Chapter 31 - Diary of the Dead

Back in the safety of her own room, Morrigan sat on the edge of her bed with the old journal open in her lap. Her fingers were unsteady as she flipped through the pages. Her eyes skimmed the elegant script as if it were a window into the life of someone who had walked a path similar to hers.

February 3rd, 1694

Noir suggested I detach myself. He says I should consider my hands merely tools of a greater purpose. But how can I detach when I see so much cruelty and suffering in the world? Am I to turn a blind eye? I loath the way he phrased it. A greater purpose? What can be the purpose when the poor become weak with disease to where they can no longer keep their fires lit, and they freeze and die? Meanwhile, the wealthy have servants to tend to all their needs and doctors to guide them through the healing process every step of the way. Noir and Death both speak of balance, but I see none. It is easy for them to think that way, I suppose. Death, by his own words, admits he no longer remembers his own mortality. Noir? Whatever that thing is, he could truly never understand what it is to be a frail, mortal human. Such elegant words about our role fall muffled upon my ears. I know what it’s like to be human. I know what it is to suffer.

Why is the world like this? If such powerful forces exist, why then can the winter not be cast away? Why can this horrible disease not simply cease to be? Does suffering really make the world all the more beautiful? Is there really more meaning to the flowers blooming in the spring? I’d think a world where those flowers bloom eternally would still have meaning. Again, so easy for Death to suggest otherwise. I won’t let myself forget my humanity. I will never downplay these horrors with such elegantly spoken words.

Morrigan continued to flip through the diary. Some entries she skimmed past, others she focused on. Most detailed a day in the life as a reaper, talking about those she helped to pass on. Some entries were long and spanned pages. Others were short and without commentary.

The next to catch Morrigan’s eyes was a much shorter entry.

February 23rd, 1694

Today I reaped a child. Her face was pocked by the disease. It was her time, Death said.

After that, the next entry was two weeks later. Up until that point, there was not more than a two day gap.

March 8th, 1694

Today Death confirmed that he would no longer be teaching me magic. He says he feels he rushed me and that I should learn some humility before he continued such lessons. These words I write can not begin to give justice to how infuriated I am. Humility? What more humility must I possess? I have accepted my fate as a reaper—I do his bidding. And yet, he speaks of humility as though I am some child throwing a tantrum.

In these three long months as a reaper, I have seen things that would break the strongest of spirits. After the way I died and the things I had to do in this new life, I’ve been nothing but dedicated to this role. Yet he dares to question me? He is out of touch, I’m sure. I knew something was amiss several days ago when the lessons stopped, when my role as his apprentice began to feel as though I was simply taking on the load of his own duties.

When I began this new existence he told me he would guide me, teach me to be more than just a soul collector. He promised knowledge, understanding, a purpose that went beyond the mundane. But now, I feel as if I am merely a tool, and that my own growth and understanding have been cast aside.

I shall wait for now. I am not rash, but if my disillusionment for my so-called mentors is not resolved, I will be leaving them. There is no rule that I must remain his apprentice, after all. It is my list, not his, and as long as I satisfy the fates there is nothing he can do.

Morrigan flipped backwards, trying to find more passages about this other reaper’s training as far as magic went. In Morrigan’s case, she had not been taught a single thing, but she was only a week into the job.

She found a couple mentions about being taught perception blocking, and something called shadow stepping which would allow her to move through shadows and thus be able to travel faster. Morrigan wondered if now that cars were a thing that’s why she hadn’t seen Death use that yet. Skimming through, she eventually found some mention of offensive magics. It was part of a longer passage that began with the usual entries about the day’s reapings which is why Morrigan had missed it at first. It was dated January 31st.

January 31st, 1694

After we returned from the day’s reapings Death finally began teaching me of other magics. I have yet to cross paths with a demon, but he thought I should know how to defend myself. Just in case.

As I practiced, channeling the energy and shaping it, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of exhilaration. I can see how easy it would be to lose oneself in it. Death warned me of this, cautioning me to always remember my purpose and to use my abilities only when necessary.

I understand his words, yet part of me wonders what the true extent of this power could be. Could it be used for more than just defense? Could I, perhaps, use it to bring some semblance of justice to this world?

These thoughts trouble me, and I find myself questioning the nature of our existence as reapers. Are we truly just servants of fate, bound to a path that we cannot stray from? Or is there room for us to make our own choices, to use the powers bestowed upon us for a greater good? Such questions I know to keep to myself. After all, my teacher would never approve.

