The Way Back

by Gavriel Savit

  Mottke made a noise that might’ve been an explanation or an extended throat clearing.

  “There’s no time for this,” said Mammon. “Pay him so we can pass.”

  And as if in agreement, Mottke held out an open palm.

  “I don’t have any money!” said Bluma.

  “What?” said Yehuda Leib. “Well, neither do I!”

  This, of course, was not true: deep in Yehuda Leib’s pocket, entirely forgotten to him, was a strange coin given to him by a dark stranger at the beginning and the end of a journey.

  “Oh, splendid,” said Mammon.

  The feet in the road were drawing very near now.

  “What about you?” said Yehuda Leib to Mammon. “Surely you’ve got something.”

  “Not here,” said Mammon. “And he won’t defer payment.”

  Three shadowy figures ran past the alley entrance, but one turned and came back.

  Yehuda Leib’s mind was racing.

  “Hey!” called the soldier in the street. “Hey, over here!”

  He was too wide to fit down the narrow alleyway head-on, but, turning sideways, he reached his thick fingers out and began to shimmy forward.

  Ahead, an open palm; behind, reaching fingers.

  “Mottke,” said Yehuda Leib in a panic. “Mottke, we’re from Tupik.”

  “Toopiggh?” said Mottke.

  Behind them, they could hear the other two soldiers pushing, shoving their way into the alley.

  “Get them! Go!”

  “Yes, Mottke,” said Yehuda Leib. “Tupik. The community there, we pay you a salary.”

  “Hrm?” said Mottke.

  “We’ve already paid.”

  “Ah!” cried Mottke with delight. “Aha! Too-pikh!”

  And, turning to the side like a door swinging on its hinges, he bowed low and cleared the way.

  Bluma shot out into the second cemetery, Yehuda Leib and the pram following close behind. It was exactly how it had been the night before—cold, barren, empty—except that where the brick wall ought to have been, the Cemetery stretched on as far as the eye could see. In the distance, a few small headstones peeked up through the snow, and high above, the color of the sky passed from cloudy gray through the bruised purple of dusk and, finally, into the black night of the Far Country.

  Bluma turned to look over her shoulder, sure that the dead soldiers would be hot on their heels, but they were nowhere to be seen: the soldiers, the alley, even the ferryman himself, had all been left behind in their crossing.

  Yehuda Leib heaved a deep sigh.

  “We shouldn’t tarry,” said Mammon. “I don’t know what you’ve done to make an enemy of Lord High General Dumah, but he’ll catch up with you sooner or later.”

  Two pairs of eyes, keen and obscure, met over the little demon in the pram. The wind was blowing, cold and sharp, and it seemed to scrabble at Yehuda Leib’s neck like a pair of sharp claws.

  Where had he left his scarf?

  “Well, then,” said Yehuda Leib. “Shall we?”

  Bluma took a deep breath and turned her eyes into the darkness. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  They trudged forward into the purple dusk, and the bells of the town tolled out behind them.

  * * *

  —

  It was beginning to snow. The bells of the old church on the hill were ringing, and in the first cemetery, deep inside an open grave, something was waking.

  With a groan, the Dark One rolled onto its back and blinked its eyes open. It had been millennia since the Dark Messenger had had a full night’s sleep, but it hardly felt refreshed. The pale gray light of the dying day seemed to cut straight into its head, and the tongues of the pealing bells might as well have been clattering in its own skull.

  Headache was altogether too polite a word.

  What had happened?

  As the Dark One lay moaning in the grave, the dusting of snow filling the folds of its black, black raiment, flashes of memory came swimming back:

  A cold glass bottle. Burning liquor. Smiling faces. Dancing and song.

  But something else, too: a feeling of dread, of foreboding.

  Of guilt.

  What had happened?

  With difficulty, the Dark One stood and pulled itself woozily from the grave. It was dizzy, its head pounding, and just as it began to find its balance, an oily voice rang out from across the graveyard.

  “Most Reverend Regent!”

  The Dark One raised a hand to its head. If no one at all ever yelled again, it would have no objection.

  “Oh, Most Reverend Regent,” said Belial, dodging lightly between the headstones to make his way nearer. “I am so pleased to have caught you. I was just—”

  “Belial,” said the Dark One. “I must beg you to lower your voice.”

  “Yes, Most Reverend Regent,” said Belial. “Yes, of course. But I must tell you—”

  The Dark One sighed. “Perhaps later, Belial. I am in no mood—”

  “Ah,” said Belial. “But there has been terrible misbehavior. Terrible. And—”

  “Yes,” said the Dark One. “And I am sure that you shall be only too happy to tell me about it when I return home.”

  All around them, scampering goblins were hard at work striking Lord Azazel’s grand pavilion, packing the pieces onto carts and sledges. With a lurch, the Dark One realized how late it was.

  Had it missed the wedding?

  “But,” sputtered Belial. “But, Most Reverend—”

  “That will do for now,” said the Dark One, and, wobbling slightly, it lurched toward the iron gates of the cemetery.

  There was no question: Zubinsk was not in celebration today. There were scarcely any people about, and the few who moved through the streets wore drawn, mournful expressions.

