Archive of Our Own ^beta

Even years later, after I was already long dead, holding my son's sweating, emaciated hand through the veil, rubbing it like I did so often when he was sick as a child, I knew he'd survive. The black death that was ravaging our village and so many others tried to take him. I'd already been gone nearly 20 years by then, but I couldn't leave my first born's side. I'd watched the years of his solitude, his struggle since being isolated by my death, everything horrible he'd had to do to stay alive in a time and place not meant for children. The cruelty of it tried to consume him, tried to break him, but it couldn't. It only further broke and hardened his already shattered heart.

So when he was on death's door again, fighting the plague that had taken his neighbors, his whores, the people he drank with that he knew weren't his friends, I took his hand again, like I did so many times when fever tried to kill him as a child. And I gave him the same massage that always pulled him into sleep so he could rest enough to break the fever. The fevers were so overpowering when he was young. He was never conscious, always groaning, unseeing, unable to hear my reassurances that everything would be alright. But I knew he could feel my hands, strengthened by the labor that had always fed us just enough, touching his, willing him to pull through one more time. He always did, and he would again.

But the plague ravaged him worse than the years of drinking, stealing, and fighting ever did. It was agony watching my beautiful boy retching up blood with so many of those boils bursting open on his face and body. My adoring Betelgeuse, aching, weeping, and alone. But, like on the night he was born, he fought to survive against impossible odds. And he did.

He was such a good survivor, he might have ended up a village elder, were he not poisoned by his own desperation to be loved. I'll be first to say, I didn't enjoy watching him chop up that soul sucking witch with that axe. But I was glad my boy killed his murderer so I didn't have to. I never liked violence, and watching the things my son had to turn into made my heart bleed for him every time, but I understood it. I understood what it takes to stay alive in a dog eat dog world eager to crush you underfoot. I held his hand while he was dying, too, though that time, I don't know if he could feel it. His poisoned death throes were so violent. But, even still, I think he knew I was there. Because his last, sighing word on this earth was, "Ma..."

Betelgeuse's little brother, Donatello, was born only a few minutes behind Betel, and immediately his complete opposite. Betel was born sickly and weak, but Donny was healthy with a tight grip on Nat's finger. It was almost like Betel gave Donny his strength as they grew in my belly, already trying to protect him. For twins, they couldn't have been more different. Where Betel was suspicious of strangers and their motivations, Donny was outgoing and engaging. Betel was interested in the bugs on the ground, Donny was smelling the flowers that grew around them. Donny was soft and gentle in a time meant to tear his tenderness apart. Even as a child Betelgeuse knew how vicious the world was and, even though he'd never admit it now, he loved his little brother and wanted to protect that softness.

He always rode to Donny's rescue when the other children meant him harm. Always stood in front of him when the village perverts got too close. He knew what they'd do to his naive, innocent little brother, so trusting and easily manipulated.

So when the opportunity came to send Donny with their father Nat on a long journey chasing claims about safe, steady jobs, we agreed it was for the best. With Betel's help, I could manage things at home and make just enough to get by, even without Nat's strong arms at work. Betelgeuse would deny it, but even he fell apart when the morning came to say good-bye. When his father and little brother were just a speck on the horizon in the horse-drawn wagon, he sniffled for his twin for the last time.

We never saw them alive again.

I expired only a few years later when Betelgeuse was a teen. Since I sent my youngest away for his own safety, the plague never found him. But highway men did. When Donny was alone after Nat died, they robbed him and drowned him in a river. He still forgave them. It was around the same time Betelgeuse died by Delores's poison. But my Betel, well, he went down swinging.

When Betelgeuse died, I was there, still holding his hand. I didn’t think he actually saw me before I disappeared, his guide forcing me from my son’s presence. Things were less bureaucratic back then, but rules are rules, and there was still a strict process to be followed. Betel’s guide would be the one to escort him to the Neitherworld and answer his questions. He would get an experienced ghost assigned to support him, and receive a tome, bound in leather, with instructions on navigating his new afterlife.

Even after Betelgeuse crossed over, I didn't seek him out right away. I reasoned he needed some time to come to terms with his death and get his ghostly feet under him. He didn't know I'd been with him, watching him grow up and struggle alone, as best he could, since my death. I figured adjusting to the afterlife in the Neitherworld would be enough of a challenge. I didn't want to overwhelm him with the knowledge that his mother had witnessed nearly every one of his depravities as a desperate man in the middle ages. Today, they might call it “helicopter parenting,” but back then I was just a mother on my own in the afterlife, worried about my first born son. 

After a few months, I decided it was time to find my Betelgeuse. Nat, Donny, and I had found each other by then and lived together in a little house, again on the outskirts of the main city. Donny was adjusting nicely to being a ghost and I was delighted to see how much he’d grown, still his brother’s twin, still Betel’s complete opposite. Donny was talking about finding a place of his own, and Nat and I hoped that, now dead, Donny’s naive good nature wouldn’t get him into any more trouble. Nat and Donny offered to come with me to find Betelgeuse, but I convinced them it was best if I went alone. They didn't yet know how much he'd had to change, how unrecognizable he'd become. Betel was always closer to me than his father, anyway, and that bond only deepened after Nat and Donny left. If we were going to reconnect as a family, I had to be the first one he saw.

I started asking around after my oldest son. Betelgeuse hadn’t yet built up the reputation he has today, so his name meant nothing to the average dead passerby. I eventually went to what we now call “The Waiting Room,” which back then looked more like a humble guild hall, and asked where I could find him. They told me how to get to his home, and I went, arriving at a barely standing shack which would evolve over the centuries into his “Roadhouse,” as he likes to call it. 

I knocked loudly, and waited. I heard the telltale signs of a hangover in my son's grumbling voice as he yelled from inside, stumbling through the house. It was afternoon, so he winced at the light streaming into his eyes as he opened the door. But as he blinked them open again and saw me, he stilled. His mouth fell open and he just stood there, stunned into silence. A woman's voice in the house broke the quiet tension between us, asking if he was coming back to bed. He looked at the ground immediately, so he didn't see the smirk that briefly crossed my face. He rushed inside and hustled the woman out as quickly as she could dress. He wordlessly invited me in and I sat on one of his few pieces of furniture, a rickety wooden bench. He wouldn't look at me, even after I patted the space next to me and he sat uncomfortably. Finally, he spoke in our native Italian, as it would be quite some time before either of us learned English.

“Ma, I…” his voice trailed off as he shifted anxiously.

I could only imagine how hard this was for him, but I wouldn't let his overwhelmed awkwardness stop me. I reached out and put my hand on his cheek, slowly lifting his head until his gaze met mine. He looked so unsure, so vulnerable, as if he believed I was about to reject everything he was.

