Chapter 18
The winter of the soul is the moment when all is abandoned.
When the spirit is frozen in fear that there is no truth,
and all lies desolate, miserable, devoid of the
warmth and clarity of meaning and purpose.
― Dorian Scott Cole
"John! John!" Mary's voice preceded her through the door of his office." She stopped, breathless, wild eyed," in the middle of his open office door. "Petra Stuart hath left us and threw herself in the Lake Of Fire. She hath perished forever." William stopped abruptly just behind her, fear and sorrow in his expression.
Worst news ever. John's heart fell and he was lost for words. He had no ready answer. "I'm sorry, Mary. Apparently we weren't enough for her. We failed."
Mary broke into tears, and wailed. "Petra wast becoming mine close cousin. What wenteth wrong?! Wast mine fault?! Wast thine? Wast ours? Wherefore didst the lady doth this?"
John sighed and sat down. "I just don't know. This makes two of them, and two more have gone to the Enumi." He tapped items on his desk, pensively. There was no answer in sight, not even a hint of a way to turn this around. "I'm not good at this yet! There must be some way to fix this, but I don't know what it would be. I must be doing something wrong."
William dabbed at his eyes, then admonished, "Nay, mate, doth not putteth this load on thy shoulders. Tis too much for a man t bear."
"We have a village of 300 people now, and all I'm doing is administration!" John shoved a pile of papers from his desk in anger.
"That be your job, man, not working miracles. Listen to me. Cat runneth a thriving restaurant business with multiple locations. Mary? Well, who knoweth, but the lady worketh with Vagabones and Franz, and the lady seemeth joyous turning people into mice. They hath found their way, man, thanks to thee, God grant thee mercy."
"Yes, yes, I understand. But I'm a leader, not just a paper pusher. What about later? Will one day will everyone decide to throw themselves into the Lake Of Fire? I don't understand!"
"Hark! Hark! Behold Jerry, that falsing, thieving demon. When the angels quit farming to provide our food, it turned out that Jerry hads't a real talent for farming, and Bryan hads't a talent for distribution. Who could has't guessed, but thou gaveth those folk an opportunity!"
Mary dropped to her knees in front of John's desk. "Harken to William's words, I pray thee! Thou hast worked miracles! Putteth this not on yourself. Thou art not God."
John just shook his head at them, and groaned in despair. The buck always stops with the leader. It was always his responsibility. He could not shirk this responsibility no matter what others said.
"What can any mortal accomplish?" William hesitated. "Let me speak in your language, so you understand. Look at the positive direction everyone is going in. When Franz established a justice system with just the directive, 'Do to others as you would have them do to you,' carved over the justice building, even Jerry found it difficult to get around that one. The intent of the law was clear. Oddly, when people followed that directive, they found that they liked each other and wanted to do more for each other. Orpheus made few visits to cast demons or the person who continuously stirred up trouble. Hark! They have become good people! The light is shining from them! Goodness, not evil! You have done this."
"What have I really done, William? Good people perish! Is there some fatal flaw that inevitably takes them to their end? Should we have a suicide hotline? Should we post guards at the gates to prevent people from going to the Lake Of Fire? Not that we have gates. What is all of this for, if all it ends with is people perishing?!"
John studied their faces, but there was no response. "I'm Psychopomp! I bring them here. But is this place any better than out there decaying into ashes? Is this just some last bit of torture, tantalizing them with what they could have, before they kill themselves?
"Is there truly any difference between inside here, and outside in Hell. Do the bad things they did in life still loom large in their minds and make them miserable. Do they go through each day looking happy, doing what is asked of them, but secretly with no joy."
"I has't not an answer. 'T isn't true for me," William replied.
"Nor me," Mary agreed. "Thou wilt has't to findeth that answer for yourself." With grim faces, the two turned and left the office.
John gave thought to all they had created. Everyone had work. Everyone had equality. If you worked, you got credit, oddly enough set up by Persiphus, who found that he loved keeping track of things. Not that anyone seemed to care about the credits. Each found what he wanted to do, and found meaning in contributing that.
If you had credit, you could acquire the things you wanted. But was that all that living was about? Order, protection, work, acquiring? What was missing?
John grieved. The weight of every soul was on his inadequate shoulders. He looked through the list in the book of souls in his care. He picked up the book left there for him, Keys to a Peaceful Soul, then searched everywhere in the office for a key. He found none. He tried to tear it open, and it wouldn't budge. He hit the desk repeatedly with it, but nothing came apart. He slammed it onto the floor and stomped on it, but it remained sealed.
