Death and the Dancer

"What's happening to me?" The woman couldn't have been older than twenty-five. She was a dancer, a ballerina. It was the latter fact that put her in my charge. It was the former fact that made me pity her.

I laid a hand on her shoulder and nudged her along. It was time to begin. "I am afraid that you have died, my dear," I said in my gentlest voice, "I am here to lead you to the next place." This bit always required a bit of patience and I, with the so-called blessing of immortality and nothing else to do, rarely ever found myself with a lack of it.

"What the-- no, you're wrong," she stumbled on the stone pathway and even that was elegant. It was something I always loved about ballerinas; they could make anything look like flying. This one, however, was still choking on her words and continued to do so for a while before finally coughing out a strained, "B-but how?"

This was the question I had been waiting for.

"You were at that party remember? That Branson fellow offered you some heroin…" I never told them exactly how it happened. They didn't need the gory details. The universe erased those moments for a reason, rarely were they important. But this was always the question they asked, and I was always obliged to answer because there were too many of them and I was too old and tired to be keeping all of their secrets even if they wanted me to.

Her face, which had been tight with shock and worry and a million other things, was suddenly frozen and empty, the way a forest felt when the echoes of a gunshot hung in the air. "Oh." That was all she said.

My hand was still on her shoulder, and I squeezed. "I am sorry, my dear," I said after a long while.

Before us, the cobblestone path stretched on, further than the eye could see and it would continue that way until this part was over. We would walk until she was ready to stop walking. On either side of us, there was only gray. I always thought that there should be trees to match the fog, but no one ever asked and so I kept it to myself. There was no light, no sun, and no stars in the dark blue sky and with no sun and no light, no trees would grow. At least, that was the science behind it. But science was of no real consequence here, so why there were no trees remained a question on my mind even centuries after I first thought of it.

"I can't go back? I won't— won't—" she motioned in the air with her hand, her nails were still pretty like she had just gotten a manicure.

I shook my head and a stray curl peeked into my periphery. I tucked it away with my free hand. "No, there will be no reincarnation for you. At least, not for a long time."

"Then," she paused, looked around for the first time, and her eyes grew wide, "Where are we?"

"The road that will take us to where we are going." I never tried to be cryptic, really, but this part had no name. There was no name for this road, no street sign or highway marker. I was tempted to create a name for it sometimes but no matter what I came up with, it always felt wrong.

"Where are we going then?" the ballerina asked.

I glanced up at her. That was the thing about dancers, they usually towered over me. I was technically able to manipulate my physical form, but it wasn't comfortable, and I never minded enough to force myself to do it. But it was something that I noticed. "To your next step, where you will spend a long time before the next step after that."

I could tell she was getting frustrated. But the road hadn't shortened yet and I couldn't see what was on the horizon, and therefore I didn't know where we were walking to quite yet. "What is the next step?"

"What do you want it to be?" I asked instead of answering her.

She tensed, her shoulder bunching up under my guiding hand. "I just don't want it to be Hell."

Oh yes, that one. It was a common request and the first few times I had heard it, I hadn't been able to keep from chuckling. Hell. As if any being was worthy of torture for such simple and human things as lying or sex or thievery. Even the murderers were not eternally damned, they were handled in their own way.

But this girl, she was just a dancer. That was her passion, her guiding light. Music ran through her veins and drowned out the thoughts in her head. Her heartbeat was her metronome, and every cell was tensed with the anticipation of the next step, twirl, lift. She was just a dancer. And now she was just a soul that pulsed in time with the melody of the universe. She had lived and died to that melody and now she would bask in it until it was time for her to move on.

I smiled up at her worried face. Beautiful and melodic and wonderful was she and I loved her as I loved all of my souls. The ones put in my charge were all like her, composed from the notes and bars of the universe. They were musicians and dancers, composers and singers; those ones were mine.

And each time I walked with them, I could hear that in them, see that imprinted upon the very surface of their souls like a pawprint in cement. And when they asked me if they were going to Hell, this awful place created by tortured people for average people, I was overwhelmed with sadness for them. And each time, I looked them in the eye, and I said the same thing.

"No, child. You will go where those made of music belong," and I squeezed her shoulder again.

She smiled at me, eyes watery and when she glanced away from my face, she gasped. There it was on the newly shortened horizon.

The Last Bar. That's what I called it at least, and the patrons had taken up the name eons ago.

On the backdrop of the gray mist and the navy sky, the brilliant lights shone like fireworks. And the path shortened quickly, and the white façade stood out from the nothingness to greet its new soul. I watched her face light up and she smiled, really smiled. The twinkling lights of the place reflected in her wet eyes and caused shadows to paint her cheeks.

And then, we heard the music.

Jazz. I recognized the sound of each of the players, I had brought them all here, after all. I had only recently brought the pianist and I had been secretly hoping that he would find the others he played with now. I knew they would get along splendidly. Hearing the beauty that emanated from that open door, I was happy to have been right again.

When we finally reached the door, the ballerina turned back to me. I dropped my hand from her shoulder and smiled. She looked like she was asking for permission.

"This is your place now," I told her.

"But what do I do?" she looked so nervous all of a sudden. I pictured her standing in the wings for her first recital, looking at her mother exactly as she looked at me now.

I swallowed back the lump in my throat, "You go in there and you dance just as you always have done. Just as you are meant to." This part never got easier. That was the trouble with loving them, I never did want to let them go.

She hugged me. It was one of those desperate hugs, like the ones you see soldiers get in airports. She threw her arms around me and pulled me close and I could feel her beautiful little soul beating in time with the universe. And I hugged her back.

Then, she was gone. Disappearing onto the dance floor.

I stared at the party that raged inside The Last Bar for what felt like a long time. I watched all of the souls I had brought here and loved, existing as they were meant to. I watched the pianist grin at the bass player. I watched two composers debating in the corner. I saw my ballerina shake hands with an opera prima donna.

I wiped away a stray tear, swallowed the cotton in my throat, and straightened my shoulders. And then, I nodded and turned, and walked the lengthened path back to the beginning.

The next one was a freestyle rapper.