The Death Catchers

by Jennifer Anne Kogler

  Thumbing through the book, I found the place where I’d left off: King Arthur and his passengers sailed from Avalon on the eve of the Feast of Samhain. I flipped to the end. I’d only left two pages unread. Looking back on it, I wonder if my receiving a death-specter about Drake at that exact moment wasn’t Merlin’s handiwork. If I’d learned everything about the Last Descendant all at once, there’s no telling what I would have done.

  In any event, those two pages turned out to be the most crucial of them all.

  Not only did they describe the last prophecy Agatha the Enchantress had seen in the Sooth Spring before she set sail with King Arthur and Morgan’s child, but they also included a personal plea from the book’s author, Merlin Ambrosius.

  Agatha’s prophecy predicted what would happen to the mortal world if the future proceeded without any interference—Merlin Ambrosius called it Doomsday. Basically, Vivienne le Mort would discover a way to collect the pile of cut threads and weave them into an undead army that would eventually wreak havoc on the mortal world. Death, darkness, and despair would multiply with Vivienne at the helm of her unspeakable army.

  After Agatha’s prophecy, Merlin Ambrosius then described the only way this eventuality could be prevented.

  Before these events take place, Merlin wrote, there will be one descendant of Arthur Pendragon left on earth. This last descendant, as it so stands, is scheduled to die before it is his time. However, the Last Descendant is the only one who has the right combination of fearlessness and prudence to defeat Vivienne le Mort. Without him, all hope is lost. Should his untimely death occur, the end of the earth as we know it will assuredly follow.

  I, Merlin the Magnificent, write this account during my last free moments, for I have had a vision that I will soon fall under Vivienne’s spell and be reduced to nothing more than stone. As my last lucid act, I have enchanted this bound written account and am sending it out into the world, hoping upon all hope that it will find its way to you.

  If, as you hold this volume in your hands, you are able to read it, then you are the fated Keeper of the Last Descendant.

  Perhaps you have already discovered the identity of the Last Descendant. After all, it is written in the stars that your two destinies will depend on one another, as the destinies of those who came before you once did.

  If, by happenstance, the Last Descendant has not revealed himself to you, identify him by the Mark of Arthur. The Mark of Arthur is an eye with two perfect blue halves, divided by a thin band of brown. These two halves represent the ideal balance between reason and emotion, mercy and justice, faith and doubt—all qualities the Last Descendant will need if he is to forestall Doomsday and restore the mortal world to its proper equilibrium.

  I hope with all my being that you will succeed where, before you, Guinevere did not.

  Remember, peace can only reign when righteousness intersects with fate. I am sorry that the fate segment of this equation has been placed upon your shoulders, but there is no other way. Just as you sought out this book, it has also been seeking you for many centuries. You are the one.

  I trust we will meet one day,

  Merlin Ambrosius

  I sat on the edge of my bed, dumbfounded. My hands went limp and The Last Descendant slipped through my fingers and dropped to the floor. I’d pictured Drake’s gleaming eyes so many times in my head before, but in the moments after I’d completed The Last Descendant, they were even more vivid. He was the Last Descendant and I was his Keeper?

  Had I been too dense to see it? Did that mean I was somehow linked to Guinevere? Was I destined to fail, too?

  Or was all of it coincidence?

  Ultimately, it was too much to take in at once.

  Numbly, I wandered downstairs, past Bizzy’s dark room. Instinctively, I walked through the back door and out our side gate. From the street in front of our house I could hear the ocean crashing into the rocks below. The air had a gloom to it—the sea fog already had taken its nightly hold on Crabapple. Streetlights on Earle glowed with orange dullness like a row of candles with barely enough oxygen to keep burning.

  I hopped on my bike and began to pedal at a maddening pace. I sped along the same hill Bizzy had careened down on Dixie less than two months before, to rescue Jodi.

  It was much darker this time.

  When I reached Ocean Avenue, Mickey’s Music came into view. I jumped off my bike and ran into the store.

  Mickey was humming to himself as he read on a stool behind the counter.

