There Is Pain Here

Chapter One

James Abram Garfield , president of the United States, lay in agony with a would-be assassin’s bullet lodged in his back. Surrounding his bed: probing doctors and other staff. To James their voices were echoes, their faces no more than blurred orbs moving about in a fog of his waning life force.

He heard only one clear voice. Garfield, it said. You are needed. Come.

Since boyhood James had enjoyed a personal relationship with his Savior. But this voice came not from Jesus Christ, he knew. Through the pain and confusion he discerned the voice to be from neither the Lord, nor from a person in the room.

A hallucination. It had to be. A persistent hallucination he struggled to ignore.

It did not, however, ignore him.

Garfield. Help us.

The voice emphasized the second syllable of James’s surname. Garfield. The standard pronunciation was, Garfield. A supreme irony he noted even in his dire state; his own hallucinations mispronounced his name.

Someone jostled his body, intensifying his pain. He forgot all about the strange voice.

After the initial chaos of tending to his wounds, more than one doctor revealed to James the daunting truth; he was unlikely to survive the night.

But survive the night he did. Indeed he survived several months. Fevers came and went, as did reports to the public of the president being near the end.

Yet James clung to life.

And the voice clung to James more and more as time went on.

"Garfield. Come to us."

No, James said out loud to the room he lie in. Leave me, I’ll not come to you.

Medical aides had not reported the declaration to anyone the following morning. Yet by now, James was convinced it was not delirium after all, but a call from beyond life, albeit not the voice of God.

It was near dawn after a sleepless, night of fevers when the message changed.

Garfield, said the voice, Your time on Earth will soon end. Will you choose to come to us? Will you help?

Choice? What choice had he in the matter?

He asked this at high volume in his head, but it escaped his mouth as mere mumbling. His wife, Lucretia, love of his existence, placed another cold compress on his head in response.

Not long after this, James strengthened. A hearty several weeks followed during which doctors, the nation, and for a time James himself saw recovery at hand. The assassin’s bullet remained lodged in his innards, but he could now keep down small amounts of broth. He attended to light state business from bed on occasion. To the nation, recovery seemed near.

It was not to be.

Late that summer James developed a horrific fever while sleeping in relative comfort. As he slumbered, he found himself viewing a familiar dusky landscape, one that had come to him in dreams numerous times during his ordeal. This time it was much clearer. He even made out a road of some kind before him.

James watched a shadow emerge and walk down this road toward him. He didn’t fear this apparition. Nonetheless he desired no further acquaintance with it.

Garfield, said the shadow. It was the same voice he had heard so many times before. The time to choose is upon you. But know this.

The shadow raised his hand, and swept it in front of James’s face.

All at once, a confusing, terrible truth burned into James’s being. The pleas, questions, lamentations and spiritual miseries of hundreds, thousands of human beings engulfed him.

He saw little, but sensed the souls of people lost to themselves and to one another, souls crying out, souls plagued with anguish he could not verbalize.

James grew cold. Though none of these troubled souls spoke words to him, a collective chorus of their hearts pulsated within him now, its universal message unmistakable: pain.

James woke with a start, surprising David Swaim, an Army friend who kept vigil at his bedside that evening.

Oh Swaim! Garfield cried out with a voice stronger than he had mustered in weeks, There is pain here! Oh, Swaim!

His following exclamation, I must try to help them, appeared to Swaim only as incoherent mumbles.

Soon after, James Garfield’s life on Earth ended. The room in which he lay was gone, the bed underneath him as well. Before him, a swirling galaxy of twinkling color. A massive tunnel peppered with specks of light stretched into a dark infinity.

James tried to speak, but had no power to do so. Instead he watched the rotating dance of this rainbow of light points.

One such point of light detached from the tunnel and floated toward him. As it got closer James determined it was a small milky-blue crystal.

The infinite tunnel of these crystals vanished, while this stray, now attached to a band, floated over James’s head and rested around his neck.

Thus began for James a slow but not unpleasant descent into the dusky landscape of which he had dreamed so much that summer. He came to rest on the ground. The crystal shone into the partial darkness.

A figure stood before him in the shadows.

"Garfield," said the recognizable voice again.

