Jonas Saul

The Reaper

© 2012

The day had finally come to kill. To remove a soul. What I do is a form of cleansing. I take great pleasure in easing the world of the souls that burden it. The only problem is, each soul has to be worked and – after eight years on this one – I need to move on. I’m old, tired and ready to hand off some of my responsibilities to the younger generation. But first I have to continue the ruse. What’s one more hour in the life of someone as old as me?

“What bothers me,” I started, “is our own child doesn’t like us using the name we gave him.” I turned around in my seat to glance at my sleeping son, my little reaper, Jacob. Or Mark, as he would rather be called.

“I know, honey, but all we can do is continue on to Novar and prove to him that what he’s been saying can’t be right. We’ll take Jacob to where he thinks he was born and show him.”

I felt grumpy and moody. I was pissed this day had taken so long. But, in each case we have to have a story. I don’t wait for people to die like my cousin the Grim Reaper. We take people early. It’s justified. It’s right. The problem for me is that I’m the only one powerful enough to know our purpose. My husband, John, has no idea who he is, and won’t for another hour. He actually thinks he’s my husband and Jacob actually sees himself as my son.

If the world only knew how crazy I am, how much fun I have in their misery, they wouldn’t hunt me with pitchforks as they did hundreds of years ago – they’d send an army to decapitate me.

I sat in the front seat of our Nissan and stared at the passing trees, my arms crossed. The colors were a vibrant green this time of year. Normally that would inspire me, cause me to snap a picture or two of the July sun, if only to add another prop to my stage dressing. But I didn’t, because this play was coming to an end and there would be no encore.

“I’m just tired of always hearing about his mother,” I stated, fully encompassing my role in this incarnation. “How she washed clothes with her hands and how she made bread at home in an outside bread oven. His mother this and his mother that. Never memories of his first eight years with us.” I raised my hands in frustration. “I know he remembers getting a PlayStation at Christmas, and lots of other things since he was born, but I’m talking about what he says happened that isn’t true. I mean, come on, we haven’t let him watch that much television.”

John put his hand on my leg to calm me down. He knew all too well that I could really get fired up about this stuff. I am Jacob’s mother. I wash clothes in a machine. I buy bread at a large grocery store and we live in a city, not a village. We have electricity and only use candles for a romantic dinner. At least that’s how it all appears.

At first, I wondered if Jacob knew who he really was and what his mission had become for this incarnation. There were times when I was sure of it, but then I realized that he wasn’t as old as I am, and only ones older than five hundred years can do what I do with all the knowledge. I’m eight thousand, two hundred years old this June and as I said earlier, ready to retire. My husband is a pawn; my son, my successor.

I realized a few years ago, when Jacob began remembering a past life, that it was only a phase he was going through. But it didn’t stop. Jacob continued talking about his past like he’d actually lived it. When he said he was born in the village of Novar, my husband and I decided to drive there to show him Novar so we could put his delusions to rest and I could complete my task for this incarnation.

“Everything will be fine,” John said, trying to reassure me. I appreciated his efforts, but I had a nagging feeling that something was amiss. On this, the day of atoning, John still didn’t indicate that he knew who he was. I worried a little that he wouldn’t. If he didn’t come around, I would have to kill him too, and that could become a problem.

My son had given details about a previous life that he couldn’t have gleaned from watching TV. Barney a few years ago, then Blues Clues, and now PlayStation. There was no way he could know about churning butter, poverty and a one-building school house. It didn’t stop there; he gave details. The kind of details anyone would have of their past, except that Jacob had grown up with us in Barrie. It had become too close to what was really happening. I knew he was too young to possess the truth, yet he caused me to wonder.

Jacob had said just last week that if we drove to Novar, he would direct us to where he used to live. He would even show us the tree where he carved his name and the year he was born: 1931. He said that if we went this week he had a surprise for us, one that I would be happy to learn. The mystery was enough for John and me to say we’d go, even though this was exactly why we were all here this time around. I should’ve known then: Jacob was well aware of my plans, our plans.

