The Death of All Things

  The young nobleman was no longer jovial. The arm that had been loosely draped about his wife’s shoulder now pressed her close. And she—her eyes were filled with tears, one hand on her belly. When the young bard asked her, in the hush following the last line, what she now thought of wolves, the future mother said, smiling through her tears, “They are beautiful.”

  As the spell cast by the tale faded and the crowd began to applaud with great enthusiasm, the performer looked back at her family, proud, happy. They were smiling, holding one another as the nobleman and his wife embraced.

  Unseen, a woman with pale skin, white hair, and a long black dress watched from the shadows. Her spirit-wolves sat at her feet. Lady Death had not known that mortals knew the tale, and this rendition of it pleased her. Her gaze moved slowly over the crowd, lingering at last at the happy performing family cheering for their beaming daughter.

  They were good, kind people, creative and giving. Their hearts held so much love, they would move swiftly to the Light, Lady Death knew.

  She hoped the young bard would remember that.

  WEDDING VOWS

  Leah Cutter

  Present-ish

  Wan Ho stood outside of the grand courthouse, waiting.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there. In the land of the dead, it was difficult to track time. Plus, since he’d died, he’d found he’d lost the impatience of his youth and now could wait contentedly like an old man. He didn’t even miss his cell phone—normally when waiting he’d pull it out and play a game, or text his friends, or even watch silly cat videos.

  For now, he merely stood. And waited, full of peace. Though every now and again he felt a very brief stirring of chill-inducing anticipation for…what, he wasn’t sure.

  A misty river ran a few yards in front of him, the riverbed slightly lower than the grassy plane he stood on. The gurgling sound of the water soothed him. The faint scent of sweet incense delightfully filled the air. While Wan Ho suspected the incense wasn’t being burned for him, by his family still living in Shanghai, he still breathed it in and felt replenished by it.

  Every now and again, the mist on the river coalesced and a figure would form, generally an older man or woman, but sometimes a younger person, like himself. They’d shake themselves free of the river and walk up the soft slope to the courthouse, gaining color and shape as they moved, until they looked like Wan Ho, dressed in their finest clothes and nearly alive.

  Wan Ho wasn’t certain if any of the new souls could see him. They never spoke to him, or returned his friendly wave. Their attention appeared to be taken up by the courthouse.

  Then again, it was a rather splendid building, though it only rose up two stories, and inside, contained a single room. However, brilliant blue-and-green clay tiles made up the slanted roof, living stone sentinels sat on the end of each of the four tilted-up corners, a dazzling golden flag hung from a pole sticking out of the very center of the roof, and colorful murals showing the adventures of the Eight Immortals covered all the walls.

  In addition, Ox-Head and Horse-Face, the two guardians, stood on either side of the grand red door leading into the courtroom. They wore magnificent robes of the finest material—blue and green silk embroidered with gold—as well as carried tall shiny halberds and swords.

  They didn’t acknowledge Wan Ho standing outside of the courthouse, but they permitted him to stand there.

  The newly-dead looked to the two guardians for instructions. The guards merely opened the courthouse doors and escorted them before Judge Kan, who would tell them of their next destination: either they would go to one of the various Hells to endure punishment for their misdeeds, or they would pass on to the city of the dead and await rebirth.

  No one else had been told by the judge to go and wait beside Wan Ho (and he was starting to suspect that it had been some time, now). And why had Judge Kan asked him to wait? What did he know, that he wasn’t telling Wan Ho about? But the judge had kept his own counsel, his bulging eyes lighting up as he made his pronouncement, ordering Wan Ho outside.

  So Wan Ho waited, watching the parade of the dead pass into the courthouse. He was glad that the building was far enough away from the Hells that he didn’t hear any screams: it was bad enough when a soul received a judgment he or she didn’t like and started to wail.

  Wan Ho hadn’t been afraid when he’d gone to stand before the dark-faced judge. Wan Ho hadn’t been alive long enough to be truly wicked. He’d died when he was barely twenty years old, taking an unfortunate fall from a shoddily-constructed balcony in Shanghai.

  But what was he waiting for? The judge hadn’t told him. Just that he must wait.

  The most recent elderly woman who’d come from the river had been escorted inside the courthouse by both guardians. They had treated her with the utmost respect. She obviously wouldn’t have to wait long before she would be reborn.

  While they were gone, a new soul formed out of the mist.

  Only she looked different than the others Wan Ho had seen.

  As she left the river, she gained form but not color. She remained as white as a Western ghost as she climbed the river bank. Her eyes looked haunted and she seemed scared as she glanced around. She was beautiful, however, it took Wan Ho a moment to realize that she wore her wedding robes.

  Then she focused her attention on Wan Ho.

  Shivering, Wan Ho stayed still under her gaze. It pierced him through to his soul, as if she could see all of his life laid bare before her.

  It was the same look Judge Kan had given him.

  “Wan Ho?” she asked. Her voice sounded much more timid than her look.

  “I am he,” Wan Ho said.

  “I am Ou Li,” the woman said, dipping her head in a bow. “I am here to marry you.”

