Dogma
By Queenie
Disclaimers:
Sirius Black and co. belong to J.K. Rowling. Christian
doctrine is Christian doctrine. But
Buddhist concept is fun too. That is
all. Thank you. Enjoy.
I was
aware, dimly, that someone had entered -- some kid was yelling "DUBBLEDORE!"
but I was past caring. I was fighting
with Bellatrix Lestrange -- actually fighting -- for the first time in months,
being able to vent my anger. Anger against Dumbledore, for never letting me out
of 12 Grimmauld Place -- anger at my mother, with her
twisted Pureblooded notions -- Bellatrix herself, for
what she did to the Longbottoms -- every resentful
feeling I had ever had was being released onto Bellatrix.
Only problem was, she blocked excellently, so every act of revenge on was
turned into a wand wave and a cackle on her part. Damn that woman.
Now I
was able to act, and to live, and Harry was nearby, so close -- I was hearing
dull whispers from somewhere behind me, but I couldn't pay attention -- I
dodged her Stupefy and shouted at her, "Come on, you can do better than
that!" and I laughed.
And then
her second curse hit me.
I'm
still not sure of what happened -- there must have been a curtain behind me,
and I fell through it. There was only a
sensation of falling, of scents and sights and touch and taste and sounds
fading into nothing… a scream…
"HE -- IS -- NOT -- DEAD! SIRIUS!"
Falling…
"Sirius
Galileo Black!"
A clear voice and bright light
knocked Sirius awake. "Where am
I?" he asked.
"Welcome to the afterlife, Mr.
Black." The cheerful speaker was a man with white hair who appeared not
much older than fifty, sitting behind a desk. He was dressed in simple white
and there was a bright flame, it seemed, on top of his head, with the light
reflecting off the walls. Sirius couldn't look at it. The man stood up from behind his desk and
held out his hand. "I'm Saint
Peter. Pleasure to
meet you."
Sirius shook his hand, dazed. "W -- where am
I?"
"You are at the gate," he
waved his hand to indicate the pale room around him. "The
gate to the afterlife."
"Afterlife?
What afterlife? I'm an…"
"Agnostic.
I know. You were never one for religion, although when you moved in with the Potters, you respected their beliefs and went to
Christmas services." At Sirius' baffled expression, he lightly said,
"Oh, we haven't quite been stalking you, but religion is just in our
records." He went to a filing
cabinet and pulled out a drawer.
"It's actually not as important as some people would think --
religion, I mean -- now, let's see -- Sirius Galileo Black…"
Sirius looked all around
himself. The room was rather small with
very light gray walls. There were
benches all around, padded with simple black leather. The light in the room seemed
to be electric, like Muggle wiring, but it was as
clear as sunlight. One of the walls had
a figure looking over a fence carved on to it, with 'Kilroy
Was Here' over that. On the farthest
wall, there was a mahogany door, the darkness of it contrasting with the
mother-of-pearl color of the walls.
"So…" Sirius said slowly.
"I'm dead?"
"Yes."
"How… did this … happen?"
"You fell behind the
veil. It's a strange way to go, directly
behind the veil like that, but it happens every now and then."
"No --
" Sirius touched the smooth walls, refusing to believe it. "This has to be a dream…"
"Nope, that's what a lot of
folks say, but this isn't a dream. I'm
being dead serious. Or rather, you're
dead Sirius." Ba-dum chh!
There was a sudden burst of drum
music, ending with a cymbal crash and a burst of laughter. Sirius jumped, and then looked all
around.
"What was that?"
"Oh, that's Tim. He's our
musical coordinator for the Pearly Gates.
Recommended by St. Cecilia. Depending on the person, he'll play opera --
" strains of 'Stranger in Paradise' floated through the air
"-- that 'rock and roll' stuff --" Sirius was bombarded with some
song about ticking away a dull day "-- or anything we think is
appropriate."
"I would have never thought
the afterlife would have a laugh track." Sirius said dazedly.
"Oh, you'd be surprised. Mostly the music is to relax people who come
in here -- death is kind of shocking the first time around, you know. All right… let's see, now…" he looked
over a file, muttering, "very large Newfoundland…"
"My Animagus form,
right?" Sirius inquired, but St. Peter ignored the dead man.
"Deadly sins -- a fair deal
more pride than the average person, murderous intent, several times, but only
killed once, in defense of yourself and a group of seven…"
He continued to study the
file. Meanwhile, Sirius was recalling
what he had been told -- the afterlife.
