The death of Andrew McGinty

Andrew McGinty died before he could finish his life’s work.

McGinty was a mythologist, he studied religions, myths, legends and tall tales. His particular interest was in what became of your soul when you died. In every culture, it seemed, there was a detailed description of the journey taken by the soul to reach heaven, but heaven itself was never described in anything but the scantiest of terms. ‘Yeah it’s great, you should go’, was essentially all that was ever said. The day-to-day features of life in eternity were glossed over in every scripture, story and legend.

He had hoped that before he died he would find a detailed account of where he was going, but it was not to be. On 17 November 2017 at precisely 13.05 and 27 seconds, Andrew McGinty died.

He recognised the skeletal figure in front of him, covered though he was in the Cloak of Mortal Doom, for he had read more accounts of Death than any other man alive.

“You have no scythe,” he said, surprised. “You carry the Sword of Destiny, but that is for special deaths, kings, princes, religious leaders.”

“AND,” Death interrupted impressively, “FOR THOSE GIFTED WITH THE KNOWLEDGE TO RECOGNISE THE SWORD OF DESTINY.”

“But how did you now I would recognise it? I could only recognise it if you brought it with you, but …”  Death cut him short.

“MANKIND ARE ALL FOOLS,” Death informed him, “YOUR CONFUSION IS UNNECESSARY AND MISPLACED, BROUGHT ABOUT BY YOUR BELIEF IN CAUSATION AND CHANCE. THERE IS ONLY DESTINY AND FATE. IT WAS DESTINED THAT YOU WOULD DIE ON 17 NOVEMBER 2017 AT PRECISELY 13.05 AND 27 SECONDS, THAT I WOULD BRING THE SWORD OF DESTINY, THAT YOU WOULD RECOGNISE THE SWORD OF DESTINY AND THAT WITH SAID SWORD I WOULD SWING AND SLICE YOUR LIFELINE, FREEING YOU TO GO WHERE YOU SHOULD GO.” 

So saying, Death swung the Sword of Destiny and sliced through the thin, blue lifeline connecting McGinty to his mortal form, freeing him to go wherever he should go.

McGinty found himself in a new place, greeted by an official with a clipboard, and a duck, which sat on the desk next to the official.

“Andrew McGinty?” said the official.”

“Yes,” said McGinty.

“Quack,” said the duck.

“I know this place,” said McGinty. “This is the Tomb of One Direction. You,” he said to the official, “Are the Keeper of the List of the Dead, and you,” he said to the duck, “are the Duck of Death, whose presence makes the recently-mortal aware of their own death and contemplate the loss of their life and the fate of their freed-up soul.”

“Quack,” said the duck, and it was true, McGinty realised that his name was now absent from the List of the Living, instead it was etched forever onto the List of the Dead. He was dead, gone, a soul in search of its destiny.

“I must go on,” he said.

“It’s quite simple,” said the official, “There is only one direction. If you follow the cat.”

McGinty knew the legend. The Cat of One Direction leads the souls of the dead through the Tomb of One Direction to the Corridor of Eternal Light. Though the journey was short, and there was only one direction to travel in, the cat stopped twice en route to lick himself, but soon they were at the entrance to the Corridor and the cat was ready to turn back and re-tread its steps (even in the Tomb of One Direction cats are not bound by the rules that the rest of us follow).

McGinty stepped into the Corridor of Eternal Light, the passage to heaven frequently described in near-death experiences. He walked along the corridor for many miles. Sometimes, McGinty had read, an elephant sits in the Corridor, blocking the way, and the dead souls must wait until enough of them have gathered to push the elephant along the corridor so that they may pass. But today, the day of McGinty’s death, there was no elephant and the journey was unremarkable.

At the end of the Corridor he reached the banks of the River Styx, a scene he recognised from a million tellings. There, waiting for him oar in hand and other hand outstretched, waiting for payment, was the Ferryman.

“A coin for the Ferryman,” he said.

McGinty reached into his pocket and, sure enough, there was a coin for the Ferryman, which he handed over.

“You must have coined quite a bit of money over the years,” he said as the two of them climbed onto the small, wooden ferry.

“More money than you can conceive,” the Ferryman said thoughtfully, “Enough to purchase every kingdom on Earth, enough to buy the services of man and woman alive and walking the mortal world.”

The ferry pushed off, silently slicing through the icy waters of the Styx. “Of course,” The Ferryman added, “It’s no use to me, I never get the time off. The dead never cease, just as the waters of the Styx ever flow.”

McGinty had never experienced a silence, quiet and stillness anything like that which he enjoyed on the ferry, there was nothing, nowhere, nobody; the Ferryman silently pushed his oar through the water and the Styx was still and shush. In the distance there was nothing, soon neither bank could be seen. No animal, mortal or otherwise, could be seen nor heard on this fateful river.

“So, where are we headed?” he asked the Ferryman after a long period of silence.

“The other side,” the Ferryman said.

“But what lies there?” McGinty asked, for he remained curious as to his fate.

The Ferryman chose not to answer him for a long, long time, for in the realm of the dead there is no hurry. In fact, it wasn’t until they had reached the bank that the Ferryman spoke, though whether he was finally answering the question or merely announcing their arrival was unclear.

“The other side,” he said.

McGinty stepped onto the bank and walked a short distance, until he reached the Gates of Heaven. Saint Peter was waiting for him, checked his name against another clipboard and nodded him through. He had reached his destiny, he was in…

He was in a lift.

“Going up, or going down?” said a man, who was dressed as a lift attendant.

“What’s the difference?”

“Down is to eternal damnation in the fires of hell, up is to eternal bliss in the kingdom of heaven.”

“Does anyone ever choose down?”

“You’d be surprised. You meet all sorts in this job.”

“Up for me, please.”

“Thought you’d choose up. You don’t seem the eternal damnation type, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“So what’s eternal bliss like, what lies through the doors?”

“No point asking me, guv, I’m just the lift attendant. I never get to step out through the doors.”

Unlike the ferry across the Styx, which was in total silence, the Elevator to Eternal Destiny whirred noisily, as if the operating mechanisms were on the way to the kingdom of death themselves. But McGinty had no fear, for he had read widely about the journey to the kingdom of heaven, and he had not once read of anyone getting stuck in a lift on the way there.

Eventually there was a ‘ping’ to announce that the lift had arrived at its destiny.

“Right, we’re here guv. If you’d like to show your appreciation, I’d be much obliged.”

“My appreciation?”

“A coin guv. You carried two with you. One was for the Ferryman…”

“And one for the Ultimate Lift Attendant. I get the picture.” He reached into his pocket, and there sure enough was another coin.

“You realise that when you hand over the coin you will have passed on your last connection to the life of Andrew McGinty, so that you may move on to your destiny.”

“I understand,” said McGinty, for he did. He understood the ‘heaven’ that awaited him through the lift doors. “Thank you,” he said, handing over the coin and stepping into the darkness.

Then, at precisely 13.05 and 28 seconds, Molly Sanders opened her eyes for the first time, wailing noisily at the spanking that greeted arrival in the realm of the living.

Thus began a new journey.