Sorry, Wrong Afterlife
by Susan Whiting Kemp
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
Morris and I crouched on a massive branch on a high treetop. All around were nests: some of sticks, some of grass, and some of mud. No birds, just nests. Tropical warmth bathed the air. A mist far below hid the ground. A vine of white flowers smelled like sweetened butter.
My friend twisted his lip-piercing as he did when confused. “We’re dead. Right Leo?”
“Right,” I answered, with only a tinge of horror, because shock had tamped my emotions down. Even so, I remembered the previous moments all too clearly. The avalanche that buried us while we were hiking in the mountains. The pain under the weight of all that snow, the panic at being unable to move or breathe. The realization that death was imminent. The fading of consciousness.
I was glad to be in shock. I’d left my family and friends behind. Would I ever see my wife Lily again, and my three kids?
“So where are we?” asked Morris.
“Apparently, there’s an afterlife after all, and this is it.”
Our tree branch was wide as a footbridge. We scooted to one of the nests, nestled in a nearby bough. It held three eggs the size of my fist, speckled blue and brown. An egg was warm, with a weight to it. I felt movement inside.
“I wonder what kind these are,” said Morris.
“You’re the expert.” I set the egg back in the nest.
“I’m just an amateur, and I know birds, not eggs.”
The egg cracked. We watched a naked chick poke its way out. Beige, all beak. It gave a squeak, like a tiny door opening.
“I name you Esmerelda,” said Morris.
I didn’t ask him why that particular name, since I knew he wouldn’t explain. He was a poet, randomly given to whimsey. Thoughts came to him and he voiced them, even while teaching, making him one of the most loved yet parodied teachers in his grade school.
I myself was a designer. I defined spaces using furniture. My day revolved around the blending of the tactile, the visual, and the experiential. And now, suddenly, it didn’t. I couldn’t quite wrap my head around my situation, but my chaotic thoughts settled enough for me to understand one thing, at least. “We must be here because you like birds, and we died together. We made it to Heaven, but yours, not mine.”
“This isn’t my idea of Heaven. Not even close. No women. No beer. No avocado toast.”
Eggs cracked all around us. We peered into several more nests. “They’re all hatching at once!” said Morris.
Within a short time, the nests were full of featherless bundles of avian joy, with chirping and squeaking coming from all directions.
“Surround sound,” said Morris.
A scarlet, black-winged bird swooped down and landed on a branch above, its beak as long as my arm, curved like a scimitar. “It’s an i’iwi, a Hawaiian endangered species,” said Morris. “But much larger than life.”
Other birds arrived. Hundreds. Within minutes, the treetops were filled with birds of all shapes and colors, making a cacophony of squawks and chirps. Some hopped along the enormous branches like nimble frogs. Some perched on twigs, while others took advantage of our shoulders and heads. I might have been terrified if it hadn’t been so surreal.
Birds vied for space on my outstretched arms, nuzzling one of my ears and pecking the other. A couple even settled onto my boots, like feathery purple ornaments. One flew too close to my face; I jerked, making all of the birds on me flap to keep balance. The air whooshed this way and that like a malfunctioning wind tunnel.
A cockatiel, white with a yellow crest, chased the other birds from my arms. It was as big as a macaw, its grip strong and piercing, like a babysitter I’d once feared.
“They’re all supersized,” said Morris.
The jumbo cockatiel lifted away. “What a strange Heaven. Or Hell.”
“It doesn’t feel like Hell. It’s not even uncomfortable. Just weird.”
A bird dove to one of the nests, picked up a chick in its talons and flew off. Another followed suit. This continued for a crazy half hour until all the birds and chicks were gone.
The largest bird yet, three times taller than me, landed on a branch above. White feathers framed its face. Its muscular legs had a black and white zigzag pattern like leggings Lily wore. (My sweet Lily! Left behind!)
Its hooked beak could easily snap my neck. Its feet were large enough to wring my body like a washcloth. I was frozen in fear.
Morris whispered reverently. “Wow. A king-size harpy eagle.”
“That thing could kill us,” I said.
“We’re already dead.”
“It could kill us deader.”
“I name you Lancelot,” said Morris, still whispering.
“How do you know it’s male?”
“I don’t.”
It stretched its wings, wide as a glider. What were we to Lancelot? Friend? Foe? Dinner? “What do we do?” I asked.
“Back up slowly. Make a lot of noise. No wait, that’s for a bear. I don’t know. Look unappetizing.”
I was trying to figure out how to accomplish that when Lancelot screeched. I could feel it in my bones, a vibration that began in my skull and traveled down each vertebrae to my pelvis, which magnified the vibration into a sound like a harmonic gong. That astounded me, as it never would have happened in life, but in the afterlife, who knew what rules applied?
The sound also startled the harpy, whose headfeathers rose into a crown.
“Oh no,” said Morris, “That means he’s angry.”
