The Death Catchers

by Jennifer Anne Kogler

  My theory even before I knew what I know now, I guess, was that although Drake was the prototype of the popular jock, he was also more than that.

  Drake Westfall was capable of totally surprising you.

  I doubt I would’ve been able to ignore any death-specter, and I was absolutely certain I couldn’t ignore one about Drake.

  Once I was back in the house after I couldn’t find Vivienne le Mort in the street, I crammed the Crabapple Intermediate Yearbook in my backpack, then headed out into the backyard. My old fifteen-speed rested against the back wood fence. The bottom bracket clicked as I wheeled it through the back gate. I figured I’d better put on the helmet hanging from the handlebars. I always hated wearing it, but I’d be much less conspicuous that way. Or, at the very least, I’d be law abiding (consistency has to count for something, right?). I headed down to Ocean Boulevard toward the hospital and Bizzy.

  Normally, I loved bike riding. The feeling I always got when I was riding with the wind whipping around me was pure happiness. Though most of my friends had stopped riding their bikes to school, walking or getting a ride instead, I couldn’t give it up.

  It was one of the things that Jodi and I bonded over. She’s even more into bikes than I am. In fact, she has her own “fixie,” which is a lightweight single-gear bike that lacks the ability to coast. The pedals go as fast as you’re going. There are no brakes on it, either, which means it’s superdangerous. Which is just fine by Jodi. Her fixie is painted hot pink and the wheel rims are bright white.

  Some afternoons, if we don’t go to Cedar Tree Park or the cemetery, Jodi and I ride our bikes to the beach and lie on the sand for a little while before heading home. Most mornings, I ride solo. I usually put in my headphones and play Jodi’s latest mix while coasting down Delores Avenue. It’s my favorite part of the day. If I pick up enough speed, I feel like I might E.T. it right off the ground.

  I estimated it would only take about seven minutes to arrive at the hospital. My estimate may have been dead on, but it seemed like twenty.

  It was the middle of the school day and I was obviously not in school. So I kept my head down and pedaled on the uneven sidewalk through town—past the Rip Tide Inn, past Miss Mora’s Market, through the town square, and toward the hospital. As I zipped past Crabapple Lens & Camera and the Camelot Theater, I tried to keep breathing.

  Each time I heard a car approaching, my heart felt like it might try to save itself by tearing through my rib cage, sprouting legs of its own, and running for safety.

  As soon as I saw the first sign for St. Joseph’s, I pedaled faster. The small hospital rested on top of one of Crabapple’s many hills. There was barely any breath left in me when I reached the top of Ocean Drive. Through the fog, I could make out the sparkling whitecaps of the Pacific in the distance. I hopped off my bike and searched for a suitable hiding place for it and my helmet. I shoved them under the hedges that lined the parking lot and ran to the emergency entrance.

  Fortunately, I’d memorized Bizzy’s floor and room number the last time I was at the hospital. No one gave me so much as a curious glance as I strolled into the elevator and pushed the “four” button several times. Without bothering to stop at the nurse’s station, I followed the path through the maze of white hallways and double doors that led to Bizzy’s room.

  The door was cracked open when I arrived. I pushed gently, in case my grandma was sleeping.

  Bizzy’s eyes popped open as if she’d suddenly been possessed. She rasped and wheezed and she tried to speak. I stepped toward her bedside tray and held the sippy cup of water to her lips. She gulped three times and then nodded for me to set it down.

  Bizzy clutched my wrist with her hand. She pulled it closer to her eyes.

  “You seen another, haven’t ya?”

  Oral Tradition

  During our unit on folklore, Mrs. Tweedy, you made a big deal about oral tradition. You said it included the messages, morals, and tales that aren’t written down but instead are passed from one generation to another through songs, stories, and chants. I assumed the tradition was long gone. It wasn’t until I talked to Bizzy at the hospital that I realized I was way off.

  Bizzy was fully alert in a few seconds. The sun streamed in through large panes of the fourth-floor hospital window. The wrinkled flesh of her face drooped from the stress of the day.

  “Where’d you see it, Sweet Pea?”

