A Very Reaper Romance

Jack’s eyes fluttered open, the sudden brightness assaulted his senses and overwhelmed his vision. Lifting a hand to shield his sight, Jack hauled himself to a sitting position. The grass was soft beneath his hands and slightly damp, telling him it was before noon as the sun had not had a chance to burn away the night’s droplets. “Fückin’ finally,” a voice to his side grunted. “Ye took yer time.” Jack had no idea where he was or how he got there, nor did he understand why his whole body felt difficult to move, like swimming in treacle. He stretched his sore muscles out before he turned to face the voice, grateful to be looking away from the aggressive brightness that had been blinding him, but he almost jumped out of his skin when he registered who the voice belonged to. “Mr Carruthers?” Jack rasped, his voice feeling like broken glass stuck in his throat. “Aye, lad. Been waitin’ on yer,” the old man grizzled, lighting his pipe. “C’mon. Let’s go inside.” Mr Carruthers began walking away, and Jack scrambled to his feet, ignoring the protest from his body, then followed Mr Carruthers into the house they appeared to be in the garden of. “B-But…” Jack stammered as he hobbled along behind the wobbly old man. “But, you’re dead.” Mr Carruthers had passed away just over thirteen months prior, and Jack remembered it being a sad affair. He had been captain of the fire station and well regarded in the village in his youth, but after his wife died, Mr Carruthers was only ever seen in the pub on Friday evenings. One night, after a few beers, he went to bed and never woke up, and no one realised until the following Friday when he didn’t go for his usual two pints of bitter and pack of pork scratchings. Mr Carruthers turned and grinned at Jack ominously, taking a moment before he answered. “Tha’ I am. An’ so are yu nae.” “What?!” “Yer deid, son. Snuffed it. Brown bread. Carked it. Shuffled off ye mortal coil. I dinnae ken how else t’ tell ye.” “Wh—” Jack began, his insides felt like molten lead. “When? H-How?” “Sit down before ye fall down,” Mr Carruthers said, indicating to the armchair behind Jack. Jack obeyed and sank into the ancient seat as Mr Carruthers sat in the chair opposite and began to explain. “Ye ken th’ charity fun day an’ the inflatable obstacle course ye signed up fer?” Jack nodded mutely. “Well, yer pals challenged ye t’ beat the record. Ye were doin’ well, but ye dinnae judge th’ final jump right—” Jack felt the colour draining from his already pale face as he slowly began to recall the events surrounding his demise. Flashes of yellow and red plastic flew past his eyes, screams and whoops echoed in his ears. Mr Carruthers tried to hide his bubbling laughter by clearing his throat. “Ye ricocheted off th’ bouncy pillar an’ went head first into the foam pit. Ye managed t’ go right down t’ th’ bottom and snapped yer neck. A true tragedy.” Mr Carruthers tried to look solemn, but a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “Th’ whole town saw it, most was filmin’. Still, ye raised £350, an’ after ye died, more people gave money. Yer total were about £800 in th’ end, so wasnae a complete waste…” “You mean to tell me I raised £800 for the Last Light Hospice and I still fücking died?!” Mr Carruthers finally stopped trying to be respectful and began howling with laughter, holding his belly and leaning back into his chair with the exertion. While the old man cackled to himself like an old woman, Jack watched him with a scowl etched deep on his face. The irony had not been lost on him either, but he didn’t find it anywhere near as amusing as Mr Carruthers did. “When you’re done, could you tell me what we are doing here?” Jack snapped. “Wherever here is…” “Aye, yer right. We dinnae have long.” Mr Carruthers wiped the tears of mirth from his eyes and sat up straight, swallowing down the last of his laughter. “So, yer deid. Have ye ever heard th’ story o’ Barrowstead?” Jack shook his head, and Mr Carruthers rolled his eyes, muttering something about the youth of today. “Before Barrowstead were Barrowstead, t’were a little hamlet by name o’ East Barrow. East Barrow were ken all o’er th’ midlands fer our healer-women. Th’ women believed Death should ne’er be left unattended, lest it wreak havoc an’ wipe out the hamlet. Those healer-women bound th’ place with a charm—” “‘A hand shall carry for a year, until another hand lets go.’” Jack whispered, remembering an old playground rhyme. “Aye, laddie, tha’s th’ one,” the old man nodded, relighting his pipe before he continued. “Course, when th’ church rolled in, and East Barrow grew t’ become Barrowstead, the villagers forgot all about the ritual…” Mr Carruthers leaned towards Jack, who was listening with intent, and whispered. “Th’ villagers forgot, but th’ land didnae forget.” Mr Carruthers nodded knowingly at Jack, who gasped – although he wasn’t sure why, as he wasn’t entirely certain what the old coot was waffling on about. “Sorry, Mr Carruthers, but you’re going to have to spell it out for me.” The old man scoffed. “Fer goodness’ sake lad, yer Barrowstead’s new Grim Reaper!” “What?!” “Ye died at just th’ wrong time son, well, wrong fer yu. My year is up, an’ unfortunately, yer year is just beginnin’. Still, if ye have people ye wanna keep an eye on, ye’ll be glad o’ any extra time ye get.” Jack blinked, still unsure of what was happening. “‘A hand shall carry for a year,’ my year was up five weeks ago. I been waitin’ on someone t’ die so I can go be with my Elsie.” Mr Carruthers smiled at the memory of his dead wife. “So, now… now I’m Death?” Jack said, slowly starting to grasp the story he was being told. “Aye, in a sense. Ye’ll be needing this ledger, apparently.” He handed Jack a small leatherbound book. “I didnae find it much