“Betel,” I began softly, “I’m proud of you.”

He flinched as if I’d just struck him, and swallowed around a tight throat, shuddering as he whispered, “You… don’t know what I’ve done, Ma…”

“Yes, I do,” I said knowingly, keeping my voice as gentle as I could. 

His eyes widened until his face twisted with shame. “When I was… after Delores… I thought I felt…” he choked out.

I nodded silently and smiled, telling him with my eyes that I’d been the one massaging his hand as he died.

“How long…?” he whispered.

“Always, until the very end.”

He tried to pull away from me then, his eyes glistening with impending tears as he shrouded himself in disgrace. I could see he was painfully tallying in his mind all the unsavory things I’d seen him do in the 20 years since my death. I put both my hands on his face, gently forcing him to meet my gaze. 

“Ma–” he whimpered before I interrupted him.

“Betel, be quiet and listen,” I said firmly.

“...yes, ma’am…” he whispered.

I made my tone gentle again. “Did you do things most would consider objectionable? Yes, many times.”

He whimpered softly and shut his eyes tight, trying to tilt his head towards the floor, but I wouldn’t let him get away. I pulled his head sharply to me and his eyes snapped open. 

“But so has your mother.” 

His eyes widened then, and I could see him playing that bloody winter night, where I mercilessly killed, dismembered, and buried two intruders, back in his mind.

I continued, “You’ve endured so much. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

Tears quietly raced down his cheeks then as his lower lip trembled. 

“I love you, Betelgeuse, and nothing you’ve done changes that.”

He came undone before my eyes, sobbing uncontrollably as I pulled him into my arms and kissed his head. It took a long time for him to calm down, but eventually his tears dried and he pulled away from my embrace. We talked for hours after that, and resolved that he would visit us. I finally had my Betel back.

When Betelgeuse came to visit our home for the first time, I made sure I was the one who opened the door. I knew he'd be nervous, so I did my best to smile reassuringly as I took his hand and gently ushered him in.

Betel and I had agreed that I wouldn't share his living history with the rest of the family. That was up to him, and I wouldn't go back on my word. When we were alive, together in our little house, I taught Betel how important it was to keep the promises you make. How, especially when you have nothing, your word means everything. It's what made the merchants trust us with credit, because we always paid them back, plus a little bit of interest when we could manage it. We always held up our end of a deal, no matter what, even when others didn't.

Betel and his father hadn't seen each other in such a long time that Nat didn't recognize his eldest son at first. But he knew right away that the man before him had struggled through a very hard life. From the scars and moss on his face, to his shadowed eyes and pale skin, the history of a tortured existence was written all over Betel's body. Nat did his best not to break down, but as he embraced his child, he couldn’t hide the sorrow on his face, the regret in his voice, when he said, “It’s good to see you, Betel.”

Donny walked in then, but didn’t see Betel at first, shielded by their father’s large frame. Yet when Donny spoke, Betel froze in Nat’s arms. It suddenly hit me, in that moment, that I’d forgotten to tell Betelgeuse that his brother did not survive. There was no way we could know for sure, but Nat and I always suspected they’d died around the same time. Perhaps even eerily close, as if they’d planned to leave the Earth just like they arrived. Together. Nat released Betel and stepped out of the way, and my boys saw each other again for the first time since they were children. 

As it ever was, the contrast between them was stark. Donatello’s skin was unmarred, his person clean and bright, his wide eyes unburdened by the weight of the world. He was almost pristine compared to Betelgeuse, whose scars, pallor, and sins would never leave him. The twins stared at each other, mouths agape, for what felt like a millenia, until Donny’s eyes filled with tears and he rushed towards his brother. Betel did the same, and they met in the middle in a fierce hug, clinging to one another as if afraid they’d disappear.

I held Nat’s hand and wept, feeling privileged to witness such a beautiful reunion. But the touching moment of their reconnection was doomed to be short lived. As my twins pulled back and pressed their foreheads together like they did when they were little, I spoke.

“Donny’s been living with us for a few months now,” I said. “It felt so much like old times, it didn’t even occur to me that you didn’t already know he was here. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Betel.”

Betel’s head, still pressed against his brother’s, gently shook. “It’s ok, Ma.”

Finally, Betel stepped back slightly, his expression pained. “You aren’t supposed to be here, Donny,” he finally uttered. “What the Hell happened?”

My youngest took a deep breath. “The village we’d been living in was remote enough that the plague hadn’t touched it. But after I buried our father, I felt lost. Alone. I needed my brother.” 

Betel flinched then, but Donny continued. “I didn’t know if you were alive, but I couldn’t rest until I was certain. If I could just get to where we were born and find you, I could bring you back with me. We could hide from the plague together, start over, be a family again.”

Betel hung his head, and I could tell his heart was heavy. I knew that, by the time the plague struck, Betel had already drifted so far from the person Donny once admired. Betel shook his head again and lifted his gaze.

“Already a terrible idea, but classically you, Donny,” Betel smirked. “Let me guess, you caught plague on your journey.” 

Donny chuckled sheepishly. “No, brother. I was already a few days from the village when I took a wrong turn. That night, I asked for directions from a group of men on horseback. I didn’t realize they were highwaymen until I was already robbed and face down in a river. I drowned.”

Betel’s eyes went wide and he was suddenly shaking, his rage wafting off him. My heart caught in my throat as I knew what my eldest was thinking. That Donny’s kindness and naivety, that Betel had once fought so hard to protect, had gotten him killed.

“You shouldn’t be here…” Betel whispered as he trembled. He stepped back from Donny, recoiling with frustration as his voice grew stronger and his anger crept in. “You shouldn’t have left your village.”

“But I needed you–”

“AND I WASN’T WORTH IT!” Betel yelled until his voice cracked. “You were supposed to stay safe! Grow old! Raise a family! We sent you with Pa to protect you! And you threw it all away! You believed in the kindness of strangers and they murdered you without a second thought! All those years apart for nothing!”

Donny stared agape at his brother, and I realized Donny was hearing for the first time that he’d been sent away for his own safety. But Betel wasn’t through and his chest heaved as his tirade continued.

“How could you be so stupid? So naive? You had everything! You were safe from disease with a full belly and roof over your head! You didn’t have to watch everyone around you suffer and die, praying you wouldn’t be next! You never wished for death, just to make the pain stop! Your innocence was a gift that you squandered!”