This figure emerged from shadow into the soft luminescence of the landscape. Human. Male, as James had suspected. Average height, thin in frame. Nevertheless he moved with a commanding presence.

This supernatural man attired himself in black, though with white jacket lapels and a white necktie, thinner than was the custom to James’s mind. Hair parted in the middle, curly and unruly. This man too donned a crystal necklace, though it glowed a different hue than James’s own; it shone a shade of red that made James think of sunlight through wine.

Welcome, said the man.

James assessed his surroundings. Slight breeze on his cheek. A dirt road stretching behind the man into some hills. Mountain on the far horizon with a white structure at the top of it.

Unimpressive shrubs dotted the field nearby. Even now, the entire landscape swam in the light of dusk, as had always been the case when he had caught glimpses of it before; it was never fully daytime.

James’s horrendous physical pain was gone. Also gone were certain intangible essences of life. He remembered his life, the Earth, the people he loved. Yet he did so almost as an intellectual concept with little emotional component to it. He was a hallow version of himself, who required effort to remember anything but this strange moment.

What is this place? James said. His voice was still his own, but speaking exhausted him. His head dropped to his chest, drained from the sheer physical exertion of uttering the short question.

He could now see his own attire: black suit, not unlike one he had owned, though this one had thin white fabric along the shoulders and side of the trousers. A rugged white shirt with collar, but no tie. A nondescript pair of black, supposedly leather shoes over black stockings.

James considered how plainly clad a man became in the afterlife.

Too weary to so much as lift his head back up, James could only sit and wallow in the confusion and frustration of his condition.

Don’t worry, said the shadow. Your strength and orientation will return in time. I am Theodore.

James’s attempt to look at the man resulted in a jerking, rolling motion of his head as though his neck were broken. Allowing his head to angle to the right side, he mustered the strength to ask, Where?

The place has had many names over the eons. Most, however, refer to it now as The Overlap. I’m certain you can deduce the reason.

James took a deep breath and then another, gathering the strength to speak again.

The Overlap. This Theodore was correct; James surmised right away he was now between life on Earth, and heaven. Or Paradise, as some of his contemporaries called it. He remembered now; as he was dying he made a choice to come to this Overlap, instead of passing into Paradise. His memory of the choice was for the time being caught behind a mist in his mind. Still, he sensed a greater good was the impetus.

Would he still have made this momentous choice had he understood, on his own deathbed, he would be greeted not by Jesus Christ, but by this Theodore character? He couldn’t say, but now he was at peace with this fact. The mere notion of not being with God after death would have horrified him not long ago. And yet faced with the situation now, the worst he would call it was mere disappointment.  

He hoped to express all of this to Theodore. Yet all he could vocalize was, I  am empty.

Empty? Theodore asked. With a raise of his eyebrows he said,  Ah. You thought it would be more emotional to find one’s self dead. A shock to the system, as it were. A moving experience, sort of a soaring revelry?

James decided this was a close enough assessment, and nodded.

Well, Garfield, Theodore said. You are not empty, I assure you.

Very well, James said, though he had more in mind.

Theodore walked toward him. When he stood a few inches from James he put a finger on the crystal draped around his own neck, and gestured to the one James himself wore. To be dead is to be beyond our corporal bodies, which no longer serve us. But being human we take our love, our plans, our regrets with us after death. Our souls.

Theodore stepped back from him. Die, and most souls journey to the next level. Paradise, heaven, Nirvana for some. Their crystals join them. Remember a large circular collection of tiny lights stretching into forever after you died?

I do.

Until we die, our crystals reside there. Once we are dead, they protect us from our human passions, our sadness, our longings, all the human things that would make Paradise less than perfect for us. To be chained to such desires once we are dead would be contrary to eternal peace, would it not?

Theodore paused, and James filled the silence with another weak, silent nod, though he was uncertain yet as to where this would all lead.

Because of these crystals we can remember, Theodore went on, with fondness, but not miss with terrible potency what we left behind on Earth. Otherwise, Paradise would not be a paradise, and The Overlap would be down right unbearable. Theodore spread his hands to take in the dull landscape around them. Now, my good man, is the disturbing part.

