It's a Wonderful Death

by Sarah J. Schmitt

  “If I ever see that gypsy again, I’ll kill her,” I mutter.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about her,” someone says. I look up and see another angel. This one has long, stringy blond hair, like a surfer who’s been in the water all day.

  “Are you Salathiel?” I ask, tentatively.

  He nods. “You can call me Sal. It’s easier to say. Now, let’s you and I have a chat, shall we? There’s a lot to go over if we’re going to rewrite your history.”

  I smile at his optimism, even though I know he’s forcing it. “Sure. Should I start at the beginning?”

  He looks at me with surprise. “Is there anywhere else to start?”

  Once more, I tell my story. And like Azrael, he truly listens to everything I say.

  “Well,” he says when I finish, “it’s not going to be easy, but I think we can do this. However, I have to know one thing before we proceed.”

  “What?”

  “What are you willing to risk to go back?”

  Willing to risk? Is he crazy? I have nothing left. I’m dead. “Anything,” I say to him.

  He holds my gaze for a long while. “Are you sure?”

  No, but I’m not backing down. I’ve come too far to stop. I give him a swift nod before saying, “Yes.”

  He smiles. “Good. Because that’s the only way you have a shot.” And with that, he walks swiftly out the room and down the hall, leaving me standing alone. “You coming?” he calls back. “The Tribunal won’t like it if we’re late.”

  While his voice is light and cheerful, I have no doubt that the consequences of crossing the Tribunal will be severe. I spring into action and follow him down the hall and into the unknown. Behind me, the doors slam shut.

  Chapter 11

  The Tribunal Room is set up to look like a courtroom. Two tables face a large platform desk, and there is a galley where spectators can watch the proceedings. The seats of the gallery are empty, and I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s nerve-racking enough to defend why I should get back the life that someone stole from me, but to do so in front of a crowd would probably kill me. That is, if I weren’t already dead.

  “We sit here,” Sal says, directing me to one of the tables. My hands are shaking as I pull out the chair, and Sal gives me a wide, open smile. “Take a moment to calm yourself. The Tribunal would never have been convened if Azrael didn’t see some merit in your situation.”

  The flutter of wings and swoosh of wind alerts me that we’re no longer alone.

  “Salathiel,” the new arrival says. I spin around to find an angel with golden hair that reminds me of the sunset on a warm summer night.

  A flash of irritation fires up in Sal’s eyes. “Zachriel,” he says curtly.

  I give Sal a questioning look and he pulls me up by the elbow and leads me to a door. Once inside the small room, he waits until the door latches behind us before asking, “What did Hazel tell you about Zachriel?”

  “Just that he can access memories,” I say with a shrug.

  He nods. “He’ll use them against you if he can.”

  “How?” I ask. Why is it that almost everyone opposes me getting every single second of life that I had coming to me?

  “You can never tell, but rest assured, he will. Be ready. No secret is safe with him around.” He cocks his head to the side. “We better go.”

  I dutifully follow him, wondering if there is any chance I could run back to the terminal and stow away on the train back to the mortal plane. Of course, there is one fatal flaw in my plan. I have no idea how to find my way back to the terminal.

  “The Tribunal will convene momentarily to discuss the matter of Rowena Joy Jones,” a voice bellows. I look around for speakers or some other source for the sound but see none.

  “Come on,” Sal says through a comforting smile. With a sigh of resignation, I follow him back to our table. Zachriel is sitting in his chair, eyes shut and hands resting gently in his lap.

  No sooner are we in our seats than the thunder of flapping wings forces me to cover my ears. The three angels Yeats warned me about land on the platform. Talk about making an entrance.

  Without so much as a hello, the angel in the middle speaks. “We have been summoned by Azrael to conclude the matter surrounding this human’s complaint.”

  Wait a minute. How can they conclude something before it begins? I look at Sal, but his eyes are fixed on the three authoritative figures.