  Past-ish

  Ou Li slowly lowered herself to the hard, concrete floor of the temple. It hurt to bend that way, to make her uncooperative hips and spine move. She did it anyway, stubbornly refusing to accept one of the low chairs that the temple graciously offered the old women who came to pray.

  She wasn’t old. Barely twenty-one. And her life already ruined.

  The statue of Guan Yin towered above Ou Li. The goddess wore flowing white robes that sparkled in the candles lit all around her. She had her left arm draped around a child, a golden-skinned youth who had the flame of enlightenment springing from his forehead. They both sat on a dark-brown hou, a proud, mythical creature that looked something like a lion. Beside them stood a second child, another of Guan Yin’s close followers.

  Ou Li knew that praying to the goddess of mercy would do no good. The doctors had done the best they could, repairing her pelvis as well as possible after it had been shattered by the car accident.

  But her womb had also been ruptured. They’d had to remove it.

  She would never have children. No matter how she begged and pleaded with each and every deity.

  Ou Li couldn’t lower her forehead to the cold floor as she should. She still bent her head as far as possible, casting her eyes downward. Then she brought her hands together and prayed for a release from her situation, her struggles, and perhaps, her life.

  The smell of pungent incense grew stronger. Ou Li let it carry her away, drawing her up to the planes of the gods. Visiting a temple always made her feel more connected with the spiritual worlds, despite how even her parents denied the existence of anything beyond the physical. However, Ou Li had no doubt. When she prayed, she often felt close enough to touch those other places.

  Today, it wasn’t merely peace that she sought. She had always tried to be a good girl, to obey and honor her parents. She knew those were old-fashioned sentiments in such a modern world.

  So when she prayed, she asked the gods: if not for her, then couldn’t there be an heir for her mother and father? Her family line would end with her. Her parents had only been allowed a single child in the current Chinese regime, and hadn’t had enough money to pay the fines (and the bribes) to have
a second.

  Finally, after pleading and praying and begging for what seemed like hours, Ou Li wiped away the tears from her cheeks and started the arduous process of standing.

  Her bones sent flaming nails of pain through her hips and lower back. She caught her breath, gasping, but she would not cry out. She ended up on her hands and knees, shaking her head.

  Then she tried again. But her legs would not hold her. She could not bend them far enough underneath her to support her weight.

  She was just going to have to crawl, leave the center of the temple floor to find a wall to pull herself up on.

  Ashamed but determined, Ou Li tried to stand again.

  A strong hand caught her elbow as she started to tip over, steadying her until she found her feet.

  “Thank you,” Ou Li said, turning to look at her benefactor.

  He was an old priest. Ancient, in fact, given the wrinkles of his face and the pure gray of his scraggly beard. His robes, too, were old-fashioned and worn, the red faded and the sleeves patched.

  His eyes still held life, however, burning like two coals as they bore into her.

  “Come,” he said, continuing to hold onto her arm. “Let us have tea.”

  Ou Li nearly objected. What would her parents think if she went off with this strange priest? But Ou Li had always found herself drawn to other places, other spirits and beings.

  This priest knew of those things. She was certain of it.

  She finally nodded and said, “All right. I will have tea with you.”

  Besides, what did risking her life matter? She had so little left to give.

  * * *

  The priest walked with her to a tiny room, just behind the temple complex. Inside, there was barely enough room for the pair of them. Tall bookshelves filled with ancient books, scrolls, and knickknacks rose from the floor to the tall ceiling. A single light clipped to one of the shelves provided the only illumination. The room smelled of unwashed old-man, sour and rank.

  Ou Li nearly turned around and left at that point. But the priest pierced her with a sharp look and said, “I have an answer for your problem.”

  Ou Li paused. She hadn’t said anything about her problems, though she supposed the pain in her hips was obvious.

  “Oh, really?” she asked. She knew she sounded horribly disrespectful. She still couldn’t help herself. “And what do you think is my problem?”

  The old priest gave her a sly smile as he picked up a large plastic bottle, the label long worn off. He splashed water from the bottle into an electric kettle sitting on one of the shelves. “Your problem isn’t your hips and back, though that is what most would say,” he said as he pulled an ancient teapot from another shelf. It looked like something a tourist would pick up—a cheap replica of a teapot from the Tang dynasty, made from beige clay with stripes of orange, red and green.

  He unfolded a tiny table and set it in the middle of the cramped space. Two stools followed, allowing Ou Li to almost gracefully lower herself, though her hips still complained at the position she held her knees in.

  “Then what is my problem?” Ou Li asked while the priest stuffed the teapot with leaves from an unmarked black tin canister that probably had held rice at one point.

  “Tell me, what do you know of the minghun ceremony?” the priest asked instead.

  Ou Li blinked, surprised. That hadn’t been what she’d been expecting the priest to say at all.

  “It is an ancient practice of ghost marriage—where either two deceased people got married, or the dead marry someone who is living,” Ou Li said.

  “Good, good,” the old priest said. “I’m glad you know something of our traditions.”

  Ou Li bristled at that, though she knew he spoke the truth: so many customs had been lost in the generations of revolutions.

  “So in addition to your physical ailments, you lack a husband,” the priest said gently.

