Sorry, Wrong Afterlife

by Susan Whiting Kemp

Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3

conclusion

She came close to me, looking me up and down. She picked up my wrist, dangling my hand, then dropped it. I had the feeling she was going to push me off the ledge. I was so tired from carrying Ike that even if I could get my hands back in the straps during the fall, I wasn’t sure I would be able to fly anymore. I had the terrifying idea that I would break into shards when I hit the ground, and feel agony for eons to come, but there was nothing I could do about it.

And then what about Ike? Still in the basket tied to my back, he would fall and suffer along with me. And Morris? What would they do to him?

Thumbtack smiled, revealing abalone-colored teeth. “Well then, you’ve come to the right place. Welcome to the Home of the Gods.”

I took a big breath in and let it out. I was safe. “Thank you,” I managed to burble.

“Gods?” asked Morris. “Like, plural? How many?”

“One hundred twenty-seven,” answered Thumbtack.

“One hundred twenty-six,” corrected a sentry.

“Oh, right,” she said. “One hundred twenty-six.”

The ranks parted and we walked forward into paradise. In one direction, people enjoyed luscious colorful gardens, blue lakes, and pleasant cottages. In another, there was a racetrack with bullet-shaped cars. In the distance, tall buildings boasted jeweled mosaics.

But those were just words compared to the feeling it all imparted. Because, as I was pleased to find out, it did surpass anything the human imagination could dream up, in sight, sound, and feeling.

“I don’t know where to start,” I said.

“With the racetrack, of course,” said Morris. “Because, you know: racetrack.”

“One hundred and twenty-six gods,” I said. “So many they have a hard time keeping track of the number. Wow.”

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” said Morris. “All my life I prayed to a single deity. You just don’t know what you don’t know.”

“We should be careful,” I said. “Mythical gods have a reputation. They can be wrathful, jealous, selfish and, above all, unpredictable.”

“Let’s find somewhere to eat,” said Morris. “Then the racetrack. Help me get this off.” I tugged at the vines that secured the basket. Morris jumped to help.

“I can’t get out yet,” said Ike. “Carry me a little further.”

“I can’t,” I said. “I’m exhausted.” We kept untying.

“Morris, you carry me,” pleaded Ike. “I’ve got anxiety.”

“You’ll be fine,” I said, “When you see how wondrous it is here, you’ll forget your fear.”

He continued protesting, but we set the basket down. He didn’t get out.

“Ike, you really need to see this.” Morris pushed the basket over and spilled him onto the glass surface. In a brief moment he got his bearings — sentries behind, paradise ahead — then took off running.

“Look at him go,” said Morris. “I’ve never seen anybody run that fast.”

But then, abruptly, he stopped. Howling, he fell to his knees. An arrow was sticking out of his back.

I looked back. Thumbtack was lowering her bow. She had shot him. She had just welcomed us, so why would she do such a thing? I backed up a few steps, but it was useless to run. “What’s going on?”

“You have brought Minwat back into the Home of the Gods.” She spoke his name as if spitting out spoiled fish.

Suddenly I understood. Ike wasn’t who he appeared to be. He was a renegade who had tricked us into sneaking him here. I’d been so stupid. He’d led me by the nose, making me think it was it was my idea to build wings and carry him in a basket when, in reality, he just didn’t want to be recognized. We were in deep trouble.

“You’ve got it all wrong,” said Morris. “That’s Ike.”

Morris still didn’t understand. But then his eyes widened. He pressed his palm against his forehead, then held up a finger as if not wanting to be disturbed while working out a complicated math problem in his head. Finally he asked, “Is Ike — Minwat — the hundred and twenty-seventh god?”

“Yes,” said the sentry. “Banished, for unleashing Chaos among us.”

My gorge rose. We had somehow aligned ourselves with a god, and the wrong one at that.

Ike-Minwat yanked the arrow out of his own back and staggered a few steps, still trying to make his escape, but moving too slowly. He wasn’t dying; he wasn’t even bleeding. Still, some kind of damage was slowing him down.

Morris clenched his teeth. I could see the anger building. “Minwat my ass. I name you Nitwit!”

