It's a Wonderful Death

by Sarah J. Schmitt

  “Come on,” Yeats says, pulling me up.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  Hazel takes my hand and places it on her robe. I start to pull it away until she says, “If you let go, you’ll fall.” Of course the thought doesn’t hit me until later that it doesn’t matter if I fall. It’s not like I can die again.

  But that’s later. Now I find myself lifting off the ground and flying. At first I clutch so tightly onto Hazel that Sandy’s ring digs into my skin. But after a little while, it’s actually relaxing. Her fluttering wings create a gentle swooshing sound. When it’s really my time to go, I have got to get a pair of these! Too bad they don’t take credit cards here. I would make a hot angel for Halloween.

  We reach our destination and Hazel lands gently on a grassy area. It’s a welcome break from the white fluffy cloud decor.

  “Where are we?” I ask as her wings fold up neatly behind her.

  “Judgment Hall.”

  I stop suddenly. “Why?”

  “You want answers,” she says, not bothering to turn around, “this is where they are, but don’t tell anyone we brought you through the back entrance.”

  Yeats pushes open a set of doors so tall I can’t see the tops. When Hazel said we were going to Judgment Hall, I thought it would be a depressing place with organ music and quiet whispers, but this place is rockin’. Unlike the Lobby, it’s full of activity. Souls cluster together, laughing and hugging. It’s like a hundred—no, a thousand—family reunions happening in the same place at the same time.

  “Who are these people?” I ask Yeats.

  “Souls,” he answers, glancing around. “We call them souls. These are the newly departed. They’re meeting loved ones who have gone on before them. It’s the last step in the transition to the Afterlife.”

  So it is a family reunion. “Like a personalized welcoming committee,” I say. “Nice.” I look around to see if I know anyone. I don’t, and even though it’s a good sign I’m not supposed to be dead, it still would have been nice to see a familiar face.

  “Well, we have been doing it a while,” Hazel quips, her quick retort taking me by surprise. She leads us down a dark hallway to the very end.

  I could be mistaken, but I think she takes a quick breath, like she needs a minute to muster up some courage, before knocking on a door.

  “Enter,” a voice bellows. It could be my imagination, but I think I see Yeats cringe and I wonder what’s behind the wall that could make an angel nervous.

  “Hello, Azrael,” Hazel says, bowing her head as she leads us in.

  “Don’t look directly at him,” Yeats hisses before following her.

  “Hazel, why is one of your charges standing before me?” the voice asks and I give in to my temptation to peek.

  Big mistake. Instead of a beautiful winged creature with perfect hair and perfect skin, I find myself looking at a figure with four faces and the most enormous pair of gold-tipped wings I can imagine. His body is covered in eyes of various shapes and sizes. One looks directly at me and then blinks out, disappearing completely. I have to bite my cheek to keep from shrieking.

  “Begging your pardon, Azrael, but something unusual has occurred,” Hazel says.

  Azrael’s quartet of heads turns in our direction and I snap my gaze away. “Well, what is it?” I hear him ask.

  This time, Yeats answers. “RJ, the charge, showed up in the Lobby today. She watched her life disc and then I met up with her to counsel her on the transition.”

  “Nothing about that sounds remarkable or worthy of my time,” Azrael answers, turning all but one of his faces away.

  “On our way to the Hall, I found Hazel looking for me. She was hysterical because RJ had disappeared from radar.”

  “I wasn’t hysterical,” Hazel says defensively. I hide my smirk. She totally was.

  “Get to the point,” Azrael roars, and the ground shakes below my feet.

  “Her arrival date in the Akashic Records is different than her actual arrival date,” Hazel blurts out.

  I can feel the heat of all four faces zeroing in on me. I tuck my chin tighter to my chest. “What did you say?” Azrael bellows.

  Hazel clears her throat and I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. “When her light went out, I scanned the Earth but couldn’t find her. My next stop was the Hall of Records. I didn’t think it was possible for me to miss notification about a charge’s arrival, but I didn’t know what else it could be. When I located her file, the dates were different.”

  I gather up my courage, praying this Azrael doesn’t turn me into a pile of smoldering ash for what I’m about to do. With as much bravado as I can muster, I say, “Can I please say something?”