“Magic huh…” Morrigan closed the book and folded her arms. Noir said it takes a long time to learn, but if she understood the timeline correctly this other girl was learning magic after just a month or two.

She had been reading the diary for some time now and was not sure when Death and Noir would be returning. So, she placed the book back into her bag, slid it under her bed and walked out into the living room. Taking a quick glance out the window, she confirmed that only the black pick-up truck sat in the driveway. She hadn’t eaten yet, so she grabbed a bag of jerky from the kitchen and sat on the couch with it.

She turned on the TV and flipped through the channels looking for the news. She wondered if she could find anything about what happened with the Micheal Roy situation after she and Noir left the office. Turned out, it was a pretty big story and she found a news channel showing his daughter making a statement.

Trisha Roy stood in front of a sea of microphones, her eyes red-rimmed but her voice steady. The news anchor’s voice provided a backdrop to the scene. “Trisha Roy, daughter of the late Michael Roy, is currently giving a statement regarding her father’s sudden passing yesterday afternoon.”

Morrigan leaned forward, her attention captured by the grief etched behind Trisha Roy, or simply Trish as her father had called her, as she kept herself composed through the statement. “My father was a great man. He was dedicated to his work, to his family, and to his community. His passing is a shock to all of us, and we are still trying to come to terms with this loss. It was sudden, and unexpected, but my father was diligent in being sure we were prepared for such an event and business will continue as usual. We ask the media to please allow our family some privacy in this trying time.”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

With that short statement, she walked away from the podium. The camera panned out revealing more of the crowd as flashes of cameras burst in a chaotic array and reporters shouted questions. One question that caught Morrigan’s ear was, “What about the cocaine found in Micheal Roy’s office? Will you make a statement about—”

The view changed to a photograph of Michael Roy, smiling and looking confident. The news anchor continued, “Michael Roy, CEO of Roy Industries, passed away unexpectedly yesterday due to what is currently being reported as a heart attack. As investigations continue, the company has announced that operations will carry on under the interim leadership of Trisha Roy, who has been a significant part of the business for several years.”

Morrigan chewed on a piece of jerky, her thoughts turning over. The news didn’t mention anything unusual, no hint of the chaos she had left in that office. She supposed it was for the best. “Well, could have gone worse,” she said under her breath. “No world wars, I guess.”

A bit of movement caught the corner of her eyes, from out the window. Turning fully she saw a deer and smiled as she got up to get a better look. The deer was slightly translucent, and there were two angelic wings coming from its back.

“Huh…” Morrigan watched it, captivated, and thought that it seemed to be looking at the front door. It made a movement with its head, and then two smaller fawns emerged from the trees, cautiously, each with an identical pair of wings on their backs. They stood beside their mother and all three seemed to be focused on the house.

Morrigan stepped outside into the warm summer air without grabbing her shoes. The deer were not frightened or even the slightest bit cautious about her appearance. In fact, they all looked at her curiously. The mother stepped closer to the front steps and her fawn followed. Once at the foot of the steps, the mother stared at Morrigan and bowed almost as if in greeting.

“H-hey there,” Morrigan said. She stepped down to the last of the three steps and held her hand out as the deer stared at her expectantly. “Are you… looking for Death?”

The deer answered by gesturing to the two fawn, and then giving Morrigan that slight bow once again. Morrigan realized she still had the bag of jerky in her hand so reached behind herself and placed it on the porch.

“Um… he’s not here right now…”

The mother deer’s head lowered.

Morrigan observed them for a moment, then spoke gently. “I… think I know why you’re here.”

The deer seemed to listen, a serene patience in its demeanor. Morrigan hesitated, then continued, “You’re… lost, aren’t you? Looking for someone to guide you to where you’re supposed to be?”

The deer nodded again. These spirits were lingering, unable to find their way on their own. With a heavy sigh, she knew what she had to do.

She certainly didn’t look the part of a reaper at the moment. She was standing there with bare feet, a simple black t-shirt and basketball shorts. All the same, she reached to the side and felt for her scythe. As always, the cool wooden pole was right there waiting for her. She latched her hand around it and pulled it into existence.

One of the fawn scurried behind its mother, but the older deer craned her neck back and nudged it, guiding it forward. The fawn looked at her confused for a moment, until the mother lowered herself and touched their foreheads together. The other fawn walked over and joined.

Morrigan watched them, not making a move. She didn’t want to interrupt this moment. After some time, the mother’s head lifted and the two little ones stepped forward together. Morrigan frowned. This is the first time she was going to do a reaping without either Noir or Death guiding her, but it felt right.

