For A Few Souls More (Heaven's Gate Book 3) (5 page)

“Hello,” said a voice from above. “Are you the one who’s been shouting?”

He looked up to see the woman sat on a branch, her feet a few inches from the top of his head.

“Yes,” he admitted, “sorry, but I wanted to talk to you.”

“So talk,” she smiled, swinging her legs like a child on a swing, a woman utterly at peace with her day.

“Well, I woke up here,” he explained, “a short while ago and I don’t know where I am and what to do and...”

“You don’t know much, do you?” she laughed.

“I don’t know anything,” he admitted.

“Except for one little thing, I imagine?” she asked.

“I’m dead?”

She nodded. “And what a relief that is, isn’t it? If I’d known that I could find such peace as this I would have tied a noose around my neck long ago.”

“Suicide’s a sin.”

“Sins are what we make them.”

She swung her leg over the branch and slowly lowered herself to the ground.

She was, Arno realised, much older than her behaviour suggested. She was a woman in her late forties, perhaps early fifties, once more returned to a state of carefree childhood. Her face bore only happy lines, creases caused by cheerfulness, the after-effects of countless smiles. Her hair was greying here and there but she wore it long and it trailed down her back like a light coloured shawl over her bright, white cotton dress.

“Veronica,” she said, holding out her hand for him to take.

He shook it gently. “Arno. Arno James.”

“So you’re confused by the afterlife, Arno James?” she asked. “And so you should be. It’s a confusing, if miraculous, place.”

“It seems so empty.”

“That’s part of its charm, isn’t it? Who wants to spend eternity in a crowd?”

“Well, maybe,” Arno considered himself a fairly social person, and while it would depend on the crowd he had no problem with the idea of a little company in Heaven.

“Am I the first person you’ve met?” she asked. Arno nodded. “Oh dear, how disorganised of them. I’m sure Alonzo should have greeted you. Shown you the ropes, as I believe they say in naval circles.”

“Alonzo?”

“He’s in charge,” she explained, “well, no, I suppose He’s in charge.” She gestured upwards and then laughed. “How silly, I’m pointing towards the heavens even though I’m stood in them. Still, we never see Him, or hear Him for that matter. Alonzo is the manager I suppose, the human face that makes us feel at home. He really should have found you, you know.”

“Oh.” Arno tried to shake the feeling that she somehow considered this to be his fault. “Well I have been walking around a lot.”

“And shouting.”

“I thought there was nobody else here, I was...” Arno decided there was no point in being less than honest, “scared.”

“Silly boy,” she said, taking his arm and leading him back towards the stream. “There’s nothing to be scared of here. All that’s behind us now.”

“I was exploring the building over there.”

“The Junction. The place of travelling.”

“Just a lot of empty rooms from what I could tell.”

“Then you were looking at them wrong. Come on, I’ll show you.”

She led him back towards the cloisters at the edge of the courtyard.

“Where were you from?” he asked as the building grew large before them.

“Oh, nowhere important,” she said, “a boring little town filled with boring little people. I lived through a succession of droning conversations, a grey old life where I didn’t fit in. Here’s much nicer. Which, of course, is exactly as it should be.”

“I came from Walsenburg, Colorado,” he told her, though she hadn’t asked. “I had my skull beaten in by a spade.”

“It sounds perfectly dreary.”

He tapped at his scalp with his fingers. “Maybe I’m just dreaming all this.”

“Don’t start doubting,” she told him, “it’s tiresome. You’re dead and that’s that.”

“Yes,” he admitted, because he knew the truth of it, despite his momentary thought otherwise, had done so from the very moment he’d woken up.

They had reached the cloisters now and Veronica led him to the door of the first room he’d tried earlier.

“I’ve already looked in there,” he said. “It was nothing but an empty, white chamber.”

“Shush now, let me show you the secret of it. The Junction is where we come to travel. To experience whatever our minds can imagine.”

She opened the door and Arno found himself looking in on a pebbled beach. The sea crashed against the stones, retreating with the soft crackle of water sucked out from between the pebbles.

“After you,” said Veronica, gesturing for him to step inside.

Arno did as he was told, walking cautiously on the stones and gazing out on a wide horizon as pale as milk, the sea and sky blurring where they touched.

“It was empty before,” he said, “I assure you.”

“It’s as empty as you allow it to be,” she said, and tapped at her temple. “These doors lead to wherever we dream of but the suggestion has to come from us. These are our rooms, built to our design. You’ll get the hang of it.”

Arno looked up the shore. The cliffs that marked the edge of the beach rose up to plain grass. Against the sun he saw a group of children playing. The sound of singing filtered down, just audible over the waves.

“That’s me up there,” said Veronica. “One of them at least. So many years ago.”

As he turned to look at her, he was struck by the absurd image of her leaning in the doorway, the cloisters visible over her shoulder.

He turned back to look at the beach again. “How far does it go?” he asked. “If I just kept walking would I eventually reach the wall?”

“You’re thinking the old-fashioned way. This is Heaven, it’s not bound by the old rules. This is a place of miracles, not brick walls. Come out and I’ll show you something else.”

Arno hesitated for a moment, wanting to take in the beach a little longer. He could feel the damp of the sea spray as he breathed in. Feel the slight chill of the breeze. It was a miracle indeed.

He stepped back through the doorway into the cloister and Veronica closed the door.

“What’s in the next room then?” he asked, moving along the corridor. “A meadow? A town square?”

“You don’t have to go to the next room,” she said, reaching for the door she had just closed, “this one will do.”

She opened the door again and the silence of the cloister was broken by the sound of a crackling fire. Arno imagined a cosy hearth, or perhaps a garden bonfire filling the air with the rich, wholesome smoke of burned leaves.

