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The Swan gazed over the soul’s semi-corporeal shoulder at the line of others behind it and gulped, the stones in their gizzard rattling. The row of impatient dead stretched back at least five miles, and they could see more birds landing on the shore and standing up in humanoid form with every passing moment. And to think, this morning they’d been relaxing on the rocks, trying not to count the weeks until another pagan died.
The soul in front of them--it had been a man--was wringing his hands. He didn’t look like a Finn to them, though discerning hair color was difficult with bird’s eyes. “Th-there must have been some mistake! I’m a good man, I went to church every Sunday!”
“Excuse me?” The Swan narrowed its eyes as much as its avian skull would allow. “Are you sure you’re in the right place?”
“I have no idea where I am, but you sure don’t look like Saint Peter!”
“Who’s Saint Peter?” Their head was starting to ache.
“Saint Peter! You know, pearly gates, big book, tells you whether you get into Heaven!”
“Oooh, you mean your psychopomp. I’ll ring him up, what’s his number?”
The soul cocked his head, almost glaring at them. “His… number?”
The Swan sighed before releasing a single rivulet of blood onto the ice. They’d learned to do it without feeling pain, but it would have been nice to avoid using up that little bit of energy. Once a sufficiently-sized pool had formed, they reached in with their beak and pulled out a thin book, little more than a leaflet. They had to flip all the way to the end, past a few pages of crossed-out contacts. Saint’s (was that a title? They really should have kept up with current events more after those damn Catholics showed up.) name was scrawled on the very last page of the book, a few entries from the bottom.
The number was unfamiliar--was that a Middle Eastern liminal-area code? They sung the tones carefully, since the order was so odd, and the reflection in the pool of blood changed from their own head to the face of a very old man, with pure white hair.
“Who is this? I swear, if this is Beelzebub prank calling me again--”
“You lost a soul, Saint, and he’s really beginning to irritate me.” The soul in front of them squawked indignantly.
“Lost… Hang on, let me take a look.” There was the sound of pages turning, and then Peter turned white as a sheet. He stared down at something for a long time, before sighing slowly and closing his eyes. “It would appear, actually, that I’ve lost a few more than one. Somewhere around five hundred fifty million might be closer.”
The Swan looked over to his own still-growing line of souls. “Sounds like a personal problem. I still need this soul out of Tuonela, and in his correct afterlife.”
“Where’s--Never mind, I’ll send my man over.” He looked over his shoulder and shouted to someone in the distance. “Hey Mike! I need you to go grab a soul for me! You know where Tuonela is, right?” There was an unintelligible reply, and Peter’s brows furrowed. “I know it’s not your job! Just grab this guy and you can get back to your game.” There were a few more mumbles, then a bright flash of light from behind him. “Alright, got that squared away. Michael should be right over for that soul.”
The swan waved goodbye to the angel and his ward as they disappeared in a flash of light. They must have been pretty odd people, to think that a person with wings was the ultimate in liminal security. At least Michael didn’t seem too stuck-up, like most of the newer magical beings. In any case, there was another soul waiting at the head of the line. Hopefully this one would go faster.
The next soul, at least, appeared to be a regular old Finn. She glowered at the Swan, arms crossed. “Is there something I can help you with?” they asked.
The soul threw her arms up and shouted at them, “What the heck is going on! First everybody starts dying, and now this !”
“Everybody’s dying? Like, faster than usual?” By the gods, they really were behind on the news. Maybe they’d take a flight when they’d worked through this line, check up on the surface world.
“Uh, yeah! Where’ve you been for the last two weeks?” She looked around, eyes widening. “Matter of fact, where are we? Also, are you a… bird?”
“This is Tuonela, ma’am, the afterlife.”
“Oh no, that’s not right. The afterlife isn’t real.”
“Counterpoint--you’re standing in it right now.” The Swan cocked their head at her.
The soul shook her head. “Oh no, I’m an atheist, I don’t believe in any of that afterlife crap.”
Some mages say that the first thing they ever heard from the dreamworld was a scream of pain and rage. A few even know its source, or at least have a good guess, but most are too afraid of divine retribution to share the knowledge. At least they know what noise a Swan makes now.