Q. Can death occur in the Afterlife, and if so, is there a life after Afterlife?
A. Many of the deceased would like to believe so. See Chapter Five, “Religions of the Afterlife.”
Q. Does everyone who dies come to this place?
A. If infants and small children arrive here as Husks, then presumably yes. The fact that you may not be able to find your great-great-grandmother doesn’t prove she isn’t here, somewhere; on the other hand, there is no way to prove that she is here, unless you find her.
Q. My apparent age is about x. Why didn’t I arrive in the Afterlife younger or older? Will I stay this age?
A. Most people seem to feel that they arrived in the Afterlife at their peak (though many will admit that this may be a rationalization). It’s true, for example, that the shades of athletes tend to be “younger” than those whose achievements depended on maturity and experience. No answer is forthcoming for those who ask why they couldn’t have been translated to the Afterlife younger or older; a few years ago I was informed that this was “just the way the cookie crumbles.” You will not age or grow younger.
Q. Why am I cold?
A. Because you are dead, and the prana (rosy light) that cascades through your remains, though beautiful, offers no real warmth.
Q. Who’s “in charge” here?
A. No one is in charge. There is no civil, moral, religious, or other authority. None is needed or would serve any purpose. This is a source of disappointment to those who arrive ready to demand special treatment, lodge a complaint, or petition for “another chance” at life.
Q. Who is this Enemy I hear people talking about?
A. The Enemy is the bugbear, bogey, and bugaboo of simple souls in the Afterlife. The Enemy is the ogre under the bed and the monster in the closet—in short, the product of superstition and fearful imagination.
Q. Who is the Dark Brother?
A. The Dark Brother is an archetypal figure of fantasy, mythology, or religion, depending on your point of view. He is dark because “the light does not shine upon him”—that is, he is hidden. He is hidden (so goes the belief) in each one of us at some time or other—without our knowledge—perhaps for a moment, perhaps for a day, perhaps for a year. He is “the one we lost and that which we lost.” If he were ever to be assuredly “found” and revealed, he would lead us into a new era or state of existence. The Guild of the Dark Brother is one of the oldest and largest in the Afterlife.
Q. What does one do here?
A. As in life, one exists. No occupation as such is necessary. Even though your body is unchanged in appearance, it no longer functions as a biological organism. You will never grow hungry or thirsty, never fall sick, never grow older, and (of course) never die.
Q. But what do people do to pass the time?
A. Guilds, clubs, and religions (discussed in detail in later chapters) absorb much time and energy. Basically, people do the same things they did in life, with the obvious exceptions.
Q. You mean, if I always wanted to be a filmmaker, I could make a new version of Ben-Hur?
A. It would be difficult—as it was in life—to make a new version of Ben-Hur. Since no one needs to work in order to live, you would be unable to hire laborers to build sets, for example. You might have difficulty locating or constructing suitable optical equipment. People would work on the project only if you could make it seem worth doing in and of itself. Other difficulties would arise when it came to distributing and exhibiting your film.
For those in search of inspiration, behold Jessie Clowthy and Ralph Guddren, who insist that, in life, they were “just ordinary folks.” In the Afterlife they are everywhere loved and admired as the Mother of Clouds and the Father of Cities—vocations they invented for themselves without guidance or example. As shown in this photograph, Miss Clowthy typically caps her associate’s work by emptying her “sack of clouds” to create a vast panorama of dramatic effects seldom seen in the normal course of events. (illustration credits 1.1)
Q. You mean there is no film industry.
A. There is no industry of any type or description.
Q. Suppose I want a hundred-room mansion with indoor and outdoor swimming pools?
A. Build one, by all means. Build a dozen, if you like. After all, you have eternity in which to work.
Q. Can I hire people to do things for me?
A. Using what currency? People have no need for money in the Afterlife, but, seeing someone at work, they will often pitch in simply to pass the time or to make an acquaintance. And people often exchange work for work; the bartering of services in the Afterlife is a lively and complex activity.