He was dead. He wouldn't see
Harry, or Remus, again. Ever. Or at least, for a very long time. No more snowball fights,
no scent of fresh air, or the taste of a hot steak… Sirius suddenly wanted to
be alone, very badly.
"I'm in hell," he said
softly. "I'm in a small room with a
laugh track and a guy with a head that's on fire."
"First of all," the saint
said as if he'd explained this several times before, "my head is not
on fire, this tongue of flame -- as I will thank you to call it -- is a sign
that I'm a person of some distinction around here, and second of all, let us
get down to business. I'd say you're due for a few hundred years in
Purgatory…"
"A few
hundred years?" Sirius shouted in outrage. St. Peter shushed him and said "Don't
worry, they go by really quickly, they even have board games in the waiting
room. As I said, you can either take five hundred years in Purgatory, or…"
He paused. Sirius listened, intent. There was an 'or'?
"Or you can be reborn. It's your choice."
"Be reborn?" Sirius
cocked an eyebrow. "You mean like
be reincarnated?"
"Not as a human," St.
Peter explained, "but as an animal.
You can live on Earth again and reduce your Purgatory time until you
die. Unless you'd rather take…"
"Are you kidding?" Sirius
shouted, his voice echoing. "Of
course I'll be reborn! How soon? Can I choose what I want to be? Will I be able to tell Harry? Or… anyone?"
"Well, there is a yes and a
no. You can choose what you'd like to
be…"
"A large, black dog,"
Sirius said quickly. "Just like my
Animagus form is… was… yeah."
"But you will not be able to
communicate with any human being."
"Oh."
"You will not be able to speak
or communicate at all save through barking and standard dog communication. You will think and act like a dog. You will not carry any memories of your
former life. In other words, you will be
a dog in the surest sense of the word.
Are you still sure?"
"Yes," Sirius said. "Yes." In his mind flashed the thought, 'If I
really am dead -- and I'm not sure I am -- I can't face James without
being sure that I've fulfilled my godfatherly duty.'
"Well, then," Said St.
Peter, making one small note in the file, "I suppose that is that. Good luck, Sirius. Again." He then went up to his desk and pressed a
small red button. A slab in the floor
opened up and there was a brief comical moment where Sirius was suspended in
midair and the next instant there was nothing but a few clouds.
St. Peter chuckled. "Another one goes down," he
said. "Strange thing," he
added to Tim, "whenever I press that button, I'm sometimes unsure if I'm
pressing 'Reincarnate' or 'Reject'. And
you know what happens on 'Reject' --"
Tim's response was to start playing
Meatloaf's song: "But like a bat out of hell I'll be gone when the
morning comes…"
"Hey, someone get Lepkowski
here!"
"What's going on?"
"Milk's starting to have her
puppies!"
"Now? How many pups?"
"Get
Lepkowski!"
On a warm
June night, two trainers at the Search & Rescue: Canine Division were crouched by the kennel of Milky Way, one of the rescue
dogs. A Newfoundland
with a strong pedigree, the puppies of her first litter were almost assuredly
going to be as faithful companions as their mother. Casey and Ruby were urging on the dog while
another volunteer brought a towel.
Finally there were four healthy puppies lying in the kennel next to the
large female, illuminated by the bare bulb in the ceiling. Ruby sighed with content. Casey, a fairly new recruit, looked puzzled.
"They're
bald," he said.
"Well,
human babies aren't much prettier," said Ruby coaxingly, half to the
puppies. "When they get bigger
they'll get cuter."
"Ruby!"
called someone from down the hall. "Telephone!"
Ruby got up
and said to Casey, "Be a dear and name them, will you?"
"What?"
Casey looked at her. "But I'm --
how?"
"Simple
-- her name is Milky Way, just give them -- starry names. Vega, Betelgeuse -- something like that. But remember, they should have one strong
syllable. Not too difficult. You know the naming scheme."
"Yeah, I know."
Suddenly Casey was left alone in front of a litter of bald puppies. He looked at them and then tried to recall
all the stars he knew about.
"Okay,
you can be -- Polaris --" he pointed at the first bald lump, "and
you'll be -- Centauri. I'll call you
Cygnus, and you --" he scrutinized the last puppy, then
smiled. "You shall be
Procyon."
A year and
a half passed. A whistle sounded. The four black dogs lined up. Their trainer called their names.
"Centauri!
Cygnus! Polaris! Procyon!"
All of the
dogs straightened at the sounds of their names.
