The Obituarist’s Apprentice

Elysia Rourke

Johnson is putting another log on the shimmering coals when C. Cornelis Eskew tosses his pen onto his writing desk with a huff. He’s written 7,444,000 words today, none of them good. “Warm enough, sir?” Johnson asks.

“Damn it all, Johnson. I don’t know why I waste my time.” Eskew growls, pressing his cigarette into the black hole on his desk, worn from years of snuffing. He plucks a new cigarette from his breast pocket and lights it with a snap of his fingers.

Johnson—who has a real name, but has never been asked—dusts his hands on his apron. Eskew’s last assistant was Johnson. The one before was Johnson, too. There are centuries of Johnsons before arriving at the first, and even he was Johnstone. Eskew is hard of hearing and hates to be corrected.

Eskew retrieves his pen and licks the tip. He scribbles a few words on the ticker tape that runs across his desk, then rips and curls the paper like a scroll. Johnson delivers it to the relay pipe, which fires the fate into the universe beyond their panopticon. It flutters toward the Circinus Galaxy. Johnson puts his hands on his hips, task complete.

“An infestation of ghalaka,” Eskew offers. “A pest on Dianope.”

“Intelligent, sir?”

Eskew shakes his head. “Intelligent ones demand more than a few words.”

Johnson admires the blinking planets and star clusters—all the life they manage—outside the windows. Eskew has had many names: Kali, Hades, Mictlantecuhtli, Anubis. They’re all Death, in one form or another. He is an old god. A man, some days. A spirit, others. As his siblings have planted and watered crops, Eskew plucks those that have ripened. He writes their obituaries on the ticker tape. Millions a day.

“I think I’ll rest.” Eskew stretches. His back gives a pop that satisfies even Johnson’s crooked spine.

“Sir?” Johnson’s concerned. Eskew doesn’t take breaks.

“Five beats without death won’t do any harm, man! I’ve worked hard these millennia, some days pruning more than I should. A break is in order.” Eskew stands. “Stay here. I’ll have potato soup when I wake.”

With a final crack, he’s gone.

#

Johnson hasn’t been alone in the panopticon before. Eskew’s last nap was Johnsons ago. He prods the logs, heats the soup, and sorts the mail. Eskew isn’t there to scold him when he stamps the date wrong or fails to warm the potatoes all the way through.

He sits in Eskew’s chair, looks out at the galaxies beyond. He wonders…

When Johnson’s fingers brush the pen, his vision explodes with names, a book dedicated to snuffing life. He thumbs through the languages until he finds one with an artistic quality, a variation of lines and circles and swoops.

His tongue squirms between his teeth as he wields the master’s utensil to carefully copy his vision.

Johnson grins, plucking the tape like a ripe grape. After a brief hesitation, he pops it into the tube. It flits into space, setting course for the Milky Way—a whimsical galaxy Johnson has always admired through the tinted windows.

It feels good to help. Death’s power tugs the tendons in Johnson’s wrist. He itches to write another name, but a commotion outside draws his attention.

The Milky Way is curdling, spitting torrents of froth at Andromeda and Canis Major. Johnson blinks to clear the hallucination, but the catastrophe continues—peaks and troughs like half-whipped cream.

“What…” Johnson grabs the pen, searching the life-lists for the name he just wrote. But it’s a blur. The squiggles all blend together.

Johnson presses the pen to the ticker tape. He writes, in his own language, the letters that command the paper to revert.

The hungry tube devours the bulletin.

For a moment, things are quiet. The Milky Way seems to have cooked into a stasis. Johnson sighs, returning to his soup. He brings the potatoes to a rigorous boil.

Something tickles his ear. He swats it, but the resulting papercut makes his heart sink. At Eskew’s desk, the ticker tape unwinds, folding itself into little origami stars and rushing out the tube. The galaxies next to the Milky Way go first, imploding and exploding until nothing remains but the black void of absence.

Johnson wonders what the hell he wrote on the damned tape. He grabs the spools coming faster and faster, tears at them, tossing fragments into the roaring fire. And yet, the ink hops from the flames and thrusts itself into the piping.

The apprentice grasps his master’s pen, wrangling a piece of tape and pinning it to the table. With the most careful print he can manage under the circumstances, he writes:

STOP EVERYTHING.

The moment the desperate message somersaults into the tube, the panopticon falls quiet.

Johnson wants to collapse with relief. He’ll clean up before Eskew returns, hide the evidence of his curiosity, wipe away the spilled milk of an entire galaxy.

But Johnson is frozen in place. Even his heart, though lazy at times, has ceased to beat. His eyes are dry in their sockets, lids unable to close.

Johnson has stopped everything.

#

C. Cornelius Eskew prods his statuesque apprentice. “My God, Johnson,” he says, retrieving his pen from the floor. “Gone six beats—you old bastard—and you’ve destroyed a galaxy? I’d planned to condemn a planet or two to accommodate the lull, but this is overkill.”

Eskew plants himself at the desk and snaps his fingers. A lit cigarette unfolds between his lips. He takes a drag and leans back, reviewing the files in his vision. “You condemned death? That’s the column header, you nincompoop. Thank goodness for reversals.”

With a swish of his master’s hand, Johnson collapses to the floor. He gasps, hand on his chest, relieved to feel the pitter-patter of his heart under his palm. Outside, the universe has returned to its usual swirl. “Apologies, sir. I only tried to help.”

Eskew is laughing—a deep, throaty laugh Johnson hasn't heard before. “That’s why I keep your sort around. You’ve got a wild sense of humour. Now, let’s get back to business. Where’s my potato soup?”

AUTHOR BIO