"Taking up the ministry and care of souls?" Peira asked from behind him.
John picked up the book and tossed it onto his desk. "Two people have left this great village and thrown themselves into the Lake Of Fire. Two more joined the Enumi to continue their misery." He picked up the ledger with the names of the town's people and showed it to her. "I'm responsible for 300 souls! They are counting on me! And I'm failing them!" He laid the ledger back on his desk. "What do I do, Peira? I'm no good at this."
"What do you think you should do?"
"Go into Hell and find some theologians, ministers, and psychologists. These people aren't strong like some of us. They need help."
"Who can save them, John? You or them? Is that your job, to save people?"
John looked at her in frustration. She was calm, unruffled by any of this. She was ice to his fire. He shouted angrily, "I don't know what my job is! I've never done this before! I'm not a psychiatrist or theologian. I was Governor. A corrupt one. Maybe I should know, but I don't."
"And yet, here you are helping them."
John picked up the ledger. "Really?! Am I really helping any of these people?!" He shook the ledger, and in a fit of anger, through it across the room at the wall.
"You were a State Governor. Surely you must have helped some people."
"I helped them get their hands into the cookie jar." He sat down then slumped forward in shame. "Corrupt. A shame."
"Did you keep the roads repaired so they could work, laws upheld so they could live in peace and not worry, keep them safe from bad policies, help keep them employed?"
"Those were givens. Those things were inescapable parts of my job. If I didn't do those things, I wouldn't be reelected."
"So, is it true you helped them, in whatever way you could?"
"True? I suppose it is. But that's what I do here. William and Mary and I just had this discussion."
"So I ask again, who can save them, John? You or them? Is that your job, to save people?"
John had no idea what his job was. He remembered his predecessor saying that everyone had moved on. And then he moved on. How did he accomplish that. Why wasn't there a book to tell him, instead of having to figure it out at the expense of people throwing their lives away. Truth? Job? "That's a truth I don't know! This is too complicated for me. I don't have your insight. I don't understand people. I don't even understand myself."
"What is your truth, John?"
"Truth?! What is truth? Who knows? I thought when you died you went to Heaven or Hell. Or maybe just disappeared. Who knew? How am I here? Look at all of these people! None of us know anything about truth! I don't even understand what you are talking about! Truth! Truth! Truth! How would I even begin to know truth. It's all just some aspect of something that ha
ppens to have some kernel of truth to it."
Peira touched him on the shoulder with compassion. "Truth, John?"
"Truth is I'm grieving for people who threw themselves in the Lake Of Fire, and their souls are gone forever, and I have no idea how to stop this. They were good people. They weren't bad. Truth is, I'm not competent for this job, and it's way too much responsibility. I just want to quit! That's the truth!
Peira smiled. "Good. You're no longer relying on yourself. Find truth."
She disappeared.
"What the hell was that?!" John picked up the book, Keys to a Peaceful Soul, and threw it against the wall as hard as he could. He shouted after her, "Peira, I need help!" But she didn't reappear.
He stared at the back door that was the entrance to Hell. Anger, fear, and hopelessness froze his face in a horrible mask. He lunged for the door and plunged out. It was a miserable place, just right for him. He ran and ran, in fear and anguish to the depths of his soul. All he wanted was to get away from this oppressive responsibility for things that were impossible. Finally he slowed, then began to walk the path that toured the whole of Hell.
In his mind he knew he was no different than these other miserable souls laying in heaps of ashes, decaying. Or those still chasing something, and whenever they found it they weren't satisfied. Insatiable. A thirst that couldn't be slaked. What was with all of us?
Truth was, this was where he belonged. Corrupt. Not good enough for anything. And truth was, neither were they. What difference did it make if he made people comfortable? They weren't comfortable. They were suffering from guilt. They could not forgive themselves. They would suffer no matter where they were. If they were wealthy and were waited on day and night and given all kinds of entertainment, and fine food and beverages, and inspiring conversation, none of it would make any difference. Their mind and their soul were not one inch removed from this Hell.
He was providing them an illusion. A diversion. A temporary band aid that let the sore continue to fester. He could not fix them. Truth. Peira spoke of truth. That was the truth. He could not fix them. He couldn't even fix himself.
The Enumi popped up in front of him and began to chant their terrible song of guilt and despair. "Get lost!" He shouted at them. "I don't have the patience for your nonsense!" They slunk away and he walked on.