  How long had it been? Was it possible that the Dark One had slept two full nights? Or even more?

  But no. The wedding celebration had not simply passed through Zubinsk and gone again—something had replaced it, something heavy and mournful.

  What had happened?

  The dusk huddled in close as the Dark One’s feet turned down the Rebbe’s broad, empty road. Last night’s snow had been trampled into the cobbles by many people, but rumors of angry soldiers had torn through the town, and, fearing a violent pogrom, the Jews of Zubinsk had taken shelter.

  Now the place was deserted.

  A memory was stirring in the Dark One’s pounding head. It had been here last night. It had done something.

  Clapping hands. Dancing feet.

  What had happened?

  With a sigh, the Dark One slotted its hands into the deep pockets of its black raiment.

  They were empty.

  Whatever else had happened, it needed to recover its instrument—of that it was sure.

  It had waited too long.

  Halfway down the road, the plate-glass door to a richly stocked general store hung ajar. The Dark One could not abide such things—doors left open, chairs pushed out, candles burning down in emptied rooms—and so, moving swiftly and softly, it grasped the frigid doorknob and pulled.

  The little bell inside jingled lightly as the door met its jamb.

  “Excuse me,” said a voice, and the Dark One turned to look over its shoulder.

  A young Hasid was standing in a doorway across the road, warm light streaming past him into the street.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “But we need a tenth man for our prayers.”

  The snow was thickening now, and with horror, the Dark One began to remember.

  “Psalms,” said the Hasid, and then, gesturing upward to the bedroom window above: “For the Rebbe.”

  Like a flash of blue lightning through the thick evening snow, memory shot through the
Dark One’s mind:

  The Rebbe.

  His kindness.

  His friendship.

  His fall.

  It was all the Dark One’s fault.

  “Will you join us?” said the young Hasid.

  “Please,” said the Dark One. “Please, lead the way.”

  Lilith was displeased.

  The Lileen were huddled close around their injured Sister—licking, purring, condoling—but Lilith stood aside, staring deep into the forest between Tupik and Zubinsk.

  She was terribly displeased.

  In the blinking of an eye, an old gray lady rose from the knot of cats and settled in beside her.

  “Will we go to war?” said the old lady.

  Lilith sighed. “Something ought to be done,” she said. “If Dumah is permitted to treat our Sisters in this manner without fear of repercussion…”

  “Yes,” said a second Sister, rising also from the huddle of comfort on the snowy forest floor. “We must teach him a lesson.”

  “Indeed, we must,” said Lilith.

  “But it would be foolish to make war with Dumah,” said a third Sister. “One might as well gossip with Belial, or bargain with Mammon.”

  “It would be difficult, yes,” said Lilith. “Perhaps even foolish. But is there any stronger rebuke than that spoken in the native tongue?”

  “Dumah is Silence,” said the first Sister. “What language does Silence speak?”

  “She means war,” said another. “War is Dumah’s tongue.”

  “It is,” said Lilith. “And he is eloquent.”

  “If only we had taken Rokhl in Zubinsk….”

  One of the gray Sisters spat. “We should have taken the Bluma girl when we had the chance.”

  “Perhaps,” said Lilith softly. “But she may yet be the solution to our problem.”

  “Oh?” said a gray lady. “How’s that?”

  Lilith was silent.

  After a long moment’s thought, she turned back toward the grove and spoke:

  “My Sister.”

  The knot of comforting cats parted to reveal a lady in a torn gray shift, bruised and battered, lying in the snow. Her eyes were red with tears, and one of her legs was badly broken. “Yes?” she said.

  “Why do you think they want the Bluma girl?”

  The broken Sister sat up, wincing. “I do not know for certain. One of them spoke of a great weapon.”

  Lilith’s eyes narrowed. “What weapon?”

  A Sister spoke: “Perhaps they mean to use Bluma as we meant to use Rokhl—as a living vessel.”

  Lilith grimaced. “Perhaps.”

  “With respect to my Sister,” said the broken one, “I believe they mean a blade, and not a vessel—the boy who travels with her.”

  “Oh?” said Lilith.

  “His eyes,” said the broken Sister, lost in memory. “His eyes are very sharp.”

  Lilith turned away.

  There were many questions. Too many.

  She needed to strike back at Dumah—that, at least, was clear. But Dumah was a terrible foe. And there was talk of Mammon’s involvement in this affair as well.

  Many powerful players. No room for rash decisions.

  Perhaps it was the boy they were after. And if that was the case, then Lilith might very well be able to take Bluma; it would be just like Dumah and Mammon to look past her potential.

  But there was, of course, another possibility, something so incredible and strange that Lilith could barely bring herself to consider it directly:

  The spoon.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about the spoon.

  “Very well,” she said, and, as one, the Lileen raised their heads. “This is my will: You shall conduct my injured Sister back to our Haven for succor and healing. When you have arrived there, you shall muster the full strength of our Sisterhood, and you shall await my return.”

  “Yes, Sister,” said the Lileen, as one.

  “And where will you go?” said the broken one.

  “I go to find answers,” said Lilith. “I go to consult Lord Dantalion.”

