The Messengers by Edward Hogan Read Free Book Online Page B

looked at his boots, as if he was uncomfortable talking about these things, as if he thought it was unlucky to discuss them.
    “What happens if I miss the deadline?” I said.
    “From what we know . . . someone close to you dies instead. A life for a life.”
    “That’s . . . I don’t understand.”
    “Death must be satisfied, I guess. The scales have to be balanced.”
    “
How
do you know it’s true?”
    He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly.
    “Jesus. Did you ever miss one?” I said.
    “Look. Death is not the kind of thing you can be sure about. It’s a force of nature. People have been studying it for thousands of years, and they know nothing. It’s bigger than us. All I can do is trust the knowledge that’s out there and try to pass it on to you. I believed Tabby. I trusted her. The things she said made
sense
to me, and I’ve seen proof that she was right about lots of them. I’ve learned from experience, too. In my opinion, there is a simple set of rules, and you should learn them rather than asking any big questions. You make the message. You find the recipient. You show them the message. Or you face the consequences.”
    I shook my head. “Where’s your family? Where’s your son?”
    The ropes of muscle in his chest tightened. “Next question,” he said.
    “How many messengers are there?”
    “Who knows? Two? Two million? I’ve only met Tabby and you, but I’m pretty sure I’ve recognized others.”
    “And you didn’t speak to them! Why not?”
    “Once you know what a messenger does, why the hell would you want to meet one?”
    “You wanted to meet me, didn’t you?”
    He didn’t answer that. He rubbed his face and turned to his desk. I could see that he was becoming agitated, but I wasn’t going to give up. I needed information.
    “How do you get round to all the people that have to die?” I said. “Thousands of people die every day. Are they all killed by messengers? Do some just die anyway?”
    “I don’t hold the mysteries of the universe! You expect me to know things because I’m a messenger, but being a messenger brings home how little I know. How little you can
do
, as a human,” he said. “I hate these questions.”
    “Don’t you think they’re important? I mean, don’t you want to know where you fit in? What your place in the world is?” I asked.
    “Why?” He turned back to me.
    “
Why?
Well, otherwise, you don’t know what you’re doing with your life.”
    “Who does? Everyone thinks they’re the center of the universe, but really we’re just tiny insignificant specks. We’re part of something we’ll never understand, and maybe it’s better that way.”
    Insignificant speck
, I thought.
Charming
.
    “So who was this Tabby, then?” I said, trying to get back to specifics.
    “Tabby Smith. She did abstract watercolors. Every messenger has their medium, I suppose. She was so intelligent. She had studied hard under her own mentor and learned everything she could. She taught me all I know about being a messenger.”
    “How did you meet?”
    “She lived in a tower block back home. I just found myself spending time there. I didn’t know why.”
    Those words hung in the air between us. I suppose we were thinking of our own first meeting. He continued. “I guess I knew something was wrong with me, and I had this feeling she could help. She did. I would have done anything for her. She taught me how to control my gift.”
    “But you
don’t
control it,” I said, thinking of Kelly the Hen having her last paddle in the sea.
    “I live with it.”
    “The people you paint don’t.”
    He stood, but there was really nowhere to go in his beach hut. It was too small to pace up and down, so he just put his hands on his hips and sighed.
    “When I was about your age,” he said, “Tabby Smith told me I might one day want to leave my family and move away. She’d done so herself. Her theory was that messengers draw or paint those people who pass through