Being Dead Part Seven

Jumping out of frying pans into fires seems to ring a bell here....

I stared at the dishevelled clergyman in disbelief, and Megan stirred wearily besides me.

“Whatever… I mean, whatever’s happened now?” she asked once she opened her eyes, ”where’s the lady with the baby? And where’s Cro?”

“It’s hard to think and I’m only guessing,” I replied carefully, “but it seems possible that the drink we had to celebrate the birth didn’t quite agree with us and turned out to be deadly poisonous to us even though Cro drank it as if it was wholesome and special and loved it, and once again we’ve passed away, or to put it bluntly, died... I mean, it doesn’t seem fair, does it, but most people only seem to die the once and for us this is, let me see, three times! And each time instead of being actually allowed to peacefully rot away in a nice cosy coffin we’ve just moved from somewhere to somewhere else…”

“But where to? I don’t like this, Peter,” she whispered

I’d been asking myself the same question and I was still wildly clutching for an explanation.

“Well,” I said, “there are either different dimensions in the universe, the same planet or a look alike series of worlds, and we drift between them when we die, like hopping on and off a bus, only it hasn’t got wheels but is actually an entire world… or we are hopping backwards and forwards to different times on Earth, like we’ve left the stone-age just in time to arrive when the world’s being decimated by what looks very much like the Black Death.”

“I remember being taught about that,” she told me, “when so many people died they didn’t know where to bury them. Bubonic plague, it was called, and it changed everything.”

“And looking at that priest bloke leaning on his pulpit or lectern or whatever it is, he died of just that.”

“Are you sure that he’s dead, Peter?” she asked.

“He looks pretty much past it,” I replied, “But I see what you mean, love. What if he’s not dead yet and we can, you know, do something to save him before it really is too late for him.”

“Oh dear,” she muttered.

“I’ll go and see if he’s got a pulse,” I said.

“No, Peter, don’t! Touching him might be dangerous! You might catch it.”

“And die, you mean?” I asked ironically.

“Well, permanently this time...”

“We’ve past through enough dangers in the past day or so and we don’t seem to have come to any real harm if you discount being shot and then poisoned,” I said, trying to make light of a truly horrible series of experiences.

“All right, but don’t actually touch him,” she whispered, “promise?”

“Okay, I’ll just take a close look, see if he’s breathing, and stand well back,” I said, and for no apparent reason added “I’ll be okay.”

I made my way past several rows of rather crudely made pews, tip-toeing along a dusty stone floor, until the dead man, and I could tell he was most certainly dead, was just a few feet away.

Then something happened that added a new dimension to our situation.. Someone, a stranger to me, staggered through the open church door and shouted, “your holiness, please pray for me and save me, for I fear I am stricken…” and maybe it was a draft of air caused by his arrival disturbing what was a fragile scene or maybe even the raucous sound of a desperate voice was enough, but the priest seemed to take on an imitation of life and slowly he started to move, and then more positively as he slid slowly off his pulpit, no doubt pulled by gravity rather than his own will, and like a satanic ghost in this holy place, crashed to the floor.

I was then sure he was dead all right. Parts of his body became almost disconnected as he landed on the stone flags of the floor, like discrete bits and pieces of a three dimensional gory jigsaw puzzle.

Then the stranger noticed me. From his appearance he was clearly a man used to working the land, not as clean as he might have been and wearing a loose smock that had certainly seen better days and gave the impression that he may not have been the first to wear it.

The same seeming magic occurred when he spoke as had surprised me when Cro had cheerily greeted me on what seemed to have been the previous day, though the accent might be described as gruff and bordering on the West Country with this man. But his words were clear, once again as if some automatic translating software in my own head was at work. And then, when I replied to him, I didn’t recognise my own voice even though it seemed to make sense to him.

“Who are you in those fancy little pants?” he asked. I was still wearing my shorts, it having been a warm and sunny summer’s day when I had dressed for the last time in life.. After all, in my situation I didn’t have any other clothes with me and as far as I know I’ve left my wardrobe far behind me either in space or time or both, and consequently unreachably so..

“I’m sorry. I’m Peter,” I told him, “and the lady with me is called Megan.

“Call me Tiller, sir, call me Tiller,” he said, “and has the Lord sent you to bury our priest and save the rest of us wretches?”

“I’ve not got the foggiest idea,” I told him, and it must have made sense to him because a look of fear crossed his face.

“Are you then a devil from Hell?” he asked, “one come to take our souls back to your master so that we may squirm for all time in hell fires?”

“We have no truck with such forces and don’t even believe in them!” I replied, trying to sound as if I was in control of every superstition under the sun, “and have no idea how we came to be here, for we rested our heads to sleep last night in a very different place…”

“Where a baby was born,” added Megan.

“Oh glory be, was it the good Lord’s precious son and was he attended by angels and shepherds?” squawked Tiller.

“No, it was nothing like that, nothing at all,” I told him, “but look, Tiller, it’s not very nice in here and there’s a dead priest slowly decomposing before our very eyes and nostrils.” As I spoke one of that corps’s arms fell off and seemed to reach along the floor, so I added: “it would be a great kindness for you to take us from this wretched building and guide us into the sun!”

“Into the rain you mean,” growled the other, and he turned and made to walk off. “Follow me if you will,” he added.

“Rain would make a change,” sighed Megan, and we followed our guide out of the dusty old building and out into pouring rain.

© Peter Rogerson 30.08.24

xxx