"But . . . I don't want to leave you," Marsh said to Ree. "And Coop."
"You have to," Coop said sincerely. "Think of how much cooler things will be now that you know what you have to look forward to. Talk about stress-free."
"And we'll be with you, " Ree said, holding back her tears.
"Not all the time," Coop interjected. "That could get uncomfortable."
"Will Coop still be able to talk with me?" Marsh asked Press.
"No," the woman said. "We took a great chance in giving him that ability. It won't happen again."
"That's cool," Coop said brightly. "Every once in a while I'll move stuff around and freak you out. We'll be great at parties. Everybody will think you're magic."
Coop was trying to be casual, but his tears proved that he was anything but.
Ree hugged her son and said, "You have to go back. You know that."
Marsh nodded. He knew.
Press said, "You know more about life and death than anyone else alive. It's a great gift to have that knowledge. Be careful how you share it."
"Yeah," Coop added. "Don't go making some reality show about the great beyond or anything. People will think you're nuts."
Marsh pulled his mother close.
"I don't want to lose you again," he said, his voice cracking.
"You're not, sweetheart. You're going to live your life, and then come back."
Marsh took a deep breath to calm himself, then kissed his mother on the cheek.
"Yeah," he said. "Soon enough."
"No!" Ree said quickly. "Not soon. Live a long life. I'm counting on that." She wiped Marsh's eyes and said, "Now go."
Marsh turned to Cooper.
"How twisted is this?" Coop said. "Instead of being sad because somebody's gonna die, we're all weepy because somebody's about to live."
Marsh laughed. "Yeah, well, we never did things the normal way."
"Seriously," Coop said, then added, "Would you do me one favor?"
"Sure. Anything."
"Live for the both of us."
Marsh fought back tears and said, "I will."
The two best friends hugged. For the last time.
"So long, Ralph," Coop said. "I'll be watching."
Marsh nodded and backed away.
"How does this work?" he asked Press.
"Just walk through," Press replied.
Marsh walked up to the tear in the wall that was the seam between lives. He took one last look back at the Black, at his mother and at his best friend.
Cooper gave him the double okay sign.
Marsh smiled, turned, and stepped into the Rift.
When Marsh opened his eyes, he was completely disoriented. He saw nothing but black and wondered if there had been some mistake. Perhaps Press was wrong and it was too late for him to go back after all. He found himself lying on his back staring up at nothing.
To his right he saw a jagged, gray hole. Instinctively he knew what it was. He pulled himself to his feet and stood up to face the gray opening. Behind him was nothing . . . and everything. In front of him was life. He stepped out of the Rift . . .
. . . and into the mausoleum that held his mother's grave, that wasn't his mother's grave. On the floor was the open coffin and the remains of the mystery man who had been transported from Greece. As Marsh stepped out of the Rift he immediately felt heat at his back. He jumped forward and spun around to see the Rift healing itself. The seam between lives was closing up as if an unseen hand were sewing it back together. In seconds, the wall of tombs had returned to the state that Marsh had first found it in. The marble facade of his mother's crypt was again intact, the coffin and the remains were gone. All was as it had been.
"Whoever you are," Marsh said. "Rest in peace."
Marsh ran to the stairs leading up and out of the basement crypt. He climbed quickly, ran through the mausoleum, and out the front door. He stood on the roadway in front of the mausoleum, breathing hard, hoping that nobody had seen him. It was daytime, but what day was it? How long had he been in the Black? One day? Two? A century?
He walked quickly through the cemetery, headed for the front gate. With any luck, he'd be out of there before anybody saw him.
"Hey!" somebody shouted.
Luck wasn't with him.
Marsh froze.
A maintenance worker in coveralls strolled toward him. "Here kinda early, ain't ya?" he asked. "I just opened the gates."
Marsh took a quick look around and realized that the shadows were long and the grass was covered with dew. It was early morning.
"Just wanted to pay a quick visit," Marsh said, trying to control his voice. "I'm leaving now."
The maintenance worker gave him a curious look and continued on, "Okay. Have a good one."
Marsh started for the entrance but then stopped and turned back.
"Hey, could you call me a cab? I thought I'd be staying longer but realized I can't."
The ride from the northern border of Stony Brook to the center of town was familiar to Marsh, though this trip seemed anything but. He stared out of the cab window at the trees, the birds, the people . . . marveling at the fact that they were all alive. This was no vision. It was all very real. He rolled down the window and sucked in the orangey smell of jasmine. It smelled like heaven. It smelled right.
Sydney Foley was asleep. It was nearly nine thirty but she didn't have to be to class for another few hours. She wanted to sleep. It was the only way she could keep her mind from spinning out of control, wondering what was happening to Marsh. And Cooper. And life as she thought she knew it.
She felt a slight breeze on her face that gently nudged her awake. She was lying on her back and through half-open eyes saw that someone was standing over her bed. She wasn't shocked or scared. She smiled.
"Good dream," she said lazily, and rolled over for another few minutes of sleep.
