Sending letters to the dead is part of why everyone was so okay about me being the daughter of death. If it's not so final, then people aren't so afraid, and I'm just part of a small inconvenience, not a taker of loved ones, just an escort.
But since everything in life is subject to order, there are rules about talking with the dead.
1. You can only send paper.
2. You can't force the dead to write back, or harass them after they have shown disinterest in speaking with you.
3. You can't send corporate messages or spam, or anything else that could be distasteful or considered inappropriate.
4. You can't ask about the Beyond.
5. You can't ask about your own death.
And the others need more explaining. All you need to contact the dead are paper, a pen, and a secret you have never told anyone else. The secret is the cost it takes for the ravens to fly in and out of the beyond, it doesn't have to be anything big, just something you have never told anyone else. Hence the sixth rule.
6. You cannot use the same secret twice.
The seventh an eighth rules are pretty similar, sort of like number five, but they concern two people, the Postmaster and you guessed it, death. It's about protecting 'trade secrets', but honestly, I think they just don't want to be bothered.
7. You may not write a letter to the current or past death(s).
8. You may not write a letter to the current or past postman (or postmen).
And the ninth rule makes more sense, as it is there to protect the ravens, as creepy as they are, some people might still consider attacking them. I don't know why, but I think it's probably to stop someone sneaking into Beyond, not that they'd be able to.
9. You may not harm the post ravens, or attempt to follow them to the Beyond.
That's all the rules there are. I think it's weird, and it annoys me, that there aren't a full set of ten, but three sets of three are good too I guess. Anyway, if you don't obey all the rules, you get a life ban from sending letters to the beyond, and from stories I've read online, you get a raven follow you once per year on the day you broke the rules, cawing like it's laughing at you, which really makes them worse for me, even if the internet is lying again.
Dad had a life ban. The way he got it is honestly adorable, but it's still a life ban. He wrote to one of the deaths, my grandfather, to ask for permission to marry my mum, sent a 3-D printed version of the ring he was planning to give her, and when he thought it wasn't good enough, chased after the raven who collected it to make an improvement. It was because he got so anxious writing it, that he managed to write it on top of paper with his company's logo on it, and it transferred, onto the back.
He broke six rules, 1 with the 3-D printed ring, 2 because it was apparently seen as too 'pressuring', 3 because of the transferred company logo, 4 because of a question he put of at the end, 7, because he wrote to my grandfather, the death before my mother, and 9 because he managed to catch the raven.
It was record breaking actually. Made a small national headline, and we got an award plaque for it, we put it up on the mantelpiece in the living room. Really cute story though. Really funny too.
Dad's a digital something architect, and he's going a bit balding now, but mum always makes sure they have fifteen minutes. It's amazing how you can keep love alive for thirty years. Mum's a bit older than him. He's fifty two now, and mum's seventy four, though they are pretty similar maturity wise, and a good match. They met in his late twenties and her mid thirties, so I don't think the age gap is that big a deal, since they got together in his thirties and her forties.
Mum could live forever if she didn't have me, so it just shows how much they love each other that she'd give up immortality for him, and that's how I came along. It's pretty amazing, but mum's also given me some very big shoes to fill.
Anyway, dad walks in, and smiles as he puts he kettle on. There's a hiss from near the kettle. We have a weirdly sophisticated tea-bag holder, that vacuum-seals our teabags. You hold this handle and compress it down, and there's two layers of lids, but I guess that's what happens if death marries a British man that is way too into tea.
"I'll have instant decaff." I say, leaving the letter on the counter for him to skim through.
"What did your last slave die of?" But he's smiling, as he's noticed the letter I offer him. His face still lights up every time he sees one.
He wasn't raised in Green Hills, but mum basically single handedly moved him here so she could be with him, so he has the outsider's enchanted view of Green Hills, and is still mystified by the ravens and the ravens you can see land on your postbox to deliver them.
At first, outsiders thought we faked the letters, writing them ourselves to fool the world, but then the answers came that no-one could have faked, in the deceased's handwriting, so they were undeniable, and now the entire world waits keenly for the letters delivered on a bi-weekly basis to their local post offices, to local ravens, who deliver them to houses.
Who would have thought the entire world, from Canada to Japan, would be so hooked on a town in England. Now, because of the post office and death's home town being in Green Hills, we're second only to Reading (pronounced Red-ing) as the largest town that isn't a city. We'll overtake that one day. That's a promise.
I see something in the window, crossing my toes in hope that it's not a raven. One of the trees is ruffling around, but I don't see anything else. It's probably the bold, pushy robin I've noticed around. I should leave some mealworms out for it.
Dad passes me my cup, steam and coffee scent pouring into my nose like a river. My phone buzzes, an I have to rifle in my pocket, brushing my hands all over my wet coat. It's light blue, with teal accents, and every time I look at it, all I can think about is how I chose it over the darker one I also liked because I thought it would make me look more attractive to guys.
I check my phone, and it's from Layla. Who else? I'm not in the year group chat. Who wants to wake up to one thousand notifications from Daniel Walker about football, or the latest 'alpha male, ultra-conservative, American bloke'. Not me.
Layla's text reads as so. How you doing? I'm not ready to reply let, so I put the thinking emoji, and One sec. That technically was a reply, but I'm focused on the chocolate chip biscuits dad pulled out of nowhere. They're the oat ones. Brilliant.
YOU ARE READING
A Tale of: Ravens, Scythes and Cherry blossoms
General Fiction'All it takes to consult the dead is a pen, some paper, and a secret you've never told anyone else' Hana is the daughter of death, a hereditary position that has existed for as long as mankind has. She lives through each day with the caw of ravens i...