  “We will hear from Salathiel first.” The angel doing all the talking must be Azbaugh. He has that bored yet hostile look I use when I have to do something I don’t want to do. Plus, he looks judgmental and bossy. “You will present the situation as you know it. We will ask questions. Zachriel will close with his recommendation as to why the request to return this girl to her life should or should not be granted. Then we will make our decision.”

  Maybe it’s my imagination but did he just emphasize should not?

  “Wait,” I say, leaning forward in my seat. “Don’t I get to speak?” I mean the words for Sal, but the last part comes out a little louder than intended.

  Sal puts a hand on my arm and clamps down hard. I turn toward him and there’s this expression on his face that’s a mixture of irritation and fear. “Quiet,” he hisses.

  Before I can say anything, Azbaugh’s voice explodes across the empty room. “You will only speak when spoken to. Salathiel should have already explained this to you.” He looks down his nose at me, and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  When I glance back at Sal, he’s looking straight ahead, unwilling or maybe unable to talk or even look at me.

  “Furthermore,” Azbaugh continues, “you will show respect while you are before us. We are not an elevated human spirit or a Greek dog sitter. We are angels of the highest orders. Make no mistake. I do not care whether your request is granted or not. I care only that order is restored. Do I make myself clear?”

  I’m so mad and scared that I can’t think let alone speak. Sal nudges me and the connection with another being jolts me back into the moment. “Crystal,” I mumble.

  “What do rocks have to do with anything?” Azbaugh says as his eyes narrow.

  “I believe she means to say that she understands you, my Brother,” one of the other angels intercedes.

  Azbaugh looks at me and I can feel the weight of his stare. “Thank you, Shepard.” To me he says, “Is that what you meant?”

  I clear my throat, sit up a little straighter, look him in the eye, and say, “Yes, I understand.”

  He looks satisfied with himself. “Good. Now, Salathiel, are you prepared to present this human’s case?” Azbaugh doesn’t even try to hide his disdain for me. What? Did I make him miss a golf date? How am I going to get a fair trial when this guy obviously has it out for me?

  I turn my attention to Sal as he explains my circumstances, including the collection of my soul and the admission of error by Gideon, as well as noting the reference of my long lifeline in the Akashic Records. He also points out how I have been mostly cooperative since my arrival and how all I’m looking for is a chance to finish out my life. His plea is passionate and by the end, I want to stand up and applaud, but of course, with the harsh eyes of Azbaugh cutting through me, I don’t move a muscle.

  “Zachriel,” Azbaugh says, turning his attention to the other table. “What do you have to say on the matter?”

  Zachriel takes his time standing. He stares at me with such intensity that it feels like he’s peering into the deepest part of my essence. I shift in my seat, but his eyes never stray from my face. Then he looks away.

  “I have seen her actions through her eyes. She is an average girl with little to no special aptitude.”

  Um, what? Never in my entire life have I been called average. And I have plenty of aptitude. Sal gives me a slight shake of the head and I sit back in my chair, biting my lip. I can’t believe they’re talking about me and I have no opportunity for rebuttal. And then a thought occurs to me. Is this what it
’s like to be on the receiving end of one of my tirades?

  Zachriel continues: “In her mind, she knows she has done certain things that can never be redeemed, no matter how long she lives on Earth. She is shockingly callous in her treatment of others and easily manipulated by those she considers to be her friends.”

  The person he’s describing sounds weak and pathetic. There’s no way he’s talking about me. And why doesn’t he mention any of the good things I’ve done?

  “She has accomplished some marginal success in her life,” he adds. “There are acts of charity and moments where she seems on the verge of moving toward the path she’s meant to be on.”

  Well, that’s something.

  And then he drops the bomb. “But those moments are few and far between. In my opinion, to recast the fate of the world for this soul would be a waste of time. There is no evidence to indicate that she would in fact make any changes in her life or that her continued presence among the living would make for a better society.”

  Is he calling me a waste of space?

  “And so your recommendation would be?” Azbaugh probes.

