For every two beats of the heart’s echoes, La Muerte welcomes new souls into her afterworld. Or so it’s been told, at least to me. The story went a little something like this, you see. Place a hand to your heart and listen closely...

          Thump-thump…

          Thump-thump…

          These souls would all arrive (often alone) to the dark void that awaits us in the beyond, each of them as incarnations of pure white with no face. In fact, the most they were allowed to carry from their living form were the very strands of hair that rested on the top of their heads. Some wore freckles of red that marked the fatal wounds that led them to this place, and those who passed from illness simply remained as clean slates.

          Many of the souls there were already old and ready to meet her; she could tell just by the way they approached. Each of their hairs reflected a brilliant silver at their roots, and they would have their arms outstretched either in front of them or to their side, as if they had their walkers or canes to support each of their shaky strides. The conversations they would have with Lady Death herself usually consisted of either these old souls sharing how fulfilled they were with the life they made, or they were complaints about the chisme they heard on their death bed. There really was no in between, but regardless, this immortal being welcomed listening to them all the same. If she really wanted to know the whole truth, all she had to do was stare into their hearts to extract their life stories, but never has she felt the need for this innate ability. This goddess much preferred to lend her flock a listening ear as a way learn about the happenings on the ever-changing living world.

          Once in a while, however, she’d receive the sudden surprise arrivals that would leave her in quite a blur. Sometimes she would be met with a little soul waiting all alone. A soul so small and light that she could probably carry five or six on her back at a time. These ones often arrived with so much energy that they could barely stay on their feet, and on these occasions, La Muerte would lovingly kneel and offer her hand for them to hold. Other times she would meet a mature soul idly waiting at her feet. These were not too childlike like the littles, and they were definitely not as grumpy as the elders. These were among the quieter ones that she would see, and really the ones who always reminded her of her eternal role. They would immediately mourn, and search for the beating of their heart the second they saw her skeletal form towering over them in her flowing robes. These were the ones that even she knew had been robbed the most of receiving wisdom’s white hairs.

          But no matter. Once every arrival stood before her ready to walk, this silent void would then become brightened by the most vibrant yellow glow of a marigold bridge forming behind La Muerte. Petals joined each other tuft by tuft, and the pathway stretched so, so far into the void, lighting the darkness with their orange light. This experienced shepherd of souls then properly welcomed her herd from death’s door, and with open arms she guided them all forth with her mighty crook.

          Over the eons she had grown accustomed to her routine of guiding as little as one soul every other mortal hour upwards to groups of a hundred per day. La Muerte liked to count them all at every ten steps just to be sure none strayed along the journey, and of course to be on time for the next arrivals. The next group was always signaled by the marigolds building a new bridge for her to use accompanied with her beloved heartbeat chime ringing twice – the same one you heard earlier – and the end of their journey was always marked by the tall gates of her realm. Her kingdom where the dead rejoiced in their eternal rest, celebrating the freedom from the financial stresses that humanity invented, and the freedom from the fears of waking up the next earthly day. There the Land of the Dead stood, brightening this afterlife with saturated color and vibrant laughter from the bony residents within.

          With her grace, this eternal shepherd commanded her golden petals to dissipate the ghastly white forms of her herd and reveal to them their new skeletal designs made from their very own bones. Each of their skulls was beautifully painted in colorful lines, and the hollows of their eyes glowed a bright gold, gifting them full sight. At her will, the gates would open for them all, and once inside, each and every arrival strayed from the group to go on their separate paths. Whether it be to find loved ones who had been waiting for decades, or to find their own little corner to do the waiting themselves.

          La Muerte relished her role as the shepherd of mortals for these moments. For the sight of her once disoriented souls taking their first steps to explore this new world awakened anew. ‘Their new life,’ if you will. The distance between death’s door and the gates to her land was not too far, and it gave her something to do. She had a purpose, as the people would tell her often over the centuries, and it was something they would also often comment being jealous of.  My, would you agree with such a thought?

          Well, eons pass and the Land of the Dead continued to grow and expand to fit everyone as best it can. Until suddenly, an unfamiliar pattern would emerge…

          Thump-thump, Thump-thump…

          Thump-thump, Thump-thump…

          Thump-thump…         

          The arrival of a new era had come, and the weight of the shepherd’s crook grew heavier and heavier with the increasing surge in losses from the other side. No matter if they were human, reptilian, avian, or any other mammalian. All were sent to her doors.