  At least he didn’t sound as though he was scolding her for her current predicament. Unlike some of her relatives.

  “But what good would a husband do me?” Ou Li asked. “Particularly one who was dead?”

  “The State would consider you legally married,” the priest assured her. “Then, you’d be able to adopt an heir.”

  “Oh,” Ou Li said. “I hadn’t considered that.” No man would marry her, not unless she lied about her sterile condition. She hadn’t thought about adopting, however. She’d never be able to adopt as a single parent.

  But if the State considered her married …

  Ou Li waited while the priest poured the boiling water into the teapot. He poured the water out of the pot almost immediately, into a bucket. Then he poured in a second batch of water, setting the teapot on the tiny table and letting the tea steep.

  “What do you think?” the priest asked. The delicious smell of a very fine black tea filled the tiny room. “You’d be helping not only your family’s line, but his as well. Two sets of parents being honored.”

  “I’d want to be able to meet my husband, at the very least.” Ou Li knew she sounded ungrateful, but this was a big step. “I wouldn’t want a sham marriage.”

  The old priest sighed and considered. “I could arrange that,” he said slowly.

  “But would we be truly married?” Ou Li mused. “Since we’d only marry here, on the physical plane.” It wouldn’t feel right, she knew. She’d have to be married twice, once for her, here, and once, well, there, as well. Plus, she’d have to know for certain that her husband-to-be consented to the marriage, not just his parents.

  “I can only marry you on this plane. You’ll have to find someone else to officiate in the land of the dead, when you go visit,” the priest said.

  Ou Li nodded, considering. She’d never imagined the minghun as a solution to her problem.

  But for the first time, in a very long time since waking up that painful morning in the hospital, after the accident, she felt a sliver of hope.

  Present-ish

  “And that’s why I’m here,” Ou Li continued, explaining to the spirit of Wan Ho, her now legally married husband.

  At least in the physical world.

  “I wanted to meet my husband,” Ou Li told him. He looked just as handsome as the pictures his parents had shown her. He had kind eyes, a generous mouth, and hair that she wished she could touch brushing the bangs out of his eyes. “The priest arranged that, bringing me to a wizard who gave me a potion to carry my spirit here.”

  She hadn’t really known what to expect. She hadn’t expected the world of the dead to be so colorful. Then again, there was no time here to wear at the brilliantly painted murals on the courthouse, no rain to splash dirt up on the bright green grass.

  “Thank you,” Wan Ho said. He smiled at her. “Thank you for continuing both my line as well as yours.”

  “You’re welcome,” Ou Li told him. “But in order for the marriage to be fully legal, we need to be married on this plane as well.”

  As her mother always said, something worth doing right was worth overdoing.

  Wan Ho’s eyes widened. “Oh,” he said. “Where will we get married here?”

  Ou Li shrugged. “I don’t live here. I don’t know.” Really, was he expecting her to do everything? So like a man.

  Wan Ho looked around, as if possibly a temple would have sprung up beside them.

  He looked awfully cute, confused that way.

  “I know!” he finally said. “Let’s ask the judge.”

  Hesitatingly, he held out his hand for her to take.

  Even in her ghost body, Ou Li felt her heart start to pound. She’d never held hands with a boy before, only with her female friends.

  Him offering his hand that way warmed her all the way through. The gesture was more romantic than any of the old poems she’d read. Could she touch him? He looked much more solid here than she did.

  Ou Li reached out and tried to take his hand.

  Her wispy white hand passed through his. “Oh! Sorry!” she said
. It hadn’t felt bad when she’d done that. She hoped she hadn’t given him a chill or something, though.

  She smiled bravely at him, hiding her disappointment.

  “It’s okay,” he said, smiling and nodding at her, though his eyes looked a little sad. “Come. Let’s go ask Judge Kan. Maybe he can marry us!”

  Ou Li gave her husband-to-be her best smile and walked beside him toward the tall red doors of the courthouse.

  In her secret heart, she’d really wanted to be able to touch her husband-to-be’s hand, be able to connect with him somehow. It would help her feel as though she had a real relationship, maybe even lessen her envy of the couples she saw holding hands as they walked down the street.

  It seemed that some things, though, were never meant to be.

  * * *

  The ancient woman Wan Ho had seen Ox-Head and Horse-Face escort in earlier still stood before Judge Kan. They chatted like old friends.

  Perhaps they were. Wan Ho’s grandmother, before she’d died, had told him that when he didn’t come to see her, death frequently sat in her visitor’s chair.

  Except that Judge Kan wasn’t really death. He was just the judge who weighed people’s souls and told the newly dead where to go. Right?

  A few people stood at the back of the courtroom. All dead. Wan Ho had the sense that they were waiting as well, possibly for an escort to their new homes. Many doors lined the walls. Did each go to a different hell?

  The courtroom itself was just a large single room. Judge Kan still sat behind a large wooden counter at the back. The same brilliant flags stood on either side of him. Wan Ho recognized some of the countries they represented, such as China, Japan, the United States, and Korea. But what did the small brown fox in the middle of a yellow circle mean? Or the proud elephant with its trunk raised, along with one foot?