  He dips his head slightly, closing his eyes again. And then he looks directly at me. In a voice that is void of any emotion he says, “The risk of this request is too great while the benefit is minimal at best. I recommend the soul remain hidden in the Afterlife until the time and date of her Akashic death.”

  My mouth drops open. When I recover, I lean over and whisper to Sal, “Is he suggesting that I wait around here until whatever date I’m supposed to die in the future? Because that’s bull—”

  Sal cuts me off with a look that actually renders me speechless. “Would you please shut up?”

  I want to reply, to tell him no, but I don’t. Instead, I turn my head forward and watch as my future is debated like I’m not even in the room.

  Azbaugh looks to his left. “What say you, Marmaroth?”

  His counterpart on the Tribunal nods his head. “While I agree this is a grievous error made on the part of the Grim Reaper, as it will be I who must negotiate the hands of time to return this girl to the moment of her accidental death, I must carefully weigh her wants against the needs of the many. I have several reservations.”

  I sink deeper into my chair. I don’t think things can get any worse.

  “Were we to agree to her request, countless things, both good and bad, must be undone,” Marmaroth continues. “Her return to the world will alter peace treaties and wars alike. Though her Akashic Record indicates time of death well into the future, the world is moving on without her. I cannot, in good consciousness, recommend a reversal of her fate without some indication that it will have a positive benefit on the human race as a whole.”

  I was wrong. It just got worse.

  “Shepard?” Azbaugh says to the third member of the Tribunal. “What are your thoughts on the matter before us?”

  There is compassion in the eyes of this angel and he looks directly at me when he responds. “I do not think this child is beyond salvation. Her life and perspective have been greatly altered by her experiences in the Afterlife. I would hate to deprive the world of a useful and powerful witness to the acts of mercy that the Creator is capable of.”

  I see Marmaroth nod thoughtfully and a slim bit of hope this might actually work in my favor flickers inside me. I sit up, meeting Shepard’s eyes, begging him to say yes. He smiles at me and warmth spreads through my body.

  That is, until Azbaugh asks, “This is all well indeed, but we have seen time and time before how the feeble human mind is incapable of holding on to the experiences they encounter beyond the mortal plane. How are we to know that, should she be returned, her time here will feel like nothing more than a dream to her?”

  “Perhaps we can ask the muses to weave a pattern into her life that will keep these moments fresh in her subconscious,” Sal suggests. “If they can inspire writers to create masterpieces from words and sculptors to carve beauty from stone, surely this is not outside their capabilities?”

  “The fundamental flaw in this idea is that it still weighs heavily on this girl. She has already shown poor judgment throughout her life,” Zachriel interjects.

  I really don’t like that guy. Not as much as I hate Azbaugh, but he’s running a close second.

  Speaking of my tormentor, Azbaugh raises a hand for order. “While you have not been officially recognized to address this Tribunal, you raise a valid point.” He turns to Sal. “What say you in response?”

  The look of surprise on Sal’s face does not fill me with confidence. “I think,” he begins and then stops. “Well, you are right in the fact that the mind is feeble.”

  I’m screwed.

  “But you are wrong in the idea that there is no chance of redemption. To return to Shepard’s analogy of the sculptor, this girl is not the finished piece, but rather the block of stone waiting for the rough edges to be chipped away and sanded to reveal her true potential.”

  Okay, maybe I’m not screwed. Sal is on a roll.

  “Zachriel’s suggestion that her past will dictate her future is unfair and lacks little evidence. In fact, if we were to pull up twenty random lives, I’m sure we would find several who were able to overcome their early beginnings to become civic leaders and moral compasses for the human race. Who is to say this girl does not possess that quality?”

  “If you take another twenty lives,” Azbaugh responds, “I’m sure you will also find those who were given a life of privilege and became absolutely nothing. They became simply a drain on everyone around them.”

  Sal squares his shoulders. I can see he’s trying to get the courage to say something important. Come on, Sal. We’re dying here.

