Her bubbe’s cat.
It stared at her intently for a long moment.
Slowly, quietly, the Nameless Girl allowed herself to breathe once more.
She knew this cat. She was not in danger.
Was she?
Warily, the Nameless Girl backed away, the cat’s small, steady eyes following her as she went.
She had just turned to climb down the narrow stairs when a voice spoke out behind her.
“Wait,” said the voice.
In the blinking of an eye, an old gray lady was sitting atop her bubbe’s bed frame.
The Nameless Girl had never seen her before—of that she was sure—but still, somehow, she thought she recognized the features of her wrinkled face, the rumpled frown lines on either side of her lips, deep and sure.
Who was this?
* * *
—
“Wait,” said the old woman again. “I know you.”
“Who…who are you?” said the Nameless Girl.
The old woman frowned. “You’re the girl who lived here, yes?” she said. “You grew up in this house?”
The Nameless Girl nodded. “But who are you?” she said.
“I was your great-grandmother,” said the gray lady. “Your alte-bubbe.”
In a flash, it all made sense. “Bubbe’s mother?” said the Nameless Girl. She could see it clearly now: those were her bubbe’s lips—her bubbe’s and, once upon a time, her own. “How did you know me?” said the Nameless Girl.
“Oh,” said her alte-bubbe. “You never forget the smell of your baby. Or your baby’s baby’s baby, I suppose.”
A wistful look stole into the old woman’s eye, and the Nameless Girl was surprised to see that she had shed a tear.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “About your daughter.”
“Oh,” said her alte-bubbe. “Me too. You’d think it wouldn’t be quite as bad once you’ve gone yourself. But it is.”
“Well,” said the Nameless Girl, uncomfortable in the silence, “it’s nice to finally meet you, I suppose. We’ve lived in the same house all these years—”
But her alte-bubbe cut quickly in. “Not lived. Not me.”
“Oh?” said the Nameless Girl.
“Loitered, really,” she said.
“What’s the difference?” said the Nameless Girl.
“Everything,” said her alte-bubbe. “The living can change things—the world around them, even themselves, if they work hard. If you manage to linger after your death, you find quickly that your influence fades.”
“But you’re still here.”
“I am,” said the old woman with a heavy sigh. “But I shouldn’t be. I died not long before my daughter moved to this place. She had a baby to look after, no money, no husband—no one to take care of her. So I followed her. Just to worry in the shadows. But now she’s gone, and I have no one to worry about. Somehow that’s what makes me saddest.”
“Are you,” said the Nameless Girl, gesturing with her chin to the white tigress in the snow, “one of hers?”
At this, the old lady gave a single hooting laugh. “Ha!” she said. “Lilith? Not anymore. She makes a very compelling case when you first come into the Far Country—all about how you were deprived of opportunity in your life, how it makes sense for you to be angry, how you should decide not to move on, stay with her, join her Sisterhood. I bought it for a little while, but it’s all a lie. If you pay close enough attention, you’ll see: Lilith isn’t interested in anything but herself. She’s never changed by her Sisters, and little by little, they all become like her. There is no Sisterhood, really—it’s all just different phases of Lilith.”
The Nameless Girl found herself wishing this didn’t make quite so much sense.
“But you’re the real question,” said the Nameless Girl’s alte-bubbe. “What’s happened to you?”
“Oh…,” said the Nameless Girl.
What had happened to her? Death, slowly, incrementally, over the course of many fleeing steps.
How could she even begin?
The Nameless Girl opened her mouth to speak, but her chin crumpled, and her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh dear,” said her alte-bubbe. “Come, come.” And the Nameless Girl moved quickly across the bleary room to sit next to her alte-bubbe.
“Tell me everything,” she said.
And so the Nameless Girl began to talk. She talked about her bubbe—how angry she had been, how quiet and frightening, and how the Dark One had come for her and toppled her, the solid foundation stone upon which the Nameless Girl’s life had been built.
She talked about the cold, sharp spoon, about being chased from her bed, about seeing the face that Death keeps hidden beneath her cowl, about how she had to run, had to flee that face, how she would’ve done anything to escape from Death—about how she had done anything.
She talked about cutting her face away so that no one would know her, about cutting her name away so that no one could call her, about how it still hadn’t been enough, how at every turn someone found a way to recognize her.
And here her alte-bubbe stopped her.
“Yes,” she said. “You ought to be glad.”
“Glad?” said the Nameless Girl. “I just want to be left alone.”
Her alte-bubbe sighed. “There was once a candle that burned in a dark room,” she said. “The candle’s light was very beautiful, and though she loved to burn brightly, she was terribly afraid of being blown out. The people who lived in the room enjoyed her light and her warmth, drawing close to read beside her or to warm their fingertips, but every time they turned a page or withdrew their hands, her flame would flicker, and she would be afraid that she might go out. In order to avoid this fate, the candle did away first with her warmth, so that the people would not bring their hands near, and then with her light, so that their books would remain far away. This done, the candle’s flame became nothing more than a plume of rising smoke. Was she wise?”
