It was a lovely autumn morning when Esther Winseley died. How very, very tragic. For this tale, it does not matter how she died, nor should this narrator specify. What matters is that it was very, very tragic and very, very sudden.
Dispassionate eulogies were read, and bothersome funerals done. In less than two weeks, every matter regarding her was finished.
And then, she woke up on a notably comfortable sofa. Another woman, of indiscernible age or origin, was sitting in front of her, in a way similar to a psychologist. She wore a waistcoat, as well as a swamp-hued knee-long dress. The most distinctive part of her was, however, the ornate masquerade mask she wore.
Almost as if she knew Esther had finished analyzing her, and immediately before she started to question her situation, the woman spoke.
“Miss Winseley,” she began singing in a delicately brazen tone, “You are, quite fortunately, dead.”
Esther wasn’t as surprised as she would’ve wanted.
“It is my duty to interview you. We will discuss every action you’ve taken in your life, and I’ll give each one a unique value. Do you understand, Miss Winseley?” the masked woman spoke in a viscerally incorrect way. Esther felt as if she was hearing in a way humans should not hear, and seeing in a way eyes were not made for. Her eyes could perceive smells, and sounds had a variety of textures. Senses flowed into each other with an offensive lack of restraint.
“You are now a pure, unlimited soul, Miss Winseley” the woman answered to her not-yet-asked question, “Your senses now follow absolute directives, and are free from physical limitations. This will become normal, with either time or force.”
They continued, for what could’ve either been months or 37 minutes. Esther marveled on the impossible, abstract, oblique, esoteric nature of it all, with time being untellable, and perception unrestrained. Still, though, there was an interview to be had.
The masked woman started with the pitch of the first noise she made at birth, and continued with relentless detail until they reached, explained, and assayed the last blink she made before her passing. Once finished, Esther received an explanation more convenient for the reader of this tale, rather than the protagonist of it:
“Death, Miss Winseley,” the masked woman began, “is deliciously bureaucratic. When a human dies, their soul comes here. An interviewer assigns each one of their actions a value, be it positive or negative, which a Judge then uses to give the person a sentence. For you see, Miss Winseley, humans have a regrettable amount of different beliefs, and it is easier for us to give each one what they expect, rather than force them to something unpleasant. Now, the time they spend in their wished-upon afterlife is limited by their given value. Once it’s up, their soul is cleansed of characteristics, and sent back to be recycled.”
Esther understood with uneasy clarity every single word, as well as the implication each one carried, and the exact intention of them. Whatever she was hearing and speaking, it was wonderfully unhuman.
“Now, if you excuse me, Miss Winseley,” said the masked woman somewhere between a spoken dance and the sound of laughing fire, “would you be so very kind to leave my office? There are matters both you and I must attend.”
And thus, Esther walked up to a door which she had decided to not notice until then, and passed through into a great rectangular atrium, with a large door on the short side to her left, and an even larger window on the short side to her right. The long sides had many balconies running across them, with rows of doors that Esther was sure led to more offices, and a central staircase that connected them. She herself stood on the fourth balcony to the right.
She walked down the staircase, her steps resonating in a monotone drumroll, akin to the marching band of an unnecessarily condecorated army, and walked up to the side with the window.
Esther was well read. She could list classics like one recalls what they’ve had for dinner. And yet, not once had she read of souls being so very, very awestruck. In front of her, through a much-too-tall window, an endless church extended to the horizon. Spires and arches and cupolas in an incomprehensibly complex labyrinth of stone as far as the eye could see. She turned around to look through a skylight of stained glass, and then she saw what she knew to be the Bell Tower. A bell the size of a skyscraper, a bell that could make gargoyles shiver. And beyond the church-city, an oil painting made of clouds stood in vaporous elegance, enveloping the structure, one that would make every artist to ever live envious.
“Oh, they were envious. Very, very envious,” said an annoyingly pale man that stood left of Esther. He wore a similar waistcoat, with a shirt as white as him under it, and straight moss-green pants. His mask was rather dull, but still had its charm.
“I shall be your guide, Miss Winseley,” he explained, “your trial will begin in two tollings and twenty rings, and Judges are inadvisably petty when they’re made to wait. Follow me.” His voice was quite literally fragrant, with the scent of stones after a summer storm.
Their steps were perfectly synchronized: two of hers, then one of his, then two of hers. The tappings on the probably-marble floor were euphonical, to the point where one would think they were choreographed.
The hallway was dotted with doors and balconies with more doors on one side, and painted with windows on the other, with wonderful patterns on the floor and indecisive high ceilings.
And then, they passed through an arch, leaving them in a circular room with a hole in the center. Esther leaned on the intricate railing.
An endless stream of masked men and women moved below, never quite touching each other, and never stopping to change directions. Many of which were followed by an improperly dressed person.
“I’ve heard your people believe Death to be much more peaceful than this,” began the masked man, “They’ve clearly never dealt with a truly marvellous bureaucracy, nor with the scale at which we work," this time, the sentence smelled of brass and ennui.
Esther followed the man as he walked down a flight of stairs. She tried to count the steps, a habit she had gotten a Wednesday when she was ten, but couldn't. By now, she was getting accustomed to things here never making quite enough sense.
As they joined the crowd, Esther was surprised at how easily she could follow her guide, even if he was almost indistinguishable from all other officers, all dressed in meticulously equal uniforms.
They passed through a multitude of nigh-different hallways. Sometimes, they passed by a particularly detailed window of tainted glass, through which light filtered like cumbersome raindrops along a leak. To her dismay, though, Esther had to make her fascination swift to keep up with her ever-smiling guide.
Eventually, after walking long enough for it to have been far more tiresome than it actually was, the masked man halted suddenly, and both kindly and sternly told Esther to do the same. They were directly below an archway that led into a large atrium, with seven other hallways connecting to it.
Esther noticed that every other guide and every other soul had halted too, leaving a clear, reverent path through the room. She was, luckily, almost directly at the lip of the empty area, which allowed her to see what demanded such solemn inefficiency:
A towering, robed man entered through one of the gates. His face seemed almost like it was carved on wood, and his hair shone dully, calmly. Most striking of all, however, were his antlers. A perfect, majestic pair of antlers rested on his head, like branches of a tree. They were ensnarled in leaves and vines, comparable perhaps to a verdant festival frozen between the arms of an oak, or the elegant decorations of a bonsai garden. His expression radiated peace and serenity, his eyes parsimoniously moving across the room, slowly, empathetically, taking in, analyzing, and accepting every detail within it. One could’ve said he looked in the eyes every one of the dozens of people in there.
An eclectic procession followed him in not equal splendor: A man in a uniform more formally and less colorful than the other workers, a long-haired woman who had the taste of a moth (A detail which notoriously confused Esther, as she had most obviously not tasted her), someone who looked like a monochrome photograph, a young fox-tailed girl, and another young man in a kaleidoscopic dress.
Each was interesting in a particular, incomparable way, but Esther was more fascinated by the monochrome person- Their skin was impossibly white, while their hair, eyes, and fingernails were akin to a dark room at midnight. In addition, they gave the impression of being at least three people, rather than one, even though they indeed were just one. Clearly, they were neither a man nor a woman, though they unequivocally were both, as well as a compromise in the middle. A playful, teasing look from them replied joyfully to all of Esther’s confusions with an aroma of cheese and pencils.