Stepping through into the dark of night, the smell of burning was, indeed, pronounced but it possessed a meaty odour. A hog roast, he decided, noting the large crowd of people, all in good cheer.

He said as much to Veronica, who smiled. “It’s a celebration, certainly,” she admitted.

He pushed his way through the crowd, marvelling at their physical presence. He could feel their bodies against him, and they in turn were clearly aware of him, turning to smile in his direction as he passed, encouraging him to be part of their goodwill.

Two young boys chased one another through the crowd, momentarily using him as a barrier in their game, tugging at his jacket and darting around him before running off towards the door that still stood open a short way behind him.

“Can they get out?” he asked Veronica.

“Of course not,” she told him. “They’re not real, however much they may seem it. They’re just memories given weight.”

“So what’s the celebration?” he asked as she came alongside him, leading him towards the fire. Its flames cracked and flexed, soaring upwards, tapering like the tip of a painter’s brush. He could see the silhouettes of the bonfire’s structure, the black skeleton of timber that sat at the heart of the flames. Looking upwards he saw another silhouette, one it took him a moment to recognise as a human figure, head bowed, limbs constricted as the heat drew the body inward, shrinking muscle and tendon.

“It’s the day I died,” Veronica told him, “burned as a witch in front of the town. A source of celebration, relief and, most importantly on a cold night in October, heat.”

Arno stared at the bonfire, unable to understand how Veronica could be so easygoing about it.

“That’s awful!”

“That’s superstition. But it’s also the end of a life of being an outsider and the start of something much nicer so I consider it a good day. Don’t misunderstand me, it hurt at the time, the human body is not quick to burn. For all our fat and hair we’re just big sacks of water. It took a while for the flames to burn enough that I didn’t feel them anymore. Those long minutes were full of agony and the choking smoke of my own ruination, weighed down with the certainty that help was never going to come.

“In some way, that last was almost a relief. The long hours waiting in the town gaol while the fire was built, being marched out here and tied in place as the crowds began to gather, singing their happy hymns and calling out their jolly prayers. That was hard, because waiting always is.

“Most suspected witches were hanged. I envied them that when I heard the kindling begin to smoulder. Hanging is at least relatively quick, though perhaps it’s no better really. I’ve seen people dance on the end of a rope, faces popping like overripe fruit, eyes slowly emerging onto their cheeks, tongues fattening. Perhaps death is always long and ignoble. Paradise has to be paid for.”

“I was barely aware of mine,” Arno admitted. “Just a clanging noise, a momentary sense of heat and wet, a blinding pain and then a gradual slip into darkness.”

“Good for you,” said Veronica, “I’m glad.”

Arno felt absurdly guilty, as if he had let the side down by expiring swiftly.

“I’m still not sure I’d want to revisit it though,” he said. “Why would I want to witness my own death?”

“It’s liberating. It can’t hurt you anymore, it’s just an event, the beginning of something new. Why not take the time to stand back, get a little perspective on it? I come here all the time and watch the woman who used to be me as she withers and blackens.”

“Were you a witch?”

“Oh yes,” she smiled, “at least, in any meaningful sense. I practiced medicine using old recipes my mother had taught me, I sold folk cures, I buried things beneath the moon, I uttered old prayers. I did not, however, raise the dead or worship the devil.”

“I suppose you would hardly have ended up here if you had.”

“I don’t know, I get the impression that the decision as to where a soul washes up is almost entirely down to the owner of the soul in question.”

Arno found that an uncomfortable idea to accept.

“But surely, God...”

“God minds his own business, Arno, much as we do ours.”

This was a theological point too far for Arno, clashing as it did with many years of religious conviction that dictated otherwise.

The heat of the fire seemed stifling, the smell of Veronica’s cooking flesh, the press of the crowd. And now he was being asked to accept that his God, the God to whom he had prayed throughout his life, was a disinterested deity who had no strong feelings as to the life his creations led.

It occurred to him then that maybe this was not Heaven at all, but rather the domain more readily brought to mind when one thought of flames and the burning of human meat.

“How do I know any of this is true?” he asked Veronica. “How do I know you’re even who you say you are?”

“How do we know anything?” She shrugged. “I’m not the one to convince you. I’m not your nursemaid. I’m just trying to help. You were the one who came chasing after me, remember?

Arno nodded but his mind was a mess of conflicting thoughts, a building nest of panic. “I know, I know...” he looked around, “I just... I think I need to...”

He ran towards the door, pushing his way through the people, ignoring their shouts of surprise or recrimination. He needed to breathe cold, clean air. He needed to think for a minute, he needed silence.

Back in the cloisters he sat down looking out over the garden and took several deep breaths.

After a moment Veronica joined him. “I don’t mean to be insensitive,” she said, “but I really don’t need someone to worry over. Or to doubt my word. I don’t mind showing you around but I’m not going to hold your hand forever.” She looked around. “This is why it’s better if Alonzo does it. He’s better at the calm, patient business. I just want to go walking in the trees again.”

“I’m sorry,” Arno replied, unable to keep the irritation from his voice, “but this is a great deal to take in.”

“Yes. Well, when you’ve managed to do that come and find me in the garden, it’s far too nice a day for an argument.”

Could he afford to lose her? In a place as large as this he might never find her again. Did he really want to go back to wandering up and down the corridors in confused silence?

“Wait,” he said, “I’m sorry. Please don’t go. Not just yet. I’m not sure I can take being on my own again. Not yet.”

She sighed and he heard her mutter to herself. He didn’t hear most of it but caught the word ‘nanny’ and felt an unpleasant blend of irritation and shame.