          The hundreds she used to guide turned into thousands; The one soul per mortal hour was a bygone statistic. But do not fret, this goddess did not fear the sudden change. La Muerte is an eternal being, so, she would keep to her routine and fulfill her eternal duty for everyone. No matter what.

          The shepherd commanded her petals to form bigger bridges to fit everyone among her massive herds and with her towering height she would lead them all towards her gate using the light from her crook. As the shepherd walked side by side with her newly arrived souls of white, she quickly noticed a curious, yet concerning new pattern. Many of these bodies seemed much, much, much more heavily painted in red. Rather than the small freckles or even the occasional thin red lines she was accustomed to seeing before, these new markings represented more like intense blotches. Many had multiple all across their chest that went through to their back, others had a completely painted head in this bloody hue while the rest of their body remained white. Most horrifyingly, there was more than one who had arrived with a completely reddened body from head to toe!

          She halted on the bridge while her herd continued forward to further analyze this new sight while some loose marigold petals helped keep the herd moving forward. The souls who wore these marks were not the old she was accustomed to guiding in massive groups, and they weren’t just the silent mature ones who would avert their gaze. These were little ones… little ones who were on the road to maturity but got sent to her much, much too early. They all walked together in a massive huddle, each of them holding one another by their arms. La Muerte would then go on to count how many there were. She did not want to do so at first, but this was her purpose after all. This shepherd of souls had counted over a hundred of these lambs, tightly holding to each other to not get lost. To not be alone again, she supposed.

          La Muerte then decided to walk by their side. She wanted to learn more of the world that led to this, and to hear their voices tell their story. At first the young souls shielded themselves away from her towering eyes when she got close, and they trembled.

          “I bring you no harm, child,” La Muerte uttered softly, “I wish to know the year you hail from, and nothing more.”

          She was met with silence for a time, but do not forget the eternal patience of an immortal. So, they continued their walk together. It wouldn’t be until maybe twenty steps or so passed when one of these souls would finally speak their first words.

          “I…I don’t know,” they answered, “I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know...” This soul in particular was marked in a massive red blotch on their chest with hints of slashes stretching across their shoulders.

          “I see.”

          La Muerte would continue her walk at their side. The pillars of her gates shone brightly up ahead, but they were still a great distance away from reaching the end. La Muerte thought to use this final stretch as a chance to speak with them one last time.

          “What is it that you do remember, child?” She would finally deem to ask, “I ask not a visual of your final hour, but rather a scene that you can still see from your Earth.”

          While the souls still clung to one another, the kindness from their shepherd had finally allowed them the courage to look up and meet her gaze. These arrivals may not have had a face, mind you, but with the way their shoulders finally relaxed, and their posture slightly straightened, a wave of calm was felt flowing throughout the herd.

          “Pink crosses,” one finally blurted. Whomever that voice belonged to was hidden deeply in this herd, so much so that La Muerte could not locate the soul it belonged to.

          “I see.”

          The goddess and her flock finally stood before the gates to her realm, and for their sake, she ordered the marigolds to grant her flock their eternal skeletal forms. This act was meant to break away from the bloodied slate of their blank forms, yet this sight was far beyond what she hoped for her souls.

          Broken bones from head to toe, and not in the mortal sense. They could still move their limbs without feeling pain’s sting, but each of their bones were irrevocably fractured. Pieces were missing completely, and their surfaces were completely dented. Many of their skulls were undeniably incomplete, not even the beautiful painted patterns could distract from that fact. Some had parts of their jaw absent, others had multiple holes going through the top of their head. From head to toe they all wore scars from their final hour, and as the Land of the Dead’s gates opened to welcome them in, five new marigold bridges formed behind the weary shepherd to carry more. La Muerte’s crook suddenly grew a whole lot heavier to wield with each arrival, and as this goddess turned to stare in horror at each of these bridges that now waited for her, she nearly dropped to her knees from the weight of loss.

          Just before she could collapse, however, a horde of loose marigold petals from the last bridge had immediately flown to her aid. They opted on their own to help their lady by creating a firm petal stool for her to sit on, and they then provided their support in lightening her curled staff by lifting it as well.

            “I fear…” she whispered, “If this surge continues to heighten…I cannot continue to bear this weight on my own…Not for much longer…”