[ WP ] You grew up unaffiliated with religion . Once you die , a man greets you in a white room .

In was in a bar deep in the slums of Buenos Aires that I met a monk who related to me the most curious tale about death. It had been passed to him by a certain abbot of an old and stately monastic order -- the sort whose ancient powers and abilities had long since faded into Argentinian legend. 
 
 This particular tale dealt with the hereafter. Like many of the monastic parables of my country, it was steeped in that old rich tapestry of symbolic religious metaphor, but dealt, in fact, with the simplest of human questions. What is waiting for us, in the dark? Whose hand reaches for us, faintly fluttering behind the pale white curtain? 
 
 It has been many years since this night, and my memory of the tale itself is somewhat impaired by the cheap piss-beer that was so common in my country during the years of upheaval. I will render it to you now, as faithfully as I can. 
 
 **** 
 
 Once long ago, the abbot of a *certain warlike monastic order* was overly curt with the lord of the high manor which it was his pleasure to serve. A duel was then called; twin pistols were removed from ornate boxes and readied with deadly purpose. 
 
 However the abbot, fearing in his heart for the safety of his men ( brave and noble knights all ), turned his pistol at the last moment to the side, accepting a mortal wound as price paid for his insolence. 
 
 At his funeral there was a gathering of three-and-thirty brothers from his order, who passed the necessary rites over his remains and unanimously agreed that for his service the Lord -- not of the high manor mind you, but of a manor *superlative* to any other -- would see to it that their venerable companion was escorted into a bright and luxurious afterlife. 
 
 However, this was not to be the case. 
 
 **** 
 
 Upon his passing, the abbot found himself in a room draped all in white, which was attended by a single man. This man introduced himself as *Carlo Fendortzi*, but would say nothing more of himself other than his function, which was that of a scale. 
 
 `` In my left hand.'' said he, `` you must whisper those terrible secrets and sins that you have endeavored to hide in your time on earth. Into my right, only those acts you feel redeem your mortal soul.'' 
 
 The abbot was of course a *good* man, but imperfect; like all men of *a certain warlike monastic order*, he was guilty of a certain unshakeable confidence in his own virtue. Thus, without hesitation he made his way to Carlo Fendortzi's right hand, and espoused in the strictest confidence his many achievements as abbot. 
 
 These included; 
 
 * The rescue of the Arabian Princess Tsendira Tomayan from the clutches of the unscrupulous saracens. 
 * The lawful execution of the heretic *Iztrod of the Black Glove*. 
 * The capture and subsequent rape ( condoned by the Holy See ) of the city of Castanel. 
 
 And many others. However, upon finishing his tale he was dismayed to see that his scale had swayed not an inch in either direction. Yet there could be no doubt that Carlo Fendortzi now struggled under a great weight; sweat beaded his narrow brow, and his arms trembled as if under some immense strain. 
 
 The abbot enquired as to the meaning of this, to which he replied; 
 
 `` Does the falling oak resent the woodsman?'' 
 
 *Ah*, thought the abbot *then he means to reprimand me for my pride! * He was familiar with this tactic, having performed it himself on many novice initiates to his order. 
 
 So hastily, and with great contrition, he made his way to Carlo Fendortzi's *other* hand, which he filled with a not-immodest litany of misdeeds. Chief among them was the following confession: 
 
 -- -- 
 
 Upon my capture of the dreaded *Iztrod*, heresiarch of the seventh degree whose banner was the black glove on a silver field, I arranged for him to be brought to me in the privacy of a confession booth, that he might recant. We sat alone on my divan, a sword's length apart: heretic and purger. The silence had a weight all its own; in the end it was he, not I, who broke it. 
 
 `` To believe in the morality of our actions is also to believe in a bastard God.'' 
 
 `` I do not see how.'' I said. I was content to indulge him, perhaps out of pity for a man so close to death. This was my first mortal sin. 
 
 `` Our world is inherently amoral. The beauty of mountains is ground to dust by that vandal, *time*; we age, we grow infirm, we die. It was your God's hand that crafted this, not I.'' 
 
 I will confess that his words shook me. I had, at various points during my ordainment wrestled with the same demons. Do our actions truly matter? And if they do not... 
 
... if they do not, might heaven and hell be mere fictions? Fabricated prisons for the mortal soul? 
 
 In my fear and doubt, I called for guards and had the prisoner replaced once more to his cell. At dawn he was escorted to the drowning shore. 
 
 As we removed his gag and affixed a heavy weight to his ankles, he said only this: 
 
 `` Here in this city I have felled many men with my Damascene axe, and you call it murder. Yet does the falling oak resent the woodsman?'' 
 
 **Does the falling oak... ** 
 
 The abbot paused his tale, for at this point his silent guide had tripled in height, and was in fact so tall that his head had burst through the pearlescent fabric of their shared room. Through it, the abbot could see only the swirling firmament, tepid and chaotic as a clouded sea. 
 
 Carlo Fendortzi laughed at him now, his features twisted in ungodly glee. 
 
 `` Goodbye, goodbye hateful abbot, who I now consider dearer to my heart than any lover or friend. I have revealed to you the key to our prison; in taking it you have freed us both. In the life before I was known as Iztrod, he of the Black Glove, but look now, my hands are *silver, silver, silver....*'' 
 
 **** 
 
 The abbot awoke as if from a deep slumber, only to find himself entombed in a narrow tomb reserved by *a certain warlike monastic order* only for their most storied martyrs. Upon raising the most fantastic din, he was found by a terrified initiate on night watch, and restored to his former position. 
 
 He lived out his days quietly, on a plantation overlooking the *Hacienda del Sol*. When he finally died a good many years later, it was in his bed, quietly, and he did not return from it. 
 
 Carlo Fendortzi returned not much later from the icy clutches of the ocean into which he had been condemned. He took the name *Simon Bolivar* and killed many thousands; some call him *villain*, and others *hero*. 

