Lincoln in the Bardo(36)

The diamond doors crashed shut.

It was my turn.

How did you live? asked the being on the right.

Seen from this close, he took on the aspect of Mr. Prindle from my old school, whose thin lips used to purse sadistically as he flogged us precisely.

Tell it truthfully, the other warned, in the voice of my sodden Uncle Gene (always so harsh with me, who had once, drunk, hurled me down the stairs of the granary), as from either side they bumped their heads to mine.

I endeavored to let them fully in; to hold nothing back, to hide nothing; to provide as true an accounting of my life as was in my power.

They recoiled even more fiercely than before, and the smaller versions of themselves rushed forward with even larger gray stone pots, into which my yellow-footed judges began to vomit spasmodically.

I looked at the Christ-emissary.

His eyes were cast down.



May we confirm? said the being on the left. From the right came the feces-mirror. From the left the scale.

Quick check, the Christ-emissary said.

I turned and ran.

I was not pursued. I do not know why. They could have caught me easily. Of course they could! As I ran, whips of fire flew past my ears, and I understood, from whispers delivered therefrom, the whips to be saying: Tell no one about this.

Or it will be worse upon your return.

(Upon my return? I thought, and a splinter of terror entered my heart, and is lodged there still.) I ran for days, weeks, months, back up the trail, until one night, stopping to rest, I fell asleep and woke up…here.

Here again.

And grateful, so deeply grateful.

I have been here since and have, as instructed, refrained from speaking of any of this, to anyone.

What would be the point? For any of us here, it is too late for any alteration of course. All is done. We are shades, immaterial, and since that judgment pertains to what we did (or did not do) in that previous (material) realm, correction is now forever beyond our means. Our work there is finished; we only await payment.

I have thought long and hard on what might have caused me to merit that terrible punishment.

I do not know.

I did not kill, steal, abuse, deceive; was not an adulterer, always tried to be charitable and just; believed in God and endeavored, at all times, to the best of my ability, to live according to His will.

And yet was damned.

Was it my (occasional) period of doubt? Was it that I sometimes lusted? Was it my pride, when I had resisted my lust? Was it the timidity I showed by not following my lust? Was it that I wasted my life fulfilling outward forms? Did I, in my familial affairs, commit some indiscretion, oversight, or failing that now escapes my memory? Was it my hubris (utter!) in believing that I, living there (confined by mind and body), could possibly imagine what was going to occur here? Was it some sin so far beyond my ability to comprehend it that even now I remain unaware of it, ready to commit it again?



I do not know.

Many times I have been tempted to blurt out the truth to Mr. Bevins and Mr. Vollman: A terrible judgment awaits you, I long to say. Staying here, you merely delay. You are dead, and shall never regain that previous place. At daybreak, when you must return to your bodies, have you not noticed their disgusting states? Do you really believe those hideous wrecks capable of bearing you anywhere ever again? And what is more (I would say, if permitted): you shall not be allowed to linger here forever. None of us shall. We are in rebellion against the will of our Lord, and in time must be broken, and go.

But, as instructed, I have remained silent.

This is perhaps the worst of my torments: I may not tell the truth. I may speak, but never about the essential thing. Bevins and Vollman consider me an arrogant hectoring pedant, a droning old man; they roll their eyes when I offer counsel, but little do they know: my counsel is infused with bitter and excellent experience.

And so I cower and stall, hiding here, knowing all the while (most dreadful) that, though I remain ignorant of what sin I committed, my ledger stands just as it did on that awful day. I have done nothing to improve it since. For there is nothing to do, in this place where no action can matter.

Terrible.

Most terrible.

Is it possible that another person’s experience might differ from mine? That he might proceed to some other place? And have there some entirely divergent experience? Is it possible, that is, that what I saw was only a figment of my mind, my beliefs, my hopes, my secret fears?

No.



It was real.

As real as the trees now swaying above me; as real as the pale gravel trail below; as real as the fading, webbed boy breathing shallowly at my feet, banded down snugly across his chest like a captive of the wild Indians, a victim of my negligence (lost in the above recollections, I had long ago ceased laboring on his behalf); as real as Mr. Vollman and Mr. Bevins, who now came run-skimming up the path, looking happier (far happier) than I had ever before seen them.

We did it! said Vollman. We actually did it!

It was us! said Bevins.

We entered and persuaded the fellow! said Vollman.

Propelled by mutual joy, they vaulted in tandem on to the roof.

And indeed: miracle of miracles, they had brought the gentleman back. He entered the clearing below us, holding a lock: the lock to the door of the white stone home, which (though bent in grief) he was tossing up and down in one hand, like an apple.

The moon shone down brightly, allowing me a first good look at his face.