Tears streamed freely from Donatello’s eyes and, for a moment, I saw a wave of guilt wash over Betelgeuse’s face. He didn’t want to hurt his beloved little brother, but Betel’s resentment could not be bottled back up. As Betel turned and stomped out of our home, Donny collapsed and Nat barely caught him. I ran after Betel, slamming the door behind me, and caught his arm. I whipped him around to face me, but he looked down and wouldn’t meet my gaze.

I lifted his head and spoke gently as if trying to soothe a wild animal, “Betel, Donny can’t help but be himself. That’s his nature. Just because it’s different from yours doesn’t make it wrong. What happened is not his fault.”

“No…” Betel said quietly before choking out, “It’s mine.” He had tears in his eyes as he walked away, and I knew him well enough to let him go. In that moment, nothing could pull him from the deep pit of guilt he’d thrown himself into.

I’d guess Betel was angry at Donny for never adapting properly to the cruelty of the world, for putting so much undue faith in his fellow man, for projecting the kindness and vulnerability that invited manipulation and danger. And all that is probably true. But I think Betel was mostly angry at himself. For sending his brother away, for not being there to protect him, for being the reason his brother left a good life behind to meet an untimely demise.

I understood then it would take years to repair their now fragile bond. Nat, Donny, and I agreed to stay in the Neitherworld for as long as Betel did, hoping that over time, they could learn to be brothers again.

After Betelgeuse’s outburst at Donatello, it took weeks before he was calm enough to see me. Luckily, after a few hours of comfortable conversation, I knew that my bond with my eldest was still strong. We made a point to see each other once a month after that, though it was seldom at my house. Betel didn’t want to risk a random encounter with his brother and I didn’t dare make their rift worse. 

By the 1400’s, the Medici family was rising to power and, though their influence was concentrated in Florence, their reach extended throughout Italy. And so, the Italian Renaissance began. Betel wanted to be closer to the Neitherworld’s equivalent of Rome, to make it easier to get “topside” in a densely populated city where there was “more action” for him. He could have meant clients, women, or any number of things, but it didn’t really matter. If Betel was moving, so were we. Betel and I would travel on ahead and scope out the city, neighborhoods, and work for Nat. Once settled, I’d send for Nat and Donny and they’d journey together, just as they’d done when they were alive. 

On the day of departure, I brought my skeletal horse-drawn wagon, packed with my few belongings, to Betel’s home. He hadn’t packed a thing, and though I was initially furious, he assured me it was deliberate. He wore a smirk as he said he only needed to grab one box, so to speak, and chuckled. Though skeptical, I was sure Betel had something tricky up his sleeve and he did not disappoint. The crumbling shack he lived in was slightly more durable by then, and he was already quite attached to it. So, rather than leave it behind, he just shrunk the whole house down and tossed it in his pocket for easy transport. He definitely strained and broke a sweat exerting that much magic, but for a ghost barely dead 100 years, it was extremely impressive. 

Naturally, Betel fell asleep in the wagon almost immediately after we left, having worn himself out with his dramatic feat of mobile architecture. As a dead man, he still snored just as loudly as he did when he was alive, but I was grateful for the noise that kept me awake for the long trip. Traveling with Betel was just as much fun as I imagined it would be. On the road, he told me stories about the magic he was learning and how he tested it on the job. I wish I could have watched him work, it sounded extraordinary. We fished along the river, though Betel sometimes ate our worms instead of baiting hooks with them. So I’d make him wade in the river to catch a fish for every worm he’d eaten. Already developing an aversion to cleanliness, he learned his lesson pretty quickly, but not before pulling me into the river with him. Monello.

We finally arrived in the Neitherworld equivalent of Rome and to call it impressive would be the understatement of the millennium. We couldn’t wait to get above ground and experience it in the living world. It was the middle of the night when we took to the streets for our first outing, walking through the city where ancient structures nestled right next to modern ones. I’d never seen such staggering architecture. 

We wandered through the Colosseum, with its rough stone arches made more dramatic by moonlight, and lamented how there were no gladiators left haunting the once bloody arena. We climbed the Palatine Hill and explored the Forum, perching atop the temples and triumphal arches to admire the ruins of what had been the bustling city center. We danced in the center of the Pantheon under the starlight pouring through the oculus overhead. Amidst all the history and grandeur this city had to offer, I suddenly understood why Betel wanted to move here. 

Rome had been practically abandoned after the fall of the ancient empire and its population had withered significantly. But after the Great Schism ended in 1417, the Vatican was investing heavily in the city, restoring many of its buildings and monuments to their former glory. The Vatican sought to make Rome the seat of papal power and brought brilliant minds from all over Italy to restore its link to the classical past and build bridges to the future. But the Renaissance was slow to reach southern Italy, so if Betel wanted the best, most influential clients as they passed away, he had to be in Rome.

Luckily, it didn’t take long before Betel found a good place to grow his home back to its normal size and I found lodgings for the rest of the family as well as leads on work. I was almost reluctant to send for Nat and Donny, knowing my private little adventure with Betelgeuse would come to an end. But, even after Nat and Donny arrived in Rome, Betel and I still maintained our monthly tradition of outings. We watched over the years how the Renaissance injected new life into what had almost been a dead metropolis.

At least, until 1515, when Betelgeuse’s “incident” completely changed his afterlife.

It was 1515 when Betelgeuse’s “incident” that changed his afterlife took place.

We'd been living “under” Rome for decades by then, and Betelgeuse and I finally decided it was time to sneak into the Vatican to see works by the great Michaelangelo. It was simple enough to do. Just make yourself invisible, waltz right through the walls of Old St. Peter's in the middle of the night, and enjoy an empty basilica bathed in candlelight, arm in arm. We’d heard rumors about The Pietà, but we weren't prepared for it. 

Our Lady of Pity was so breathtaking, I found myself holding Betel’s hand. Surely Betel and I were the least redeemable people to have laid eyes on such a magnificent sculpture. Yet I couldn't help but see us in the delicately carved marble. Not the holy Madonna and the slain savior of the world, but a loving mother freshly mourning her son after he suffered through his final moments on Earth. I wondered if Betel felt the same way, and as we stared at it quietly, I felt his hand tremble, just a little, in mine. I knew he was moved, despite struggling to resist the human emotions that this hunk of rock pulled out of him.

After lingering for a while, we decided to move on and see this painted ceiling everyone was talking about. We phased through the walls of the Sistine Chapel and craned our necks, gazing upward. But this was terribly uncomfortable and unsatisfying, so we simply floated to the ceiling, relaxing on our backs to inspect the mural more closely, enjoying a privileged view that perhaps only Michaelangelo himself had seen. The Old Testament scenes were so impressive, the figures bearing such expressive faces and poses, and in such vivid hues. Regardless of how anyone, alive or dead, felt about the subject matter, no one could deny this was another historic masterpiece. Still floating near the ceiling, I glanced around for Betel and found him lingering below the depiction of The Deluge – the biblical flood that drowned the world, sparing only Noah and his ark’s lucky passengers. 

