At first I didn’t even know I was dead.  The long tunnel with the light at the end probably should have raised my suspicions.

When I came out of the thing there was a large luminous sort-of-a-building and people wandering into a space that was like a gate.  I drifted along with everyone else.  There was nothing better to do.

Once inside the place impressed me as a cross between a medieval bizarre and an upscale shopping mall.  The people wandering about looked rather ordinary, but then, I do know some strange people.  

When I saw the portals and the signs over them I was willing to concede that I was indeed dead.  One banner said, “Washed in the blood of the Lamb”, and another appealed, “So? I’ve been a good Jew all my life.”  Further down the hall a sign asserted, “They told me I would have to keep going back until I got it right.”

“Your case will be adjudicated by judge R 137 d42.  You can call him ‘Your Honor’ or Judge Smith if that is your pleasure.  The most important thing is to answer his questions honestly.   Lying to the judge is perjury.  It’s also contempt of court and there’s no plea bargaining.  The other thing to keep in mind is that time does not exist here.  You may be talking to someone who died during the French Revolution, and he or she may be oblivious to the passage of three hundred Earth years.  Don’t let it spook you.”

The court looked like a Greek Amphitheater.  I walked in and sat on one of the stone seats.  On stage, the Judge was hearing the case of a shaggy old Viking.  Then his Honor spoke clearly, for all to hear the “lesson”.

“Lars, don’t come back to my court again.  You have heard my judgment.  No!  You cannot go to Valhalla to drink beer for eternity.  Go; find your way to the Underworld.  I know it’s cold and damp, but so is Denmark.  Lars, you did not have a sword in your hand when you died.  You know the rules.  Oh, yes, when you get there, look up Balder.  Tell him hello from me.  He was such a nice young man.  Pity what his brother did to him.  Now, get on with you, and don’t let me see you again.”  

After a whisper and shuffling of papers, the Bailiff, who was dressed like a Beefeater, a Tower of London guard, called out, “Mrs. Milk.  Mrs. Milk please take the stand.”

Mrs. Milk was a rather frumpy middle aged woman who moved slowly and with ingrained caution.  The Bailiff effortlessly moved a block of granite for her to have a seat.

The judge smiled pleasantly at her and said, “Now Misses, why are you so convinced that you have so much to do that you can’t stop to die?”

She spoke in a clear but annoying voice, “Your Honor, Sir, my poor disabled husband needs me to take care of him.  I don’t know what he will do without me.”

“My good woman,” the judge began.  “Your husband has some very good care-givers and all his relatives are visiting to give him emotional support after his loss.  He is having a fine time and won’t be lasting that much longer anyway.  Returning you would do little but increase your martyr complex.  I suggest you go back to the hall and find the portal for the Church, Temple, Mosque or whatever of your choice and get your final disposition.”  

Again the shuffling and the Bailiff called out “Nicholas the Storyteller.”  I marched front and center, pleased that the service in this place was so prompt.

The judge peered at me over his reading glasses.  “Nicholas?  I know you.  You’re that Storyteller who has been alive on Earth for over four hundred years.  You have probably told more lies than anyone I’ve ever met.  Now it seems you still don’t want to stop.”

I was nodding my head in agreement though the track he was taking seemed rather dire.  I waited politely for him to question me or offer me time for my defense.

Instead, he grumbled a bit and looked toward his Beefeater Bailiff.
“Al, take Mr. Nicholas down to ‘Reconstitution’.  The world needs more stories.  People always need lies they are not expected to believe.”

So it was that I am able to be here today.  I decided to type up my notes just in case they don’t send me back next time.