I wore a yellow, flowery dress, one of my favorites. I had wanted something bright, calming and happy. I was prepared for a revelation of some kind, Jacob’s mystery surprise, and a disgruntled husband. My human nerves were rattled.

“Ten kilometers left,” John said.

I looked back and saw Jacob waking. He pushed himself up and glanced out the window as he rubbed his eyes.

“Hi baby, how’re you feeling?” I asked.

“Okay, I guess.”

“Are you worried about coming here?”

“No, I miss being here. We had great times when I was little.”

We? What the hell did that mean?

“You still are little, Jacob. There are lots of great times to come,” I said. If he only knew.

He looked at me. “Can you call me Mark for today? At least while we’re in Novar?”

I stole a glance at John. He nodded and I looked back at our son. I forced my teeth apart to say, “We can do that. But just for today.”

John put the turn signal on to exit the highway and I was immediately hit with déjà vu. I shook my head and came back to the present. John mumbled something beside me.

“What?” I asked him.

“Are you okay? You slumped down in your seat and paled, like you were frightened.”

“I’m fine,” I stuttered. “I just thought for a second that I recognized this place.”

What was it about Novar? Real fear entered my being. Strange. An odd feeling.

“That’s ridiculous. We’ve never set foot in this town,” John said.

He gave me a look that shouted, Don’t start talking like Jacob.

Jacob directed his dad down a number of streets while I gawked at the familiar terrain. Why did I feel I’d been here before? This was crazy; we were in Novar for Jacob and our mission and I was starting to feel like I’d been here before too. If I had, I would’ve known about it. Odd.

“Where are you taking us, Mark?” I asked, feeling as awkward as always when using that name.

“To where I used to live. I think you’ll recognize it, Mom.”

What the hell? How could he say that? Better yet, why would he say that? He’s not old enough to know who or what I am. Information like that can only be acquired at death.

I looked down at my lap to avoid seeing the passing buildings. My leg was bouncing up and down, my hands shaking even though I clamped them together on my lap.

“Why do you think I should recognize Novar?” I asked him. I heard my voice crack. Even John looked over at me. And the play continues. Damn, am I good at this shit.

“Because you were my mom in 1931. We lived here until our house burned down in the great fire.”

I turned around in my seat and gaped at Jacob. What could I say? It was the first time he had said that his delusions of another life included me. In this incarnation, he isn’t supposed to know why he’s here, and yet he focused on this town and even said he used to live here. Something weird was happening. Something I didn’t understand. I wanted no part of it. It fucked with my current reality. But should I react with how I was feeling about Novar? All I could do was turn back around and stare out the front windshield at the oddly familiar landscape. I was too close to the end to allow the ruse to be taken from me. No one could stop the killing now.

Jacob directed his dad to pull over. There wasn’t much of a shoulder on the narrow road, but John did his best to keep the car from going down the small embankment. He put the hazards on and we all got out.

The afternoon sun beat down but I took my sunglasses off. I wanted to enjoy every moment as the killing time approached, see everything, feel all of it.

I smiled to myself as John and I silently followed Jacob through tall grass and weeds. We walked across a small clearing, and then my pulse raced as if I was in free-fall. I felt faint. I grabbed my chest. John reached for my arm to steady me. What the hell was happening? This had never happened before in any of my thousands of incarnations. Maybe my age was catching up with me. Perhaps it was my soul that was to be stolen?

“We lived right here,” Jacob said, his arms wide.

In that moment, I realized he was right. The earth under my feet was once my garden. I could see everything and understand nothing. I should remember it if I had lived here before. I looked around and noticed indentations in the foliage that resembled a pattern. When I pushed a few shrubs aside, I could see pieces of the foundation of a building that once stood here. When I looked up, Jacob was thirty meters away and moving fast.

“Jacob. I mean Mark! Where’re you going?”

“I want to show you the tree. And then you can have your surprise.”

I’d had enough surprises for one day. I was having an involuntary epiphany. I didn’t want to know what I was discovering. A part of my rational side rebelled. Anger rose in me; violence too. The killing was coming, along with it the sweet rush of a murder. So delicate and yet so satisfying.

