The Book fell to the ground, spilling pages, and Gabriel dropped to his knees, desperately trying to patch it together again. I could now hear the sound of souls more distinctly.
“…call yourself ‘The End of Life,’ do you, Gabriel…”
“Has infinity begun yet?”
“Come on. Hurry up. I died three hours ago…”
“I shall be making a complaint, you hear, a complaint…”
On the ground Gabriel was on all fours. He had given up trying to patch the Book back together and was now sobbing quietly. It was quite pitiful. I helped him to his feet.
“I never knew it would be so hard,” he said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “I mean the sheep are always complaining if you don’t get them immediately, and the puppies!” He looked to the sky. “God! How do you deal with the puppies!”
I sat him down and he began to cry on my shoulder. Shuddering sobs. Around us a whir of ambulances and police formed a background tableaux of disaster. The parts of the boy’s body were being carried away, and the monkeys were being shot. Throughout the zoo, children were being emotionally scarred for life. It felt good. I popped out the monkeys’ souls with one hand, absentmindedly. One tried to climb onto my back, but I flicked him nonchalantly into the Darkness.
Gabriel blew his nose on the hem of his garment. He looked at me, fluttering his big blue eyes. “Thank you, Death,” he said.
“That’s all right, Gabriel.”
“I should have listened to you.”
“All listen to me in the end,” I said.
“It’s just that…”
“Yes?”
“Sometimes…I get so lonely.”
I felt Gabriel’s hand on my knee.
“I think it’s time you went home,” I said to Gabriel, lifting up his hand and putting it back on his lap.
“Oh, I wish I was dead!” cried Gabriel.
“That can be arranged,” I said.
Second Goings and Comings
The sun set, the sky darkened, wounds festered, people drowned—all was bad with the world once more. I barely had time to ponder the strange turn of events in my existence before I was rushing to clear up the vast backlog of the dead left by Gabriel. Fortunately my jogging in the clinic had kept me in pretty good shape. I swept across Earth like a pale gale, like a pain hurricane, like a gloom typhoon, popping out souls here, ushering them into the Darkness there. I was unquenchable. The reception I received from the dead when they saw me was really quite touching.
“Good to have you back, Death,” the souls would say. “Didn’t think much of that last chap. Who was he again?”
Not many people had a good word for Gabriel. It seems some of the souls had straight up refused to come out of their bodies when they saw him.
“He just didn’t look right,” they’d tell me. “What with all that backcombed hair and eyeliner.”
It was unfortunate that Gabriel had chosen to take my place just as some of the most caustic fin de siècle wits had died. They had not been gentle with him.
“A darling boy,” said one, “but hardly the harbinger of finality one had been led to expect. I mean, the poor thing was leaking gravitas with every word he spoke.”
“And those feather wings!” chimed in another. “It was like being swept up by a pillow. Can you imagine anything more ghastly! You could see the concentration on his face. He was trying so hard.”
“He was trying,” chimed in another. “Very trying.”
So I was greeted with open arms. In fact, some souls almost leapt out of their bodies to welcome me. It only goes to show that one should not try to mess with people’s notions of their own demise. Say what you want about progress and change, but when it comes to envisaging one’s end, leering skulls and unfathomable blackness never go out of fashion.
It was one of the busiest eras yet, what with the world wars, the ethnic genocides, the aggressive physics, the hostile chemistry, Spanish influenza, elevator shafts, threshing machines, cheap cigarettes, and the increasing availability of fireworks.
Some Still Preferred to Die the Old-fashioned Way.
Soon all the traumas of the past were pushed from my mind. Until, that is, I got the call.
I was in Chicago in the late 1930s, dealing with the grisly aftermath of a circus parade that had coincided with a big game hunters’ convention, when a fat cherub appeared beside me, red in the face and out of breath. It said that I was wanted in Heaven immediately.
I hadn’t heard anything from Heaven since I had shipped Gabriel back there. I had taken the stony silence as a sign of embarrassment. Now, as I flew back to its graffiti-laden walls, I began to wonder whether omnipotent beings disliked being shown up.