Q. On the subject of construction, isn’t there a shortage of space, considering all the people who have died?
A. The physical arrangement of this “parallel universe” is somewhat different from the one you knew in life. Earlier peoples do not share our space. Rather, they share our time, which is unlimited.
Q. Could you expand on that a bit?
A. If you’d like to have a conversation with Christopher Columbus, you won’t find him a few thousand miles away. You will find him five hundred years away. Traveling in time is easily learned but does not lend itself to explanation by way of the written word. It’s like riding a bicycle, you learn it by doing it.
Q. Can I travel into the future?
A. Alas, no. Travel into the past is like diving. To travel back a few years is very easy, like dipping your head below the surface of the water. To travel back a few decades is like swimming a few feet below the surface. The farther back you go in time, the deeper (and more strenuous) the dive. But after each dive, you can only return to the surface, which is to say to your present. The time traveler can no more leap up out of the present into the future than a swimmer can leap up out of the water into the air.
Q. What special powers do the dead have?
A. The dead have no powers that would seem special to the living. They are relatively feeble, much as the classical writers of Greece and Rome imagined them to be.
Q. Isn’t the ability to travel into the past a special power?
A. To describe it as travel into the past is to speak somewhat loosely. We merely travel into regions inhabited by those who have died before us. We can have a chat with William the Conqueror, but that doesn’t enable us to watch the Battle of Hastings (much less influence its outcome). Since there is nothing we can “do” with this power, it hardly seems to qualify as one.
Q. Does the arrow of time in the Afterlife travel at the same pace and in the same direction as in life?
A. It gives every appearance of doing so. In fact, we “set our clocks” by the arrival of newcomers. Except for our own awareness of the passage of time, the Afterlife provides no objective basis for time-keeping—no rising and setting sun, no seasonal cycles, no radioactive decay. If a newcomer reports that he died on Christmas Eve, we can confidently expect a newcomer will soon arrive reporting that he died on Christmas day. And, by the way, in casual conversation, it is considered rather stuffy to continually make a point of the fact that our units of time are based only on perception. We say, “I’ll meet you in an hour,” “I’m leaving next week,” and “I may be gone for a year,” and everyone understands that these statements are approximations. A few obsessive people own watches or clocks, but most consider it utterly superfluous to keep careful track of time in eternity.
Q. What about communication with the living?
A. As in life, this is a disputed matter. Some claim to have achieved it; most believe that what is achieved is merely self-delusion. See also “Mediums” in the section “Greeters and Other Dubious Friends,” in Chapter Three.
Q. How can I get in touch with friends and relatives who have passed on ahead of me?
A. Check with Central Registry, a service that has been operant since the middle of the eighteenth century.2 There is no guarantee that any given person can be located by this means, since no one is required to register. In the Afte
rlife, no one is required to do anything whatever.
Q. You mean, no one knows I’m here?
A. That’s right. There is no Celestial Record Book with your name in it. As far as is known, no angelic scribe was on hand at your death to expunge your name from the Book of Life.
Q. Suppose the person I want to find isn’t registered? What do I do in that case?
A. In that case you start looking. The Afterlife is infinite in extent, but “small-world” coincidences happen all the time, just as in life. If you’d rather not undertake the search personally, you can always ask round for a reliable “Finder” (see Chapter Three).
Q. Speaking of angelic scribes, is there anything like that going on? Choirs of angels? Heavenly voices?
A. No, nothing. Nonetheless, many earthly religious practices still flourish, as do many Afterlife religions as well.
Q. What do you mean by “Afterlife” religions?
A. I mean religions that have no counterpart or antecedent among the living: religions that developed entirely among the deceased. They are discussed at length in Chapter Five.
Q. Are there animals here?
A. Yes, there are animals in the Afterlife. You will encounter dogs, cats, mice, rats, birds, snakes, frogs, and insects on roads, in houses, alleys, forests, fields; and turtles, fish, snakes, and frogs in ponds, lakes, rivers, and seas.