use, but it’s menna help identify who’s next so ye can take ‘em t’ th’ next life. An’ I hope ye didnae like yer face too well. Yer’ll be gettin’ a new one.” “A new face?!” Jack exclaimed. “Well, no’ entirely. T’is like a mask, a magic one. So, yer family cannae recognise ye. Ye’ll have a new name an’ ID so ye can move around easy, ye ken?” “A new name and ID?” Jack asked, but Mr Carruthers continued as though he hadn’t heard the question. “Right, th’ rules are,” he lifted his hand in front of Jack’s face and held up a finger for each rule. “Ye cannae tell a soul who ye are. Ye cannae intervene. Ye need t’ be in th’ right place at th’ right time an’ if yer not, then ye’ll start gettin’ hiccups an’ ye mask will flicker. Th’ ledger is menna tell ye where t’ be, but I couldnae make hide nor hair o’ it. Ye’ll be Reaper fer one year, an’ then until th’ next poor sod.” Jack pondered all he had just been told. “Hang on, if you couldn’t understand the ledger, how did you manage to collect the souls?” “Ah, well, luck really. I just made sure t’ be where everyone were congregated. Usually th’ pub, which suited me just fine – an’ it helped hardly any beggar died on my watch,” he laughed. “And what happens if I say no?” Jack asked defiantly. “Ye’ll start decomposin’ in th’ street,” Mr Carruthers said gravely, then chortled at Jack’s horrified reaction. “Ye’ll be fine lad, it wasnae a bother really. Just dinnae tell anyone, and dinnae interfere, and ye’ll be grand.” Jack sighed, resigned to his fate. He could do a year as the Reaper, and it gave him a chance to see everyone again – even if they didn’t know it was him. He could check in on his parents, and he wondered if there would be a subtle way to let his mum know he was alright, well, sort of. “One last thing,” Mr Carruthers said, pulling Jack’s attention up to his face. “This here cottage’ll be yer home fer the duration.” The humour had gone from his voice as he let Jack process all the information, watching silently as Jack turned the ledger over in his hands, pondering what the next year would hold. “So, when do I start?” Jack finally asked. “Dust yerself off lad, then open th’ ledger an’ read the first page.” Jack did as he was instructed and found the ancient handwriting he was to read from. He read the text through once in his mind before reciting it aloud. I take up the Reaper’s Mantle,
As ordained in the Lost Manuscript Libellus de Populo Mortuo,
Of which only scraps survive.
I shall attend the dying, lead the newly gone,
And uphold the boundaries of life, and afterwards,
Though their exact definitions were not preserved.
I bind myself to the Ledger’s Will
Until the next person dies and saves me from this. As Jack finished the words, a strange calm settled in his bones, and he looked over to Mr Carruthers to see the old man encased in a soft glow, a satisfied smile on his lips. “Thank ye, lad. Thank ye fer releasin’ me. Good luck, an’ see ye in th’ next life. Ye’ll be fine.” Jack watched, utterly entranced, as Mr Carruthers slowly dissipated out of existence, moving on to whatever came next. As much as his new task felt daunting, Jack felt happy for the old man being able to see his wife again; or at least be somewhere he didn’t have to work anymore. He looked around at the room in which he found himself and really took it in for the first time. It was an old cottage lounge, the flagstone flooring and stone walls giving the home an almost magical feel. Jack noticed the fire was lit, bathing the space with both warmth and a soft orange light. It was a beautiful space, with low ceilings, exposed beams, and lead-lined windows. Jack watched the dust particles dancing in the dying light from outside for a moment before wondering where he was to sleep. Did he need to sleep as a Reaper? He felt like he needed it. Jack plodded up the cramped stairs to find a bedroom and a bathroom so he could freshen up. He was wearing a suit – the only suit he owned in fact ­– and had surmised he was still in the clothes he had been buried in. He wondered what he was going to change into after he had freshened up. Would he need to go shopping? Did he have any money? Jack decided those were questions for another time once he found the bathroom. He turned on the shower to warm up and relieved himself while he waited. Once the water was warm, he stepped under the stream and relished in the feeling of getting clean once more. He had never truly appreciated just how amazing showers could feel when he was alive, and he resolved to appreciate the little things for the year he had left. He stepped out and towelled off, then plodded through to the bedroom opposite the bathroom, finding an open wardrobe and an array of documents on the bed. Jack sat on the end of the bed and began looking through them, assuming what he found to be his new identity. There was a driver’s license, a bank card, and the pin information, as well as a statement letting Jack know that money would not be an issue over the coming year. He supposed it made sense – can’t work a normal job when you’re on death duty twenty-four hours a day. Jack examined the new ID. Jamie Hearst. Jack chuckled to himself at the play on the word ‘hearse’. He anxiously studied the face and was grateful for the fact that it was actually quite handsome – a sharp jaw littered with dark stubble, almond-shaped hazel eyes, and well-coiffed chestnut hair that complemented his tanned skin. Feeling pretty good about his new look, Jack plodded over to the wardrobe and found a pair of sweatpants to throw on for bed. The wardrobe was outfitted with everything Jack could ever need, and everything was in his size. He was liking this Reaper magic already. Flopping into bed, Jack found Reapers most definitely can sleep. Like the dead, apparently.