  * * *

  —

  Lord Dantalion.

  Bluma had heard that name before.

  “Who is that?” she said.

  “He is called Master of Whispers and Steward of Secrets,” said Mammon, his voice bouncing as the pram jostled its way over the snowy ground. “Every concealed thing is written in his ledgers, and if it is possible to overthrow the Angel of Death, he will know of it.”

  Dantalion. Where had she heard that name before?

  “But surely,” said Yehuda Leib, breathing hard with the exertion of pushing, “this Master of Whispers won’t be eager to reveal what he knows.”

  “No, indeed,” said Mammon. “Dantalion defends his secrets jealously. But our treaties are strong—he alone is privileged to know the contents of my Treasure House, and in return, on rare occasions, I am entitled to consult him. But it is a very delicate thing: his answer is often obscure.”

  “I see,” said Yehuda Leib. “In that case, I must go with you to consult him—two sets of ears will be better than one.”

  At this, Mammon let out a hearty laugh. “Oh no,” he said. “By his own law, one consults Dantalion only alone; secrets cannot be spoken in company.”

  “All right,” said Yehuda Leib. “Then you must promise to ask him for clarification if you don’t understand what he says.”

  “Again, no,” said Mammon. “Dantalion will entertain only one question on any topic from any questioner. For this reason, it is very important that the question be properly phrased.”

  “Then how will you phrase it?” said Yehuda Leib.

  “I will ask if it is possible for the living to overthrow Death.”

  There was a long silence now as Bluma and Yehuda Leib pondered this phrasing.

  Presently, Yehuda Leib spoke. “Wouldn’t it be better,” he said, “to be more specific?”

  Mammon grinned. “But this is one of Dantalion’s snares. The more specific one’s question, the less information one is likely to receive. If I were to ask, Is it possible for this particular boy, son of his parents, who lives in the place where you dwell, to go to war and overthrow the Angel of Death in order to recover his dead father’s soul? Dantalion might simply say no for any number of reasons. Perhaps it is possible for you to prevail, but not to recover the soul of your father; perhaps there is another town with the same name as yours—any number of details might offer Lord Dantalion shelter for deception.”

  Gradually, Bluma slowed her feet, allowing Yehuda Leib and the demon pram to outpace her by several steps.

  Lord Dantalion.

  When she had failed to cut her name away in the second cemetery, Lilith had suggested consulting Lord Dantalion for a solution. That was where she’d heard his name.

  When they arrived at his palace, Bluma would have to find a way to ask him how to proceed.

  But how could she phrase her question?

  Lord Dantalion, is it possible for me to cut away my name?

  No—surely he would answer only yes or no.

  Lord Dantalion, how should one go about getting rid of one’s name?

  But should seemed like a dangerous word—who was to say if she would agree with what Dantalion thought she should do?

  Lord Dantalion, if one were to wish…

  No.

  This was difficult.

  Bluma reached her fingers into her apron pocket. The spoon was there, cold and sharp as always.

  It was almost comforting.

  Almost.

  Ahead of her, Yehuda Leib had come to a stop.

  “There it is,” said Mammon, twisting backward over the top of his pram.

  “What is it?�
� said Yehuda Leib.

  The three of them were perched at the summit of a low hillock, gazing off through the thickening snow, and at first it was difficult to make out what was before them.

  Alone in the middle distance, a tall stone tower was reaching up beyond the limits of the sky, its flat faces as numerous as the stars.

  Slowly, Bluma’s gut filled with sallow dread; she knew before Mammon spoke.

  “That,” said Mammon, “is Death’s house.”

  It felt sick to Bluma, wicked; it made her want to crawl out of her skin and disappear entirely.

  “Do you think you can take it?” said Mammon.

  “I know I can,” said Yehuda Leib.

  Mammon chuckled.

  “But why have you brought us here?” said Yehuda Leib. “I thought you wanted to consult Dantalion.”

  “I do,” said Mammon. “We are on our way. But navigation in the Far Country is not the same as it is in the living lands: things do not remain where they are put. Lord Dantalion resides deep beneath the Dead City; the Dead City lies beyond the Gallows, and the only sure way to find the Gallows is to flee from Death.”

  Yehuda Leib shook his head. “But I have no desire to flee. I mean to break in.”

  “Oh,” said Mammon, “I know.” And with a toothy grin, he turned his beady little eyes on Bluma.

  He didn’t have to say a word.

  Swiftly, Bluma turned and fled.

  * * *

  —

  It wasn’t long before Mammon and Yehuda Leib caught up with Bluma.

  Bluma heard the rattling of the pram as they drew near, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to care. It felt as if there were something huge on top of her chest, something so heavy that she could never hope to lift it off.

  Death.

  Death was always coming.

  She could not catch her breath.

  “Bluma?” said Yehuda Leib.

  Bluma was shocked by the nearness of his voice. She turned her head to face him, but she could not remember what he had asked.

  Her eyes were wide. “What?” she said.

  Yehuda Leib nodded and reached out his hand. “Come on.”

  With a soft tug, Yehuda Leib helped Bluma to her feet, and they began to pace slowly over the snow.