The Escort

Trigger Warning: Death and Afterlife

I see you teetering in the space between. You are clinging to life and begging for death at the same time. Your body suffers. Your soul suffers. And still, you won’t let go.

Is it fear of what lies beyond that holds you in this state of limbo, or is it desperation to hang on to what you had before? Perhaps a combination of both. It usually is. Death is not a simple matter. 

I know you fear it, Death. Everyone does at one point or another. But I know you’re almost begging for it, too. Your soul has suffered more than most, and you are ready to end the pain. 

Do you fear me, in addition to Death? Most people do. They know that Death and I go hand in hand, but they don’t quite understand how that works. They vilify me. They equipped me with a scythe and a hooded cloak, with a skeletal face and bottomless eyes. They dress me up as some horrifying creature in their imagination’s eye. It’s no wonder everyone fears me when their time has come. But I assure you. I am not like that at all. 

Some cultures got it more accurate. They call me the ferryman. They say that I carry souls across the River Styx to their final resting place. But even those cultures have mixed up details. What need could I have for coin? Economy and social class are things best left behind in the plane of the living. 

In truth, I am but a humble escort. Here to help you find your way Beyond. It can be a rather daunting trip for many, as it is like no endeavor you’ve ventured on before. And so I am here as a guide, as a friend, to help you along. To teach you how to cut ties with the realm of mortals and step into eternity. 

Ah, I see you have made your first steps. You can see me now, standing next to you under the stars. You face me, and I you. I can see from the expression on your face that your mind is actively working to build me up into a monster. Is that what you think you deserve now? Come now, I won’t judge. I see people at their worst and at their best in my job, and in all walks in between. I’d offer you a smile, but through your tinted lens you might view it as a malicious smirk, so instead, I wait. I do a lot of waiting, but it is of no consequence. Time is of little importance in this world between worlds. 

“So this is death,” you say. 

I smile now. Many people first respond with questions, asking if they are truly dead, and I hate to be the one to tell them. It is a nice change of pace that you already know. But then, what else can I expect. There is a lot of wisdom on your shoulders. I can sense that right away. I’m sure it served you well in your years of life. 

“This is death, but not the end. I am here to take you Beyond,” I reply. I am careful with my terminology. You mortals all have special words you like to use to describe what lies beyond, special places you like to think you will go. It is all the same to me. There is one beyond with many faces, a face to match each religion, myth, and legend. I promise you no one will be disappointed in what they come to find. 

“I had hoped it would be the end,” you say. I can see the worry on your face. It carved wrinkles in your skin even now, that age and time mean nothing. I frown at the anxiety on your face, the guilt, the pain. All bring it with them when they first come, but it is my job to wash it all away. 

I wave my hand, and the stars swirl down in front of us, a galaxy turned into a stream. I dip my fingers in the starlight and beckon for you to do the same. 

You stoop in front of the water and stare down at your own reflection. Memories start to rise to the surface. The water turns turbid. 

I see you yelling at your children, swearing to them that they cannot understand your suffering. I see their tears as they beg you not to lose hope, to hang on. They aren’t ready to let you go. No one ever is. 

I see you, unable to return your mother’s call. The phone hangs limp in your hands. You wish you could speak, but grief has taken your words away. You feel guilty you have nothing left to offer her, but fear not. A good mother never blames, especially at a time like this. 

I see your siblings weep for you. Their tears mix in with the river of stars, creating whirlpools. I see your friends call to you, and you turn away. You wish they could forget you. Ignorance is bliss, a saying you now know too well. You have felt the pain of losing a friend, of having to live when the person you shared such a huge portion of life with is no longer at your side. You don’t want anyone else to feel that way. You don’t think you deserve their tears. Oh, but you do. 

I reach into the water and splash. The starlight leaps onto your face and drips down, back into the river. Those bitter memories are no more. The water is calm again. 

You look up at me as if I have done something wrong, as if taking away your pain was somehow cruel of me. After all, you feel that you have nothing left besides the pain. I smile at you because you are a fool. The starlight has already started to integrate with your features. Soon, your whole body will be glowing like the stars, but only if you let it. 

“Look again,” I beckon, keeping my voice calmer now. The water has cooled your emotions. Your mind is more at ease. You look again. 

Now in the pool, you see yourself holding your newborn child for the first time, smiling down at the little infant. It is impossible to measure the love in that child’s eyes. The love in your eyes, an unbreakable bond forged from those first moments. You watch yourself over the years, pushing swings and running alongside bikes with training wheels freshly removed. You see the sports lessons, the hours of homework, the family vacations. You hear the laughter over fun game nights and tears over scraped knees. You feel the water rush over you from all those days spent at the beach, pushing surfboards when the water was too deep for you to even stand. 

“I was a good father,” you say, as if you’re almost surprised by your own words. Surprised and relieved. That humility was certainly one of your defining features, I can tell. I smile at you and touch my hand to your back. The starlight spreads from my fingertips, encompassing you more and more. 