“Come with me.” Thumbtack’s cello-deep voice sounded like a dirge. “Bring Minwat with you.”

* * *

The god wore cowboy garb, and wore it well, I might add, embodying lone masculinity much better than the Marlboro Man ever could. He turned slightly, and like a split-flap billboard, his aspect changed into something different. He was resplendent king boasting a golden necklace and crimson robes. He moved again, and now he wore a crisply modern suit in a fabric that subtly expressed intelligence of a higher order.

I couldn’t help myself. “You’re perfect.”

The corners of his lips raised in knowing satisfaction. “That is because I am Longtoe, the God of Perfection.”

Beside me, Morris seemed dazed. “Wow. Just wow.”

On my other side, Ike sighed, “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

I cringed. Why would Ike risk irritating him? Clearly the god before us was powerful, and could probably turn us into pillars of salt with a flick of a finger. No, he wouldn’t have to finger-flick. Just a thought would make it happen.

“Wicked humans, Leo and Morris,” said Longtoe. “You smuggled Minwat into the Home of the Gods. What do you have to say for your blasphemous actions?”

“He tricked me,” I said. “He said he was afraid of heights.”

“I didn’t actually say that,” said Ike-Minwat.

“I thought he was human and I was being good by not leaving him behind,” I said.

“Nonsense,” said Longtoe. “You would have known from his eyes.”

My heart sank. I had looked into his eyes and known something was special about him, but how could I have known he was an immortal being?

“I swear I didn’t know.” I sounded a lot like Bertold, my youngest kid, who denied having scrawled loops on the wall even while clutching magenta and turquoise crayons in his tiny fist.

Longtoe rolled his eyes. I saw the same kaleidoscopic beauty I’d glimpsed in Ike-Minwit’s pupils. “Lies come so easily to humans. You will pay for your crime. You are banished to the Afterlife of Snakes, Spiders, and Slime-emitting Creatures.”

For a split second, I admired the efficiency of combining them into one afterlife rather than having a separate location for each, and then horrible images crowded into my mind. Snake balls engulfing me. Spiders using me as a climbing gym. Slugs sliming me into a corner and... what other creatures emitted slime? Horrifically, I was soon to find out.

Morris made a noise of fear. It had been my idea to go hiking. And I had insisted on making the basket. “Please, let Morris go. He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

Longtoe ignored me. “As for you, Minwat, God of Trickery and Lies...”

“Just trickery,” said Ike-Minwat. “I don’t lie.”

“Your tricks are equivalent to lies,” said Longtoe, “but I won’t be sidetracked by semantics. You were banished for unleashing Chaos.”

Chaos, his dog? I wondered, or actual chaos? What did that mean?

Longtoe continued, “Yet found your way back. You will be chained to Leo and Morris, and will endure an eternity of their fate.”

Ike-Minwat seemed unfazed, although he was still wincing from the pain in his back. “Longtoe, how can you be so ungrateful when I brought these special mortals just for you?”

Longtoe laughed. Though the sound frightened me, I felt the flawless rightness of its vibrations. “Special humans?” he said. “That’s an oxymoron.”

“Morris is a poet,” said Ike-Minwat.

Longtoe wheeled toward Morris, his tone that of a hopeful child. “A poet?”

“Yes,” wheedled Ike-Minwat, “but never mind. Your godly being doesn’t need bolstering with beautiful words and iambic pentameter to retain its state of exact precision. You don’t need an Ode to Longtoe. Not at all.”

Longtoe loomed over Morris. “Recite an Ode to Longtoe.”

Morris coughed. “Um...”

“Now,” said Longtoe.

Morris hemmed and hawed, finally beginning. “There was a young God of Perfection...”

A limerick. Fear was making him do this. He was supposed to weave splendor out of words, to tout Longtoe’s perfection, but instead... this. We were doomed.

Morris continued: “Who couldn’t get an erection.”

Ike-Minwat guffawed. Longtoe grunted, the sound knocking over a nearby kiosk. I uttered a groan that was a cross between utter agony and total terror.

Morris cowered but kept on: “He remembered his power, as the God of the hour, and from then on excelled at ejaculation.”

