“You’re not familiar with the term? It isn’t as dire as it sounds, although I suppose it depends on one’s perspective. Death walkers are those rare individuals who have the ability to help souls pass from this world to the next. They serve a unique and powerful purpose in the circle of life. Perhaps your unusual birth has bestowed upon you this gift.”
I remained silent, my stomach in knots as I resisted the inclination to press my hands to my ears, once more blocking out what I didn’t want to hear. What I couldn’t bear to comprehend.
“Think of it as a vocation similar to your grandmother Tilly’s,” he said. “She was a midwife, yes? Only you aren’t meant to help souls enter this world. Your job is to help them leave.”
“That’s a very frightening prospect,” I said on a ragged whisper.
“To the contrary,” he said kindly. “Some would consider it a high and noble calling. It’s what the shamans refer to as a midwife to the dead.”
Twenty
After I left the Institute, I parked downtown and walked over to the Unitarian Churchyard, one of my favorite cemeteries in Charleston. A glimpse through the rear gate might lead a first-time caller to conclude the graveyard was abandoned or badly neglected, but the paths were meticulously kept, allowing visitors to wander at will through the deliberately overgrown shrubbery and wildflowers.
The heavy oaks provided a welcome respite from the heat of the street and I took my time reacquainting myself with the centuries-old headstones and ironwork. Some of the secluded corners reminded me of Rosehill Cemetery, especially this time of day with the heady scent of flowers hanging on humid air. Now and then I could hear a strand of organ music from inside the church, normally a perfect accompaniment to meditation and reflection, but my mind was much too chaotic to settle. Today, nirvana was not to be found among the primroses.
As I strolled along the shady trails, I couldn’t stop thinking about Dr. Shaw’s speculation regarding my birth and my destiny. Death walker. Midwife to the dead. No matter the term, I didn’t want to consider the possibility that I might have such a calling. What a nightmarish thing to even contemplate.
And yet had I not tried to find some rhyme or reason for the ghosts in my life? Some higher purpose for this terrible gift that could justify the loneliness and isolation of my existence?
“Set aside the grimness of the terminology and imagery and allow yourself to explore the possibilities,” Dr. Shaw had advised. “Remember what I said about your grandmother’s calling. This is not so different.”
But it was different, and all I could picture was a dark-shrouded skeleton ferrying the dead across the River Styx.
“A death walker might best be described as a conductor of souls. A shepherd of the dead, if you will. According to shamanism, someone born with this gift has an inner light that guides the lost to them. A spiritual magnet that attracts the lingering life force released into the universe when someone passes. Perhaps that’s why you’ve always felt so at home in cemeteries and why you’ve chosen to spend so much of your life in and around them. Graveyards aren’t just repositories of decaying flesh and bone, but of the unbound energy of death. All you need do is open yourself up to this force.”
“But what if I don’t want anything to do with that kind of power?” I’d asked. “What if all I want is to be left alone to lead a normal life?”
“A true calling should never be ignored, my dear. It invites disruption and makes for an unsettled life.”
Easy to say if one hadn’t an inkling of the parasitic nature of ghosts or the evil that lay in wait on the other side. Guiding the dead through the veil might well be a noble endeavor, but it would require someone with far greater courage than I.
A couple of tourists had stopped on the path and they spoke in hushed, excited tones as they pointed to a grave. I thought at first they might have spotted a small animal scurrying through the underbrush, but then I detected a low drone that grew louder as I approached. When I passed them on the path, I heard one say to the other, “Have you ever seen anything like it?”
I glanced in the direction where their gazes were pinned. A swarm of honeybees had gathered on one of the headstones, covering the surface so thoroughly that on first glance the monument appeared to be moving. It was a very disconcerting illusion, and I stood there awestruck until I realized the incessant buzzing reminded me a little too much of the drone of ghost voices in my head. I nodded to the pair and hurried away.
I walked on, deeper and deeper into the green coolness of the cemetery. Where one path crossed another, I saw a shadow on the pavers as someone came up behind me. Ever cautious, I glanced over my shoulder.
A young man had stopped a few feet away to gaze down at a headstone. He stood in deep shade and I could see only his profile, but I recognized his slight form and the silvery-gold curls falling down over his forehead.