  The room is completely silent. Hazel and Yeats are frozen in place. Out of the corner of my eye I notice the room illuminates in a red glow. I hear the sound of Azrael’s footsteps as he comes closer to me. When his hand lifts my chin up, I clamp my eyelids shut, not wanting to see the myriad of eyes looking back at me.

  “Look up, child,” Azrael says. There’s tenderness in his voice that I don’t expect and I slowly open one eyelid and then the other. Gone is his grotesque form. Instead, I am looking at a tall tan man with broad shoulders and a serene look on his single face. “Now, you know why they told you not to look at me,” he says, the laugh dancing on his words tells me he knows I saw his true self.

  “RJ,” Hazel says, and if not for Azrael signaling her to be quiet, I’m pretty sure she’s about to launch into a lecture.

  Turning back to me, he says, “Why don’t you tell me what happened. Start at the beginning.”

  So I do. I tell him about the fortune-teller at the school carnival, Gideon’s accidental collection of my soul, and meeting Sandy, Yeats, and Hazel. Except for a few questions to clarify my story, he remains quiet, listening to each detail. It’s the first time since my arrival that I feel like someone actually cares what I have to say. When I finish, he nods thoughtfully.

  “This is interesting, indeed,” he says.

  Yeats clears his throat. “How would you like us to proceed? The Akashic Records are never wrong.”

  Azrael motions for him to be silent. “I’m well aware of the infallibility of the Akashic Records, seeing as how they, like myself, follow each soul’s life from birth to death.” He crosses his arms in front of him as his long fingers drum on his well-defined biceps. Finally he stops and turns to face my Guardians. “Check with the Record Keepers in Judgment Hall. If there is an appointment for RJ, we know she’s where she’s supposed to be.”

  “And if there isn’t?” Yeats asks.

  Azrael pauses. “Then we have a serious but delicate problem that must be handled with great care. If this is the case, advise the Keeper to summon Gideon, convene the Tribunal, and for everything that’s holy, try to get Death Himself to show up for the review.”

  “Under your authority, I assume,” Yeats says.

  “Of course.”

  Yeats and Hazel bow their heads.

  “Until then,” Azrael continues, “perhaps she would be more comfortable in the Receiving Hall.”

  Another hall? How big is the Afterlife, anyway?

  I see my Guardians look at each other, this time their eyes are filled with concern.

  “Is there a problem?” Azrael asks.

  Hazel starts to shake her head no, but Yeats speaks up. “While the Receiving Hall might be a good place for her to wait, it is beyond the Gates of Heaven. Since her fate has not been determined, we would be breaking procedure.”

  “We can’t have that, can we?” Azrael asks with a sneer. “It seems to me this entire situation is in violation of all sorts of protocols.”

  “What I mean,” Hazel adds quickly, “is that it would be cruel to expose her to paradise only to send her below, if that is her future.”

  “Hello,” I say, waving my arms over my head. “I can hear everything you say. You know that, right? I might be dead, but I’m not deaf.”

&nbs
p; “Do you have another idea?” Azrael asks, ignoring me.

  Yeats looks at me, probably trying to decide if I’m worth sticking his neck out for, especially with his boss. “Perhaps a better location would be at the entrance to the Gates. Peter can keep an eye on her until everything has been arranged.”

  Azrael nods thoughtfully. “Perhaps you’re right. Yes, I think this plan will cause the least disruption.”

  As soon as the decision is made, Yeats rushes me out of the room with Hazel following behind. When the door latches shut, they both let out a sigh of relief.

  “I can’t believe you looked at him when we told you not to,” Hazel says briskly.

  I almost remind her that she’s not my mother but I decide not to. Hazel is someone I need on my side, even if she’s only doing it to save her own butt.

  “Who’s Peter?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

  They both stare at me like I’m a child. I’m really starting to hate that look. Finally, Hazel answers, “Peter. The Apostle. You know, from the New Testament? He hung out with Christ a lot.”

  I stop in my tracks. “You mean Saint Peter? As in the guy who meets people before they enter Heaven?” Great. My babysitter is one of the most famous men in the Bible. There is no way this ends well.

