Death Becomes Us

Chapter Two (Pt. 2)

I hitch a ride on the back of a tap-tap passenger truck the moment I fracture into Port Au Prince, Haiti; my long, loose shirt snaps behind me in the wind as I hang onto the open ended vehicle. Remnants of my previous appointment still clings to me, visions of thunderstorms and lightning fire in the tropical rainforest drifting like ghosts in my peripheral. A creature snarls and I flinch, but it is in the past.

That was not one of my—pleasanter collections; there have been two hundred and sixty eight tragic deaths that I have encountered since my visit with Amelia. In fact, ever since William Crouch in Israel, none of my clients have had very favorable deaths. They blur together now, each demise falling into the next. It's the beauty of the fracture really, having the luxury of being able to travel through space and time. What could be hours, days, and years to them are condensed into a matter of minutes for me; a matter of terribly dark, gruesome, minutes...

Soon though my last appointment seeps further away into the past and I am able to enjoy the present, at least for the time being. The back of the tap-tap truck is crammed with men, women, children and various baskets and parcels stuffed with produce or belongings. Sweat rolls down musky skin pressed to musky skin, the air a haze beneath the sweltering heat of the cloudless sky and the sun.

We bump along a faded road covered in dust and crowded in on either side by bleached, square stores and apartments. Battered and creaking road equipment also hedges our path with teams of government workers and foreign volunteers laboring to help the city recover from the latest earthquake. I watch them crouching in ditches or delivering sacks of food to tent cities; shoveling rubble from collapsed buildings.

Despite the progress the city has made in the past years my focus is still drawn to the destruction. I'm taken back to the days of the earthquake, to all the running and the screaming and the load of souls weighing down on my limbs.

Port Au Prince falls away abruptly, trading dusty buildings for thick forests dripping with condensation from the heavy humidity. It snaps me out from my revere and I concentrate on the task at hand, weaving with the truck as it makes its way into the mountains. Fields pass in blurs, the crumbling slopes of earth worked over with ploughs driven by cattle and farmers. Scattered neighborhoods battle against the mountain, scrabbling for whatever viable land that can pass for a solid foundation.

Eventually I leave my weary companions listlessly slouching in the tap-tap, leaping off the truck to land next to the open air market of Kenscoff, a continuously developing town shoved near the top of the mountain range. It is here that I stalk my next appointment, a shop owner who is currently wheeling his cart of wares across the road.

Jean Paul takes his time in crossing, calling out to locals and tourists alike as he goes, shaking a fistful of hand crafted beads to catch their wary attention. Only a few linger with semi interest, but none take the time to make a purchase.

I lean beneath the eaves of a vendor's shack and watch my smallest clock face, waiting as the time ticks closer. The black hands nearing Jean Paul's name are in no particular hurry and I adopt their attitude, tracking the lanky man in his quest for the opposite roadside. He dodges around the occasional car, cursing in French Creole at a cyclist who just brushes his cart. In the end he crosses without incident and I am obligated to follow, prowling behind him through the bustling market crowd.

His ticking clock begins to slow and I slide between a bartering seller and his potential customer, reaching out to latch onto Jean Paul's elbow. Just before I am to make contact I freeze. An electric current of life unexpectedly runs through me, the soul of another redirecting my attention. Jean Paul slips away and I turn, searching the swarm of sweaty people for the source of my distraction.

"Hi, hello—yes, may I take a picture of your shop, please? Would that be okay?"

My head snaps around and I zone in on the soul, locating a young woman off to the side trying to communicate with a metal craftsman. Her highlighted hair is in a braid this time and tucked beneath a white fedora that matches her long dress; a pair of dark tinted sunglasses are pressed snuggly to her face. She holds her camera up for the shop owner to see, a stray hand twisting the strap of her bag thrown across her chest.

"Oh, how do you say it?" she asks, turning to a brightly dressed woman beside her.

The woman repeats the initial request in their common language to the shopkeeper who nods his consent and the girl smiles in relief. I approach her with interest, leaning in for a closer look while distractedly reaching for my book. She lowers her sunglasses before taking the pictures and I glimpse her eyes, vaguely recalling that I have seen them before.

"Do I know you?" I ask.

"Yes," she says. "Of course."

She is responding to something her interpreter had said, but for a moment it was as if she was speaking to me. It is enough to prompt the memory of first seeing Elizabeth Barrow, our meeting coming vividly to mind without the aid of my book. With the memory is the same feeling of excitement for when it felt like she could see and communicate with me. Again my emptiness is replaced by a sense of normalcy, but this time it is harder to let it pass. I want her to speak again, to pretend that she is speaking to me.

Before anything can be said or done there is a clamor of shrieks erupting from further down the street. I whip around, suddenly reminded of my current responsibilities and the fate of Jean Paul. I leave Elizabeth and dive into a flurry of activity congregating on the far end of the market. A squat, cobblestone wall lining a short cliff blocks me and Jean Paul is nowhere in sight. His cart however is on its side near the wall, the mobile shop half burying a motor bike and its unconscious rider. While several bystanders had rushed to the cyclist's aid many more look over the wall and point with horror at something below. Several cross their chests or fall to their knees in prayer. I swallow; this can't be good.

Slowly I step up onto a clear portion of the wall with a growing sense of dread; I lean over and cringe at the sight of Jean Paul broken on a slope of rocks.

"Damn it all," I mutter, cursing my momentary lapse in focus.

I jump down from my perch and land beside him, hurriedly freeing him from his mangled shell. Jean Paul bolts upright with the screams of his fall still on his lips, his bones gradually rearranging themselves until everything is once more in its proper place. Eventually his screams peter out into a low, gurgling wheeze and he looks at me, traumatized out of his wits.

"W-what—what ha-happened?" he asks, turning to look at the shell.

The screams threaten to return when he sees what is left and I quickly pick him up, guiding him away from the unfortunate accident.

"Here's the thing, Jean," I say, dusting him off around the shoulders. "I got a little distracted, completely my fault you felt all that. You can say I dropped the ball a bit."

"You—y-you dr-dropped—me?!" Jean Paul squeals and I grimace.

"Ooh, too soon for that joke. Okay, well I think it would be better if I just send you on your way and we can forget about everything that's happened here. How does that sound, Jean?"

He bobs his head rapidly in agreement, but a flicker of movement draws my gaze above and I see Elizabeth staring back at the shell, white faced. I frown slightly at the girl who had just happened to show up in my radar again before her time. Not that this hasn't happened before, but I can't shake the feeling that this might not be the last time I see Elizabeth Barrow. I wonder if perhaps not everything here will be forgotten.