  “A book I was reading.” I wasn’t ready to tell Bizzy the specifics about my visit with Agatha or pocketing The Last Descendant.

  “You write down everything like I told you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s in my backpack.”

  “Good girl! Let’s give your grandmamma a gander, then.” Bizzy held out the hand that wasn’t hitched to her IV. “Pull up a chair,” she said, “we ain’t got time to fritter away.” Bizzy grew more excited as I fished through my backpack for the Crabapple yearbook.

  “I wrote it all on the back page.”

  She clutched the book expectantly and flipped to the last page, honing in on the few details I’d written down.

  “There was nothin’ else?” Bizzy said once she’d completed reading the list.

  “That was it. It was written like a newspaper article.”

  “The Tuesday before December 18. Well, we got a little time, then,” Bizzy said. She fooled with the remote attached to the side of the bed. The head of the bed elevated with a jerk. When Bizzy was almost sitting upright, she dropped the remote and the bed clanked to a halt. “Much better,” she said. “Now I can lay eyes on you.”

  I had a million questions I wanted to ask. The problem was picking the one to ask first. I started from the beginning.

  “Bizzy, when did you see your first death-specter?”

  “Remember it clear as day. It was Halloween and I was walkin’ through town on my way home from school. In the middle of West Monroe, there’s this fountain, spews water all day long in purty patterns. As I passed the fountain, my cousin Jimmy, a famous rodeo cowboy from Monroe, appeared in it, right in front of me, in the water. I was right fond of Jimmy, too. He’d been like a big brother to me after Henry’s passin’.”

  “You saw Jimmy in the water?”

  “That’s my channel.”

  “Channel?”

  “Where you see your visions … your death-specters. Your channel depends on how you first learn about death. Most everyone learns about death in a different way.”

  “Yours is water? Why?”

  Bizzy looked at me, and filled her lungs with air. She released the air in one large gush and sighed all at once. She began speaking, but without her usual zest. “Every summer, Henry would take me to the swimmin’ hole off the Ouachita. One day, when I was four years old and our parents were away, Henry took a big dive off the tree swing,” Bizzy said, her voice rattling in her chest. She paused for a moment to catch her breath. “Only he slipped and knocked his head on a rock and fell in the swimmin’ hole. I tried and tried to drag him out. I screamed and screamed,” she said, as her voice broke. She forced herself to continue. “When the men finally came and pulled him onto the shore, I ran to him. Threw myself on his body. It was as cold as the water was. He couldn’t wake up. One of the men explained that the water had filled his lungs and killed him.” A tear had formed at the tip of Bizzy’s eyelash. She blinked and it slid down her sun-wrinkled cheek.

  We were both silent for a minute.

  “Was a long time ago. But it sealed my fate. I’d have my visions in water. For the first few months, I would look the other way when I saw water in the distance. I was scared to swim.”

  “How’d you get over it?”

  “My mama and I figured out how to control it. If I took a swim every mornin’, and I was gonna have a vision, she figured I’d probably have it durin’ my swims. I don’t like being taken unawares.”

  “And it works?” I asked.

  “Surely. When I was floatin’ underwater, the death-specters would come easier,
playin’ in front of me like a television show. My mama always told me that clear eyes and a clear mind allowed for some control. In time, I learned it was true. So will you.”

  My thoughts darted through my oldest memories. When did the concept of death creep into my consciousness?

  I pulled up the memory of my own first time.

  I was little.

  Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio’s picture stared out at me from the morning paper. I couldn’t read many words yet, but I knew that face anywhere. DiMaggio was simply referred to as “Joe” in our house. Along with a framed Sports Illustrated cover of him, Dad had an autographed photo of DiMaggio in his office. Joe had signed it for him after he’d been elected to the Hall of Fame in 1955. The story went that Joe told Dad he’d grow up to be a great baseball player. I think from that point on, Joe was Dad’s favorite hero. To hear my dad tell it, baseball hadn’t had a hero like him since. Or America, for that matter. While I didn’t understand most of the article, I could pick out the headline:

  JOE DIMAGGIO GONE FOR GOOD

  “Where did Joe go, Dad?” I remember asking Dad. “On vacation?”