  “Hey there, Lizzy! I don’t usually see you around these parts this late. I was actually about to close up.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling foolish. “I’m sorry.” I turned around, ready to walk right back out the door.

  “I didn’t mean it that way. Please, stay. Is there something I can help you with?”

  Whether I was the Keeper or not, I’d decided there was no time to beat around the bush.

  “Mickey, you’ve read Le Morte d’Arthur, right?”

  Mickey’s eyes lit up behind his thick-framed glasses. “Aha! I’m guessin’ you, like many before you, have become enchanted by all things Arthurian!”

  “Sort of,” I said, resisting the urge to tell Mickey that I may have involuntarily become Arthurian.

  “Well, King Arthur is one of the most elusive and captivating heroes we have and Camelot is the stuff of legend. You’ve got the love triangle between Guinevere, Sir Lancelot, and Arthur, you’ve got the noble Knights of the Round Table. Merlin, Avalon, and the Lady of the Lake … so much great stuff! I think that’s why the story has stuck around for so long and been retold so many times. Obviously, I went through a bit of an Arthurian phase myself,” Mickey said, rubbing one side of his beard as he spoke.

  “Well, what really happened, then?” I asked.

  Mickey chuckled to himself. “If I could answer that question, Lizzy, I’d probably be a millionaire. Some scholars doubt that King Arthur existed at all.”

  “What about Guinevere?” I asked. “You said before that she brought down Arthur’s kingdom, right?”

  “I’m not sure Guinevere’s really gotten a fair shake in all the books I’ve read, to be honest,” Mickey said thoughtfully. “But, yeah, she does sort of betray Arthur by taking up with Lancelot. That leads to some pretty disastrous consequences.”

  “But Guinevere was the one who had been protecting Arthur the whole time! And Morgan le Faye was the one having an affair with Lancelot,” I insisted.

  Mickey raised his eyebrows. “Now that’s a interesting take on things I haven’t heard before. What book did you find that version in?”

  I realized that there was no way Mickey could have possibly read The Last Descendant. There was no way I’d be able to explain it to him. Or anyone.

  Though I was unsettled by what I’d read in The Last Descendant—and what it meant about my role in everything—it also occurred to me that the ending to the version I was living had yet to be written.

  There was still time.

  After bidding Mickey a quick good-bye, I pedaled quickly until I was in front of Drake’s house. Crabapple, as always, was dead this time of night—even on a Friday. I got off my bike and stood in front of Happy Landing. The whole downstairs of the Westfall house was dark, but Drake’s light was on upstairs.

  I stared up at the window. Drake walked past wearing a white T-shirt. When he walked by the window again, he stopped. Thinking he might see me in the street, I dove behind one of the elm trees that lined the sidewalk.

  After catching my breath, I resumed observing. Drake looked above me, out at the sea through the gap between the houses across from his own. I turned toward the sea myself. The silver moon spilled enough murky light on the bay that I could make out the outlines of waves and rocky cliffs.

  I turned back around.

  Drake was still. His little notebook rested in the palm of one of his hands. In the other, he held a small pencil. His right hand hovered above the book. He closed his eyes for a moment a
nd then his hand began to move quickly across the open page. His face wore an expression of extraordinary concentration.

  Drake was drawing, using nothing more than his memory and moonlight.

  I’d always expected that somewhere within Drake, there was something that made him different from most of the kids at Crabapple High. The Last Descendant, if it was true, was proof of that. I realized why I’d come out into the street. I had to see him, to see Drake now that I knew who he was. Or maybe I had to see him now that I knew who we both were. I thought about the passage I’d just read.

  It is written in the stars that your two destinies will depend on one another.

  Was I really Drake’s Keeper? Was what was written in The Last Descendant true? Could Morgan and Lancelot’s affair really have set in motion everything that had happened leading up to this point, including Drake and me?

  I wanted to talk to Drake … to tell him all that I’d learned. For the first time, I felt the pang of longing.