I found Peter strapping his mother into a girdle.
“Oh…Death…hello,” he said, over his mother’s grunts. He sounded anxious.
“Anything the matter, Peter?”
“Oh no. No. Not at all,” he replied, studiously avoiding eye contact. “Nothing the matter. Nothing.”
“What is it, Peter?” I asked. I was getting worried.
“Well, it’s just that…” At that moment the elastic on his mother’s girdle broke, sending Peter crashing down through a cloud and catapulting his mother clean over the walls of Heaven. It seemed I would have to find out for myself. I pushed open the gates.
Things had not changed very much in Heaven. It was still in need of renovation. The one big difference was that a vast stadium was under construction. Its seats seemed to stretch into infinity. What could it be for? I carried on past it, and in the distance I saw Jesus standing at the head of a group of angels, leading them in what looked like a mass crucifixion workout. The angels had large wooden crosses that they were dragging behind them in time with Jesus. They wore crowns and bracelets made of thorns, and whenever they went to wipe the sweat from their foreheads with them, they cut themselves hideously.
“And lift your eyes up,” beamed Jesus in a chirpy, slightly out-of-breath voice, “and lower them again. Wince once and cry out—all together now—‘Eli, eli, lamai sabactani!’ And sag. Well done, everyone! It is finished.” The angels collapsed, exhausted and bleeding.
I marched on toward the Parliament of Heaven. It was chaos as usual. Angels flew about the hall shouting, parchment and scrolls fluttered down from the ceiling, harps were being tuned, sandals slapped on the hard cirrus floor. At the head of it all was God. He was struggling to play paddleball. Jesus appeared beside Him, a towel hung over His shoulders. He picked up another paddleball racket and began playing expertly.
Paddleball: Sport of (King of) Kings.
“Now why did I ever create this?” boomed God as He swung wildly at the ball. I stood waiting until He caught sight of me. “Ah. Death. Feeling worse, are we?”
“Yes, thank You, Lord God Sir.”
“Very unfortunate that thing with Gabriel. Obviously his halo was faulty and overheated his brain. That’s what happens when you outsource production to the damned—very cheap, but shoddy workmanship. Anyway, We’re having them all recalled.” I looked around and indeed none of the angels I could see were wearing halos, although some had substituted plates that hovered uncertainly over their heads and every few minutes would crash to the floor below.
“Tell him, Dad,” beamed Jesus.
“What?” boomed God. His divine light had become entangled in the paddle’s elastic. “Oh yes, I’m glad you’re here, Death. We’ve just been having a little discussion. We’re going to phase you out.”
“What?” I cried.
“Phase you out,” boomed God, as He tried to untangle Himself. “Yes, Jesus has convinced Me that you should die.”
I didn’t know what to say. After all I had gone through, this was my reward?
“I’m informed that it’s ‘ironic,’” boomed God, “and Jesus thinks We haven’t been ironic enough of late.”
“Not since My crucifixion,” beamed Jesus. “Crucifying God? You can’t get much mor
e ironic than that!”
“So you see,” boomed God, “now you have to die, because that’ll be very, very ironic.”
“But not as ironic as Me being crucified,” beamed Jesus.
“But Lord God Sir?” I said.
“Yes?”
“I’ve just finished cleaning up the mess Gabriel left.”
“And a splendid job you’ve done, hasn’t he, Jesus?”
Jesus beamed silently.
“But what will happen to all the dead souls if I die?”
“Jesus is going to take care of them,” boomed God proudly. “He’s been thinking of making a comeback in which everybody lives forever and all the dead are resurrected. We’re going to call it ‘The Second Coming.’ Got a nice ring to it, hasn’t it?”
“But that’s stupid,” I said.
“No, it’s not,” beamed Jesus. “Tell him it’s not stupid, Dad!”
“But it is!” I said. “If everyone’s going to be resurrected, why bother having them live in the first place? Why not just start them all off in Heaven?”
God and Jesus looked at each other.