Humans do it every day. They kill each other. They kill animals for sport. Everything down to a fly swatter kills and they take great pleasure in it. I live on another scale, another plane, one greater than all the others. My pleasure in death is immense. Watching it, causing it, feeling it, being killed myself. Everything to do with it is why I exist.

I am, therefore I kill.

I followed Jacob another fifty yards, with John close behind. We came to a clump of trees and there, scraped into the bark of the largest one was the name Mark and the year 1931.

I looked at John. If he didn’t figure out who he was soon, he would wonder what all this meant. Was his son reincarnated or psychic? John would have questions. We were down to the end. I didn’t want to have to kill him without the knowledge of who he is. It hurt when their last breath came out, their eyes darkened, and they had no idea why. Knowledge is power. I love death when we know why. It’s a rich power. The only kind. That’s why I do what I do and I’m so good at it. The power.

“Can I help you folks?”

Nothing pissed me off more than being startled.

My human body jumped a foot and let out a small squeal as all three of us turned around and stared death in the face. The man standing with the aid of a cane was twenty feet away. He must have been at least ninety years old. The side of his face looked melted, like he’d kissed a fire and paid for it. He was simply gorgeous.

“I’m sorry, we were just looking around,” John said.

Do you realize how dumb that sounds? Oh, we’re just looking around in the middle of the tall grass and huge trees. We must’ve looked like complete idiots.

“I haven’t seen anyone this far off the road in a long time,” the old man said.

“Is this your property?” John asked.

“My papa owned it and it fell into my hands when he died in the fifties. I’ve lived here since I was born in 1934.”

I looked at Jacob. His head was down as he stared at something on the ground. I could tell he was thinking. Then my eight-year-old son spoke as he looked up at the old man.

“Your name is Kirk Sutton. I remember you because you always played with frogs. You actually had a few pet frogs that you wouldn’t let anyone near. We used to tease you about it.”

The old man looked at Jacob/Mark. He studied my son with a wry smile that turned to a scowl. A few seconds passed before he spoke. “How did you know my name? And how do you know about my frogs?”

“I know because I’m Mark. I used to live just over there in the thirties.” Jacob lifted his arm and pointed. Then he looked back at Kirk Sutton. “I also know about your other obsession.”

“Well, now, that couldn’t be possible, little man, since you’re only a boy. The family who lived in the house that burned down were the founders of our little village: Mr. and Mrs. Novar. They had a boy named Mark, but they all died in a fire in 1944.”

I caught a breath in my throat. In that moment, I recognized Kirk Sutton. It came to me in a flood, like the dam had surrendered. I remembered everything: the tree line, the landscape, even where the train tracks were. I saw men hammering spikes into the rails as they put the tracks in. My mind’s eye showed me the details of their clothes, their tools. What surprised me the most was why I hadn’t known any of this before.

I used to watch my son Mark and his friend Kirk catch frogs as I sat on my porch and sipped lemonade. The yellow dress that I’d worn was the same dress I had torn off on the day of the fire so I could protect my son from the smoke and flames that licked up the walls.

Mark and I died in the fire. I knew that now. We’d failed in our joint mission in that incarnation because of Kirk, the man standing before us. And we came back together to live the life that we never got the chance to. I stepped close to Mark/Jacob and reached for him.

Our eyes met and we could see the secret between us that had lasted seventy-five years. Jacob knew. All those years and he knew. Together we would kill today and together we would be killed.

Jacob stepped away from me. He reached into his pocket and moved farther into the foliage.

“Jacob, where are you going?” John asked.

Jacob ignored him as he moved deeper into the field. I would’ve ignored him too. He was a straggler now, the only one who didn’t know his part in all this.

“I know it was you,” Jacob said loud enough for all of us to hear.

The old man looked from Jacob to me and then back to Jacob.

“You couldn’t help yourself,” Jacob continued. “But you got burned too. I was told all about it, but I had to meet you for myself.”

I had stepped into a new realm and left behind my old reality. The gig was up. No more playing.

“Who told you about me?” the old man asked.

“Your brother. He’s coming today too.”

John, that’s you. Getting it yet?

