On The Banks of the River Lex
N. K. Jemisin
Death lay under the water-tower on a sagging rooftop, watching the slow condensation of water along the tower's metal belly. Occasionally one of the water beads would grow pregnant enough to spawn a droplet, which would then fall around — and occasionally onto — Death's forehead. He had counted over seven hundred hits in the past few days.
Sleep appeared and crouched beside Death, looking hopeful. "You look bored. I don't suppose you'd care for a little oblivion?"
"No, thank you," said Death. He was always scrupulously polite, to counter his reputation. He waited until another drop fell — a miss, alas — and then turned his head to regard Sleep. "You're looking a little detached yourself."
At the refusal, Sleep had sighed and sat down beside him. "I thought I would be all right," she said. "I should be all right. Animals sleep, even plants in their way. But it just isn't the same."
Death reached out to touch her hand. It was his own silent offer.
"No thanks," she said, though she did take his hand. He was glad. Others rarely touched him, if they could help it. By this gesture he understood: not yet.
He sat up. The sun had just risen above the city. Clouds like strings of pearls girded the sky. A flock of tiny birds — Death guessed hummingbirds, migrating back from the south — passed through the rust-rimmed hole in the Met Life Building.
"What's that?" asked Sleep.
Death followed her finger and saw a cluster of flowers. The rooftop on which he lay was thick with meadowgrass, and one very determined ailanthus grew in the dust and silt of one corner. There were many flowers amid the meadowgrass, which was why Death liked this roof so much. He would be sorry when it finally caved in.
"Just a daisy," he replied.
"No, beyond that."
They got up and walked around the roof's holes for a better look. Beyond the daisy, fighting its way up through the grass in the shadows of the roof-wall, was a flower Death had never seen before. Its shape was something like that of a crocus, but its roots were shallow, like all rooftop flora. There was no bulb. And its petals were a lush, deep matte black.
"That's different," said Sleep.
Death crouched to peer at the flower, then reached out to stroke the satin softness of one petal. Not just different. New.
Something tickled his cheek. He reached up to brush it away and found his fingers wet. Glancing back at the water-tower, he wondered how he could've missed his count.
Death liked to walk across bridges. For this reason he had claimed a home for himself relatively far from the center of town. This was in a big ugly gray stone of a building that had once been a factory, and then had been colonized by artists, and then by trend-obsessed young professionals. Now it was ruled by cats. Death passed perhaps a dozen of them on his way down the stairs, including one mother briskly carrying a mouse and trailed by two gangling adolescents. As usual they ignored his presence, merely slinking out of the way as he passed. On the rare occasions when one would deign to look at him, he nodded in polite greeting. Sometimes they even nodded back.
He had attempted, once, to entice a kitten to live with him. This was something he knew humans had done. But he kept forgetting to bring food, and because he did not sleep, the kitten was unable to cuddle with him at night. After a few days the kitten had left in a huff. He still saw its descendants around the building, and felt lingering regret.
The Williamsburg Bridge had not yet begun to warp and sag like the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges. Death suspected there was some logical reason for this — perhaps the Williamsburg had been renovated more recently, or built more sturdily in the first place. But in his heart, Death believed that he helped to keep the bridge intact. By walking across it, he gave the bridge purpose. For all things created by humankind, purpose was the quintessence of existence.
So Death walked into town every day.
There was much activity in town when Death arrived.
"The twins have opened a Starbucks at Union Square!" said a stranger, when Death stepped off the bridge on Delancey. He nodded in pleasant response to this, though he was not certain what a Starbucks was or why the twins would have bothered with it.
Still, everyone seemed so excited about the Starbucks that Death wandered uptown, curious. Most of the streets were empty, except for cats and a few coyotes. The coyotes were not as bold as the cats; they mostly tried to keep out of sight. At 14th Street and Avenue A, Death found the Dragon King of the Western Ocean playing bagpipes on the corner stoop. He sat on the gnarled root of a young oak that was slowly crushing an ancient, spindly cherry, and destroying the sidewalk in the process. Skirting around the growing sinkhole, Death sat down to listen until the Dragon King was done.
"Thanks," the Dragon King said. "It's good to have listeners."
"You're very good," said Death.
"Always wanted to learn this thing. It's just so ugly, you have to love it. I looked all over the mainland, even in Hong Kong, and couldn't find one. Had to come here, finally. Thank little apples for the Chinese Diaspora." The Dragon King set down the bagpipes carefully. "Are you going to Starbucks?"
"I was thinking about it, yes. Are you?"
"Course not. I hate coffee. People used to offer it to me all the time — nasty, vile stuff. Now, a Krispy Kreme doughnut? Got one of those once, thought I would die of joy." He let out a wistful sigh.
"I've never tried coffee." People, in the time before, had made very different offerings to Death.
"You probably won't have any today, either. Mawu only found a few bricks of the freeze-dried stuff; I bet they'll run out by noon."
"Oh." Death felt mildly disappointed.
"Let's go anyhow. I'm bored."
They walked over to Union Square, where as usual the south-end steps were filled with worshippers. Not people, for all that most of them had adopted the forms of people in homage. Just others of their kind who were willing and had the strength to assist those in need. But this time the line around the square, trailing from the Starbucks all the way to the collapsed bank on the opposite corner, was long enough to rival the crowd on the steps.
The Dragon King clapped Death on the shoulder. "See what I mean? Good luck getting a taste."
"Anything new is worth trying," Death replied with a shrug.
The Dragon King sighed. "I know you don't need it, man, but you really ought to try a service." He nodded toward the square. "Way better than coffee."
"Others need it more than me." They both fell silent, embarrassed, as a thin, waiflike creature shuffled past. It was difficult to tell if this one was male or female or one of the androgynes, because its clothing was ragged and its face too hollow for easy recognition. Its gaze was fixed on the square. As Death and the Dragon King watched, the creature crossed the street; the worshippers there opened their ranks at once to admit the newcomer.
"Damn," said the Dragon King. "I think that was one of the Bodhisattvas. I used to know all those guys. Girls. Them."
Death nodded, solemn. He had known them too.
The Dragon King glanced at him, guiltily. "Look, I know I don't need it either. The oceans are still around, the rain still falls. But it's not the same, you know?"
"I know that," Death said, a little taken aback. "You don't have to justify it to me."
"Damn straight I don't." The Dragon King glared at him for a moment; in the distance, clouds rumbled with faint thunder. But almost as quickly as the Dragon's anger had come, it seemed to fade, and he sighed. "Well... anyway. Thanks for listening to the music."
The Dragon King then crossed the street to join the throng on the steps. Death watched him for a moment, contemplating. They would help the ones who needed it most first, but beyond that they helped everyone, offering worship in whatever form necessary — blood, prayer, sex — for hour-long increments. If not for them and other groups like them, many would have given up, or faded away, by now.