“Because…,” boomed God uncertainly. “Because…”
“Because…We’re inscrutable,” beamed Jesus, and crossed His arms.
“Yes, yes, quite right,” boomed God, “inscrutable, and ironic. So there you have it. Who knows what We’ll do after that. Probably something equally crazy. Maybe We’ll give everyone four legs. Anything to idle away a few hours, really. Killing time is simple, but killing eternity takes forever.”
I stood there and let them speak.
“Anyway, by way of publicizing the Second Coming and the life of the world to come,” boomed God, “We were thinking that Jesus should fight you. There should be a little back and forth, you should get Him in a headlock, say, and it should look like it’s all over when Jesus will suddenly flip you over His head, leap onto the ropes and perform His…what’s it called again, Jesus?”
“Do you mean My ‘Battle Stations of the Cross’?” beamed Jesus.
“Yes, that’s the one,” boomed God, turning back to me. “This will destroy you completely.”
“I’m going to take you down to downtown,” beamed Jesus, “and show you around, you clown.”
“Yes, thank You, Jesus,” boomed God, turning back to me. “I do think I let Him stay on Earth just a little too long, don’t you? Anyway, the match will be watched by every being in Creation, either in the stadium We’re building—did you see it?—or, for those in Hell or Purgatory, on pray-per-view. Okay?”
“But I think I’m doing good work on Earth, necessary work.”
“Yes, We’re sure you are,” boomed God. “But if everyone is going to live forever and ever, We hardly need you now, do We?”
“I can do other things,” I said. “I don’t just have to do dying….”
“Yes, yes, We’re sure you could,” boomed God, “but We thought it would make people rather nervous if you were loitering around while they tried to enjoy eternity. You’re hardly inconspicuous, you know.”
“So that’s it, is it?” I said. I suddenly felt strangely calm faced with my own extinction. I guess I had seen so many endings I had become completely inured to them, even my own. I looked at the Darkness fondly. Soon I would be sending myself into it forever. I consoled myself that there were worse ways to go. At least I still had my dignity.
“Tell him about the other thing,” beamed Jesus.
“Oh yes. Jesus thinks that all of Creation would like it very much if you winked out of existence in, say, Round Two. He thinks Creation would like that a lot.”
“Round Two, you’re through!” beamed Jesus. “You’re so old, I’m so new!”
“Yes, thank You, Jesus,” boomed God. “So why don’t you come back in seven days’ time and We’ll wink you out of existence.” He and Jesus picked up Their paddleball rackets.
I was astounded.
“At least make it a fair fight?” I pleaded. “You owe me that much.”
“We don’t owe you anything,” beamed Jesus. “On the contrary, since We created you, it is you who owes Us everything.”
“If—”
“No ifs,” beamed Jesus.
“But—”
“No buts,” beamed Jesus.
There was the sound of a strangled boom. God had got Himself entangled in His racket’s elastic again.
“Let me help You, Father,” beamed Jesus.
“I can deal with it Myself, thank You very much, Jesus,” boomed God frustratedly.
“Exactly,” beamed Jesus.
I turned my back on the divine beings and sloped away from the Parliament. Nobody seemed to pay me much attention. I walked through the Gates of Heaven where Peter was now sitting, his hands wrapped in wool, as his mother knitted.
“So you’ve heard the news,” said Peter, embarrassedly. “I am sorry.”
“That’s okay, Peter,” I said.
“Good luck in the fight with Jesus.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think it’ll be of much use.”
“Oh yes. Yes, quite.” Peter paused. He was struggling to formulate a question. “Any…idea in which round you might…disappear?”
“Round Two,” I said. “I’m being phased out in Round Two.”
“Thanks, Death, you’re a real pal.”
As I swooped back down to Earth I thought about my destiny. It seemed strange that after all the hard work I had done on Earth, after nearly losing myself forever to my addiction with Life, and after my painful rehabilitation at the clinic, that I was now being “phased out.” Such an ugly phrase. It lacked a sense of finality, the clear cut that separated the living and the dead. If only I could be shot through the heart, have a grand piano drop on my head, be guillotined, I would not find it quite so bad. Instead I would slowly fade from sight, like a bad memory. I didn’t think my own demise very ironic at all. But it did seem poetic, albeit like the kind of poetry that doesn’t rhyme or make sense.