  And then he does something that might shock him more than it does me. He challenges Azbaugh. “Your pessimism in the human race is clouding your view of what is right and just. This soul has been, by all accounts, robbed of any chance of betterment. She was made to be a sacrifice by someone gifted with sight and must now bear a cross that was not hers in the first place. To not send her back would deny her mercy.”

  I sit in awe of my champion, but only for a moment.

  “Mercy,” Azbaugh roars, “is not the matter before this court! This is about the impact her whimsical request will warrant and whether the risk of altering the past is worth it. Mercy is only a factor once a decision has been rendered. Now, unless there are any further comments from the Tribunal, we will vote.”

  And with that, my champion sits down in defeat. Unable to look at me, he waits for the verdict.

  “Marmaroth?” Azbaugh asks. “What is your decision?”

  He shakes his head. “I cannot, in good faith, agree to the unknown and countless changes that the world will endure if we agree to the alteration of this girl’s fate, no matter how much I would like to see her have another chance. I vote no.”

  Azbaugh nods in approval. “Shepard?”

  The angel is quick to the point. “By denying her a chance at redemption, we deny her existence. I vote yes. We should send her back, no matter the cost, because it is right and just.”

  I can’t be sure, but I think Azbaugh rolls his eyes. When he looks at me, however, they are steady and empty. “As this Tribunal has voted in a tie, it is my job to decide your fate. While I do not doubt the infallibility of the Akashic Records, I must conclude this experience occurred for a reason and so I must—”

  I can’t sit still any longer while these angels shred my very existence. If Sal isn’t going to speak up for me then I have nothing left to lose. Pushing my chair back so fast it clanks to the floor, I shout, “Stop it! This isn’t fair, and you know it. You can’t erase my future because you don’t think my past was good enough.” Sal is standing at my side, trying to pull me back, but I shake him off. Some defender of the underdog he turns out to be. “You can’t determine I’m unworthy to exist after just five minutes.”

  “Silence!” Azbaugh thunders and a slight movement of his wings ra
ises him a tad higher than the others. “I have made my decision. There is nothing more you can say in this matter. Your petty pleading is insulting.”

  Just as Azbaugh is about to deliver what is undoubtedly my condemnation, the doors behind us open. Light shines in behind a broad-shouldered being that looks as much like an angel as I do. His hair is brown with loose curls that hang over the tips of his ears and his eyes, which are scanning the room, are so dark they look black. But his hair, eyes, and obvious lack of wings aren’t what make him stand out. No, it’s the bright Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts he’s wearing that catch my attention.

  Azbaugh watches him stride to the front of the room, stopping a few feet before the bench. No one has to tell me that there’s no love lost between these two. The Angel of Judgment looks down at the new arrival with contempt but his intimidation is returned with palpable arrogance. Who is this guy?

  “I believe I have the right to say something, seeing as how it was my Reaper who started this whole mess.”

  And then it hits me.

  This is Death Himself.

  Chapter 12

  “Nice of you to join us,” Azbaugh says with venomous disdain.

  Death Himself is undeterred by the angel’s open hostility. “Life in the death business doesn’t run by a timetable. So, where were we?” Death Himself asks before he produces a black leather recliner out of thin air and drops down into it, flipping the footrest up and leaning back. I half expect him to snap a tub of popcorn into his lap like he’s settling in to watch a movie.

  Azbaugh doesn’t look happy with Death Himself’s theatrics. “We were about to deliver our verdict. So if you don’t mind—”

  “Actually, I do mind,” Death Himself says. “You see, it’s my department that has been called into question, and after reviewing the evidence, I have concluded that, in order to maintain the integrity of my Reapers, RJ should be returned to her natural place in time.”

  “That is not your decision,” Azbaugh challenges. “We have been charged with this matter and it is in our opinion that the costs far outweigh the remote chance that Ms. Jones might actually amount to something of importance.”