My poor friend had failed. Putting aside the fact that there were too many syllables in the closing line, he’d insulted a god. I waited for a thunderbolt to strike him. When that didn’t happen, oddly, I feared a falling piano. That didn’t happen either.

Instead, Longtoe laughed, the sound waves knocking the sentries over. They picked themselves back up as if accustomed to such incidents.

“You, Morris human, may stay,” said Longtoe.

Morris was safe. But I was a visual, not a verbal. I couldn’t write poetry, not even a limerick. I felt hollow; doomed and alone. Morris would proceed to paradise, and so would Ike-Minwat, but I would slither forevermore amongst snakes, spiders, and — now I remembered — hagfish, which produced scads of mucus. They would be there, too.

“And I have also brought you —” Ike-Minwat gestured at me like a game show model displaying a grand prize, but I was no catch — “Leo the artist.”

“Oh?” Longtoe snapped his fingers. Thumbtack sprinted to us, carrying oil paints, brushes, canvas, and an easel.

My skin itched. I backed away. “I’m allergic to oil paints.”

“What kind of artist doesn’t use paint?” asked Longtoe.

“Actually, I’m a designer. Furniture.”

“I have furniture.” Longtoe beckoned to Thumbtack. “Remove Leo-human.”

Even with his dismissal of me, Longtoe seemed so perfect. Exactly what I had searched for, and often found, in my furniture design.

I could only be thankful that Morris was saved and that I’d had a good life. The perfect life, in fact. The perfect life.

I’d had the perfect life. And here I was, nose to nose — well, nose to knee — with the God of Perfection. This was not a coincidence. I clasped my hands against my chest. “You’re the one who answered all my prayers, aren’t you?”

He tilted his head, a wry smile beginning to form.

I grew more excited. “When I prayed for the perfect wife, you brought me Lily. And then you gave me the perfect children. The perfect profession. The perfect omelet. That must have been you, because you’re the God of Perfection!”

In spite of my fear, despair, and loss, I felt so much love and adoration at that moment, I had to give him an offering. “I gift my Bird Heaven designs to you. They’re not worthy but they’re all I have.”

“Bird Heaven?” Longtoe’s tone was an odd mix of misgiving, amusement, and interest.

“Bird Heaven!” said Ike-Minwat. He snapped his fingers and suddenly my creations were in front of us, large as life.

“What is all this?” asked Longtoe.

“The culmination of a life of Perfection.” It wasn’t poetry, but I supposed I could be eloquent after all, under the right circumstances.

Longtoe drew closer. He examined my chair, my bed, and the other items I’d fashioned while Morris healed. Finally, he said, “They’re small.”

“They’re mockups,” said Ike-Minwat. “Your assistants can make them the perfect size for a perfect god.”

I bristled at the word “mockups” but kept my mouth shut.

Longtoe spoke loudly, lifting one arm in a pronouncement to one and all. “You three miscreants may remain in the Home of the Gods. Leo-human and Morris-human, you will keep Minwat from unleashing Chaos again.”

Morris and I nodded furiously. Ike-Minwat smiled a Cheshire cat of a smile.

“Leave me,” said Longtoe, “before I change my mind.”

* * *

By the time we’d devoured a meal at the closest Home of the Gods food court, Ike-Minwat had healed from the arrow wound and was moving around fine. I supposed being a deity had its advantages. While he was choosing the sprinkles for his dessert, Morris and I had a quick huddle about how to keep him from unleashing Chaos, and decided that until we came up with a better plan, we should keep him busy.

We strolled to the racetrack, where we discovered that we could drive the course ourselves. I was the only one who’d raced before, so they decided to ride along with me. We all donned helmets and gloves, and slipped into a Lamborghini that, oddly, was a four-seater even though it was a racing car.

We went from zero to a hundred in the blink of an eye, making me electric with exhilaration. Something about the feeling of speed and power made me bold, and I began to ask the questions I’d been holding back. “You don’t have Merinthophobia, do you?”

“I told you I don’t lie,” said Ike-Minwat. “You’d have it, too, if you’d been tied up for millennia. I’ll be okay if I don’t think about it too much. Change the subject, quickly.”