Q. Are they more abundant than they were on earth?
A. No.
Q. Are they real?
A. Studies of animal physiology indicate that they are as “real” as you or I. The question of whether or not something is “real” will frequently arise during your first hours in the Afterlife, but soon you will realize that it yields little to doubt what you see. The world is what it is: elusive and illusive, deceptive and complex. Quain, in The Metaphysics of Physics, says that whatever can be imagined as not existing exists. Some newcomers find solace in this notion.
Q. Pets?
A. No. Sorry. No bonding occurs between human and animal forms in the Afterlife. Should you encounter a former pet (a highly unlikely occurrence), your pet will not rush up to you and joyfully leap about your legs. And should you excitedly rush to your former pet, the latter will turn quickly away as if embarrassed by the spectacle.
Q. Are there zoos?
A. Yes, and they are excellent.
Q. What is the difference between the soul of a human being and that of an animal, if they have one?
A. If by “soul” you mean a spiritual entity that exists past the body’s so-called natural life, an entity that is imbued with a “divine grace” granted by an anthropomorphic deity for reasons only “He” can know, then we would suggest you rethink your terms. If on the other hand by “soul” you mean the “trace” that has crossed over, then we can refer you to Thrale’s studies of animal and human “traces” in which, to take one example, he found no difference between the subatomic etheric doubles of capybaras and their human predators along the Amazon.
Q. Are the animals here happy?
A. They do not appear sad.
Q. What about friendships, relationships, and so on?
A. As in life, have them or not, as you please.
Q. Romance?
A. Certainly, why not?
Q. Marriage?
A. Pointless.
Q. Sex?
A. Believe it or not, opinions vary. Some say, “Absolutely yes, it’s better than ever,” others “Absolutely no, it’s just a phantom activity, like ‘eating.’ ” On the whole, it’s safe to say that sex is not remotely a “drive” amongst the dead.
In the Afterlife, zoological gardens often find uses that would be unimaginable among the living. Here the La Brea Memorial Wild Animal Monument provides an exotic backdrop for a recent gala of Classe Première, a club open only to luxury class passengers who perished in the Titanic marine disaster of 1912. (illustration credits 1.2)
“Wedding Procession at the Village Hall,” by Robert (“Paco”) Culhane. Although matrimony is a meaningless and unsanctioned institution in the Afterlife, ceremonies like this one still take place from time to time among the nostalgically inclined. (illustration credits 1.3)
1 There is no true horizon anywhere in the Afterlife. The horizon we perceived in life as a line dividing earth from sky was a perceptual construct forced upon us by the curvature of the earth. The Afterlife gives every appearance of being a plane surface extending indefinitely in all directions. At a distance of about a hundred kilometers from any viewer, dust, moisture, and other particles in the atmosphere combine to create a more or less impenetrable haze, and objects within this haze are said to be (and are experienced as being) “on the horizon.”
2 It should be noted that any Central Registry is central only in a local sense. There is no Central Registry for the whole of the Afterlife, nor is such a thing thinkably possible. Every Central Registry collaborates with hundreds of others to pool names and locations of the dead; the work, for the most part carried on by people looking for their own friends and relatives, is ever-increasing and obviously never-ending. Volunteers are always welcome.
CHAPTER 2
A FEW DOS AND
DON’TS OF THE
AFTERLIFE
Do make a note of your name and keep it with you—not because it will ever be required of you but for exactly the opposite reason, because it will never be required of you, and you are therefore in real danger of forgetting it. This advice has the sound of a jest—until you meet someone who has in fact forgotten his or her name. People in this pitiable condition feel they have lost their identity, torment themselves with guilt, and have no occupation save to find someone who can tell them who they are.