  Chapter 8

  “So, Saint Peter,” I say as Yeats and Hazel hurry me through the maze of passages that lead away from Azrael. “What’s he like?”

  I see them exchange a look of amusement. “He’s hard to describe,” Hazel says as she tries to hold back a laugh.

  Are all Guardians vague or just mine?

  “Is he nice?” I probe. “I mean, I assume he’s pretty serious. He was besties with the Son of God, so he’s pretty pious, right?”

  Yeats chuckles.

  “What?” I demand. “What is so funny?”

  Instead of answering, he opens a door. I expect to walk into a solemn processional, but what I see is anything but.

  Though mild compared to the Receiving Hall, the Gates is a place of revelry. Well, most of it is. There are fireworks sparkling in the sky and cherubs floating lazily in the air, throwing confetti on the new arrivals. If they’d taught us about this in Sunday school, I might have kept going.

  For once, something looks like I expect. The gold fence of the Gates of Heaven is as tall as a giraffe. On regular intervals, the entrance opens and trumpets can be heard blaring as the souls enter.

  “They’re announcing the new arrivals,” Hazel explains.

  “They blow the horn every single time?” I ask.

  She nods. “This is a place of celebration. Unless …” she casts a quick glance in the opposite direction.

  I follow her eyes. Looming opposite the Pearly Gates is an opening that looks like a cave. “What is that?” I ask.

  She rolls her eyes. “It’s the Gates of Hell,” she says.

  “You’re kidding? The Gates of Hell are located directly across from the Gates of Heaven?”

  “Actually,” Yeats interjects, “it’s very efficient. Aren’t you the one who said we should streamline?”

  “Yeah, but doesn’t it seem cruel to the poor schmucks heading downstairs? I mean, how would you like to have it thrown in your face that you’re facing eternal damnation while the majority of the souls are partying it up before entering Heaven?” I cock my head to one side. “Is that him?”

  “Is that who?” Yeats asks.

  “Over there. Next to gate. Is that Saint Peter?”

  Yeats glances up toward the line waiting to get into Heaven. “That would be him.”

  I stretch my neck to get a better look. “Who’s that guy sitting next to him?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the Buddha,” Yeats scoffs.

  I try to cover up my surprise with indignation. “Yeah, I know who he is, but why is he here?”

  “I thought we covered this already,” Hazel says with a sigh. “It’s not God who has problems with other religions. That’s a mankind thing. Buddhists have as much right to the eternal grace as anyone else.”

  A smirk spreads over my face. “What about Scientologists?”

  Hazel’s face turns bright red as she starts to answer, but Yeats steps in front of her. “Why don’t we go see Peter?” He takes my elbow and leads me through the crowd, leaving Hazel to simmer.

  “What was that about?” I ask, craning my neck to see if she’s following us. She is, but slowly.

  “Oh, Hazel just has a strong opinion about some of the beliefs that have popped up over the years.” I can tell by the look on his face that this isn’t an issue I should push. Behind me, I hear a dog barking.

  “Wait, there are dogs up here?” I ask, thinking about the beagle we had when I was in elementary school.

  “Do you see any dogs?” Yeats asks.

  I shake my head. “But I heard one.”

  “No, you heard Cerberus.”

  “Who?”

  “Cerberus. He’s the Guardian of Hell.”

  I shake my head again. “I have no clue who you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t they teach the classics anymore?”

  “You mean like Shakespeare?”

  Yeats slaps his forehead with the palm of his hand and groans. “I’m talking about Greek and Roman mythology.”

  “No one cares about myths anymore,” I say. “It’s all math and science now. Blame it on the global economy, but literature plays second fiddle at my school.”

  “That’s another thing I wouldn’t mention to Hazel,” he says before changing directions and leading me toward the Gates of Hell.

  I pull back. “You are not taking me in there.”

  “Relax,” he says, giving me a slight tug. “Let me add a little culture to your pathetic education.” He stops short and looks up. “This is Cerberus.”