  I resisted the urge to yell up at his window that he needed to stay as far away from the cannery as possible. I thought about what had happened when I’d tried to warn Jodi. If I told Drake to avoid the cannery on Tuesday, that’s exactly where he’d end up. I’d never be able to forgive myself and if what Merlin wrote about Agatha the Enchantress’s last prophecy was true, neither would the rest of the world. Vivienne le Mort would do everything she could to ensure Drake died the way he was supposed to. She’d approached Drake across the field that day and looked into his eyes to confirm that he had the Mark of Arthur. I was sure of it.

  I’m not quite certain how long I stared up at Drake before the chill in the air grabbed my spine and began climbing down it. Within a moment, my whole body shivered.

  In the distance, I heard Mom’s anxious voice, wondering where I’d gone as she called out my name.

  The Personification of a Secret

  The true meaning of Merlin’s words became apparent when I decided to show Bizzy The Last Descendant at the hospital that night. When she opened the book she gave me a puzzled look.

  “What in tarnation kinda writin’ is this?” she asked.

  In Bizzy’s hands the text, which had been perfectly clear to me, turned into a jumble of meaningless symbols. Merlin had written, “If, as you hold this volume in your hands, you are able to read it, then you are the fated Keeper of the Last Descendant.”

  Could this really be? Once I caught my breath, I took back the book and read to Bizzy the words I saw, clear as could be, on those ancient pages. Bizzy and I went over and over the meaning of the last pages, but neither of us was certain what the future held for me. Even though I was able to read the book, was I really the Keeper? Would I be the Keeper forever? I’d just started to adjust to being a Death Catcher, but how would I ever cope with this? I didn’t sleep much when I finally went to bed that night.

  The next day, breakfast, lunch, and dinner came and went. Even though I could see the concern on Mom’s face as I pushed the green beans around on my plate without eating them, I couldn’t force any down. I tried, for Mom’s sake, but I felt nauseous and it wasn’t just from Mom’s cooking this time.

  That night, Jodi and I figured out a perfect way to keep tabs on Drake and Damon. We found the ideal elm tree. It was Bizzy’s idea. She suggested we track the Westfalls by climbing up a tree so we could see inside their rooms. It sounds creepy, I know, Mrs. Tweedy, but we had good reasons—Jodi was doing it to protect her mom’s store and I was doing it to protect Drake (and, just maybe the whole world by keeping Doomsday from happening). When I objected to Bizzy’s suggestion because I thought someone would be able to see us, Bizzy laughed.

  “Pick one at an angle,” she said. “Why, if people were horses, they wouldn’t need blinders. We got the self-imposed kind. People are too busy lookin’ straight ahead of ’em to ever look to the side. They’ll never see ya, trust me.” I let out a mischievous laugh. Had Bizzy climbed a tree to get a look in someone’s window before? I could see her in her purple nightgown and slippers hanging from an elm branch. It wasn’t all that hard to imagine.

  Jodi and I met outside the Westfall house at 10 p.m. I hadn’t climbed a tree in about five years, but I soon learned it was like riding a bike—it came back quickly. I hugged the trunk. Squeezing it between my thighs, I scooted up one inch at a time. Finally I could reach the lowest branch with my hands. I grabbed it and swung my legs over. The tree leaves rustled in the dark night. I moved from one branch to another until I was across from Drake’s second-story window, a few feet above it. I could hear Jodi’s muffled laughter from below as she watched me watch Drake. She moved three trees down and climbed to a spot for viewing Damon’s room.

  I could see everything clearly. Drake’s desk lamp was on, his bed was unmade. He was lying on his back on the floor, mindlessly tossing a water polo ball from one hand to the other. I studied his features. His square chin, his wide chest, his long, lean arms. The ball pounded against the flesh of one of his palms, then the other. Bong, bong, bong, in perfect rhythm. Drake’s eyes stared up at the ceiling. His lips were in the shape of a small o and his eyes brilliant blue—like someone had put two bits of shimmering ocean in his sockets. From that distance, I couldn’t make out the brown streak in his left eye, but I knew it was there.

  He got up and sat down at his desk, opening a textbook. Yawning, he made his hand into fists. He rubbed his eyes with them, turning his hands in his eye sockets. I couldn’t help but smile at the childlike act. Especially coming from Drake, who could now grow facial hair and was all hard, wiry muscle. I wanted to reach out and grab him. As soon as I thought it, I became self-conscious.