The trainer gave the signal for them to sit. All four went down on their haunches. Next the signal to bark was given. As in one voice, three of the dogs gave loud,
commanding barks. The second dog gave
two barks.
"No,
Cyg," said the trainer harshly. Cygnus bowed her head. The trainer then took them out into the open,
where several volunteers had hidden themselves. Two short bursts came from the whistle. The dogs bounded out and in a few moments all
of the five volunteers had been found.
"Very good!" the trainer chortled, rubbing all four dogs on
the head. "Very
good! I'd say that you're almost
ready to go out and rescue!" He
chuckled and rubbed them all affectionately on the head. "Good dogs. Good dogs."
"Mr. Lepkowski," said an assistant coming up with a
clipboard, "What do you think?"
"I'd
think --" said Lepkowski, scratching on dog on
the ear and another on the belly, "That these dogs are ready."
A few days
later the dogs were being driven to their first-ever rescue mission. "A skier called for help about a
half-hour ago," the driver rattled off.
"Says he broke his leg. This is in upper Scotland,
right?"
"Yeah,"
said Lepkowski, the only other human passenger. "You get a lot of strange happenings
there. So dogs, are you ready?"
This time
the dogs didn't bark, they only wagged their tails slightly. They were trained not to excite in any
vehicle.
"They
seem to be all right," said their trainer. "Don't worry, Mr. Skier, you're
in good paws."
"Thank
you so much! Thank you, thank you
--"
"It's
not a problem," said the trainer to the American skier. "Polaris caught on your scent right
away. Thank our dogs."
"Thank
you, thank you thank you --"
The other
trainer's attention was caught by something else. Procyon was standing a little bit apart from
the other dogs, his ears perked up and his nose sniffing at something. Suddenly, he gave a loud bark and took off.
The cry of
"Procyon!" faded on the wind.
The black dog leapt over copse and bramble, following some unknown scent
until he finally came to a mound in the snow and started to dig.
"Procyon
--" the other trainer had caught up with him. "What in the world --"
Then he
stopped. Procyon was digging out a hand.
Now an arm, clad in a tattered black sleeve, appeared. Pro stopped digging and clamped his mouth on
the fabric. With a fierce tug a shoulder
and head appeared. It was a boy, about
sixteen or seventeen, with black hair and broken glasses. His face was deathly pale.
"Oh my
God…" whispered the trainer. "Procyon, stay,"
he said forcefully, and then ran back for help.
Procyon stayed, licking the face of
the boy again and again. For an instant
the eyes fluttered open.
"S-- s--
Sirius?" The name was as faint as the falling snow. The boy's mouth seemed to relax, as though
starting to smile, before he fell into unconsciousness again. Procyon did not leave his station, but kept licking
the boy's face and hands.
"Here
he is." Medics arrived quickly. The
boy was lifted onto a stretcher and into an ambulance.
"Hey
-- he's saying something," one of the medics said. They could barely catch the boy's words.
"What
was that? 'That's -- something, I
think."
"No,
it sounded like 'that's peachy'."
"The kid
could've been saying Thessalonians, that's what I heard."
"Umm…"
one young woman hesitated. "I heard 'Thanks, Padfoot.'"
Everyone
ignored her.
"Good
work, Pro," said the trainer.
Procyon's eyes followed the ambulance until it drove out of sight, around
the corner. Then he slowly followed the
other three dogs into the car.
Albus Dumbledore sat at his desk. A moment passed and then he got up and
quickly started pacing around the room.
Gradually, a tiny toot-toot came from a quill on his desk. Albus rushed to the quill. It started to write out, in Minerva
McGonagall's tidy hand,
He's
here. He's at the hospital. He has one broken ankle and a slight case of
hypothermia, but he briefly woke up when I arrived and recognized me. I contacted St. Mungo's officials and they're
on their way.
Albus sat down again and composed a short reply, his mind
not even aware of what his hand wrote.
When it was over, he rested his brow on his hand and breathed a long,
low sigh.
"Welcome
back, Mr. Black. You can stop scratching
yourself."
"Huh?"
Sirius stopped, then turned around. "Why was my foot behind my ear?"
"I
said you could stop scratching yourself," St. Peter helped the other man
up from the floor. "I must say,
you're back a bit suddenly. I had been
expecting you to come in another few years."
Sirius
shook his head. "What
happened? How did I get here? My last memory was of running through an
alley, and suddenly a loud bang, like --"
"It
was a gunshot." St. Peter turned back to his desk and brought out a
newspaper. "This will
explain."
Sirius
looked down.
Suspect Caught By Rescue Dogs