  Dad looked at me and that crease between his eyebrows appeared. He got this strange look on his face and left the table in a hurry for the bathroom. Mom came up behind me and whispered something in my ear. I can’t remember what exactly. Something about Joe having lived a long and happy life and being up in heaven. Bizzy explained that heaven was a beautiful garden where you could have all the food and Konriko Creole Seasoning you wanted.

  When Dad came back, his eyes were red rimmed and I knew he’d been crying. Mom had put the front page of the newspaper in the trash.

  Bizzy was watching me intently.

  “Joe DiMaggio, right?” she asked, without missing a beat. “I remember. Beatrice Mildred Mortimer’s been watchin’ over you a very long time now, Sweet Pea.”

  “So my channel is the newspaper?”

  “Or some kind a’ typewriter words, I s’pose,” Bizzy said, grabbing the sippy cup with her hand, pulling the IV tubes along with it. I pictured the cover of The Last Descendant and it hit me. Sure, I wasn’t reading’s biggest fan, but would I ever open a book again without trembling?

  “You’re lucky in many ways.” Bizzy became more animated and continued, completely in her element. “Simply learnin’ about death by hearing a story the first time is the worst. Then, the channel will be either voices in your head or dreams. Voices and dreams have driven more ’n a few Hands a’ Fate plum crazy.” Bizzy shook her head as if remembering a Thanksgiving where someone accidentally set the turkey on fire but things worked out fine. She smiled again.

  “How do you know all this, Bizzy?”

  “My mama told me and helped me with it all. Been passed down from one generation to the next. Normally a girl hears it from her mama, but I’m ’fraid since it skipped a generation, your daddy bein’ an only chile an’ all, you got stuck with me, Sweet Pea.”

  “Doesn’t there have to be more to it than one person passing it down to another? Haven’t you ever wondered how it all began?”

  “A’ course I have. But life never gives a person all the answers.”

  “But why, in all the time you’ve lived with us, didn’t you tell me about being a Hand of Fate? You could’ve warned me …”

  I was surprised by the resentment in my voice.

  Bizzy shook her head. “If I had told ya, would you have believed a single bit of it?” I thought about her question. I didn’t know the answer. “I sure wouldn’t a’ believed before I saw my first.”

  “Well, when did you start believing?”

  Bizzy laughed. “Mama took me along on one of her errands. That’s what she called it when she set out to change the course a’ fate—an ‘errand.’ Anyhow, according to her latest death-specter, a dear neighbor of ours was set to be killed in a robbery gone wrong at the local Savings ’n’ Loan. First Mama showed me her hand and then we watched outside the bank as Mama summoned the police right before the robbers set foot in the bank. The police caught the whole lot of ’em waitin’ outside in a truck with weapons and masks. Prevented the whole grisly thing. Our neighbor came out of the bank unharmed. The neighbor’s name disappeared from Mama’s hand.” Bizzy studied my face for a moment. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell ya sooner, but I just didn’t think there was any way you’d believe me.”

  After reading The Last Descendant and witnessing Jodi’s near death, I was inclined to believe all of it. But I wanted to find out for certain what Bizzy knew. So I limited my questions to what she’d told me so far.

  “Who is the sorceress you said gave us this gift?” I asked, referring to the letter Bizzy had written me in the hospital.

  Bizzy sighed and closed her eyes for a few seconds.

  “Oh, Lizzy-Loo,” she began, almost sadly. “What if I told ya that your great-great-grandmamma, many times over, a woman named Morgan le Faye, was a sorceress who lived on a magical island with her enchanted sisters, around the time of King Arthur … and that her other sister is Agatha from the cemetery. I’m mighty sorry I don’t have all the answers, but I only know what my mama told me, which was passed down to her, and so on. The gist of it is this: we inherited our gift from Morgan le Faye and now every Hand a’ Fate needs to watch out for the nastiest of Morgan’s sisters, the tall woman with red eyes and a black robe, Vivienne le Mort. See, that’s why I was so scared when you said you saw her visiting Agatha.” Bizzy’s face was lined with anxiety.