  Before me are four paws at the base of tree trunk legs. As I follow them up, I see a broad chest as wide as my mom’s SUV. On top of that are not one but three heads, each with huge jowls. Saliva drips onto the floor in front of me and I take a step back to avoid it soaking my shoes. The three sets of teeth look razor sharp and I shudder at the sight.

  “Oh, he won’t bite,” a heavyset woman with curly brown hair says with a laugh.

  “How do you know?” I ask, stepping behind Yeats just to be safe.

  She laughs again, one of those sounds that rise from the pit of the belly. Like Santa Claus, but without the “ho ho ho” business. “Because you aren’t trying to escape,” she looks at me a little closer. “You aren’t, are you?”

  Cerberus lets out a growl and my eyes widen with fear that that thing is going to eat me. Yeats is shaking his head and I realize I have a tight grip on the sleeve of his robe. The woman is doubling over, laughing and slapping her thighs with her hands.

  What is wrong with her? And then Cerberus begins to howl and I swear the beast is laughing at me too.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman says, wiping tears from her eyes. “It was too easy.”

  Yeats pulls himself together. “RJ, this is Alexandra, Cerberus’s handler. Al, RJ.”

  She sticks out her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  I look up at the dog, but it’s not paying any attention to me at the moment. Slowly, I take her hand and give it a quick shake before pulling my arm back.

  “So, Yeats, why are you slummin’ it here in the trenches? I thought you winged types were afraid to get your whites dirty.”

  I can’t believe she’s talking to Yeats like that. Even more unbelievable is the grin on his face. “Now, Al, you know if it weren’t for my kind, your job would be a whole lot harder.”

  “If you say so.” She looks me up and down. “What’s with your plus one? Why is she here? I can tell she hasn’t been through Judgment yet.”

  How does she know that? Do I have a stamp on my forehead or something?

  “We’re trying to figure that out,” Yeats answers candidly.

  As if hearing an inaudible warning bell,
Al and Cerberus turn at the same time. “Hey,” she yells at a soul trying to sneak out of line. “You kill eight people and fail to show any remorse, you go in there. Try getting away again and Fluffy will be picking his teeth with your bones.”

  She doesn’t wait to see if he gets back in line before turning back.

  “Wait,” I say. “How do souls have bones?”

  Al lets out another cackle. “It’s a figure of speech. Obviously Cerberus won’t eat them.”

  “Oh,” I say with relief.

  “They’ll spend eternity in his bowels.”

  “That’s just gross.”

  Al laughs again. “So, Yeats, is she the soul everyone’s talking about?” she asks as she wipes a tear from the corner of her eye.

  “Yes,” Yeats answers just as Hazel arrives.

  After casting a curt nod in Al’s direction, she asks, “What are you doing here? We’re supposed to drop her off with Peter and talk to the Gatekeeper.”

  “She didn’t know who Cerberus was,” Yeats answers.

  Hazel stares at him in disbelief. “How is that our problem?”

  “Hey, Halo, relax,” Al says. “We were just making small talk.”

  Hazel looks at her, not bothering to hide her disgust. “Make sure the mutt doesn’t get his paw prints on my robe.”

  From deep in his throat, Cerberus issues a low warning growl, but Hazel ignores it. “We need to get her to Peter,” she says to Yeats.

  “Okay. We’ll be right there,” he answers.

  As Hazel stalks off, Al gives a hiss. My Guardian pauses for an instant, her hands clenching into fists at her side, and then continues on.

  “You shouldn’t goad her like that,” Yeats says with a shake of his head. “When will you two learn to get along?”

  “Hey,” Al answers, “I tried, but when Miss High and Mighty got promoted to Guardian, she couldn’t get out of this place fast enough.”

  “Not everyone is made out for the Gates,” Yeats says, patting Al’s arm. “Especially the one that leads downstairs.” Glancing at me, he adds, “I better deliver you to Peter.”

  “Tell the Bishop I said hello,” Al says, and then looking in my directions adds, “Feel free to swing by and talk if you get bored hanging out with the goodie-goodies.” As before, her head snaps back to the line of people waiting to enter the mouth of the cave. “Don’t make me release the hound,” her voice booms. “Trust me, you will be wishing for a fiery inferno when he gets done with you.”