Page 22 - Fables volume 3
P. 22

The Stork’s Lament


          Their  paths  rarely  crossed.  Not  until  he was  delivering  still-born
        septuplets to a fertility clinic could the Stork confront the Reaper.
          “See  here,”  began  the  bird.  “We  need  to  talk.  If  things  don’t
        improve soon, you will be coming for me.”
          Always  appreciative  of  gallows  humor,  the  hooded  psychopomp
        laughed—a sound of snapping dry twigs or desiccated gristle.
          “Improve?  My  business  is  good.  Nice  steady  increase  over  the
        years; the odd bump in war or natural disaster, but I can handle it.”
          The Stork snorted. “Don’t be obtuse. It may well be, as per the
        terms  of  our  employment,  that  one  birth  will  inevitably  yield  one
        death,  but  for  the  past  century  my  workload  has  increased  much
        faster than yours.”
          “Not  my  doing:  blame  modern  medicine,  increased  crop  yields,
        anti-birth control ideologies.”
          “So  you  think  it  is  simply  the  result  of  human  meddling  in  the
        balance  of  life  and  death?”  The  Stork  was  skeptical.  “I  don’t  care.
        The fact is that I am processing way more people than you are. It’s
        not fair.”
          The Reaper spread his arms in protest, narrowly missing a midwife
        with his scythe. “If you want to look at equity, consider this: you can
        fly, lazily flapping those big wings of yours, high above the weather
        and every sort of obstacle. I, however, must trudge along on foot in
        this  heavy  woolen  outfit.  Sheer  numbers  don’t  do  justice  to  the
        amount of effort I make compared to you.”
          “But this birth rate shows no signs of lowering! I’m suffering!”
          The Reaper’s sympathy, if any, was not evident. “Stop whining,” he
        said grimly. “It won’t be long before the situation shifts in the other
        direction, and my clients start piling up fast and thick. Did you really
        think disequilibrium on this scale could last forever? I will soon be
        making a dozen pick-ups for every one of your deliveries. No doubt I
        will be complaining then about whole cities of the dead to be cleaned
        out in a timely fashion. And then it will be over, and we can resume a
        reasonable pace. Nature abhors a vacuum, not the vacuum cleaner.”




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