Linda
A Story from Parables from the Grave
Friends and Readers,
This is another selection from Parables from the Grave—a collection of philosophical fantasies set in the moments just before, during, or after death.
Enjoy!
Linda ran it through her mind again, and thought, again, how wonderful it had been.
The final moment, holding her granddaughter’s hand, the flowers, the light streaming in the window—resting in the knowledge of how much she loved and was loved—had been quite remarkable.
She smiled to herself, and only then noticed that she had not ceased to exist.
In fact, she felt amazingly well for someone so recently dead.
And she was not in some formless void, either; she could distinctly hear the splash of water. A fountain?
She opened her eyes, and saw a small stream, with a shallow waterfall.
The water above the fall flowed peacefully, leaving the shadows of ripples on the pebbled stream bed.
“Take it slow. You’ve only just arrived.”
She turned her head to see a young man, smiling down at her. Quite a hunk, really.
He nodded.
“It’s best to take a moment or two to adjust.”
She was lying on a grassy slope just above the stream. He sat just above her, his arms wrapped around his knees.
Beyond him, there was a wood, and she thought there was a path at the top of the slope. The sun was either setting or rising through the trees over his shoulder.
She squinted up at him.
“Where am I?”
He started to speak, then stopped, looking slightly puzzled. He laughed.
“Well, you’re on the bank of the stream...”
She started to clarify, but he put out a hand to stop her.
“I know. You meant something larger. The problem is, we don’t... We haven’t actually got a name for it.”
He smiled a little apologetically and continued.
“This isn’t, well, really a place, so much as it’s where places come from—and, I suppose, where they go to, sometimes. At least the souls.”
“Souls? But I thought...”
“Yeah. I’m familiar with your case. You can think of me as a kind of social worker I suppose. You were an atheist, and a...”
He wrinkled his brow, calling up a memory.
“...a materialist,” he beamed. “I got that right?”
“I guess I was wrong.”
“Oh, no. Not at all. In your world there was no...”
The brow wrinkled again. He was quite attractive.
She found herself wondering how old she was here.
“Yes?”
He shrugged.
“I suppose it depends on how you look at it.”
“On how I look at it?”
“Here’s the thing. Think of your world as a...” Another brow wrinkle. “...as a novel—that’s what you called them, right?—a sort of whole world, created by an artist.”
“Okay.”
“Well, this particular world has no god. Some of the people in it think it does, but the artist, you see, is very definite on that point. The world is completely consistent without any need of a deity.”
“Given my stance back there, I probably shouldn’t be the one to bring this up, but wouldn’t the artist be...”
“That’s what I meant by ‘how you look at it’. If you are part of that world, then there is no god—from that perspective, I mean. But from here...”
He shrugged, and pursed his lips in puzzlement.
She laughed.
“How old am I, here?”
“Any age you want to be. Time was an idea your... your artist invented.”
“And do I get to meet this maestro?”
He stood, reached out a hand, and pulled her to her feet.
“Absolutely. There’ll be a... What does he call it? A cocktail party! There’ll be one right after the judging.”
He paused, and a cloud passed over his face.
“That is, of course, if you...”
“If I pass the test?”
“You see, the thing is, you were an atheist...”
“And I was right, apparently. Depending on how you look at it.”
“What I mean is, you were, well, a very special kind of atheist.”
She grinned.
“I didn’t know there were kinds.”
“Exactly. You didn’t. I mean, you didn’t become an atheist because of a lot of theorizing, or because you started out... religious, right? ...and then rejected the idea or anything like that...”
“I was raised an atheist, though I didn’t know what the word meant until I was in college. I remember wondering, then, why there had to be a word for it.”
“That’s what I was trying to say. You see, the... the officials, I guess... they picked you, because you didn’t know much about any of the various gods, and you never took one seriously your whole life.”
“That’s true enough, but I still don’t understand...”
They had come to a fork in the path. He steered her toward the left.
“That’s the great hall, up ahead. We take art very seriously here.”
“I’m afraid I’m very confused...” she said.
He stopped and faced her.
“I’m not doing a very good job of this. Right now the hall contains the entire record of your artist’s latest work—of your world. You’ll see in a moment. It’s amazingly easy to access.”
“But why...”
“Because this is your... judgment day. I think that’s the phrase. It won’t be just one day, of course...”
She frowned.
“And how...”
“You’ll go over as much of the records as you like; it’s all there. You can take as long as you like, preparing your case.”
“I see. And who is the prosecutor?”
“Oh, there isn’t one. The whole thing is decided by just the one judge.”
“So there’s no defense counsel, either?”
“No.”
“And if the verdict is negative?”
He couldn’t meet her eyes.
“Death. Real death, I mean. Annihilation.”
She shook her head.
“Why bother with all this in the first place, then?”
“Because it could go either way. You have to understand. In your world art is just paintings or music or, or... Here, it involves life. Souls. Bad art doesn’t just offend the sensibilities here. There are lives on the line, pain and suffering; there are people who may be twisted, damaged...”
She laughed, bitterly.
“And you’re holding me responsible?”
He looked at her, confused.
“Someone has to be... And what could be fairer, really? I know you didn’t ask to be the judge, but you’re so perfectly suited...”
“The judge? I thought... Who am I judging?”
“The artist, of course. The maker of your world.”