I watched his eyes pass over the men, women, and children, scrambling to get to higher ground in a futile attempt to escape their imminent deaths. I could guess what he was thinking about. The black plague, the catastrophic event he’d survived that devastated humanity, when millions died horribly, thinking they’d been abandoned by God. Betel’s body must have felt as heavy as his heart while he floated back to the ground. I floated down to join him, and gently took his arm.

Betel whispered, “This must have taken years… That sculpture… This painting… How do they pay for all this?” He looked at me, his eyes desperately searching mine for an answer that made sense.

We hadn’t been a religious family when we were alive. Though we could read and write, we certainly couldn’t attend church when nearly every waking moment was spent just trying to survive. But after I died, I kept an ear to the ground about the politics and power struggles of the living world. I became aware of how intensely powerful the Catholic Church was and how they made their money. Specifically, through tithes, paid baptisms and burials, donations from the rich, and, unfortunately, the sale of indulgences, where one could just buy forgiveness for their sins if the price was right. Not to mention, the Church had acquired massive amounts of land over the years, no doubt worth a fortune by itself. I did my best to explain this to Betel, but it only seemed to upset him further, especially the part about selling indulgences. He slowly pulled his arm away from me as his body began to shake. 

“They left us to die, Ma…” his said, his voice quivering as he spoke. “They could have helped us… food, shelter, medicine, anything… they had the money…”

My eyes widened as I put the pieces together. I’d heard rumors that the plague was nature’s revenge for all the cats the Church had destroyed under the misguided belief cats were the devil’s emissaries. That the rats who teemed into cities now lacking urban predators were the true plague bearers. And regardless of how the plague began, if the Catholic Church had taken steps to intervene, to properly feed, quarantine, and treat the sick, maybe the plague wouldn’t have raged like a fire in a dry field. Perhaps Betelgeuse wouldn’t have gotten sick. Perhaps he might have had better prospects than scouring the pockets of the dead. Perhaps Delores might never have found him. There was no way to know for sure, but it was a heavy thought nonetheless.

Suddenly, Betel turned and stomped out of the chapel, phasing through a wall and back out into the open.

“Where are you going?!” I demanded as I chased after him, grateful the guards wandering the grounds couldn’t see us.

“To find the guy in charge!” Betel barked back.

There was only one guy he could have meant.

The Pope.

Betel stormed the papal residency, phasing through walls with me a heartbeat behind. He checked room after room until he spotted a door at the end of a hallway with two heavily armed guards flanking the entrance. As Betel likes to say, “Bingo.” We walked past the guards and phased through the thick door to see the Pope, Leo X, sleeping in his ornate bed. 

“Now what?” I asked.

“Let's have a chat,” Betel sneered through a wicked grin.

Suddenly, Betel grabbed my hand and we disappeared from the bedroom, reappearing in the middle of Leo X’s dream. Quite the salacious dream at that, much to the Pope's horror at being interrupted. After Betel stopped laughing so uproariously, he snapped away the other people in the dream, leaving the three of us standing in an empty white void. Betel’s blue eyes turned dark then as they locked onto the quivering Pope.

“Hey Papa, let's hear your confession,” Betel said threateningly as he menaced towards the Pope with the promise of violence radiating from every pore.

His target fell to his knees immediately and begged for forgiveness. It was so abrupt that even Betel was surprised at how the most powerful man in Italy, perhaps all of Europe, was so eager to be free of a guilty conscience. Something wasn't right. I knew Betel wanted this man to apologize on behalf of the Church for the plague, the ongoing hunger of the poor, the plight of the unhoused, all the suffering the Church could have prevented. But it was clear Leo X was apologizing for something much more direct.

The blubbering man confessed he’d spent all of the treasure amassed by the previous, frugal Pope Julius II, and that the Papacy was now deeply in debt. Betel's eyes flew wide, blinded with white-hot rage. His body grew larger until he towered over the stuttering man. Betel's head swelled and bloated massively over his shoulders as greasy, knotted warts erupted over his white skin. Tentacles burst from his nose and mouth, thrashing at Leo X, as he roared in the Pope's face. Betelgeuse had just unleashed his first instance of what he would later dub his “Double Deluxe Lung Tosser.” 

I’d never seen anything like it.

It was so otherworldly, so grotesque and totally beyond the typical body manipulation ghosts in the middle ages were attempting, it was truly original for its time. Apparently, the Pope agreed because he screamed ceaselessly and tried to crawl away, but Betel gave him nowhere to go and appeared in front of him at every turn. 

Suddenly, the Pope clutched his chest and collapsed backwards, gulping for air. Betel stilled and his huge, fiery eyes blinked as the Pope writhed on the ground, fighting to breathe and clawing at his heart. After quickly shrinking back down, Betel assumed his normal appearance and watched this thrashing man with a surprised and uncertain expression. I ran to Betel, grabbing his arm, and we looked at each other with fear blooming across our faces. We disappeared from Leo X’s dream and reappeared back in his bedroom to find the Pope in his bed, still clutching at his chest, fighting for every breath. 

“Do something!” I barked at Betel.

“Why should I ?” Betel clapped back, trying to cling to his anger even as it started slipping away. “You know he deserves this. And if this man truly talks to God, then he’s about to have a face-to-face conversation.”

I took my son’s face in my hands and he knew he was in trouble. “Betel, I don’t care about this man. I care about you and what will be done to you if you kill the Pope.”

His eyes went wide then, as if it just occurred to him that there might be consequences to his actions. He nodded and I released him. I bent down and listened to the Pope’s heart, which was barely beating. The man was already at death’s door. 

Betel paced uncomfortably. “Wh–what do we do?” Betel asked with panic creeping into his voice.

“We do nothing. You need to help him breathe and squeeze his heart until it beats normally.”

Betel gawked at me as if I’d told him to walk on the sun. “How the Hell am I supposed to do that? And why me?”

Now I was frustrated. “Because this cannot be covered up, Betelgeuse! And since you caused it, you must be the one to fix it if you have any hope of surviving!” 

He opened his mouth to argue, but then abruptly closed it.

“Now, this man needs air, so give him some," I barked. "Send air into his lungs carefully as if they were calm, normal breaths.”

Betel obeyed and with a wave of his hand, I could barely see a glimmer of disturbed atmosphere as air gathered around his fingers. He sent that air into and out of the Pope’s gasping mouth, down into his lungs at regularly-spaced intervals.