He walked and walked. He passed Lincoln and nodded briefly to him, beginning to understand his terrible responsibility for souls. Genghis Kahn threw a rock at Napoleon, spotted John, and then threw a rock at him. He gave Kahn the finger and continued to trudge slowly on. Kahn waved him away.
He passed a number of other military leaders and leaders of nations. They had the same grim expression that he had. Thoroughly demoralized. There were no answers. They all had responsibilities they could not live up to.
Suddenly Peira appeared before him. He frowned at her. She kicked him in the stomach, sending him through a curtain.
He was thrust into a chair on a... a stage? Was he on trial or display. He glanced around. Was this his Johnstown in Asphedolus? No, it looked similar, but different.
A man standing beside him began to speak. "And the good King, turned to his subjects and said, 'We are all lost in a cooking stew whose ingredients are lies mixed with good intentions gone awry, mixed with bad intentions, mixed with endless facets of truth that lead nowhere of themselves but to disaster and bad feelings and more vexing questions. What was the point of all this grand and pompous going and doing and struggling?! Can we save ourselves from this endless misery and our own mistakes, and the mistakes of others?'"
The man stopped to stare at him. "Good King, answer us this question laying heavily on our souls. Why should we continue to live even one more day? Why subject ourselves to this endless torment?"
John could only shrug and shake his head. He had not even the hint of an answer.
"Here stand six-hundred of our noble citizens. Enough for an army. Enough to save a world. Enough to employ at any noble task. Good men- " He turned to the crowd, "and not so good." The audience laughed. "Talented. Skilled. Bright. Ready to take on any task should you just whisper the word. What say you, great King? What wisdom would you impart to us in your inspiring whisper? What compelling task? Why should we even go on? Why should we 600 fine souls delay a minute longer - why should we not immediately throw ourselves into the Lake Of Fire? Tell us now, or we shall immediately stand and march to our everlasting death!" The crowd roared and stood.
John looked at them, his eyes wide, his mouth open but empty of words, completely paralyzed by fear.
The man began to laugh, as did the crowd. They laughed raucously, great belly laughs, slapping their legs and crumbling onto the ground in laughter, while pointing at John.
When the laughter died down, the man said, "Why? Why not? Aye, there's the rub!" He slapped John on the shoulder. "William Shakespeare. I suspect you are John of Johnstown."
John nodded affirmative.
"Should we stay, or should we go, John? You seriously think you should have an answer for that? Nay, the answer to that can only lie within each man, and it is not for you to see. Even God seems content to look on and only whisper. It is enough for you just to be about the business of doing. There are truths that are revealed only to those who don't get discouraged and waste themselves, but instead keep doing."
Shakespeare pulled John to his feet. "You have too much to do to wander aimlessly around Hell, like Lincoln out there, tormented by terrible questions with no answer that we are yet able to perceive. Come with me." He yanked John by the arm through the curtain into Johnstown.
"We are not done torturing you, John. Now you must set up a stage. This is a dangerous moment. The people cannot become demoralized as you are. I have seen it a thousand times in a thousand Johnstowns, when what you build crumbles back into ashes because you focus on the grand, frightening little negative things and not the bountiful land and people full of good things that are within and around you. Let my gift of stagecraft lift your spirits back, and a few laughs set you back on the track to discovering truth."
In less than the blink of an eye, John was sitting in his office, with Shakespeare standing at the door. "How did -"
"The play's the thing! Haven't you heard? Now I will go select my players, and we shall create a great masterpiece, a tour de force that will surely relieve your burdens and bring clarity to your vexing situation." With a bow and flourish, he stepped through the door."
"Wait! Why are you still here? In Asphedolus?"
Shakespeare peeked back in. "Why indeed? I like the lasses a bit too much! I'm afraid there will be no carnal delight in heaven." After a moment he smiled widely at his own joke, then slapped the door jamb. "I have the perfect audience here. I haven't seen such a huge mass of people who genuinely needed cheering up since dreary old England. Why would I leave?!"
John didn't understand what was happening. He just had this feeling that both Peira and Shakespeare were working on his behalf. Somehow a play would become a path to understanding, so he was free to go about the business of Psychopomp.
Shakespeare went about his business of whispering in people's ears. About what, John had no idea. But he was sure it had to do with creating a play.
Aside: William Shakespeare
William Shakespeare, Playwright, 1564 to 1616
English poet, playwright, and actor, widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world's pre-eminent dramatist.
Shakespeare's tryst with a friendly fan
He overheard details of a colleagues proposal to meet a fan. He beat him to the punch. William Shakespeare's tryst with a female fan - The Telegraph.co UK
Liars Truth Page 18