Lancelot screeched again. The noise reverberated through me anew, making the pelvic gong noise. The harpy dove toward us, its wing gust knocking me down. Before I could scramble away, it grasped one of my ankles by its talon, lifting me. I grabbed for the branch but missed.
With its other talon, Lancelot snatched Morris. He flailed, hollering, “Ay-yai, ay-yai.”
I was now in my least favorite position: upside-down. Even as a child, I didn’t hang by my knees on playground equipment because the blood rushed to my head.
As the harpy rose, I used my abs — what was left of them after years of sporadic weekend exercise — to pull myself up and grasp the harpy’s leg with both hands. Lancelot didn’t seem pleased by that — he dipped and swerved, but in the end let me hammock underneath.
“It’s taking us to be judged.” Morris hung limp, like a marionette.
I tried to keep my voice from cracking with fear. “What if we’ve already been judged and sentenced to the Prometheus torture?”
“What’s that?” asked Morris.
“An eagle eats our livers out every day, and they grow back every night.”
“Maybe yours,” said Morris petulantly. “But I don’t deserve torture.”
“Sorry, I’m just scared.”
“Me, too. My heart’s pounding dubstep hard.”
“We’ll get through this somehow,” I said.
The billowing mist still kept us from seeing the ground. Lancelot dropped us into a nest as big as a fishing scow, then perched on the edge.
A harpy eagle chick greeted us with a squawk. It was my size, but with a black beak and covered in white fluff.
“Oh hell,” said Morris, “we’re breakfast.”
Of course. Lancelot would now shred us to bits, then feed us to his baby.
We scrambled up the sticks that formed the nest, but the harpy yanked us back down. And then, so quickly that I had no chance to react, Lancelot pried my mouth open with his black beak. A gloppy mess flowed into my throat, making me gag. It tasted of raw hamburger, which I’d only ever tried on a dare and wouldn’t recommend even when doctored with Worcestershire sauce.
Instead of ripping me to pieces for its progeny, Lancelot was feeding me. Trying to, anyway, but it was too much, too fast. It felt like I was going to die again.
Lancelot did the same to Morris. When he was done, we wiped our faces, making noises of disgust.
Lancelot flew off, the wind from his wings pinning me against side of the nest, as if gravity had suddenly gone sideways. I watched him grow smaller in the distance.
This was our chance! We climbed to the edge of the nest and looked down. My heart sank. There was no way to climb down. The tree bark was quite smooth except for globules of amber-colored pitch. There were no limbs to climb down.
I suppressed a wail, saying instead, “We are in Hell.”
“A strange Hell,” said Morris. “The rules are different. In life, a harpy eagle would lay two eggs, but only feed the first to hatch. But he’s feeding three chicks. And where’s the mate? The female is bigger than the male.”
I examined the nest. Between the sticks were bits of animal fur, feathers, seed pods, and pieces of green vine. At the bottom was feather fluff and a musty smell that I took for old poop.
The chick snuggled against me, welcoming me, it felt like.
My stomach fluttered as a thought struck me. “What if we are in Heaven but the wrong Heaven? Bird Heaven instead of human Heaven.”
“Oh my God, you could be right. But how did we get to the wrong Heaven?”
“It must be your interest in birds.”
“Don’t blame this on me.”
I couldn’t keep the surliness out of my tone. “Why not? You can identify a bird by its call. You know mating habits, migratory paths, endangered species status...”
“It could easily be some other reason. Like your last name.”
“Cooper? A cooper builds barrels.”
“No, the sound of it,” said Morris, irritated, as if it should be obvious. “It begins with ‘coo.’ Like a dove.”
“You’re reaching.”
“It could be any reason. We have no understanding of the afterlife sorting process. Are the sorters understaffed? Not well trained? Maybe we’re here based on random moments of life, which meant that we’re lucky to be in any Heaven at all. If a sorter had viewed the moments where we’d behaved badly, we’d be in Hell. Besides, it’s your fault we died. You were the one who wanted to go hiking.”
“It was a freak accident. There was no snow anywhere in sight, and it wasn’t avalanche season. I don’t understand it myself. There was no risk.”
“And yet here we are, deader than doughnuts.”
I stewed over the bad luck that brought us here, and bemoaned the lack of accountability in Heaven and Hell assignment. I should have been in a place with silk sheets and sumptuous banquets or even better. Because, in my mind, Heaven should surpass anything the human imagination could dream up. And I was missing out on it. I had to fix this.
I stood, calling out to God, or the low-bid subcontracted sorting service that had shuttled me here. “Hello? We’re in the wrong heaven! We’re not birds. I’m Leo Cooper and this is Morris Johnson. We’re human.”
The chick squeaked frantically, as if to warn me against such folly.
“I name you Dakota,” said Morris anxiously.
I called and called, imploring for help. Explaining the situation.
Nobody answered.
I slumped back into the nest. “Lily and I were planning our next trip to Ocean Shores. We met there. On the beach. We were going to take the kids and play beach volleyball and dig in the sand.” I trailed off into sobs. My heart felt as deflated as my oldest daughter Mona’s soccer ball, which I had been planning to refill after our hike. Now that wouldn’t happen.