Nodding, I continued, “Good. Now, phase your other hand through his chest, gently grasp his heart, and carefully squeeze it in time with a normal heartbeat.”

Betel flinched at that instruction, but he did as I asked. With one hand sending air into the Pope’s lungs and the other deep in the man’s chest, pumping his heart for him, Betelgeuse saved the life of the man he’d almost accidentally killed. Betel could feel when the Pope’s breath and heartbeat stabilized enough that it was safe to withdraw. The Pope would need more care of course, and was still unconscious, but he’d survive. We knocked over some items on the bedside table loudly enough that the guards were about to rush in just as we disappeared from the room.

When we reappeared in the Neitherworld, dead guards were already there waiting for us. They arrested Betelgeuse immediately and brought him to court, where a trial for attempted assassination of the Pope was waiting to begin. Nat and Donny were already there, summoned by the powers that be, watching as Betel was dragged before the authorities. The court was all too ready to send Betelgeuse to the Fires of Damnation when I stepped in and spoke on his behalf. I explained that I’d witnessed what happened, that the heart attack was an accident and that Betel had actually saved the Pope’s life. I invited the court to search my soul for a lie and they found none. Yet, they were still incredulous as to how such a relatively young ghost could frighten the most holy man in Europe nearly to death. So I insisted Betelgeuse be given a chance to prove to them it was possible and they reluctantly, or perhaps curiously, agreed. The guards holding him unshackled his wrists and I approached Betel.

I whispered in his ear, “No matter what happens, I love you, Betelgeuse.” I pulled back enough to bore into his eyes with a fierce stare. “Now, make sure they never doubt you again.” And then I gave him the most proud, knowing, wicked grin I could muster.

He’d been uncharacteristically anxious the whole trial, but something clicked in him and his confidence, that unashamed, whole-hearted belief that he was the best, came rushing back. His grin mirrored mine as it erupted across his face, and he nodded. I stepped back and gave him room to floor the court with his “Double Deluxe Lung Tosser.”

And he did. 

I’d never heard of so many ghosts fainting at one time and the court had to concede that, were they not already deceased, they might have truly been scared to death. But they still would not let this mishap go unpunished, as merely entering the Papal residency, let alone the Pope’s very bedroom with the intent to scare him, was crime enough. There were multiple elements to Betelgeuse’s punishment. 

First, he was banished from Rome, effective at sunrise. Second, the name limiter would be placed upon him, a novel punishment created just for him. From that moment on, he could only enter the living realm by being summoned, when someone said his name three times. He could then be banished back to the Neitherworld the same way, and, as such, he could never say his own name again. Apparently, this was the court’s way of acknowledging his skill and potential, giving him some means of still being of service to haunt the living, rather than simply banishing him from the living world completely. Third, all of these punishments would last for 450 years. There would be one way to undo them, but the conditions to do so would only be revealed once the 450 years were up. The court promised his chances of succeeding were slim to none.

The pride Betel felt after scaring the court off their feet washed away with the devastation of such severe punishment. He swayed, his legs unsteady with the shock of this afterlife-changing news. He was free to go, but his face said plainly that he felt anything but free. I took his arm and gently led him out of the court. Nat and Donny went home to pack up our things, knowing that we’d follow Betel wherever he went. I led Betel back to his humble shack and stayed by his side all night as he raged and wept. We left for Florence in the morning.

Our move to Neither-Florence was challenging to say the least. I stayed by Betelgeuse’s side for months as he mourned his old afterlife and came to terms with his new constraints. Even after he started to dust himself off and tried to re-engage with the Italian Neitherworld, few would acknowledge him at all. News of his “crime” against the Pope had spread faster than word of his ground-breaking body horror, and he'd become a ghostly pariah almost overnight. Apparently, loyalty to the Church still ran deep, even after death. 

So we decided to build his haunting reputation back up with jobs no one else would touch. Jobs that were too difficult, too cheap, or too risky. I often called him topside and helped drop fliers advertising his skill. But literacy was still a mixed bag, even in the highly-educated Florence, so word of mouth would have to do. Betel did everything he could and started working pro bono in exchange for his clients putting in a good word with anyone who would listen. It was a slow and grueling effort to even begin fixing what took minutes to break.

We were grateful to find distraction and relief in our little outings. Like Rome, Florence was still enjoying the height of the Italian Renaissance, so we had no shortage of artistic and scientific endeavors to experience. We visited the massive statue of David, enjoying the view from the ground before floating up into the air for a closer look. It was fascinating how different the proportions seemed up close compared to what could be seen from the ground. Another ingenious strategy from Michaelangelo. 

We often spied on the aging Leonardo da Vinci, marveling at how his little painting of a mysterious woman, wearing the most curious and entrancing smile, was progressing. His sketches and inventions were just as fascinating, and we often copied his script in the air, mirroring it so we could decipher his notes. Betel watched him with particular delight whenever the polymath snuck in body parts, or even whole cadavers, for necropsy in search of the soul. Oh, if Leonardo only knew two souls were often floating nearby, watching him work. We were honored to meet him when he finally crossed the veil in 1519, and Betel gushed like a devoted fan as they discussed the master’s anatomical studies.

We’d been under Firenze a little over a decade by the time Betel’s reputation started to recover. He was still taking pro bono jobs, but it wasn’t his only work, and other ghosts started actually making eye contact with him on occasion. It helped that Leo X had actually died in 1521 and the Pope who followed was a Dutchman, the last non-Italian Pope for over 450 years. And as much as we had hated to leave Rome, our departure to Florence was well timed. In 1527, during the War of the League of Cognac, Rome was sacked and another plague swiftly followed. Rome's population plunged with the atrocities of war, famine, disease, and mass exodus from the city. As one of the most populated cities in Europe, Florence was now the place to be, especially if you were a ghost struggling to repair their reputation. 

But the ongoing war made us anxious. You’d think war was good business for ghosts, but in fact, the opposite is true. A sudden influx of ghosts in a single city, especially those who died in war, typically causes infighting over resources and, worse, a drop in demand for hauntings against the living. No ghost cares about hauntings in the face of war and the devastation it brings. It became harder and harder for Betel to find any jobs, even pro bono ones, and we started talking as a family about leaving Neither-Italy entirely.

In 1528, that decision became easy. Betelgeuse and I had just returned to the Neitherworld after an evening topside, and hopped into a skeletal horse-drawn carriage, as we often did on our monthly outings. But the carriage took odd turns, passing his neighborhood entirely, and sped out of the city. Betel and I could have easily phased out of the carriage and escaped, but we were both very curious who was dumb enough to try and kidnap the most infamous ghost in all of Neither-Italy and his mother. So we patiently waited for the carriage to stop. When it did, the door swung open and we stepped out, finding ourselves in an open field surrounded by hundreds of burly ghosts who, no doubt, thought themselves dangerous. As we scanned the crowd, a man stepped out from behind his thugs and we were more than surprised to see the smug face of former Pope, Leo X. 