The Nameless Girl found that she was becoming angry. “No,” she said. “No, the candle wasn’t wise. But I am not a candle. I’m a living person. And I can do with my own self what I would like.”
“Of course,” said her alte-bubbe. “Of course you can. I don’t mean to say that you can’t. What I mean to say is this: you wish to go unrecognized, uncalled for, unknown, in order to escape the coming of Death.”
The Nameless Girl nodded.
Her alte-bubbe gave a wide, frowning shrug. “This you call a life? To wander around forever, cut off from everyone else?”
The Nameless Girl scoffed cruelly. “And what you have is so much better? You creep around in the shadows, follow your daughter from place to place, until she finally dies and you have nothing better to do than sit alone in her empty room?”
“No, it’s not better,” said her alte-bubbe. “That’s precisely my point: it’s exactly the same. But I lived many good years before I died.”
“And I’ll live and live and live without dying!” said the Nameless Girl angrily.
At this, her alte-bubbe chuckled sadly, her eyes taking on a faraway sheen. “This you call a life?” she asked again.
The Nameless Girl was even angrier now, and she rose from the bed now and went to the window.
Below, Lilith sat waiting.
After a long moment, her alte-bubbe spoke. “Do you want to know what it’s like?”
“What?” said the Nameless Girl.
“What you’re running from,” said her alte-bubbe.
The Nameless Girl didn’t respond.
“It’s nowhere near as bad as you think. You’re living your life, going about your business, and you meet someone: a Visitor in Dark Clothes. You have a talk, perhaps, or maybe even not—perhaps your eyes just meet. And the next thing you know, you’re in the Far Countr
y. And I’m sure you found it strange, and I’m sure you found it uncomfortable, but you have to understand: it’s not for you. It’s for people who can no longer change. That’s why there’s always snow. That’s why the sun never rises. You arrive in the Far Country, and you seek out a comfortable, familiar place—a kitchen, a marketplace, a synagogue—and if you manage to avoid the scavengers, the demons like Lilith who try to divert you from what you ought to be doing, eventually you find yourself bored. Listless. Because in your kitchen in the Far Country, nothing’s ever finished cooking. In the marketplace in the Far Country, your shopping’s never done, and in the synagogue, the service is never through. You become bored. And you decide to move on.”
This didn’t sound quite so bad.
“And then what?” said the Nameless Girl.
“I don’t know,” said her alte-bubbe. “I haven’t done it yet. But this I can tell you: there’s only one building in the Far Country that stays put—a tall stone tower with many sides that reaches up and up beyond the clouds.”
The Nameless Girl’s stomach lurched. She knew that place. “Death’s house,” she said softly.
“I can’t tell you what happens inside,” said her alte-bubbe. “But I can say this: everyone goes in eventually. Everyone. And no one is ever forced.”
“But my name,” said the Nameless Girl. “My name and my face…”
“Yes,” said her alte-bubbe. “I fear that you’re already two-thirds inside Death’s house.”
“Is there no way of getting them back?”
Her alte-bubbe shrugged. “Perhaps. But this I know for certain: you’re going to have to face Death one way or another, whether to reclaim what you’ve given away, or to give away your final third. You can hide for a time, I suppose, but…”
“There’s no running fast enough?” said the Nameless Girl.
“No,” said her alte-bubbe. “There’s no running fast enough.”
“And if I choose to hide, then I do so by giving up who I am.”
“Yes.”
The Nameless Girl gave a deep sigh.
“Then in order to live…”
Her alte-bubbe smiled sadly. “You have to stop trying not to die.”
The Nameless Girl turned to the window. She didn’t want to think about what she had to do.
“Ah, look,” said her alte-bubbe, sidling up next to her. “Lilith’s given up waiting.”
The Nameless Girl peered down through the snow. It was true: the white tigress was gone.
“Very well,” said the Nameless Girl’s alte-bubbe. “Shall we go, then? Together?”
* * *
—
“Move aside.”
Yehuda Leib’s eyes snapped open.
A voice had spoken in the corridor.
With a fluttering snap, the flap of the holding cell was lifted. A scrawny, rat-faced demon in uniform stood outside, flanked by two thick guards.
“Oh, for the love of—pick him up!”
The soldiers who had remained to guard Yehuda Leib stood him shakily on his feet. The rat-faced demon made an ostentatious show of brushing the dust from Yehuda Leib’s coat.
“This hardly seems necessary,” the rat-faced demon said, and with a sickly sweet smile, he removed the wad of cloth from Yehuda Leib’s mouth.
Yehuda Leib worked his jaw, trying to comfort the dry ache within.
“You’re not foolish enough to try and run, are you?”
