“Oi, reckon somethin’ is followin’ you,” crowed a melodic voice in her head.
Rimsha ran her hand through her raven cropped hair and moved away from the lingering remnant of death through which the voice communicated with her. She usually ignored the utterances of the dead, but there was something familiar about this one. She noted her location then in one swift movement, pulled up her hood, covering the mark of the grim reaper on the nape of her neck. She walked into the crowds of tourists ambling over the cobbled streets in the Old Town. The sharp clips of her boots mingling in with the hustle around her. She stopped only to glance furtively into a glass store front selling tartan shawls.
She ignored the tall grey tenements looming in the reflection behind her and scoured the shadows instead. There, in Candlemakers’ Row, a daunting shape slunk further from her gaze, using the darkness as a temporary shield. The mark on her neck began to tingle and pulse, confirming her suspicions. She was used to danger, but she preferred to keep it arm’s length when she wasn’t on official business and especially when she didn’t have any potions on her. Until the creature lurking there emerged into the open, Rimsha knew she still had the advantage.
For two weeks in the Summer, tourists from all over the world flocked to Edinburgh for the festival to see street performers on the Royal Mile or take in a comedy show or play. Rimsha had come for something else. For the marked ones like her, those that walk the faint pulse between death and the living, coming here had been more than a quest, it had been a pilgrimage. An opportunity to renegotiate her own Death Waiver – a chance to regain her mortality and she wasn’t about to let one of the Arcana divert her by recruiting her for some off the books errand. Rimsha inhaled, filling her lungs with the atmosphere around her, the excitement, the applause and headed straight into the centre of the nearest crowd.
“The Hermit ain’t never gonna give up. There’s nae point hiding, Reaper,” taunted another dead voice, before the sound of cackling filled her head.
“Who said anything about hiding,” Rimsha said aloud, her mouth twisting into a smile, as she stepped over the threshold of the yellow rope marking the circular main stage on the Royal Mile. She headed straight for the centre, where a large man with an oversized yellow suit jacket and matching shorts was busy setting up for his show. He pulled out another item from his large black case when he looked up and spotted an ordinary looking young woman, dressed head to toe in black.
“The show’s about to start, love. You’re gonna need to stay on the other side of the yellow rope for your own safety, please,” the street performer insisted, giving her a dazzling smile.
“That’s a good idea,” Rimsha said, closing the gap between them in a heartbeat and reaching out to touch the mortal before making her suggestion. “Leave the stage and all your things and go and stand with the audience. Enjoy watching my show.”
The street performer looked at her in a state of utter confusion, his train of thought had disappeared entirely. “Of course,” he replied, before walking over the yellow rope and into the waiting throngs of people.
The clouds gathered, blocking out the sunlight. The Hermit was on the move. Rimsha unzipped her hoodie, tying it around her waist. Her black vest top did little to hide the black ink tattoos that marked her flesh, wards that protected the Reaper from the pull of the underworld. They began to glow gold, and a silence fell amongst the people for the show was about to start.
Rimsha closed her eyes for a moment. The throng in the air was electric. The crowd were expecting a spectacle, and she hated to disappoint. She moved her neck from side to side, then stretched her arms high above her, before bringing them to lay in front of her. Mind and body connected; Rimsha took her true form. She absorbed the pain as her black feathered wings emerged from her shoulder blades. Only when they opened could you see the feathers were tipped in gold. Resplendent both in beauty and strength, her wings were a sight of awe. She could feel the sense of wonder stir amongst her witnesses, and almost felt sorry that they would soon ever forget seeing her thus.
As if the Hermit had yielded, the clouds parted, letting the rays of sunshine down on the Festival. Rimsha rose into the air. The applause lifted her wings even higher. No sooner had the crowd below forgotten what they had seen, Rimsha landed on the rooftop of St Giles Cathedral. Her wings wrapped themselves around her, cocooning her in their embrace. She craved silence and solitude but even high up here, her mind was filled with the screeching voices of the dead. So, she didn’t hear the warning, until her mark began to pulse. By then, it was too late. A lasso tightened around her. The Hermit had captured his prey. Even the dead voices quietened to listen.
“There was no need for that spectacle,” the Hermit sneered, as he tugged on the rope. Layers of grey fabric covered his rigid frame in a turban shell.
Rimsha bawled her hands into fists, “I don’t have time for this.”
“Nonsense. Death will understand. Besides, you are a guest in my city. Consider a small task for me, the price of admission,” the Hermit sneered.
Rimsha knew she should comply but stubborn was part of her bone structure. “I’d rather leave,” she vexed.
“Reapers know the risks and still they visit the city during a red moon. Surely a chance to amend your death waiver is worth one measly chore,” the Hermit taunted.
Rimsha had regretted nothing more than signing her death waiver. Neither dead nor living, shielded from harm, yes, but also from love too. Staying the same age, while watching her loved ones perish had been a burden too heavy for her shoulders. When one of the dead whispered about a little-known red moon clause in the contract, she had come to Edinburgh to try. “Fine. What do you want?”
The lasso vanished. Rimsha waited for her instructions.
“You will find the soul I seek, entombed in Greyfriars Kirkyard,” the Hermit instructed.
Rimsha shook her head. “That’s too high an entry fee. I can’t grant it,” Rimsha said, her heart breaking.
The Hermit laughed then. Revelling in her ignorance. “Reaper, you are tethered to this city until I release you.”
Only when her mark no longer pulsed and the Hermit had taken his leave, did Rimsha sigh, questioning the motive of the undead voice that had sent her here.
“Filthy, dirty Reaper. Takin’ a soul for the Hermit,” a lone undead voice spat at her. She deserved his venom. The job of the Reaper was to free the souls of the dead not to become their jailors.
“I don’t like it either,” Rimsha agreed. She ran across the rooftop and leapt off the gable into the sky. Her wings extended, she soared across the city. Only she wasn’t flying towards the Kirkyard, but away from it. The city’s wards rose up to meet her, blocking her path. She hovered for a moment before tucking in her wings and diving, cursing loudly when the wards stood tall, pushing her back. She sighed as she set herself on the ground, her wings retracting as she put on her hoodie.
“He’s trapped you, deary,” a single elderly voice spoke to her through the stain on death on the ground. Rimsha knelt and placed her hand on the ground.
“How did you die?” Rimsha asked her.
“If I tell you, you will release my soul,” the voice replied.
“Aren’t you ready to leave this place?” Rimsha asked the voice.
“Who is going to help you, if I leave?” The voice chuckled.
Rimsha shook her head but couldn’t help but smile, “I don’t need assistance from the dead.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, deary. You are going to need all the help you can get to get out of this deal and that death waiver of yours.”
“Keep talking. You have my attention,” Rimsha admitted.
“Not so fast deary. I’m only interested in a trade. Help for help, as it were,” the voice said.
Rimsha kicked the ground beneath her boots. “This is why I hate my job.”
Taslin is a British born South Asian writer of Middle Grade fiction living in Central Scotland. Her stories celebrate her culture and heritage with heart and humour. The themes in her writing, however, are universal. Her short stories have been published in Peaks of Colour Nature Journal, Pen to Print and in Scotland’s Stories, published for Book Week Scotland 2023. She is a Scottish Book Trust New Writer Awardee, 2024, and her writing has been shortlisted for the Searchlight Best Novel Opening Award and longlisted for the SI Leeds Literary Prize.