Apparently, the now-deceased Pope still had an axe to grind seven years after his death, and had spent all that time building a small army to ”handle” the ghost that had scared him so badly. As his goons rushed towards us, Betel stepped in front of me and cloned himself twenty times, each clone sprouting a dozen arms, all bearing swords and spears. I put my hand on my “true” son’s shoulder and chuckled.

“I appreciate your chivalry, mio figlio, but you’re thinking too linearly,” I said in his ear. 

“Now’s not the time for a lesson, Ma,” he retorted as he and his clones scowled at the rapidly approaching army, preparing for a fight.

“Actually, this is the perfect time, Betel.”

He raised an eyebrow at me as I walked past him and his clones. I snapped my fingers, and the field the army was charging through burst into tall flames. Their screams were immediate as they scurried in all directions trying to escape the fire. Another snap of my fingers and the earth tore open beneath them, swallowing most of them and the inferno, before closing up again. The dozens who escaped both the fire and the fissure began to flee, Leo X among them. I looked back at Betel, who was staring at me, wide eyed and slack jawed. He reabsorbed his clones and extra arms before joining me at my side to watch the cowards run.

“You've been holding out on me, Ma!” 

I raised a finger to my lips and grinned. “Don't tell your father.”

Betel grinned back. “I won't tell a soul.”

“Now that the lesson’s over, onto the test. How will you catch those rabbits?”

Betel thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. Black and white striped tentacles sprang from the earth and grabbed every single assailant, flinging them back towards us. The tentacles receded and sprang up again to catch the flying foes before slamming each of them repeatedly into the ground. The sound of their bodies being crushed into the earth over and over was less than appealing. I snapped my fingers again and a few instruments materialized in the air and began to play, drowning out the cacophony of screams, breaking bones, and splattering blood.

“Care to dance?” Betel asked as he offered his hand.

“Feels a little cruel under the circumstances, don’t you think?”

Betel shrugged. “C’mon, Ma. They can’t die again, and they’ll just end up in the waiting area at the guild hall anyway. Besides, why not have fun while you work?”

I smirked. “Fair enough.”

I took my son’s hand and we danced in the field as the tentacles punished what was left of Leo X’s army around us. When their screams finally went quiet, Betel’s tentacles dropped them into new fissures he tore into the ground and the earth swallowed them whole. Well, mostly whole. Our dance complete, it was time to head back. I snapped my fingers and a soft wisp of light danced around us, and we teleported back to Betel’s home.

“That light is a lovely detail, Ma,” Betel complimented. 

“Thank you, it’s my own personal touch. It’s just for show, but it makes me feel like I'm in a fairy circle being spirited away.”

“Huh. I might borrow that.”

“Please do!”

It was shortly thereafter that we packed up as a family and left Italy, heading north. Again, our move turned out to be a well-timed departure as the War of the League of Cognac brought a 10-month battle, later known as “The Siege of Florence,” to Firenze in 1529.

We crossed the border heading north, leaving Neither-Italy, our home country for almost 200 years, behind. We decided to ride invisibly in the land of the living for a while, since none of us had ever left Italy before and were curious about the country beyond. As we traversed the alps, it was as if we'd stepped into a mythical landscape. Every view felt like a hand-crafted masterpiece, with sprawling green hills, towering mountains, serene lakes, and rushing waterfalls. It was absolutely stunning, and I was grateful to experience it with my family, even under the worst circumstances.

As usual, I rode in Betel's wagon and Donny rode in Nat’s, following close behind. We took a break in a blooming field, teeming with the new buds of spring. I made Donny a flower crown as Nat tended to the needs of our dead horses and Betel sprawled in the grass, staring at the clouds overhead. The twins still weren't speaking, or at least Betelgeuse wasn't doing any of the talking. But that they could even be in the same proximity without a fight was tremendous progress on Betel's part. I think his nearly fatal trial and the heavy price he paid made him wary of losing what little he had left, including the brother that, on the surface, annoyed him so much.

What would later be called the Old Swiss Confederacy was impressive, the city of Zurich in particular. Zurich was a bustling hub for trade and the textile industry was growing, which made it easier for Betel to get his hands on striped fabrics. His wardrobe always reflected the style of the times, but I noticed he was developing an affinity for black and white stripes. He had his striped trousers, or braies, when he was alive, however I didn't think he'd maintain stripes when other options were available after he died. Yet he did. Even as fashion changed, his adaptation always incorporated black and white stripes somewhere and, as the centuries wore on, it would become a larger part of his ensemble.

But textiles may have been the only thing in Zurich that came to us easily. Even after we got settled, Betel struggled to find consistent haunting jobs. What little reputation he’d built back up in Italy meant nothing in this new country, so he had to start all over. We hadn’t yet mastered German, so the language barrier remained challenging. Betel quickly worked through the few pockets of Italian ghosts residing in the city and, as we started picking up other romance languages, Betel was running out of French ghost clients as well. 

Our unease in Zurich was compounded by the threat of civil war growing on the horizon. As much as we admired the ferocious tenacity of the Swiss Guard, at that point, we were keen to continue our streak of dodging impending conflict. Between the communication challenges and the encroaching promise of bloodshed, we barely stayed a year before carrying on to France. Ever the weary, nomadic dead.

By 1530, we’d settled into Paris quite nicely, and the Renaissance that began in Italy had spread firmly to France. The invention of the printing press 90 years prior had finally made the printed word common enough that literacy rates among everyday Europeans was starting to rise. This helped Betelgeuse build a name for himself more quickly among the ghosts in Neither-Paris, as the fliers he dropped had broader impact. 

Over the years, we became quite proficient in French, which also helped Betel grow his client list. At the same time, we were learning Spanish and Portuguese just in case we needed to move again on short notice. But it seemed no matter where we went, war was sure to find us. And this time, we chose to ride it out, rather than flee.

The French Wars of Religion were infuriating to witness, as was every war before and after that centered on religious beliefs. As ghosts, we found it particularly ludicrous that people would be willing to kill and be killed in their fanaticism, only to find themselves in the Neitherworld, the Great Beyond, or somewhere else that didn’t map one bit to their doctrines.

