I’ve been sitting with this idea for years.
David Eagleman has a theory that every person dies three times: when their body ceases to function, when they’re interred, and the last time their name is spoken. That final death (the forgetting) is the one that haunts me. What would happen if someone tried to stop it? What if they organized around it?
For this month’s writer’s group, I took a pass at producing a story of 1000 words. This week, Brother James finally got his story.
Inspired by Kurt Vonnegut and Douglas Adams. I hope it shows.
Brother James shuffled down the hallway, his slippered feet whispering with each step on a rug worn thin. In his arms he clutched a menagerie of books, binders, newspapers, and a few rolls of old fax paper. He held these items as a starving person might hug a basket of fruits. The corridor was dimly lit, the fluorescent lights in the recessed circles overhead casting the space in a garish light while the faint hum of the electrons excitedly danced within their tubes.
Brother James didn’t mind the light or the sound. He had chosen this. He was part of something, part of the “Those Who Remember” movement. The premise of their organization was Eagleman’s idea that all humans died three times: when the body ceases to function, when it’s interred, and the last time their name is spoken. What his organization was working on was the repeated pronunciation of the names of everyone who had ever died, repeatedly, so as to keep all people who ever lived, alive. The Army of Memory, as the readers referred to themselves, was now over 2,000 strong, and recruiting more every day.
As he rounded the corner of the hallways, he stopped, suddenly, surprised by a figure standing there. It was glowing, about eight feet tall, and blocking his path. It had wings and a halo, and its skin shone with a bright, blinding light. Brother James halted so quickly that he almost dropped his load of documents. His devotion was such that he did not, but rather gripped them even more tightly than he had been. Whoever or whatever this creature was, it would not dissuade him for his duty. Brother James, a spectral voice intoned.
The being’s lips had not moved. James had a strange feeling that the voice had come from his own lips. He dismissed it as an impossibility. Still, this situation was most irregular, and this person clearly did not belong here.
“Um, yes, I am Brother James. And apologies, whoever you are, you are not permitted to be here. This is a restricted area, only for officers of the Army of Memory. I don’t recall seeing you at any of the daily briefings, and I would certainly remember someone who looks like …that.”
The voice came again, this time booming in his ears and clearly coming from James’ own mouth. I am beyond you, human. I serve the Highest of the High. I am the commander of the Heavenly Host. I come with a request, and a warning.
Now, dear reader, you must understand that Brother James was a dedicated, dutiful member of Those Who Remember, practically a founder of the movement. Despite the oddity of this situation, and the ominous nature of the being’s words, he was not scared. If anything, he wrapped himself even more snugly in the safety of his work and belief in its righteousness before he replied.
“Again, I do apologize, whoever you are—”
I am the Archangel, Michael. I have been sent here to tell you, your Movement, and especially your Army, to stop immediately with your work.
Brother James waited until he was sure that Michael had returned control of his speaking ability to him, and then replied, “I see. While I recognize your authority here, clearly given your CV, I am unable to comply. You see, this is bigger than me, or the Movement or the Army. We must go on, reading the names of all who have ever died, so that they may live on and not be forgotten.”
Michael seemed to flare for a second, and for just that moment James saw not the beautiful personage before him, but a terrible visage of a warrior, spear at the ready and armor splattered with dark gore.
Your work is not in congruence with the laws of Heaven. Your Army, by surfacing the names of long passed souls, is causing them to be pulled from Heaven, back into the space between worlds. This cannot continue. It will not be allowed to continue.
“You mean the Project for the Reclamation of Long Dead Persons? The restoration of historical obituaries to expand our pool of departed individuals? That work?”
James was a little hurt by this. The idea had been one of his own, and he was very proud of it. It had only passed committee a few weeks ago, and the effort was still early days. How could something so simple cause an issue so great that even Heaven was impacted?
I mean ALL of your Movement’s works. Stop reading the names of the departed. Let souls be forgotten in their natural way, as time passes for mortals and their descendants. You have 7 days to cease all your work, and the reading of the names of the dead. There will not be a second warning.
James coughed as soon as he could talk again.
“I can certainly see your point of view, Michael. Can I call you Michael? Is there a honorific one uses with Archangels? I must inform you that 7 days is insufficient time. You understand that a change that drastic would require a board-level meeting, and a proposal to review our by-laws, to say nothing of the logistical challenges? I respectfully request more time, and given your stature I would expect you fully capable of providing a forbearance on any consequential actions.”
7 days, Brother James. I say this with love. And there will be no forbearance, because you must surely understand that Heaven is not the only aggrieved party in this matter.
The Archangel looked pointedly at Brother James, down at the floor, and back up to meet James’ eyes. Without any warning, he disappeared in a flash that forced James to look away.
James stood in silence in the fluorescent light of the hallway for three ragged breaths. Then he dropped his armload of documents, and he ran and ran.