Act 1: Sybil

“Sybil Whitman, you are being hung for crimes of heresy and shattering the sanctity of death. Through your evil magic, you have raised armies of sacred dead to raise arms against the Kingdom of Led.” The words hang in the air and there’s an uncomfortable itch in my shoe that is driving me insane.

I can hardly scratch it up here in the gallows; Bill might laugh at me. I don’t think that’s his real name, he didn’t give his name to me when I was brought up here to face my doom. His hands were particularly gentle when he slipped the noose around my neck. I appreciate that about Bill. He probably has a kind face with those kind kind of eyes that stare out at me through his executioner’s hood.

I wonder absently whether if I did bend down, if it would ruin this whole show they’ve got going on. Maybe mess up the ropes. What’s the worst that can happen? They kill me again? 

Oh no, necromancer hung for war crimes, oh gods. I fight the urge to roll my eyes at the ludicrous idea.

I glance around the great arena. I am the only one on the raised platform. The whole thing makes me want to laugh aloud: the scores of men and women looking up at me. Their faces are hard, and I think a little scared. After all, I’m one of them. Or, I used to be, at least.

Before the war.

“Do you have any last words?” The man that has decreed my many crimes of magic against their–pointedly invading–army asks from his pulpit below. I’ve been made into a war criminal by a nation that could never understand the sacred beauty of necromancy. Of how gentle the bones call out to me, how they sing beneath my fingertips… how they ask for life. The living never asked; and dead men could never tell.

I shrug. “Yeah, probably.”

The man’s nose scrunches up and he momentarily resembles a seagull. I almost smile, almost laugh, almost whisper Squack beneath my breath. “Say your peace, witch.”

Hooo! Testy. I also want to clap. Maybe start the standing ovation leading to my imminent demise, release the tension in the room. I cast another look around at the subjects. Invaded to be “liberated” from the evil necromantic overlords, (Who? Even I’m not certain) they are here to witness what happens when people like me act on generations of sacred tradition. I am the last warning they’ll receive. All of my siblings faced this fate before me. I’m not excited to join them, by any means, but once our armies were overwhelmed, well. It was a given. We were more undead than the undead we raised. Only took two years, too, for the new reigning prince, Antonio de Cardenas, to round us up and put us out of our misery.

He liked leading us on like that. Never saw the guy, he was probably nice on the eyes. Still hate him though.

I inhale deeply and lift my knee so I can scratch my ankle. Bill coughs behind me. I knew he would laugh. He seems like a laugher. It smells like dirt and blood, and I think someone peed themselves. It wasn't me. Or–I don’t think it was me. If it was, I could forgive myself for it. Wasn’t every day someone faced their execution after all. I’m still pretty sure it’s not me, though. I step up onto the box on the false floor. “Your words?” The man sounds annoyed.

He should be. I know my rights. I’m allowed to have my last words. I swallow down the little flutter of nerves in my belly. Facing death is something I’ve done my whole life, but I can’t say that I’m not a little bit scared. I know it’s going to be quick, at least. So I smile. I smile bright and big, and I say loudly: “This is stupid.”

And then the lever is pulled. And something snaps. And all goes black.

When I thought about death before, I didn’t think it would be blue rivers of light in a black void. Sometimes the bones would tell me flickers of their deaths in fleeting memories, of what they knew of the beyond. But bones were still earthly things, grounded in the world of the physical, of the present. Their memories were hazy at best. Even femurs, who held the most memories; and skulls. Skulls are a bad example. Skulls are just zappy. In any case, every person’s death is different: unique. Why mine is black and blue, who could tell? Maybe it’s because of the bruises I’d sustained in the jail cell leading up to my execution. Maybe the rivers are reminiscent of those rivers that ran red with blood during the wars: filled with pain and angry release.

These rivers are more beautiful though: like ethereal blue souls winding and glittering onto the next beyond.

“Why is it stupid?”

I don’t recognize the gentle voice that surrounds me in the darkness.