"Good morning," Marsh said.
Sydney's eyes snapped open as she went from half asleep to about as awake as you can be in less than a second. She sat bolt upright to see Marsh standing over her.
"Sleeping in?" Marsh asked.
Sydney threw herself at Marsh and hugged him tight.
She then pushed him away just as quickly.
"You're real!" she exclaimed. "You're not . . . not—"
"A ghost? No. It's me. In the flesh."
"But . . . I saw you dead."
"And I came back. Special privilege."
Sydney threw herself back at him and squeezed him until he squirmed.
"Easy," Marsh said, chuckling. "Or you'll put me back there."
"If you could come back, what about . . . ?"
Marsh shook his head. "Just me, Syd. I'm sorry."
The news only made Sydney hold him closer.
"Thanks for sending the crucible," Marsh said. "It helped."
"It kept Damon away?"
"No, I broke it for him. As a reward."
Sydney pushed Marsh away, stunned.
"You . . . reward for what?" she asked.
"For saving the Morpheus Road."
"Uh . . . what?"
Marsh held her close and laughed. "There's so much to tell you but the bottom line is, it's over. For good this time."
"So what happens now?"
"That's easy," Marsh replied. "We live our lives."
Marsh had a new mission that he pursued with dogged determination.
The man who was in Ree Seaver's coffin was identified as a homeless man with no family. He had died of natural causes and his body had been waiting for burial in a mortuary in Greece when it had mysteriously disappeared. Further investigation turned up a series of local officials as well as customs workers who confessed to accepting bribes and allowing his body to be released under the name of Theresa Seaver to an American named Ennis Mobley.
Ennis had needed a body to be Ree Seaver in order to move the poleax to a place where he thought it would never be found.
The news caused a scandal that helped Marsh
and his father accomplish their true goal. If not for the embarrassment it brought to various government agencies, they may not have had the same level of cooperation that they received.
The Necromanteio was not only a sacred, historic site, it was a popular tourist destination. A search through the rubble left by an earthquake on such a site needed to be approved by many different government agencies and carried out under tight scrutiny. Marsh and his dad had the benefit of the international press on their side but it was still a long, frustrating process. Finally, one year to the day after Marsh had come back from the Black, search teams located the body of the lone victim that had been buried in the rubble of the Ammoudia earthquake: Theresa Seaver.
Her second funeral in Stony Brook was much different than the first. Only a few people attended the very private service. Marsh was a rock, helping his father get through the difficult experience. He thought of telling him the truth, but decided not to throw something else at him that would seem so impossible. He knew the time would come, but it wasn't then.
Sydney had held on to the lignum vitae branches and made sure to place them on top of Ree's coffin before it was slipped into the crypt.
Marsh was the last to leave the mausoleum that day. He wanted to be alone for one final moment with his mom. It wasn't a sad parting. Marsh actually felt relieved. He leaned into the crypt, kissed his hand, and touched his mother's coffin saying, "Now we're done."
As they were leaving the cemetery, Sydney held Marsh by the arm and said, "Promise me something?"
"Sure, what?"
"Let's never come back to this freakin' cemetery ever again."
All Marsh could do was laugh.
Marsh went on to do exactly what Coop had asked him. He lived a life for both of them. A very long life. He had learned a great deal from his premature exposure to the afterlife, not the least of which was the realization that life was precious. Every life. It was up to each person to live it the best way they could. For Marsh, it meant doing the things that he loved best, no matter what anyone thought of it.
Or of him.
One of the things he loved was his art. Rather than brush it off as the folly of a juvenile sensibility, he embraced it. Marsh went on to art school and became a successful fantasy writer and artist. He was responsible for creating many characters that lived in the pages of graphic novels, movies, and television. His work created a legion of fans who waited eagerly for his newest creation and followed the adventures of his popular characters with fan-boy glee.
His most famous and successful creation by far was his first. After having drawn Gravedigger in so many incarnations with no connective narrative, he finally found the story by creating a nemesis for the demon. A hero. It was a spirit who battled Gravedigger's dark, Gothic magic by drawing upon the positive power of the spirit world. Their adventures and battles spanned dimensions, worlds, and times. Marsh wrote and drew thousands of stories, many of which became successful movies, introducing Gravedigger to legions of fans who loved to be surprised . . . and scared.
As a joke that only he and Sydney could appreciate, the ironic name he chose for Gravedigger's spirit nemesis was Damon. Whenever he drew the handsome and noble general, he always chuckled to himself and thought: I'll bet Cooper's turning over in his grave.
Marsh wrote many stories and created hundreds of characters throughout his life, but he always came back to drawing Gravedigger and Damon for the simple reason that it made him happy. Not only because it kept him connected to his roots, but it also acted as a comforting reminder of the larger reality of life. That knowledge was indeed a gift.
Of course, there was only one name he could have given to the series.
He called it: Morpheus Road.
THE END
D. J. MacHale, The Blood
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