The Harvest

The crack of roof beams, shattering of glass, short screams of anguish and the unfamiliar melding of craniums to the roof of a rickety church were the last sensations the congregation felt before time seemed to skip. In an instant, they’d gone from a wave of collective panic bringing their hymn to an abrupt halt, to standing in the warm, grassland air where their chapel used to stand, encircling a figure in a hooded brown robe. Members of the congregation each took turns voicing aggressive speculation.

“What’s going on!?”

“Witchcraft!”

“Demon!”

“Tikoloshe!”

“The reaper!”

“He has come to take the souls of the sinful!”

The robed figure tried to gesticulate that they should all ‘simmer down’ but it was to no avail. He’d been doing this for months. The harvests went far more smoothly now than the first few. A mortal being tasked with leading each and every departed human to the next plane of existence evidently doesn’t anticipate every obstacle he’ll face in the role. It had taken 800 attempts before he thought to ask for the ability to communicate in every language. Foolishly, he assumed he’d just pick it all up as human history unfolded but had thus far only learned a few swear words in mandarin and what screams of terror and confusion sound like in Russian.

With arm-flapping failing to steer the congregation into polite discourse, the robed figure spoke. “Alright, alright, everyone keep calm. I’ll try to explain what’s going on.” He cleared his throat as if to recite a speech. “It is with great regret that I inform you all that you’ve ceased to be alive. From the looks of things, as a result of a gravitational architecture incompatibility error.” Came his soft, Coventrian voice.

He felt he was honing his pitch quite well. He’d devised an elaborate lexicon for delivering news of someone’s own demise. Softening the blow with statements like ‘ceased to be alive’ instead of ‘dead’. Or ‘gravitational architecture incompatibility error’ instead of ‘turned into wet paste by several tonnes of building falling on you’.

He continued. “Now it’s my duty to ensure that you have a smooth transition into the next phase of being, and facilitate any questions you may have regarding…” It was mid-sentence when, yet another, member of the congregations appeared with a flash next to two disgruntled elderly sisters. “Ah now you appear to have survived slightly longer than everyone else, presumably in quite a lot of pain. Don’t worry though, I’ve just started so you haven’t missed much.” The newly-apparated member of the congregation was not in any way reassured. He stood silent. His face frozen in the same expression as someone who’s woken up mid-surgery to hear the words ‘oh god take it out before it lays even more eggs!’

The hooded figure attempted to continue but was interrupted by the man who had been leading the congregation before their untimely demise, Vicar Joseph.

“People! Do not listen to this man! He is a servant of the devil! A merchant of lies! He will lead you astray! Stay true to God’s word and let his spirit…” The hooded figure had become audibly frustrated. He’d gotten the hang of one-on-one passages to the other side. When an individual died, he could sit with them, talk with them, comfort them. Share in their experience of coming to terms with ultimate change. Help them reach acceptance and provide closure. But crowd control was something he was yet to learn.

“Look! I’m not a merchant of lies, I’m more like a… customer liaison for death. And no. I’m not a servant of the devil. The devil is… you know what? Not even worth it. The truth is the world is not what you think it is. And the ‘afterlife’ might be quite different to what you were expecting.” He began to speak as if the universe had its own HR department who’d hired him to lead a training day with five minutes notice. “Your friends and colleagues may have told you about god, or gods, or deities, or pantheons or even infinite chains of computer-generated universes devised to answer the grandest questions surrounding reality itself. There is some truth in all of that, especially on that last point, but it gets complicated…”

“Lies!” Cried Vicar Joseph. He stuck out an arm to brandish his small bible at the hooded figure. The figure began to stroll towards him, huffing in exasperation.

“Listen mate, you’re dead. You’re off the clock now, just chill alright?. Look around you.” He gestured to the pile of splintered wood and viscera surrounding them all. “You haven’t got any more of an idea of what’s going on than the rest of these people. Except for the guy who showed up a couple of minutes after the rest of you.” The congregation all turned to their belated companion, but his face was still frozen in the same wide-eyed panic that he’d arrived with. “So maybe it’s time you let the unearthly man who seems to know what he’s talking about take control.”

He grabbed the Vicar tightly on the wrist of his outstretched arm. An otherworldly warmth washed over Joseph. He did nothing but let out a short gasp. “In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re not in the world you remember anymore. You’re not even holding anything in that hand.” Joseph stared at his fingers, now realising they were empty. He then surveyed the rest of his flock. It was only now he realised they weren’t wearing their Sunday best anymore. Neatly pressed suits and vibrant floral dresses had been replaced with crisp grey gowns. Their faces cleansed of makeup and their hair flowing free and uncombed. A feature the hooded man had requested after only 12 harvests when he realised how traumatising entering the afterlife naked could be for both the deceased and himself.

The warmth calmed Joseph. He felt safe. He felt as if he could relinquish control and that no threat existed that he’d have to guard against. The hooded figure leaned closer as to speak more softly. “It’s okay brother, you’ve served them well. But it’s time you let go. You’ve led them well. But they’re about to go on the most important journey they’ve ever taken. And the best you can do for them now is ensure they walk it in peace.” Satisfied that he’d placated the vicar, the hooded figure let go of his wrist, and returned to the centre of the congregation.

The calming effect levied at Joseph did not last long however. He was a stubborn and energetic man.

“My children! The rapture is upon us! And god has rewarded our piety with the arrival of his emissary who will lead us to the gates of heaven!” The hooded figure appreciated the supportive tone in which Joseph yelled, but he felt it wasn’t helping. Aggravated, he clawed at the top of his head in thought and resorted to more crude measures. Divine powers of placation hadn’t worked on Joseph, but it transpired that barking the words ‘just shut up and follow me’ had the desired effect.

The hardest part of the job was sticking to his principles. He had to be wary of thoughts like: ‘Why can’t they show just a bit of gratitude? I’m taking them to the void of endless euphoria’, ‘Maybe things were better when anyone who died had their consciousness completely expunged from existence’ or ‘perhaps Hell is a good idea for some people’. Meeting people like Joseph invariably made the hooded figure’s mind wander to places like that.

The hooded figure ambled off with the congregation closely behind, in no particular direction. The remains of the church and the congregation’s physical forms faded away. As did their village at the bottom of the hill and as did any other sign that humans had ever touched the soil, leaving nothing but the unspoiled Savannah under an endless blue sky. These too, gradually faded.

As the world around them slipped away, so did the worries and the fears of the congregation. Young, old, friends, families, children clutching the hands of their mothers. A whole community strolling in total tranquillity. They were no longer straining under the overwhelming weight of the realisation that their life had come to an end.

The inconceivable distress at the loss of loved ones and concerns for the monumental pressures placed on the bereaved dissolved, and what remained was engulfed by an intangible sense telling them all that everything was okay. They now knew, irrefutably, that nothing would ever be wrong again.

The congregation too, faded. Each member entered a stasis that felt eternal. They lost all sense of perception. All sense of time. They were left feeling a singular euphoric numbness. As if their blood had been replaced with pure serotonin or that they’d been fed a deep-fried good night’s sleep.

On the long walk to their eternal rest, the hooded figure had told them all about what the world was and where they were going and why they were going there. He spoke to them about their lives, about things they’d enjoyed the most and about what they were glad to never see again. He told them anecdotes of his time collecting the departed. His methods, his choice to wear brown instead of black so as not to frighten people with cliched paralels to the grim reaper. Why he covered his face so as not to offend anyone with an appearance that some might find discomforting. And the long story of how he’d fallen into this line of work in the first place.