What else could be added to this tale of oddity to make it more disturbing? Again James could manage only a nod.

There are times, Theodore said, By means unknown, when crystals, we call them Remnant Crystals, are stolen between life and death. Those responsible? Foul human souls who, shall we say, were not given the option of Paradise upon their death. These corrupted souls intercept a crystal on its journey from that marvelous tunnel you saw to its rightful owner.

James was thankful he had one for himself now; without it, he knew such truths would dumbfound him. As it stood, he was merely confused. Confused and weary. Why?

He found it easier to speak by a slight margin.

Ah, the why of it, Theodore said. He turned his back on James, and walked a few paces down the road on which he sat. Evil intent. How I, and every other decent soul here would love to give you a more intricate answer. Alas, we have none to give. The ages of this place have not revealed the true motivation of the dark ones. You’d be amazed, Garfield, at how many mysteries still exist even after we die.

What happens to them? James said, mumbling.

Say again, Theodore said. He turned around and took several steps back toward James.

James took several deep breaths and spoke again. What happens when one loses a crystal?

Theodore looked over his shoulder. The Caverns of the Lost. Souls wander there in tortuous semi-consciousness, seeking to reunite with themselves and others, lamenting forever the cognizance of their own state of death, but unable to find a remedy. An unfathomable state. Theodore shook his head.

Can nothing be done? James asked.

Plenty, Theodore said. He stood on his toes, and returned his heels to the ground a moment later. Special people, such as myself seek out these Rogues. We call them Rogues for lack of a better title. We seek out the Rogues who steal, and we take the crystals back by any means required before they hide them away in whatever cesspool they call home. I, and others like me, and soon you yourself, are the Retrievers.

Theodore placed his hands in his pants pockets, and looked at James with a nondescript expression. This continued for sometime, neither man moving. At last James determined there was nothing further for Theodore to say.

How long since, James said. He took another breath, but found the words were already coming with yet greater ease. How long since I, since my body died?

Days. Or centuries. You haven’t been born yet, or you’re a legend. You’re a long-in-the-future prediction, a forgotten myth from ages ago. You see, time, as you experienced it on Earth, no longer applies. Therefore I have no direct answer to your perfectly understandable question.

Incredible, said James, as much to himself as to his odd companion. No Christ after all.

Oh, but I never said that, Theodore said. Of course, I never denied it either, I suppose. Mysteries again, Garfield, mysteries. Paradise lie beyond The Overlap for the decent souls among us. As for the Christ, I know not whether he be there or no. He shrugged. Though if there is a Christ, Paradise would seem the most likely place for him, I dare say.

James shook his head, more in an attempt to clear his thoughts than to deny anything Theodore had revealed. So much to process. So much to come to terms with.

You’ll learn. Theodore said. Some of it. Nobody knows it all, I imagine. If humans souls ever become omniscient, it doesn’t happen here. He chuckled without a smile. Other questions?

I saw, heard many in pain, James said. The memory rose from the fog of his mind. In fact it was you who showed them to me, I remember now. There must have been hundreds of them.

Thousands, said Theodore. He looked into the ground and shook his head. You glimpsed the Caverns of the Lost I mentioned a minute ago. Theodore dragged a foot across the dirt of the road. They do nothing but wander, weep, and lament their state. All good souls on Earth, mind you. I wanted you to see what the stakes are, Garfield.

And you help them? James asked.

As do others. Soon, you as well. But now I do believe you are strong enough to travel with me.

James tried to stand, but fell right over into the dust.

Best to allow me for now, Garfield. Full movement will come to you soon enough.

Before he could reply, a warmth spilled into James’s shoulder where Theodore touched it. It soon coursed through what would have been his body had he retained one. Wind picked up, swirled in heavy circular gusts around him, and blurred the landscape.

For his own part Theodore squinted. He slouched until the landscape changed, and the winds dissipated. Where there had been the sky, there was now a simple stone and mud room. A wooden chair sat to one side.

From two round holes in the ceiling filled with carved glass came shafts of focused light from outside. These light shafts, like two modest columns holding up the room, terminated in white circles of light on the floor, each five feet or so in diameter. Garfield sat helpless, still unable to move much, between these two circles.

What is this place? James asked