The Reaping

The return of lost souls

Photo by Gabriel Jimenez on Unsplash

Amy picked up the next popsicle stick and carefully labelled it. “John Martin Coombs.” she said. “Another name, another voice,” as she laid the stick carefully on the growing pile.

“Ping.” Another notification arrived on her computer. Amy looked out the window to her garden. “Might need another row,” she observed. “Not as much movement this winter but now that it is spring heading into summer it will be quite busy.”

She glanced at her computer searching for the name. “Sally Ann Howes,” she wrote down on her sticky note before walking back to her table.

As the sun rose Amy on her put gardening sweater, collected her popsicle sticks, and headed out the back door. She stood on the porch and took in a large breath of fresh air.

“I like this time of year.” She enthusiastically picked up her row line and walked over to her garden where she had used her rototiller to turn the soil the previous day. She eyeballed where the first row should start and placed her line down before walking to the other end of the row placing the other end in the ground. “Got to have things neat and tidy,” she mused as she looked at the preknotted rope. “Sarah Jayne Earl,” she recited as she placed the first popsicle stick on the ground at the edge of the garden. She slowly walked along to the first knot. “Ernest Stewart Dreidl,” she said in a sing-song voice as she placed his stick in the ground beside the knot. “Martha Christine Sims,” she said as she repeated her pattern. After moving her rope over 5 feet she repeated the process again and again until her garden was almost full.

At last she stood and looked at her work. “And there is still room for the summer arrivals,” she noted. She spread a little fertilizer over her garden before turning on the water hose. “The seeds of life,” she said with a smile.

A few weeks later she was sitting sipping margaritas with her friend Destiny.

“Why is nothing growing in your garden?” Destiny inquired.

“It’s not empty. At each of the stakes a small seed was planted. The ground is starting to rise up a little by each stake.”

“I think I can see the stakes. What did you plant?”

Amy smiled. “Hope,” she replied knowingly.

Destiny frowned. “How did you plant hope?”

“Oh the usual way.” Conversation drifted on to other topics.

A few weeks later Amy was looking out her back window. “It won’t be long now,” she reflected.

“Those mounds are getting huge,” observed Destiny. “It’s almost like there are people buried there.”

“Yes.”

Destiny looked at her friend with a concerned look. “LIke Osiris and Dionysus?”

“Exactly.”

“And you are growing them,” she gasped.

“I am the caretaker of drowned souls. I nurture them, encourage them and allow them to regenerate into something new. And now it is almost time.” Amy raised her arms as electricity crackled from her fingertips. Her voice became more powerful. Destiny looked aghast.

After Destiny had concluded her visit Amy went to her computer and began typing.

A few weeks later a small group of people arrived at Amy’s home. The looks on their faces were hopeful and curious.

“Attention everyone,” Amy requested as they stood in her backyard, the sea gently pushing against the shore. “Thank you for coming here today. Please find the name of your child in my garden and stand near the stake.”

All moved quietly, with nervous anticipation to their appointed places. Amy watched with growing curiosity. When the last person had found their place Amy said,

“Arise, my children. Step forward and fulfill your destinies.”

As the soil moved to one side and bodies rose from their resting places they were met with joys of laughter, moments of disbelief and a number of faintings.

“Reunions are important,” Amy reflected later after all her guests had departed. She heard the ping of a new crop of names arriving on her computer. A smile crept on her face. “Time to start work.”