“I don’t have a brother and I do not have to stand here and listen to this craziness.”

John yelled for Jacob to come back. I turned and rebuked John. “We’ll handle this,” I said.

The old man started away on his cane. I was ten meters away from my son but still close enough to see the matches he pulled out of his pocket. He flipped the top, lit one and touched the rest with it. They flared in his hand.

The old man turned hard to stare at the flames in Jacob’s hand.

“That’s right. Watch the fire. That’s what you did all those years ago. You watched the fire while your brother and I burned along with my mother. You listened to our screams and smiled. You stared so long that you got burned too. It’s mesmerizing, isn’t it? Just watch.”

Jacob tossed the lit matches into the air. I expected John to scream in protest, but heard nothing from behind me. The high grass was seriously dry for this time of year. The old man’s house was too far away for him to escape.

Kirk Sutton used his cane like an expert as he tried to hustle away from the flames. But it wasn’t the fire he ran from, it was my husband. He’d finally gotten it. He knew who he was, or – rather -, is.

“Get him, Danny,” Jacob shouted to his father.

My brain felt bent. Everything was good, as it should be.

I watched as John tackled the ninety-year-old man and was lost to sight in the tall grass.

The fire rose above the waist-high foliage not one meter from Jacob, who was laughing as he watched the flames soar higher and higher.

Something clicked in my head. I actually felt it. Magical.

John lifted the old man above the grass and carried him like a surfboard. Kirk shouted something about the police.

I walked closer to the flames to watch. A loud crack resounded across the fields. I spun around to see a man running off the back steps of the old man’s house. He had a gun in his hand.

“Stop what you’re doing or I’ll shoot!”

Then I heard what Kirk Sutton was trying to say. His son was a cop.

The three of us circled the flames that had grown to a small brush fire. John stood the old man up and then, without preamble, shoved him into the center of the flames where he fell on his back and writhed. He squealed and screamed as his flesh melted in areas spared in the fire of 1944.

The joy I felt as Kirk cooked in the flames was immense.

A gun went off as I watched with glee the old man dying before me. John fell to his knees, blood spitting out of his mouth. I turned to see the cop aim his weapon at me.

The gun bucked in his hand. The bullet raced by me and shattered Jacob’s face. What a sight, all the bone and blood shooting into the air, caught by the grass, my son’s soul free.

I stayed low and grabbed John’s hand, and reaching for Jacob’s to form a bond. All three of us lay on our backs and waited. I was the only one left unhurt, but my time was coming and I looked forward to it.

Kirk Sutton had fallen silent in the fire. The wails I heard came from the cop. He stepped over and looked down at me.

“Who are you fucking people?” His face told me everything. The red cheeks, the wet eyes, the breathing. He was going into shock after hearing his father’s screams. His mind was slipping into protective mode before he lost it entirely. It was always such a pleasure to see someone crack in front of me. Always a pleasure.

I smiled at him. It inspired him to raise his weapon and point it at me.

“Kirk, your father, murdered people,” I said. “We came to make him pay. Shoot me, and we’ll come back for you too.”

The gun went off and I felt yanked away.

I’ve been at this for eight thousand, two hundred years. It’s time to retire. My son is more powerful than I thought. I’m so proud of him.

Unlike my cousin, we aren’t lazy, waiting for people to die. We take them, but we stick to the tormented souls. We’re like the ultimate cleanser, ridding the world of scum.

Maybe one day I’ll have to come for your soul. I could be your mother, your brother or your friend at school. You’ll never know. But I’ll be there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for my chance to end a life.

Waiting for my reward.

The pleasure in murder is too great to stop.

I am, therefore I kill. See you soon.

About Jonas Saul

Jonas Saul is the author of the Sarah Roberts and The Kill series. Visit his website, www.jonassaul.com for upcoming release dates. Jonas lives in Europe with his wife, author Kate Cornwell.

Contact Jonas Saul

Website: http://www.jonassaul.com

Twitter: @jonassaul

Email: authorjonassaul@gmail.com

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Content

Jonas Saul
The Reaper

About Jonas Saul