While you’re at it, write down the names of all the family members you can remember, including those you feel confident you could not possibly forget. Keep this list nearby and review it from time to time. Imagine the embarrassment you would feel on meeting (a century or two hence) a parent or spouse you could not address by name!
• • •
DON’T volunteer to tell people the story of your death or ask them to tell you theirs (unless they’re newcomers as well). The death experience is a thrilling novelty to you. To the rest of us, frankly, it’s a bore. Remember that, with the possible exception of the Adepts, every single person you meet in the Afterlife has gone through it.
DON’T be offended if strangers suddenly take an active interest in what you’re doing. This takes some getting used to, but you will get used to it. The rules of privacy here are different from those you knew in life. Let’s suppose, for example, that you’ve found a storefront that appeals to you as a living space; a passerby, seeing you at work putting up a blind, will come in and without a word of greeting or introduction give you a hand. When you’re finished, he may depart, again without a word, or he may sit down and make himself at home for the next few days. To feel outraged by this is pointless, and treating the intruder with icy disdain will probably have no effect whatever. On the other hand, good manners do not require you to entertain him; indeed, if you like, go somewhere else until he leaves.
Or let’s say that you have just for the first time encountered the shade of your spouse and the two of you are busy sorting out a number of vexatious issues that were unresolved by death; a passerby will not hesitate to pause to listen or indeed to join in with complete enthusiasm. This sort of behavior may initially strike you as insufferable, but before long, believe me, you’ll be doing it yourself. The social inhibitions you learned in life will not survive for long here.
• • •
DO leave your skin alone. This is not pleasant to say, but skin does present problems in the Afterlife, though they are not the ones you formerly knew—acne, pimples, drying, flaking, chafing, and so on. Take a moment, if you haven’t already, to pinch your epidermis. You see? Looseness. On all Regulars (though not on Adepts) the skin is loose, though prana (rosy light) circulates throughout the channels of the corporeal residue, or “bo
dy.” Tight-fitting clothes don’t help. Nor do clothespins, paper clips, or staples, should they be available. Nothing, in the end, helps. Your skin is loose, that’s a fact of the Afterlife, and I’m afraid I must not conceal from you the additional fact it can simply slip off entirely. This is exceedingly rare,1 and it does grow back eventually, in most cases. If you travel for long, you will inevitably encounter skinless ones on the road, heads down, often in bands of ten or twenty, moaning or chanting one of their traditional laments, attributed to various sufferers in ancient and modern times, such as Petrus Comestor, Paramo, Geoffrey Chaucer, Victor Hugo, and Sir Edward Burne-Jones.2
1 Also, you will be relieved to know that your chances of becoming one of the skinless is infinitesimally small. Figures taken, respectively, from J. Fardoust, Epidermal Fashions and Trends, and from R. N. Dhareshwan, Implications of Horizon Accumulations Including Epidermal Deposits and Bone Simulacra, report a ratio of 1:1,000,031, from a sampling of 1,991 Regulars (3% statistical error possible).
2 The skinless are not by any means universally considered to be objects of pity. They enjoy a sense of deep community that is rarely found in other segments of the Afterlife, and, contrary to what you might expect, their condition is neither painful nor hideous (at least to them).
CHAPTER 3
NEIGHBORS
IN THE AFTERLIFE
Even the most befuddled newcomer will make two observations about the Afterlife almost at once. The first is that while most inhabitants look very ordinary, a large number resemble disintegrating mummies. These peculiar-looking individuals (one hesitates to call them “persons”) are Husks. Be assured that what you perceive in the Husks is not your future. If you are not ALREADY a Husk (and you wouldn’t be reading this if you were), you’re NOT going to become one.
The second observation the newcomer makes is that even ordinary-looking inhabitants are “different” from people in life. A lot of them seem wild, manic, and almost terrifyingly exuberant. On the other hand, a lot of them seem subdued, self-absorbed, and more or less oblivious to their neighbors’ actions or opinions;1 newcomers often assume that this affective deadness is just the result of being dead; it’s not.