With a deep breath, Morrigan raised her scythe, its ethereal blue blade catching the soft glimmers of sunlight. The fawns, their angelic wings almost shimmering, gazed at her with a mixture of curiosity and innocence. There was no fear in their eyes, just a calm acceptance.

“It’ll be alright,” Morrigan spoke softly. “Your journey here is complete and you’ll be moving on to a serene place, free from worry, where you will always be together.”

She swung the scythe in a gentle arc, careful to be as respectful as possible. As the blade passed through the spirits of the fawns, a warm, glowing light enveloped them.

As gentle as a whisper, their spirits disipated as they moved toward the sky.

Morrigan stood there for a moment, watching the space where the fawns had been. The experience was profoundly moving, a stark contrast to the uncertainty she had been feeling.

She then turned her attention to the mother deer. The doe, having watched her fawns pass on, now stepped forward with a quiet dignity.

With the same gentleness, Morrigan raised her scythe and swung.

After the spirit disapated, Morrigan took a seat on the steps, the scythe still in her hands, laid across her lap. She looked up and down its length, thinking of all the souls she had harvested with it thus far. Already it was more than she could get her head around and it hasn’t even been a full week yet.

There was so much power bestowed upon her by taking the role of a reaper, but she didn’t feel powerful. She felt completely the opposite. She felt trapped. She had never really been trapped before. It used to be that she could go where she wanted to go and do what she wanted to do. That other Morrigan who never left the graveyard knew how to live freely—once she knew what she wanted she would figure out how to get it. Even if that meant bending the rules.

But what do I want now?

Her hand ran along the shaft of the scythe. It was cool to the touch, as always.

She supposed what she wanted was to go back to being that other Morrigan, but there was no point in wishing for the impossible. So, what did she want right now that was actually within her reach?

If she could answer that, then maybe her anxiety would go away.

She stood up, stepped carefully across the jagged gravel until she was on the grass and posed the scythe in her hands. The grass was cool between her toes, and a soft warm breeze blew at her hair.

The diary spoke of magic, channeling energy and shaping it. She thought of when she first summoned the scythe and how natural it was to find its presence and bring it into existence. If she possessed the ability to use magic, perhaps it was the same kind of thing? A natural extension of herself that she only had to reach for… Well, that was her theory anyway.

Closing her eyes, she focused on the soft tingle of her hands as she held the Scythe, and as she did so she could feel it spreading to her arms, then shoulders and the center of her chest.

Is this it… or am I just imagining things? How can I shape it…

She felt the tingle all the way down to her toes. She opened her eyes and, looking down, she gasped at what she saw. The grass around her bare feet was turning brown, curling as it withered and died. She reflexively jumped back, accidentally landing her feet right on the jagged gravel driveway, causing her to lose balance and fall down. The scythe slipped from her hand and dissipated in blue flame as it hit the ground after her.

She nursed a scraped elbow, staring at the two withered circles of grass where her feet had been, then looked at her hand. That tingling sensation was gone now, but she was fairly sure she could find it again if she searched for it.

A smile touched her lips as she stood up and looked down the driveway. She couldn’t quite see the road from here, but the answer to her earlier question was beginning to reveal itself.

She didn’t know what she wanted, but she did know what she didn’t want. She didn’t want to feel trapped. As the dairy had mentioned, she wasn’t particularly obligated to stick with Death and Noir, and living here in the first place had been presented to her as an option not an outright demand.

Her eyes found their way to the black pickup truck, and the decision practically made itself. The old Morrigan who wasn’t afraid to just take what she wanted would have given her an approving thumbs-up.

She marched back inside, got dressed, and packed her bag with the diary securely between clothes so it wouldn’t get damaged. She then grabbed the skeleton key and her phone off the nightstand and marched right back to the truck.

Hope Death doesn’t mind if I borrow this, she thought as she transitioned the keys from the dashboard to the ignition and the truck roared to life. The sound felt exhilarating at that moment. She adjusted the rearview mirror and took a deep breath. No idea where she planned to go, but it didn’t matter. Anywhere would be better than here right now.

She guided the car down the driveway and onto the road, soon traveling further away from the life she had been thrust into so abruptly. She didn’t know where she was going. Maybe she would find a small town, blend in, and live there for a while. Or maybe she’d just drive until the road ended or the truck ran out of gas.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the valley as she emerged from the woodland, Morrigan felt a contentment she hadn’t known in a long time. Her heart no longer thumped with hollow anxiety, or at least, it was taking a break for now. The old Morrigan was gone, she knew that, but that didn’t mean she had no say in who the new Morrigan would be.