CHAPTER 33: THE FIRST REAPER

Sunlight awakened me. I was lying in a bed of tall stems of wheat. My body ached, and my head hurt.

I heard voices above me, too many to count. They were singing something in unison led by one member who recited a verse that was collectively repeated by the others around.

"A life of freedom is a life worth fighting," sang a man with a voice that had bass that shook my body out of its shock and awoke me fully from this bed of dirt.

"A life of freedom is a life worth fighting," chanted the others—men, women, children.

The lead singer's voice sounded closer to me as the wheat rustled in front of me. "And God created us all-good and mighty."

As the other repeated the lines, I heard blades cutting through the wheat around me. This could become a problem if those blades harvested me along with the wheat.

"Satan's tail sings to us with a rattle," he sang as his shadow loomed overhead. I fought the aching pain to push myself up off the ground. I wasn't sure where I was. Was this part of the fifth stage of initiation? If so, I didn't think I could handle anymore hurt. And where was Ash?

After the others repeated, the man sang his last verse. "He shatters good into evil with a battle."

And after the others repeated, the curtain of wheat was yanked from in front of me. I was standing clutching my stomach. The man stopped and backed up.

"Whoa there little missy, where'd you come from?" he said with a twang that didn't really match the times. He was beaded with sweat beneath the hot sun. He wore a tank-top that was dirty with grime and yellow-stains. He had muscles that looked like they could forge iron. His hair was nappy, but he had not an ounce of facial hair.

"Mr. Kendrick, we just gonna stop with the singing?" shouted a feminine voice from beyond the fields that sounded almost as gruff as Auntie's.

"Miss Emma, you may wanna see this," said Kendrick. "I think we gots ourselves a survivor."

The tall grass of wheat parted to my left and blocking the sunlight was a thick white woman with blond hair wearing a tank-top that sweated with as much grime as Kendrick's.

My eyes widened. This can't be. Her blue eyes, the curls of her blond hair, her thick frame, the patch of pink skin on her upper right arm and a dark patch on the top of her right wrist.

I used to pass her portrait every single day going up to my room. "Momma Emma?"

Emma stared at me as if I were a fallen star. Then she locked eyes on my chest. I looked at myself and noticed that I looked like I escaped a pack of wolves. My clothes were torn. Blood coated my jeans. And the soles of my shoes had mouths that exposed my toes.

But she wasn't focused on that. She was staring at the burn mark...the one just above my right breast where the shirt was torn just enough to see the sickle born mark that looked like a crescent moon.

"Help me get this young child inside Kendrick and have everyone take a break while I tend to her."

"Sure thing Miss Emma, but you know the harvest is due at the market in two days and we can't afford to lose out on time. We'll continue working..."

"No Kendrick. You don't work unless I'm working with you. You ain't in the south anymore."

She reached down and lifted me up in her arms. The sunlight blazed down upon me. The heat was intense. I looked around me and saw the eyes of many staring at me. Most were African American or Native American. They had looks of concern on their face and trembled in fear.

"Who's that girl?" some woman whispered.

"I don't know, but she looks pretty bad," said a man.

"They gonna think we done that," said another woman.

"And they gonna come burn us," said another man with a sigh.

"Y'all can take a break while Miss Emma tends to the girl," announced Kendrick. "Now there's some freshly squeezed lemonade right over there by the porch. Y'all help yourselves."

The sun seemed to make my eyes crust over. The heat lulled me into a hot slumber as those around me shuffled away from the heat.

***

A cool rag to my forehead woke me up. I sat up startled, taking a huge breath and looking around me. A black woman wearing an orange dress that looked like it belonged in a museum stood up and smiled. "You're awake. I'll go grab Miss Emma."

"Wait," I said, reaching out towards her. "Where am I?"

"You poor thing," the woman said. She had beautiful curly black hair that spiraled down to the straps of her dress. Even as sweat beaded her forehead, she managed to still look pretty amazing with little blemishes.

I couldn't say the same for her neck and arms, which had pink skin that seemed to have suffered from serious burns. The orange dress was probably hiding more of the scars.

"Miss Emma will explain everything. She's much more knowledgeable."

As she reached the door handle, I stopped her, "Then can you tell me who did that to you?"

I pointed at the burn marks across her body. I wasn't keen on sticking around if that was going to be done to me.

She crossed her arms across her chest trying to hide them. She didn't say a word. Her body trembled and her gaze seemed to recoil at the memory of what caused those burns.

"Did Miss Emma do that to you?" I asked.

The lady's reaction suddenly changed from fear to horror. She held a hand across her chest and gasped. "She would never do such a thing. Miss Emma is one of the good ones."

I heard footsteps creak on the wooden floor outside the door. The black woman opened up the door and standing on the other side was Miss Emma—or Momma Emma, the founder of the Reaper organization and the first head of the Reaper Core.

"I heard my name," Momma Emma said peeking into the room. "Well look at this young lady who decided to finally wake up. I reckon you've slept another three days to recover from those injuries."

"Three days?" I said shaking my head. This was insane. Perhaps I was actually dead and in some weird Hell.

"Miss Nala," Momma Emma spoke to the burned woman. "You head on down and take your supper. I'll be down in a bit."

Nala curtsied and smiled. "Yes Miss Emma." Then she left while Momma Emma closed the door and pulled up a chair next to my bed.

"You are quite the enigma if I do say so," Momma Emma spoke. "I apologize for such a delay in treatment. Our medicine is much slower than you must be used to."

She knew I wasn't from here.

"Where am I?"

"You're in the new town of Chicago my dear. Freshest town in the state of Illinois."

I looked around the room, which reminded me of a log cabin. Everything was made of tree trunks compacted atop of one another. The walls were decorated in artifacts and relics for different cultures.

Then I noticed a painting—the same painting that hung in my father's office. The painting of a farm—this farm.

"Not one of my best works," Momma Emma spoke. "But it was my first."

"You painted this?" I said.

"Yes, I do love capturing time through a canvas."

The painting in my father's office was painted by Momma Emma herself. Why did my father pass it off as the small farm he used to grow up on?

"Do you have other paintings?" I asked.

She stood up in her chair and extended her hand. "As long as you're good to walk."

I planted my feet on the ground and felt light-headed for a second before coming to my senses. My stomach still ached in pain, I had some throbbing in my head, and my legs felt sore, but I could manage.

Momma Emma led me through the door and into the hallway where paintings adorned almost every inch of the walls. These paintings showed people of color working in the fields, smiling with each other, and sitting around the dinner table. I saw black family portraits. I saw Native Americans posing in traditional garments. I saw stone figurines standing atop tables along the hallway. It was like I was walking into a cultural museum.

I heard voices chatting, children laughing, people singing. When we reached the end of the hallway, we opened up the door to a living room with multiple wooden tables and chairs filled with food. Everyone smiled when they saw Momma Emma step in, but when their eyes turned to me, their faces seemed to shift towards lament.

Momma Emma held up her hand. "I know all of you have been scared the past couple of days since our little friend appeared. But there is no need to worry. She is not one of the Firemen."

Momma Emma pulled down her shirt just enough to see the top of her chest where the same sickle mark was branded into her skin. "She's one of us."

Then the others in the room unveiled their marks. Men took off their shirts, women pulled there's down just enough to reveal the mark. Children unveiled there's, which looked like they were drawn with ink since many of them looked smudged.

Then I reached for my torn shirt and touched my mark. These hard-working people, they were all Reapers.

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