“Because it is,” I say, bending to the river that winds near me. A blue wisp curls off of the river. I watch it in awe, reaching out to cup it in my hands. It is warm and sparkly, a delightful feeling on my fingertips. I let it go.

“What is it?” The voice asks, befuddlement clear in their tone. “The war you fought?”

“No,” I dip my fingers into the river and yank my arm back, the electricity that jolts up my elbow making my eyes water and I bite my lip against a yelp. “Are these souls?!” I gasp, shocked.

“Yes–” the voice answers distractedly, nonchalantly, as if waving away my deep-seated fear that I have just destroyed the very life force that was meant to enter the world, “Is it the prince?”

“What? No. He’s probably fine. Is it okay that I touched a few?” My heart is pounding as I glance around the great void, but I don’t see the speaker.

“No, they’re fine–but… Sybil, he executed your entire coven, everyone you ever knew.”

“Some of them were jerks,” I shrug. “... Most of them, actually. They didn’t handle the dead with grace. They couldn’t  hear the bones. I think that’s what the young prince saw.” My memory flashes with the faces of my twelve siblings, ten of whose deaths I witnessed firsthand. My heart clenches at the thought, but I know that it’s true. As gentle as they appeared, war hardened them. War hardened me. Before, our constructs were our family, our friends, our partners… Once we fought the living, we forgot. The bones became our weapons, our machines of destruction. That thought alone was more painful than the deaths of my coven: and that was saying something.

“You’re not mad?”

I lean back on my hands and stare up at the empty darkness above. “No. Not at all.”

“Sybil. Why is it stupid? What is stupid?”

I sigh and close my eyes, feeling tears pinprick my eyes. “It’s funny, is all. I should have just stayed out of it, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

I gulp down a sob. “The coven, the war, the dying… it was all… so exhausting. What a complete waste of my time; complete waste of bones and memories.”

The voice doesn’t answer right away. “That’s… sentimental.”

I chuckle around the knob in my throat. “I’m a bit of a softie.”

“What would you do, if you could do it again?”

I laugh heartlessly. “Honestly? I’d build a farm.”

“A farm?”

“Yes.”

“That’s… silly.”

“It’s important and relaxing… and beautiful.”

“I’ve… never thought of that.”

I wipe my eyes with tight fists. “It’s okay,” I cough, trying to cover it up, and gather myself. “So! What’s this Great Beyond everyone tells me about?”

“Do you want to go back? Try again?” The voice surprises me. I didn’t anticipate this question.

“Do I?” I consider it. “I didn’t think that was an option.”

“It usually isn't, but… I’m curious.”

I stand and wipe my hands on my skirts. “I mean…” I think about it for a long moment. “I’m going to be frank with you, I’ve never thought about it seriously.”

The voice sounds disappointed. “I won’t push you, if you’re ready to rest, I’ll lead you on.”

Something makes me hesitate in that great emptiness. I gather something akin to courage and say: “Alright. I’ll do it.” I hesitate. “Just one more time, right?”

“Yes.” They sound like they’re trying not to be excited. It makes me smile a little. Who was this small godling?

“Do I get to keep my memories?”

“I think you would have to, wouldn’t you?”

I feel my lips curve involuntarily. “Yes. I think I’d like that. Just one more go.”

“You just can’t… you know. Change anything besides that.”

I want to laugh. “It was all stupid anyways,” I tell them. “Don’t worry about that.”

“I can bring you back.” The voice levels.

“I know you can.”

“Good. Okay.” They pause, then in a voice as excited as it is anxious, they say: “I’ve actually never done this before.”

“Me neither.”

“Here goes…”

Blue light seeps from the river, flooding out over the cusp of darkness, and curls around me. The electricity hums, but this time it is a gentle, warm buzz. I close my eyes and lean back as the warmth wraps around me.

“Good luck!” The voice says cheerfully. “I’ll see you again.”

“Not too soon,” I hope.

Their laugh feels like bells in my skull–tinkling unobtrusively.