The Passed Note Issue 7 June 2018 | Page 33

I found myself in a room with a woman suffering a terrible childbirth. I’d helped my mother when she’d birthed my brothers. But my mother had never made those noises. The woman’s screams ripped through the house. When she separated from her body, her soul tore out and shot away from the pain. She breathed her relief. Until she heard the baby boy wail. She watched the midwife wipe the baby and swaddle it. Her tears fell in sheets. There was nothing to say. I let her cry. After the midwife handed the baby over to the father, she came back to close the body’s eyes, said a prayer, and the door closed behind her as she left the room. I walked next to the woman’s spirit as she sobbed silently. I offered her my shaky hand. She took it, and I ferried my first soul. I didn’t understand what I’d just begun. I don’t know why I was chosen to be a Ferryman. I would much rather have rested.

People have many reasons for not wanting to come with me. The one I hear most often is that they weren’t expecting a little girl. They expected a tall man in a hood. When people see me, in my bonnet, my long wool coat, and my black shoes with holes in the toes, they’re almost always confused.

I haven’t met many other Ferrymen over my years. We’re an elusive group, and we don’t have a lot of time for leisure. I’ve found three others in my two hundred and fifty years, and I’ve seen no pattern in who