  My mind raced, trying to reconcile this new information with what I had read in Ambrosius’s book. “You don’t know anything about what Vivienne was talking about … like Doomsday or the Last Descendant?”

  Bizzy looked confused. “I ain’t never heard those terms before in my life.”

  “Well, why do you think we inherited this gift from Morgan? Why is Vivienne after us?”

  “My mama put it this way: we see death-specters to correct the fundamental balance in the world—it’s our job to prevent the deaths that aren’t s’posed to happen. Vivienne le Mort doesn’t like what we’re up to, I’m afraid. My understandin’, too, is that Vivienne and Morgan have been fightin’ for so many years, there’s nothin’ left but bad blood between ’em. Mama said some Hands of Fate have guessed that it started over a man. You know how sisters can be … no one’s sure.”

  “I know about the Seven Sisters of Avalon and Morgan le Faye,” I said calmly.

  “You do?” Bizzy’s eyes opened wide.

  “Agatha explained it to me … when I visited her earlier today.” I’m not sure why I omitted the part about reading The Last Descendant. Maybe I wanted to keep a secret of my own, at least for the moment. Though I’m not proud to admit it, I guess I liked the feeling that I might know more about the Hands of Fate than Bizzy did.

  “You visited her!” Bizzy said, lifting her body slightly more upright.

  “Before I came here. I wanted to find out what she knew. She told me about Avalon and her sisters, right before she threw me out and told me that you and I were never to visit her again.”

  “Lizzy,” Bizzy said, growing insistent, “you gotta understand that I was in Crabapple for years watching over you before I realized that Agatha might be one of the Seven Sisters. And once I suspected who Agatha was, I did start visiting her. But it was only to find out if there was any way to contact Morgan to see if you could avoid becomin’ a Hand a’ Fate.”

  “You wanted to prevent me from seeing death-specters?” It’s hard to explain, but after hearing that Bizzy was trying to prevent me from becoming a Hand of Fate, I felt as if I was serving someone else’s prison sentence for a crime I didn’t commit or really even understand.

  “From the moment you were born, Lizzy, you were this lovely and carin’ creature. Truth be told, I wouldn’t a’ wished this on any of my kin … most of all you.” She tried to shift again in bed, but grimaced when she attempted to move her broken leg. “But what’s done is done. And even if a person’s got
no choice in somethin’, she’s always got a choice about how she reacts to that somethin’.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m sayin’ when life gives you a lemon … throw it at the fella who’s in your way. That’s one of Bizzy’s pearls a’ wisdom, free a’ charge.”

  I admired Bizzy’s strange brand of spunk. But it wasn’t making me feel a whole lot better.

  “I was tryin’ to protect you from this, like any grandmamma worth her salt would, but you musn’t view it as some kind of curse. It’s not about seein’ death, Sweet Pea. It’s about savin’ lives. You’ll get older and you’ll realize that every dang day we have on this earth is a blessin’. If we can help a person get a few more circles ’round the sun—why there ain’t no better gift to give ’em than that.”

  “So it’s like we’re giving people life extensions?”

  “Why, that’s perfect! Think of it that way.” Bizzy paused. Her face darkened as she looked at my puzzled expression. But then she perked up again. “A new name can do a world of good. I reckon ‘Hands a’ Fate’ is a bit outdated … it’s too gloomy and lacks color, don’t you think?” Bizzy put her free hand on her chin and squinted her eyes.

  “How ’bout we call ourselves Preservation Fairies?”

  “No way.”

  Bizzy and I thought in silence for a few more moments.

  “What ’bout Life Leprechauns?” she offered.

  “That’s heinous,” I said, unable to keep my half smile at bay. Bizzy let a smile go as well.

  “Pixies of Passings?” she suggested.

  “Um, no. That sounds like it relates to the bathroom somehow.”

  “Well, let’s see now. There’s simply gotta be somethin’ …,” Bizzy said, staring out the window.

  “The Death Catchers?” I offered timidly.

  Bizzy raised her bare arm in the air triumphantly. She knocked the IV fluid bag off the hook and onto the floor. I rushed off my chair and picked it up, rehooking it.