The conflict between Catholics and Protestants escalated sharply in the St. Bartholomew’s Massacre of 1572, where Protestants in Paris were targeted and killed, but the wave of violence quickly spread all over the country. The waiting area in ghostly guild halls beneath France were suddenly inundated with fresh specters, packed to the brim with the thousands of protestants who were slaughtered. It took months for the poor staff to work through the massive backlog of new arrivals, even after Betel volunteered to help with the paperwork on occasion. Maybe that’s when Juno first found him, I’m not really sure. I could never get a read on how old that woman really was.

Betel had been misclassified as a suicide since he drank Delores’s poison, even though he didn't know what it was. Apparently intent doesn't count for much in afterlife bureaucracy. He'd been skirting his responsibilities most of the time, and had years added to his service as a result. But when he was assigned to support Juno, she believed him, for whatever reason, and his claim that he'd been misclassified. She couldn't get him reclassified yet, but she could give him a longer leash than most. As a result, he volunteered to help on occasion when the need was desperate. He did better paperwork when he volunteered, anyway, since the injustice of being forced to do it just angered him and he'd get revenge with deliberately sloppy work.

And then came the Siege of Paris in 1590. During the summer siege, tens of thousands of people died. Neitherworld guild halls overflowed into the streets with the crush of the newly deceased. We never got confirmed numbers, but we heard rumors that up to 50,000 new souls were processed in Paris during the four month battle. Some died by violence, but many fell to starvation and disease, as is always the way in war. Paris’s topside population had been over 200,000 up to that point, and it was shocking to think that in just a few short months, the bustling city had lost nearly a quarter of its population. Some of the living were desperate and tried to flee the city, but it was surrounded and escape was impossible. 

There were so many new ghosts awaiting processing, they were told to wait in the Louvre, which King Francis I had begun transforming from a medieval fortress into the royal palace in 1546. Though still under construction, the Louvre was probably the most haunted building in Paris that summer until all the paperwork cleared.

During these difficult times, when the Neitherworld population spiked suddenly and new ghosts were too distracted to haunt, Betel sought to busy himself with learning (in addition to women, drinking, and trickery, of course). We got our hands on the class schedule for the University of Paris, which was the premier university in all of Europe at the time, and I would summon him to his first class of the day. We’d sit invisibly in the back row, absorbing the lectures, making fun of the more stuffy professors, and jolting awake students who dared nod off during class. I didn’t always attend every class with Betel, but my participation guaranteed Betel would have someone to chat with about the lessons of the day. It wouldn’t be Betel’s last time attending school alongside the living, as he’d sneak into Harvard and Julliard in the 20th century after we’d moved to America.

It took years for Paris to recover after the Siege of 1590. Even after the Good King Henry IV signed the Edict of Nantes aiming to end religious wars in 1598, we’d been around long enough (nearly 300 years by then) to know that a fancy piece of paper couldn’t prevent future conflicts. Sure enough, the 30 Years’ War raged from 1618 to 1648. This particular fight, again between the Catholics and the Protestants, took a toll across the continent, including not only France and Spain, but even Sweden. Luckily, Paris wasn’t directly affected in the 30 Years’ War, so Betel wasn’t stuck doing paperwork again for a while. But France came out on top of the heap, becoming the dominant power in Europe. 

During that time, a remarkable thing happened. King Louis XIII died and Louis XIV’s accession to the throne was immediate. The only problem was Louis XIV was merely four years old. Ironically, his father had also become king too young, at the tender age of nine, when Henry IV was assassinated.

Sometimes, it’s not good to be the king. 

Regardless, when we heard that Louis XIII was on death’s door with tuberculosis, we snuck into the Louvre, wanting to get a peek at the next child king. The flurry of activity after the former king’s guide whisked him off to the Neitherworld was staggering. People barely had time to grieve before focus shifted completely to preparing for hereditary succession. When Betel saw little Louis XIV, he couldn’t stop laughing at the notion that this cherub-like child, barely able to walk on his own with his eyes blurred by tears, would be the new king of France. I elbowed him in the ribs, reminding him that children under extreme pressure can turn into diamonds and that he should know so from first-hand experience. 

For a moment, I pitied the child, crying for his father while scratching at the uncomfortable formal wear they were shoving him into. The throne was being thrust upon him, whether he liked it or not. But when I looked upon his mother, Anne of Austria, I had no doubts little Louis would become a historic king. The air she commanded was impressive and, sure enough, her strategic political sense would make her a powerful figure for most of Louis XIV’s early reign. Between her will and Cardinal Mazarin’s experience, Louis XIV was well prepared for coronation in 1651. Betel and I might have snuck into that ceremony, too.

Little Louis XIV’s formative years as king were notably marked by “the Fronde,” a series of uprisings from 1648-1653 that dared check the monarchy’s reach. Louis XIV’s outlook was deeply affected, which altered the course of his rule. Thereafter, he sought to subdue the nobility that conspired against him and resolved to keep his distance from the masses in Paris that were enraged by war-driven taxes increases. Thus, the Fronde was the catalyst for his ambition to consolidate absolute power over his 70-year reign. Part of this drive included relocating court from Paris to Versailles, where the royal family had a hunting lodge. Soon, Louis XIV began transforming it into the opulent palace known around the world today.

Sometimes for our regular outings, Betel and I would make our way to Versailles to invisibly watch “The Sun King” hold court. I would take Neitherworld shortcuts to the palace and call Betel’s name three times to summon him topside. Every time we visited, the sprawling mansion seemed larger and somehow even more luxurious, with massive tapestries, intricately painted ceilings, and elaborate framing everywhere, dripping with gold. Apparently, the ridiculously decorative and almost theatrical display was a hallmark of the Baroque style of architecture, another fine export from Italy that was spreading into Europe.

The palace of Versailles was, as the kids say today, quite the flex for its time. Mirrors were an exquisite luxury then, and Venice held a total monopoly on their production. Louis XIV broke that monopoly like a twig, commissioning a French glass factory to fabricate the 350 mirrors that would become the 17-foot tall reflective walls that screamed wealth and power. The mirrors had just been installed before our visit and, as much as these mirrors were impressive to see, the impact of their core purpose was completely lost on us. We couldn’t get the same benefit the royals and visiting statesmen enjoyed, as ghosts have no reflection. 

I chuckled, “You know, I haven’t seen myself in over 300 years.”

Betel’s head snapped to me, wide eyed. “What?! Why not?”

I looked at him, puzzled, and gestured at the mirrors, void of our reflections.

Now it was his turn to chuckle. “Clearly, I’m the vain one between us. Time for a lesson, Ma.”

I raised an eyebrow at my eldest son as he stepped back. He quickly cloned himself and walked around his clone to check his work in three dimensions. He then proceeded to mimic his every glance and gesture, as if the clone were itself a reflection in a mirror.