Despite the imminent arrival of the Second Coming, and the subsequent mass resurrection, I continued with my job. As it had at the beginning of my career, concentrating on the dead calmed me—the slip-sliding of the souls, the empty bodies, the quiet of the void acted as a balm to my worried thoughts. Of course, I couldn’t help but tell some of the souls how lucky they were to die when they did, as soon no one would be dying at all. When the souls heard this, they felt rather pleased with themselves—after all, as once-in-a-lifetime experiences go, nothing really compares with dying—and became very friendly to me, saying how sorry they were that I was going. Some even said they’d put in a good word for me with God, but I told them not to worry. I was ready to die.
There was not an inch of the earth that I had not covered in my existence, but I thought now would be the time to visit those places that held a particular significance for me. I went back to where Eden had been and found Urizel was still there, vigilantly guarding it, even though Eden had been devastated and was now home to a smelting works. It had been so long since Urizel had been sent to guard it that I rather suspected Heaven had forgotten about him entirely, but Urizel did not seem unhappy.
“Never let it be said that Urizel doesn’t know how to follow an order,” he said to me, as he swept back wave after wave of health and safety inspectors who tried to pass through the factory gates. “None shall pass!” he screeched.
There had been many changes, I thought to myself, as I surveyed the world that had been my home for so many millions of years. Volcanoes that had once been the sites of sacrifices and suicides were now scattered with complacent tourists, who only rarely slipped and fell into the bubbling lava. Hospitals that had once been the great shipping stations into the Darkness now dangled the sick and dying just out of my reach, with a marionette’s assortment of tubes and catheters. It seemed a shame to leave Earth just as Plutonium and Uranium had discovered their métier, and when bungee jumping and hang gliding would soon become popular activities. There we
re so many of you now, so many ways to go. At times it seemed as if I was being tempted to stay by the ever-growing varieties of your ends. How fitting, I thought, that my farewell should come amid such a cornucopia of slaughter.
My only regret was that the one person I would most like to have spent my last hours with was nowhere to be found. I visited the site of the Great Ziggurat of Ur, where Maud and I had originally met. The faint echo of her scream—that glorious first scream—seemed to be imprinted on the landscape, imbuing the rocks, the sand, the wind itself with her very essence.
I shook myself free from this reverie and opened the Book of Endings to see who was next. I was somewhat troubled to realize I had reached the last page. I stole a glimpse at the last name on the list. It was mine. A shiver went through me. I slammed the Book shut.
I was really going to die. I was really going to disappear forever. How terrifying to be able to measure out my existence in mere hours. There would be no more souls for me, no more thoughts, no more Darkness, even. There would be no more—
“Excuse me, are you Death?” said a small voice.
I looked down and saw a small raccoon standing on its back legs looking at me. Its head was slightly cocked.
“Er, yes.” The shocking realization of my own death must have made me visible again.
“Hello,” he said as he extended a paw for me to shake. “My name’s Phil the Raccoon. I’m named after an ancestor of mine—Phillip the Raccoon. They say you two were friends. You let him chase after frog souls when he was dead. If he was anything like I am, I know he would have loved that.”
“What do you want?” I said, slightly perplexed. I glanced quickly at the Book of Endings. I didn’t want to spend too long looking at it. “You’re not due until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Really?” said the raccoon. “What do I die of?”
“I can’t tell you that,” I said, largely because I didn’t want to look in the Book again.
“Distemper, I bet,” said Phil the Raccoon. “Or maybe rabies. I’ve been feeling dry-mouthed all week. Then again, maybe that’s because I’ve been looking all over the world for you. Word on the street has it that you’re not going to be around here much longer. Me and some of the other woodland creatures held our regular Tuesday night séance the other night. Everybody in the spirit world’s talking about Death being phased out.”
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