The scent of death clings to me.
I resist the urge to shake it from my feet with every step. Cloying and oily, a putrid mélange of desiccated colors sucked dry of all vibrance. I have encountered this scent only rarely in my life, and then only briefly. To be surrounded by it, steeped in it, is abhorrent. And yet I continue. With one step I am hidden in the angles of this clump of grass; with another I am diffuse and dance through motes of sunlight; a third and I am as gray and still as the stone against which I mold myself.
They neither hear nor see me. (I would be a pretty poor tracker if they did.)
I stalk them unseen, this small group of humans who should be grateful they cannot see/smell the death all around them. They feel it only on the abstract level of bare knowledge. Their battle is against their own emotions: fear, grief, regret, guilt. These scents, though not pleasant, are nonetheless a welcome relief and I follow as closely as I dare.
When I first learned with what strange and tawdry reverence most human cultures treat their dead, I was appalled, and somewhat sickened. It was my mentor who corrected me, reminding me that an Ikitsun leaves no body and so does not require burial, but who is to say that we would not do the same, if such grisly mementos were left behind by those we had loved? (Part of me would still like to believe that we would find a less horrifying way to behave,1 but that is species snobbery and I try to dismiss such thoughts.)
The group slows, nearing their goal, a particular stone that looks no different to me but must shine with significance for them. Especially him. The others keep a respectful distance, sad but not grieved, as he places flowers upon the grave. He says nothing, nor does he weep, but there are lines in his face like those of an old man as he reads the words on the stone again and again. After a time he turns, and they leave together.
I brave the stench to venture closer. As I circle the stone, the words become visible:
ADAM ISSAC BAXTER NICOLE ERIN WRIGHT
3/23/31—6/16/67 12/7/33—7/2/74
I bow my head briefly, and then raise it to watch their shadows disappear into the deep shade that covers the parking lot. Don't worry, little brother. You are not alone; I am watching over you. This is an extra duty, in addition to the many others the government has laid upon me, but it is a burden of my own choosing.
The wind rustles the leaves of the tall poplars at the edge of the field and I watch them, alert, always alert. I scent the wind, and beyond the wind, stretching my senses to the sky, waiting, listening, feeling.
Where are you?
You are not gone. I wish you were. I had to reluctantly admit as much to the humans, meet their disapproving stares. He lives, I said. They sighed and frowned and busied themselves with their papers, muttering and hiding their mouths as though I could not see/smell their words stamped plainly in the pulse and flow of their colors/scents.
You live.
And it is my fault.
And so we prepare.
We have at least this to our advantage: you will not fool me again. How you changed your scent so thoroughly I do not know, but you have lost that element of surprise. You will not come near the school again. If you dare to try, I will kill you. This time, I will.
Try me, brother.
The car departs, and I have other business to attend to. I rise above the graveyard, invisible to those trapped in three dimensions. I stretch. I fizzle. I glide. North this time, but not with speed: now I am on patrol. I will find Luke again before he departs for the school. Until then I can feel him, our connection a line pulled taut that shivers with his movement, vibrates with his words. I will protect him. I promised not to let him down.
And I will never break a promise again.