“Ah, I see,” I said, grinning. “Very clever.”

“How else am I supposed to know how my ass looks?” He laughed and his clone disappeared.

I held up my hands. “I’ll pass for now. I haven’t mastered that particular technique yet, and I’d hate to replicate myself as half formed and be traumatized. But I’ll put some more effort into it.”

“Ah. Well then, here.”

And just like that, he transformed into a perfect copy of me, and I gasped. My mouth remained slightly agape as I slowly walked up to myself and the other me mirrored my expressions, my steps, and approached me the same way. Within arms reach, I paused, and so did my “reflection.” I slowly reached up and touched my face, and my copy kept up to do the same. I turned my head back and forth gradually, watching the waning sunlight fall on the other me as she moved.

“Is this… really what I look like?”

It’d been so long, I’d forgotten. Forgotten how a long, painful illness had made my features sharper before I passed. How I’d only been a few years older than Betel is now when I was torn from him. How my twins had inherited my blue eyes. I reached out to touch the hand of my “reflection” and our palms met. The illusion was broken when Betelgeuse turned back into himself and entwined his fingers into mine.

“Yes. And you’re still beautiful, Ma. I sure as Hell didn’t get my dashing good looks from Pa.”

He grinned warmly at me and I couldn’t help but laugh until I felt my lip tremble. He pulled me into his arms then, and I might have wept on his shoulder a bit.

We lingered in Versailles a long time that day, walking arm in arm through the massive gardens, enjoying the views of carefully curated flowers and fountains as the sun dipped below the horizon. We watched fireflies emerge from their hiding places, dancing under the stars that were taking their place in the darkness overhead. I knew Betel rarely felt peace when he was trapped down below, waiting for someone to call on him to fix their problems and terrorize an unwanted, living interloper. Even when he drowned his mind in booze, women, and who knows what else, such abandon was only a temporary reprieve from what always haunted this more and more notorious ghost. I hoped quiet moments like this, standing in moonlight and surrounded by gentle life with someone who loved him unconditionally at his side, helped keep just a fragment of his broken heart soft.

Louis XIV was a patron of the arts, which meant painters and playwrights, like Le Brun and Molière, were thriving in the Baroque era. Betelgeuse and I were able to enjoy a few plays by the brilliant Molière invisibly from the rafters. Naturally, Betel found Molière’s “Dom Juan” story of a dashing and clever womanizer delightful in the beginning, but not so much by the end when the unrepentant Dom was tortuously sucked into Hell for his sins. Obviously, Betel didn’t heed the play as a cautionary tale.

But despite how the arts were flourishing under the Sun King’s rule, the crown’s spending on war and lavish luxuries was putting the country deep into debt. Even after Louis XIV died in 1715, the financial strain he created only inflamed existing frustration at the monarchy when crop failures strained food supplies among the lowest class. The three social classes (or “Estates”) included the nobility in the highest class, the clergy in the next class, and everyone else, like peasants, merchants, and the educated bourgeois, in the last class. These tiers were deeply unequal, with all taxes levied only on the poorest class, creating resentment that laid the foundation for the French Revolution decades later. Betel and I were grateful that the social hierarchies of the living world were among the few things not mirrored in the Neitherworld. Death was, and will always be, the great equalizer.

The Enlightenment movement, where great thinkers from all over Europe emphasized novel concepts like individual rights, religious freedom, and popular sovereignty, added fuel to the fire that was burning behind the eyes of the poor. Recalling our daily struggles when we were alive, it was easy for Betel and I to align with the angry masses and lay our hopes for change with them. As it turns out, an example of dramatic societal change and how to buck a monarchy came from an unexpected direction - the “colonies” in America. Specifically, in the form of a warm, intelligent American by the name of Benjamin Franklin, who came to France in 1776 seeking aid in the American Revolutionary War. 

Benjamin Franklin was already known to us, and most of Europe, by his writings and scientific advancements. But our whole family was smitten with him immediately when we snuck in to hear him debate the nobility about liberty and religious tolerance. His quick wit and thoughtful manner earned him a lot of respect among the nobles and common folk alike. And after watching so many uprisings against tyranny and oppressive rule, we had a very real soft spot for the underdog, Betel especially. After Franklin successfully lobbied for financial and military assistance from France, and the Americans were victorious in their revolution, that sealed the deal. Betelgeuse decided then that he wanted to go to America someday.

For as over-crowded as the necropolis of Saints-Innocents was, Betelgeuse and I were surprised it held out as long as it did. We knew this particular Parisian cemetery, where the dead had been buried non-stop since 1186, was an inevitable “body bomb” long before it literally collapsed. The problem was easier to ignore before population growth pushed the living to nestle alongside the dead in Les Halles, a busy neighborhood with its own active market. Mind you, markets were nowhere near as sanitary as they are today, which meant blood from slaughtered animals and other detritus would mix in with the human “compost tea” bubbling up through the soil. Even our Neitherworld noses were eventually offended by the aroma, so the living understandably found it intolerable. 

And while the fear of threatening “miasmas” was a bit primitive, the contamination of groundwater and spread of disease by the dead was a very real threat. Having been a grave robber towards the end of his life, Betel knew how dangerous being elbow deep in decay could be. Things came to a head when the underground cemetery walls ruptured in the wine cellar of a local restaurateur, spilling unsightly remains all over his favorite Pinot. Naturally, Betel could not stop laughing.

So the government finally decided to stop burials in Paris in 1780 and began creating an underground ossuary in the old limestone quarries that tunneled beneath the city. After a long time preparing the site, the government finally began the transfer in 1785. After that, it took years to exhume, move, and deposit the remains of nearly six million dead from the overflowing cemeteries. We watched the nighttime process with utter fascination as the bones were artfully rearranged in the vast catacombs below Paris. The galleries of the departed, with rows upon rows of femurs, tibiae, skulls, and more, interspersed in captivating patterns, were as macabre as they were beautiful. 

Betel had met Jacques by then and convinced the athletic French skeleton to accompany us down into the tunnels. Jacques was utterly fascinated. That is, until Betel grabbed his skull right off his spine and ran off with it, hiding it among other skulls deep in the catacombs. It took a lot of good wine to convince Jacques to forgive Betel after that. Luckily, with an unfathomable amount of patience on Jacques’s part, they managed to stay acquainted. Jacques eventually followed in our footsteps, moving to America over a hundred years later. He was the first of Betel’s neighbors in what would eventually become BJ’s Roadhouse. And, with the help of a certain living girl, Jacques realized that at some point over the years, he and Betelgeuse had actually become friends.