  I pulled my eyes away from Drake to the empty street below. I hopped down from one branch to the next, jumping the last four feet before tumbling onto a neighbor’s front lawn.

  “You okay?” Jodi whispered. She’d already gotten down from her post.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “I don’t know why I got stuck with spying on Damon and you got Drake,” Jodi said.

  “That’s because I’m a POIBA,” I answered. Jodi rolled her eyes.

  “Did you see anything?” I asked.

  “Damon was sleeping. You?”

  “No,” I responded.

  “See you at the cannery tomorrow?”

  “Yup,” I said. Jodi turned on the light attached to her fixie and hopped on the seat. She pedaled into the darkness.

  Scrambling across the street, I reached our backyard in moments.

  Sleep that night once again battled with restlessness. Restlessness won. Morning came, but my anxiety was undiminished. Saving Drake’s life would have been enough to keep me awake, but my mind kept returning to The Last Descendant. Was it true? Was Drake’s premature death going to bring on some kind of apocalypse? Was I really the one who had been chosen to stop it?

  In the past I’d impatiently waited for a particular day to arrive—Christmas, for instance. But this was different. Unlike Christmas, all that waited for me wrapped under this tree was uncertainty and dread.

  The walls of my bedroom seemed to be closing in on me. On Sunday afternoon, after Jodi and I had checked out the cannery, which was still deserted, I decided I needed to get out of the house. I followed the sandy path that was a switchback down the cliffs to the beach. It was another in a long line of gray, foggy, cold Crabapple days. I walked a ways down the shore and then sat on the beach. I lay flat on my back. The thicket of clouds above didn’t seem to be moving at all and the sand was cold on my back and neck. Even the cypress trees had a slanted sogginess to them.

  My mind wandered. I thought of the dozens of my Hands of Fate ancestors. I marveled at the fact that they’d managed to pass down certain stories and legends all these years, through oral tradition alone, over fear of being discovered. Maybe it was better that way. Of course, it would have been nice if there was some structure to it—like maybe a website or a convention. Or a support group.

  I wondered who they�
�d saved. I also wondered what kind of trouble they’d seen as Death Catchers. So far, I’d had my hand involuntarily tattooed twice, saved my best friend, been kissed and then ignored, and been threatened by thugs. Maybe the whole thing wasn’t changing me, but it sure was changing my life.

  Bizzy seemed to bask in the weirdness of it all. Perhaps it was the strange power that came with knowing people’s fate before they did. But Bizzy and I were different. Bizzy was stronger. And louder. If life gave her lemons, I had no doubt she’d throw them at whoever stood in her way. But that wasn’t really me, was it? I was more likely to tire myself out searching for someone who liked the tart taste of lemons.

  I wasn’t cut out to be a Keeper of anything. What if I failed?

  “Lizzy?”

  I opened my eyes and felt the sting of my own tears. So lost in my own thoughts, I hadn’t even noticed I was crying. I wiped the tears away quickly. Mom’s face hovered a few feet above mine. Her reading glasses dangled from her neck. She was wearing a bulky knit sweater, sweatpants, and furry clogs—very much the crunchy librarian.

  Without a word, she dropped to the sand and lay down right next to me. From Lookout Point, it must have appeared as if we were taking naps right next to each other. Or sunbathing. Except there was no sun and we were fully clothed. I could feel the mist from the crashing waves gather on my eyelashes, making them heavier.

  The tide was coming in.

  As on most cold and dreary December days, the beach was deserted.

  “What are you doing out here?” Mom asked. The left side of her body was about an inch away from my right.

  “Thinking.”

  “About?”

  “I don’t know.” Of course, I did know. I could see Mom’s chest rise up and then flatten out as she exhaled a large swallow of air. We lay there for minutes without speaking, like two people who’d finally run out of things to say to one another, on side-by-side rafts, adrift in a sea of sand.

  “Did you know that your father wakes up early on Sundays and goes into the backyard to smoke?” Mom blurted it out like she wanted to get the thought out before she lost the courage to say it at all.