Reaper School

Chapter 6: Birth of a Banshee

Birth of a Banshee

"Does she remember?" Aris blurted out. Completely spellbound by the story, he had forgotten who he was speaking to; simultaneously there was a kind of split-second delay and it felt like he had just jolted back into Death's office. "... the promise that she made?"

"What do you think? Humans are Janus-faced creatures. At times of need they call upon the names of all the saints and then take back whatever they promised as soon as they're out of harm's way. Even more so to Death. Naturally no one remembers Death. I'm the Ever Uninvited Guest. I'm the one thing no mortal thinks of unless it's absolutely certain and can no longer be postponed. What does it matter if I'm the closest friend you have, at least second to your shadow?"

Sephtimus finally put out his cigarette in the most unlikely ash tray. Another skeletal arm, this one sort of elasticized, burst upward out of the floor and opened bony fingers like petals. The osseous ash tray then sank away in the same manner it had emerged and left no sign whatsoever that it was ever there.

"But when I signed off that extension for her father," Sephtimus continued, "I no longer cared how long I made it for. From that day she stood up to me, I thought of claiming only one thing: her own fragrant soul. And the appointment she set on that fateful day thirteen years ago is drawing near. The appointment of October 31st falls on the hour barely two weeks from now."

Two weeks before yet another light was snuffed out, Aris thought to himself. "But what if she was meant to live out the remaining days of her life? You can't take anyone's life short of its natural span, can you?"

"You speak the truth. I cannot. Which leads to your repulsive presence here and the only need I have of you. Which explains why you're still holding on to a shred of your sanity and not dribbling down your chin..." He drifted backward then did an about-face like the ghost of a bullet-riddled military officer. Instead of heels to turn around on, the coat lining which was the bottom tip of him spun and flapped momentarily, almost sweeping the floor.

"There's nothing in the Destiny Scrolls that gives me the power to do just that: answer someone's death wish or influence another person to take a life. I'm bound to practice non-interference, all to preserve the autonomy and freedom of choice that was granted to insects like you. I was relegated to sneak around in the shadows like some whipped mongrel waiting to be thrown table scraps by its master."

This made sense to Aris. The idea of Death being no more than an executor of things had been around in some folklore. He was an agent, an enforcer who simply did what he was told and carried out fates that had already been set. But how to explain the reprieve that he gave the woman's father?

"Yes, it's a fucked-up, ironic business when you think about it: Death being a mere bagman," Sephtimus continued. "As a bagman, I can choose to be lenient and award a grace period, extend man's sojourn in his world but not hasten it. Life isn't for me to give or to take.

"In fact," he says after a long pause, "in the natural order of things, the responsibility of taking lives falls into the very capable but violent talons of the Crows."

"The what?"

"Crows. Don't you believe in angels, meatball? Storks for the entry of innocent cherubs and for the departure of other pure spirits. Crows for the arrest of the illegal, overstaying ones. These two forces are the original immigrant police of the world. The Great Duality. One for continuity and propagation, the other for stoppage. One for existence, the other for perpetual cancellation. It's very dangerous business to get involved when it's not yet your proper time. Like if you were love-ripe and next to a creep, or if you were at death's door."