered back. “I hope you find your story.”
She nodded her head and suddenly disappeared in a flurry of sparks and a cloud of dense black smoke as the figure at the desk returned to his work.
4
A Story of Her Own
One gloomy morning, the figure in black appeared once again in the small yet spacious bedroom of one, Miss Tabitha Wilkinson. Sunlight forced its way through the stubbornly thick clouds and shone through the window illuminating everything that she wasn’t able to see on her previous visit. The walls of the room were a faint shade of pink and covered with the amateurish, yet quite adept, drawings of a child, and on the left side of the window sat a great big white wardrobe dresser that looked older than the room it now sat in. On the left side of the room sat a set of beds: one that was properly made that looked as if it hadn’t been touched for quite some time, and the other had a small hump in the middle of it surrounded by machines that beeped and hissed. Protruding from the small hump in the bed was a bald and frail head, a head the figure recognized as the one belonging to Miss Wilkinson.
She cleared her throat as she had done the time before, and quietly called out, “Miss Wilkinson, Tabitha Wilkinson.”
The bald and sallow head slightly rose, and as her sunken eyes had met with the familiar black sockets of the figure in black, she pepped up as much as one in her condition could.
“Guide, you’re…you’re back,” said Miss Wilkinson in a weak and tiny voice as she coughed and wheezed and coughed some more. “Has it been two days already?”
“I believe it has been, at least here it has. There is no concept of time where I am from,” said the figure in black.
“Then...” Tabitha coughed again. “…Then how do you know when it’s time to come?” she asked innocently.
“We just know,” answered the figure in black, very vaguely. “Have you been well?”
Tabitha sat up in her bed, and as she did so the expression on her face looked as if she were being stabbed in the back by many sharp knives. Several wires connected to the several machines were stuck to her arms and face in every which way. It looked, the figure in black thought, extremely uncomfortable.
“I’ve been trying to be, I really have been. But I’ve been unsuccessful,” she said. “The doctors said that I’ve gotten much worse unexpectedly. But I expected it of course.” A combination of a laugh and a cough left her mouth. “My mum and dad say that if I don’t get better by today, I’ll have to go to back to the hospital. But since you’re here now, I guess I won’t be.”
“I hope you’ve made the proper good byes,” said the guide. “Are you ready?”
“Is this it? You just come and we just leave?” asked Tabitha, genuinely surprised at this revelation. More coughs followed.
“Yes. This is the general procedure.”
“Oh guide, I would very much like to have one last conversation. Besides, you owe me a story,” and Tabitha patted the spot next to her on the bed with her weak and skinny hand, and the figure in black looked at Miss Wilkinson’s bedroom door with apprehension before slowly taking a seat at her side.
“And did you find out your name and why you are a guide and how you died?” asked Tabitha, visibly weak yet visibly excited to hear the answers. But the figure in black could not help but disappoint her.
“I did not find out what I was called and I did not find out the cause of my death, but I did find out why I am what I am,”
“And why is that?”
“I died tragically, and those who die tragically are duty-bound to perform
this task,” said the figure.
“Tragedy,” Tabitha whispered as she wheezed and coughed and wheezed some more. “Well, I did a bit of research on your kind since the last time you were here, guide,”
“Oh, did you now?” the figure in black asked with genuine interest.
“Yes I did,” Tabitha said as she successfully fought back a cough. “And do you know what you are known as here?” asked Tabitha and the figure shook her head no.
“You are known as a ‘Psychopomp.’ And since you do not yet know your name, I wanted to give you one. And my question to you is which do you prefer? Psycho or Pomp?” said Tabitha, and she sweetly laughed, then not quite so sweetly wheezed. A curl formed in the guide’s mouth; a curl that resembled a smile.
“That was my attempt at humor. I’m sorry if it wasn’t amusing.”
“It was, Miss Wilkinson. And for the record, I prefer neither.”
“Then we’ll have to think up another for you.”––A cough and a wheeze––“If you’ll excuse me, I think I want to lie down again,” said Tabitha as she coughed a little cough and made her way beneath her blankets once more.
“And did you have anything else you wanted to talk about, Miss Wilkinson?” the figure in black cautiously asked, anxious to get a move on.
“Yes. Do you mind if I tell you a story?”
The figure again looked at the bedroom door, then back to Miss Wilkinson then back to the door once more. She didn’t want to risk being seen by anyone, especially anyone alive, but she also did not want to refuse what could have