There are many rooms in my Father's house. If this were not so, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? -John 14:2, NLT
Claude found himself moving again. As before, he had no control over this. Being a ghost was incredibly inconvenient. It was of small comfort to him to know that Phoebus was subject to the same unglamorous fate.
Which gave him an idea. "Phoebus, how does this 'appointment' work where the fate of your soul is decided?"
"Darn, I really wish I could lie right now," Phoebus replied. "Well, first you're going to talk to St. Michael and he's going to ask you…"
There was a blinding flash of light and a sudden jolt, like Claude had just been pulled through a wall. He realized that Phoebus wasn't there anymore; the blonde ghost must be on the other side of that wall now. Grr. I was so close to learning some very valuable information. Reflexively, he swore aloud—and immediately kicked himself (figuratively, of course). "That was an accident!" he shouted, for the benefit of anyone who might have been listening. "I'm still learning how to control my speech!"
"So I see." Claude heard the voice before he saw the speaker's form materialize. The figure shone so intensely that no human eye could have looked upon it without disintegrating under the sheer force.
"You…you are St. Michael?" Claude asked nervously. He should probably be kneeling right now. If ghosts were capable of kneeling. He tried to stoop forward, only to feel himself flip over and his vision completely obscured by the floor of clouds he had been standing on (or was it floating above?) seconds earlier. "I hope I'm kneeling right now. I'm trying!" his brain blurted out too anxiously for his liking.
He didn't really think he was kneeling. Flat on the floor, facedown, seemed to be a closer approximation of his posture. He could only hope that St. Michael gave bonus points for effort.
"I am St. Michael," the voice responded loudly enough to make the clouds vibrate. When the echo died down, Claude could hear the frantic scratching of a quill on parchment.
"Have you anything to say for yourself?" the archangel demanded.
Claude couldn't remember when he had last been so terrified. His next words would determine whether or not his soul survived—and ghosts didn't speak very eloquently. The disadvantages of being dead!
At least ghosts didn't wet themselves…
"I made some mistakes and I'm sorry," he said, sounding much too panicked. There was no point in trying to deny it.
Scritch, scratch, scratch, scratch, went the quill on the parchment.
Claude filed desperately through his brain. "I…um…I bought an indulgence? …yeah."
For the first time, the quill went still so that the archangel could prompt Claude further. "Did you genuinely believe that would pardon your sins?"
Yikes. Was the correct answer "yes" or "no"? "I don't know," Claude found himself saying. "That priest who was selling them, I wanted him to excommunicate someone who was in a position of authority. To prove a point. Politics. You know how that works. It was a mutual favor."
…that definitely wasn't the correct answer. St. Michael made no comment, the quill continuing to grate harshly against the scroll.
Claude thought frantically. "Earlier in my career, I gave a huge sum of money to the church once. To fund some much-needed repairs to the Cathedral of Notre Dame. The archdeacon was so happy that he gave me a plaque on the floor of the cathedral with my name on it."
"And?" St. Michael prompted.
"And I felt really good about myself, when all of the city started coming to see the repairs. But then I realized that half of them were just there to spit on my name plaque." Claude didn't even try to stem the story that spilled forth; resisting was useless. "So I ordered guards to stand by my plaque to keep people from spitting on it." Scratch, scratch, scratch went the quill. "All of my publicity stunts worked much better with the aristocracy than with the laypeople."
Scritch, scratch.
"I saved Quasimodo's life!" Scritch, scratch. "Primarily because I got stiff-armed into it." Scribble, scribble, scratch. "But he didn't suffer neglect at my hands, because I hired some random peasant woman to tend to him for me." Scribble. "No, really, he wasn't even weaned yet when I got stuck with him. Of course I had to hire help! Men can't breastfeed!"
Stricth, scratch. Scribble scribble.
Claude forced himself to look upon the angel's countenance despite the blinding glare. But St. Michael's face was expressionless. Claude could not tell if his testimony was having any effect.
Maybe he was doing this all wrong. Esmeralda had pointed out something to him, when they were tied down on the cart being dragged to their pyre.
It's not because of what you did or didn't do that you get to go to Heaven. It's because of what Jesus did that you get to go to Heaven.
"I messed up." His voice sank. "I don't deserve salvation." Even though he didn't have a throat anymore, he felt himself choking up. "The only thing I can truly say in my defense is that, in the end, I sacrificed my career to save Esmeralda's life—King Louis would have assuredly fired me for marrying an immigrant to give her amnesty—but I didn't even live long enough to see that through! Those documents never got sealed and she's still a deportee who illegally returned to France and she's going to be killed anyway!"
Claude's voice broke; the air was silent. Even the quill scratching had ceased.
After a few seconds that felt like an eternity, the angel spoke. "Are you telling me that you have nothing to say to prove your worthiness?"
"You are correct there." For the first time, Claude was glad he didn't have lips; he would not have had the strength to have moved them.
"Actually, you are correct there." St. Michael suddenly spoke. "I'll put this as plainly as I possibly can: there has been no place in Heaven reserved for you, because nobody ever expected you to make it."
"Saint Michael, sir?"
The voice had popped up from somewhere to the left of the angel. Claude focused on the place from which it had come, to see if he could identify the speaker.
"Sir, I'd like to intercede on the defendant's behalf."
"Phoebus, how did you get here?!" The shocked words sprung unbidden from Claude's mind.
"Please, sir, be merciful. Claude had a change of heart right before he died, and he didn't get a chance to even try to make up for all of the wrong he did. Sir. Please take that into account, sir."
"Claude was given sixty-three years to make up for all of the wrong he did." St. Michael's voice was as heavy and emotionless as ever. "It is not my fault that he waited until the last minute."
"Well, it isn't my fault, either," Phoebus replied. "It's all his fault. But my probation angel caught me misbehaving and now I'm really gonna get it so I need to do something really, really amazing to get back on my angel's good side. Something like helping Claude get out of this mess even though I really, really hate him."
"This does not seem very generous of you," St. Michael commented.
"Sorry," Phoebus mumbled in embarrassment. "I'm not yet used to this whole business of being a ghost and having to blurt out the brutal truth all of the time."
Has his situation not been so dire, Claude would have been amused to watch Phoebus sharing his struggles.
St. Michael spoke again, his voice even more forceful now. "Regardless of this fake selflessness that has been displayed on your behalf, the fact remains that there is no place in Heaven waiting for you."
"I know. I don't deserve one." The air went deathly quiet. "But I beg you, please give me a second chance to repair the damage I have done. Let me be a homeless man who willingly sleeps out in the wind and rain, for he knows it to be the wind and rain from the hand of God!"
Again the air went silent. St. Michael pressed his hands together in a steeple, paused for a beat, and then spoke. "Thus says the Lord God: Live outside in the wind and rain. Both of you are sentenced to walk the Earth together to learn the lessons you have both turned deaf ears towards during your lifetime."
Claude sank through the clouds in sheer relief. Following after him, floating down to earth, he could hear Phoebus mumble: "Walk the Earth together? I think my plan worked a little TOO well."