Morris patted me on the back, crying too. “It’s okay. We’ll be okay.”
His attempt to comfort me brought out another torrent of words. “I’m so damn tired of not knowing. My whole life I wondered why we were on Earth, what it all meant. I thought I would find out after I died. Instead I’m here. Life made little sense and death makes even less.”
He straightened, as if to encourage himself as well as me. His voice wavered as he struggled to stop crying. “Leo, we have to find the meaning that works for us. For example, I think that right now we’re learning to understand other creatures so that we can live with them in harmony. How better to know them than to be like one of them? We’re honorary birds.”
I have to admit I spoke scornfully, even though Morris was trying to help. “You’re saying this is the learn-to-live-with-birds stage. And there will be a learn-to-live with an insect stage and a tigers stage.”
“I’m just brainstorming. Besides, that could be fun. Elephants. Kangaroos. I’ve never seen those close up.”
“I hope you’re wrong. That could take a really long time.”
“Well, sure, but theoretically we’ve got eternity.”
I shook my head. “We had a whole lifetime on Earth of a learn-to-live-with-people stage. I don’t think that worked out so well.”
“You’ve got a point, but you’re looking at things by your own viewpoint. Everything’s happening according to God’s will. We’ve just got to have faith that there’s a Heaven above and a Hell below. Oh damn.”
“What?”
“If this is Heaven Above, then down there is Hell Below.”
“Well if that’s the case, then maybe Heaven is still above us, and we’re in some sort of weird in-between stage.”
“Purgatory?”
“I don’t know. Let’s call it pre-Heaven.”
“And so Heaven is still up there somewhere.”
Looking up, I saw nothing but branches. “I’m going to go higher. See what I can see.”
“There you go,” said Morris brightly. “Man of action. I like that. Me too.”
We climbed. It was much easier than it would have been in life. “I feel so strong in the afterlife!” I said.
“I could do this all day,” said Morris.
I brushed against a pitch glob and it stuck to my arm, looking like an amber boil. I wiped it with some leaves, but those stuck fast. “Watch out for the pitch,” I told Morris. “It doesn’t come off.”
Our tree was taller than the others so that, toward the top, we had a sweeping view. Morris frowned with disappointment. “Nothing but forest in all directions.”
“There must be something else out there somewhere,” I said. “Other people. Other terrain.”
The poignancy of our situation combined with the dramatic view compelled Morris to create a poem. He cleared his throat as he always did before performing:
Where are the lost souls?
The emptiness fills with more emptiness
devoid of humanityMe and my shadow
Search for God
And find egg.
I braced myself on the tree so I could clap. “That was one of your best. You’re brilliant. I would never have thought to make egg singular, but it completes the poem.”
“Thank you,” said Morris modestly.
“If we can make it to the ground, then we can walk until we find those other souls.”
“I’m telling you, that could be Hell below.”
“What if it’s Heaven below and Hell above? If we make a ladder, then we can climb down below the mist. Far enough to see.”
“Let’s do it!”
We selected some of the wider sticks from the nest. Dakota began cawing in a way I’d never heard before. More like a call of pain than the usual cry for food. Using the pitch, we glued the sticks onto the trunk, creating ladder rungs. We also glued on bent branches to serve as handles.
We’d built only two person-lengths of the ladder when Lancelot returned, screeching so loud my ears popped. He dive-bombed us, nearly knocking us from the ladder. We climbed back into the nest.
“I think Dakota warned Lancelot,” said Morris. “We have to work when she’s asleep.”
Over the next few days we continued to build the ladder, but it was difficult without a saw. We finally built it as far as another crotch in the tree, but then bullet ants swarmed us, forcing us back upward.
One afternoon we sat in the nest, working out our options but getting nowhere. Lancelot had been gone a while. Esmerelda was squawking continuously, probably in hunger. We were hungry too, but not at all looking forward to the next raw meat feeding.
I was picking at the skin between my thumb and forefinger, bemoaning the fact that I wasn’t in the studio working on my next furniture design. I’d spent years elevating the common chair to minimalist yet gasp-rendering heights. I was known for my sleek design sensibility, and for my controversial results. My most celebrated chair was made of 24-carat gold entirely covered by stainless steel, with only a single notch in the armrest to hint at the treasure beneath. It was a nod to non-ostentatious wealth. I named it the Stealth Wealth Chair.
But here my usual materials were absent. I had only sticks, vines, flowers, and bird poop, and any creations would less than ideal. Much less. I was not good at country chic.
Without paper, computer, or even a phone, Morris was also at odds, unable to write anything down. He began doing the nest equivalent of pacing, climbing up to look over the edge, then climbing back down again. I tried not to let it get to me, but I was getting worked up, too.
“What’s up?” I asked, plainly meaning sit down.
Copyright © 2023 by Susan Whiting Kemp