We reached a straight-of-way. My speed increased, as did my audacity. “You killed us, didn’t you?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Ike-Minwat.

“In all manners of speaking, you killed us,” I said. “You pushed an avalanche onto us so you could take us to Bird Heaven, where we could make wings to smuggle you into the Home of the Gods. We weren’t supposed to die. I could have lived a long happy life with my perfect wife, my perfect children, and my perfect friend.”

“You killed us?” asked Morris, aghast.

“Ah, let it go,” said Ike-Minwat. “You’re in paradise, along with everybody else you know who’s dead. Your wife and children will be here eventually.”

“Don’t kill them,” I said quickly.

“If you insist,” said Minwat.

The course squiggled and I had to concentrate to keep us on the road.

“I’ve taught you a lesson, haven’t I?” asked Ike-Minwat.

I laughed mirthlessly. “Not to trust a god.”

“No, no. It’s about getting others to do things you want them to do. You thought wings and a basket were your idea, didn’t you?”

I didn’t answer. He was right, I had learned from him. If you get others to think something is their idea, they’ll embrace it wholeheartedly. I’d known that, but I felt it viscerally now. I’d finally and truly learned it.

The course sliced through the heart of a city. We were going so fast that the shining buildings and their flowered balconies were behind us in the blink of an eye.

“You have the wrong idea about me,” segued Ike-Minwat. “I’m not a lesser god. Sure, Longtoe banished me, but he won’t always have that kind of clout. Things change, alliances morph. I have friends here. And knowledge others don’t seem to comprehend. For one thing, perfection leads to tedium. It’s only when Chaos intervenes that variation occurs and beauty thrives. You can’t have creativity without Chaos.”

“You’re trying to convince me to let you unleash Chaos. To make me think it’s my idea.”

“I’m trying to educate you. I’ll say it again. I don’t lie. You can’t have creativity without Chaos.”

I pondered this while we careened between hills and across an aqueduct. If Chaos led to creativity, and Ike-Minwat had unleashed Chaos, then I could thank Ike-Minwat and his dog for my innovative career in furniture design.

Ike Minwat confirmed it. “Longtoe gave your life perfection. I gave your life creativity.”

“Your dog isn’t really a dog, is it?” asked Morris.

Ike-Minwit bristled. “I keep telling you, I’m a Trickster, not a liar. Chaos is a dog. The Dog of Chaos.”

“Dog of Chaos or God of Chaos?” asked Morris

“Dog of Chaos,” said Ike-Minwat. “Two different things.”

I shivered, fearing that I would eventually meet Chaos, who was so dangerous that gods feared his unleashing.

Ike-Minwit seemed to sense my discomfort, saying, “I won’t let Chaos harm you. I will never forget your services for bringing me here. You refused to leave me behind. We will always be close friends.”

I wasn’t sure if it was a good thing having the God of Trickery as an eternal buddy. And if intrigue and change were so likely here, what lay ahead?

One thought occurred to me: Minwat was probably much more powerful than he seemed. I’d seen how he manipulated Longtoe. Plus, Longtoe displayed his godliness, while Ike-Minwat was subtle and secretive. Who was smarter? Ike-Minwat, I guessed. He was like my Stealth Wealth Chair, his worth hidden beneath a conventional exterior.

Morris recited his newest poem. With the motor’s growl in the background it sounded powerful and wise:

“There’s Chaos at every turn.
He lives in the dog house.
Man’s best friend in life and death.
Come here, doggy,
Let me pat you.
I’ve got a treat for you
and you for me.”

If I wasn’t mistaken, Morris had come to the same conclusion I did, that Ike-Minwat was right, and unleashing Chaos every once in a while was part of the natural order of the afterlife.

As I reached five hundred miles per hour, my thoughts seemed to solidify and clear. I’d been a proponent of lifelong learning. Now I would embrace deathlong learning. I had a teacher, and a lot to learn.

“Tell me,” I said.

“Tell you what?” asked Ike-Minwat.

“Everything.” I rounded a curve, feeling as if I were flying though the universe.

Copyright © 2023 by Susan Whiting Kemp