“Yes, you were,’ I agree. 

You look down at the water again. You see yourself standing next to your sisters, smiling, laughing. You see them asking you for advice and you giving it. You teach them little things like how to fix things around the house. You help them with their studies. You protect them from all the dangers you can and comfort them when their hearts end up broken from things you cannot protect them from. You watch yourself fret over them, warn them to be careful, stand by always to make sure they are safe. 

“I was a good brother,” you say. 

I nod and stay nothing as I stand behind you. I enjoy watching these memories as much as you do. Because I live a life in-between lives, I am not truly a part of either world. I crave moments like these, where I get to witness the life of a good person such as yourself. 

The starlight has covered half of your body by this point, and I am hopeful that it will keep spreading as another memory bubbles to the surface of the starry stream. 

I see a woman emerge. She smiles at you, and you smile back. You take her for a ride on the back of your motorcycle, take her for a trip in your sailboat, buy her dinner and a date to the movies. Soon comes your wedding day, then you build a home together, and again I see the birth of your children. But some time later the waters grow turbulent and I see the starlight receding. The woman in the image starts comparing her life to those around her. She shouts complaints that the house is too small and run down. She insists that you need more money, then quits her own job and refuses to help with the financial burden. She builds a rift between you and your daughter, and you fear losing your children in the event of a divorce. Soon, false accusations bubble up, accusations you’ve clearly done nothing to deserve, even I can see that. I watch your starlight drip off your face, replaced by burning ash. A hole in your cheek has already formed, forged by the guilt you feel and the punishment you think you deserve. 

I swipe at the starry river with my palm and push the bad memories away. “You were a good husband,” I assure you, even though I doubt you’ll believe those words. For a moment the water’s surface is nothing but darkness; a lonely, starless night. Then, you take a deep breath and other memories come sweeping in. I see you winning your first motocross trophy. I see your friends, at your side year after year for the same sporting events, aging with you. I see diving trips and kayaking trips and fishing trips, always by the water, with friends that have also lasted the years. I see you with your son by your side as you show him all of the things you loved and he loves them too, following in your every footstep. I see you in uniform, saving countless lives and constantly risking your own. I see you bent over bodies, performing CPR or other lifesaving maneuvers. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. I feel your pain. I have seen many of the faces that you have seen and helped them on their journeys to the other side too. 

Finally, a new image comes into light; a different woman. This one smiles down at you as you totter around as a little toddler, playing with a toy ship. She bathes you, dresses you, and sends you off to school. You trust her unconditionally and love her more than life itself. She was your rock, your support, and then when your father died and you became the man of the house, you did your best to support her too. I see years of unbreakable love between you, leading up to months sitting in a hospital waiting room while she lay in bed in a coma. I remember visiting her often thinking it was time to take her on the journey beyond, but she refused to leave. Love kept her anchored tight to her son and her daughters and her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I feel your guilt as you think about leaving her now, in this way. 

“You were a good son,” I tell you because it seems you are at a loss for words. It seems that it's been a while since you’ve received such praise. “She will miss you, but it will bring her comfort knowing that you are waiting for her when she too crosses into the Beyond,” I add. You nod slowly, finally accepting your fate. The stars come back, bit by bit, but that ashy piece remains. There’s still something on your mind. 

“I shouldn't have left them so soon,” you say. I smile at you. I can tell at once that you have always put others before yourself. That’s what got you here, in the end, that self-sacrifice. But in the memories I’ve seen so far, I have witnessed your strength in the hearts of all of those you touch. 

“Look once more,” I encourage. I don’t know what memory will come, but I know there’s one more thing you need to see. 

Slowly, an image forms. It’s you and your daughter on a tiny sailboat in a lake, surrounded by mountains. You are both sitting together in the cockpit, and then you hand her the sheet and the tiller and you climb to the bow. 

“I’m going to take a nap,” you say, “wake me if you need me.”

She squeals at you and begs you not to leave her. She insists she needs you now, but you wave her worries away. She lacks confidence herself, but you have faith enough in her for the both of you. You lay on the bow and close your eyes, and she takes a deep breath, then pulls in the sheet and sails on. You’re out of sight, hidden behind the big white sail, but she knows you’re there, and she trusts your faith in her. She can do it on her own. After all, she’s your daughter. 

Your tears fall into the image, dispersing it at last. You are full starlight now. 

I beckon with my hand and a sailboat appears, an exact replica of the one from your last image. Your face lights up brighter than the stars on your skin and you smile from ear to ear. 

“My job is to escort you to the Beyond, but something tells me I can rest easy while you sail us there,” I say. 

You nod confidently, climb into the cockpit, and put your hand on the tiller. I can tell from the way you eye the stars that you are no stranger to celestial navigation. The stars are different here, but that doesn’t seem to stop you. Instinctively, you pull in the sail and steer the bow towards our destination. I climb about just in time as the sail fills with an eternal wind.

Let the journey begin.