Yehuda Leib shook his head lightly, jostling the tightness in his neck. “No.”
“Good,” said the rat-faced demon. “Then I think we can dispense with all this nonsense.” And, gesturing to the soldiers, he bid them cut Yehuda Leib’s arms free. Yehuda Leib rolled his shoulders and wrists, the sensation slowly returning to his numb limbs.
“There,” said the rat-faced demon, “that’s better,” and, beckoning, he said, “Come with me.”
Yehuda Leib followed him out into the corridor, soldiers and bodyguards falling in behind them.
“I apologize for all that.” Despite his short stature, the rat-faced demon moved at a swift clip, and Yehuda Leib had to trot to keep up. “This is the central castrum of the Army of the Dead. You are here because Lord High General Dumah wishes to speak with you. In just a few moments, I shall present you to the lord high general, and there are a few things you may wish to know before you meet him.”
“I’m sorry,” said Yehuda Leib. “Who are you?”
“Ah, yes,” said the demon. “I apologize. I am Undergeneral Behemoth, chief steward, adjutant, and aide-de-camp to the lord high general.” Now the little demon laid a clammy claw on Yehuda Leib’s shoulder and leaned in with a dirty-toothed grin. “You will come to know me quite well, I expect.”
This seemed like an unpleasant prospect.
“I’m Yehuda Leib,” said Yehuda Leib.
“Yes,” said Behemoth. “We’re familiar with you.”
Yehuda Leib had no idea what this meant, but it was hardly comforting.
“There are three things that you may wish to know about the lord high general,” said Behemoth. “Firstly, he is called Dumah, which means ‘Silence,’ and it is not an arbitrary name. His is the jealous silence, the silence that consumes. He will not break it to speak. For this reason, I am often called upon to interpret his meaning for those unused to his methods of communication. This fact notwithstanding, it is very important that, while in the lord high general’s presence, you address him directly, and not, as some mistakenly do, me.”
Yehuda Leib nodded.
“Secondly,” said Behemoth. “It is very important not to resort carelessly to popular slurs in the presence of the lord high general. As the leader of the Army of the Dead, he is rightly concerned with issues of hierarchy and rank, and he will brook no diminution of his rightful status. Therefore, be sure never to refer to him, as is the vulgar custom, as a demon. He is a Messenger of the Eternal, an Angel, no lower than any other, and if you wish to remain in his good graces, you will bear this in mind.”
Again, Yehuda Leib nodded. They had begun to approach a thick, rich curtain at the end of the corridor. Light was flickering inside.
“Finally,” said Behemoth, “and this may seem simple, but I cannot possibly stress it enough: Lord High General Dumah’s anger is quick, sharp, and efficient, and I have never seen him shy away from the furthest extremity of its violence. For this reason, it is extraordinarily important that you do not look Lord High General Dumah in the eye.”
Behemoth came to a stop before the curtain and turned to look at Yehuda Leib.
“Do you understand me?”
Yehuda Leib swallowed. “Yes,” he said.
“Good,” said Behemoth, and he drew back the curtain.
The chamber of Dumah was still.
A large tabletop model of the Far Country dominated the center of the high, peaked tent, flickering and shifting, rearranging its geography every time Yehuda Leib looked away. He recognized the little ramble of Mammon’s Treasure House, the Dead City beyond the thick Gallows Grove. He could even see the castrum where he stood now.
But of them all, only the tall, many-sided tower of the House of Death stood firm, immovable in the center of the map.
Yehuda Leib had just begun to look for the round skylights of Dantalion when he heard the lord high general coming.
Dumah was huge.
He burst in at the far side of the tent, his goblin honor guard following close behind. Dumah’s hulking black mount pawed and snorted and bucked beneath him, steaming in the cold, and the honor guard rushed forward to hold it steady as Dumah climbed down.
The general was tall and broad, each of his thick-fingered hands large enough to palm a man’s skull. His eyes were sunken black holes deep in his head, and massive muttonchops of moldy blue beard perfectly framed his missing l
ower jaw. His wide chest was hung thick with medals, each of which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be the relic of a fallen foe—a yellow tooth, a dried toe, a desiccated tongue—carefully set in neat ribbons of stained bandaging.
But all of this scarcely caught Yehuda Leib’s notice.
Wrapped tight around Dumah’s neck was a scarf: woolen, red, and terribly familiar.
“Lord High General,” said Behemoth, bowing obsequiously.
Dumah didn’t acknowledge him.
“That scarf,” said Yehuda Leib, whispering so that the general would not hear. “Behemoth, where did he get that scarf?”
Now two members of the goblin honor guard reached up behind the lord high general to pull the thick riding coat from his shoulders, and as it came down, one of its buttons caught briefly, snagging the epaulet on the general’s left shoulder.
Dumah’s fury was blazing and swift: grabbing the offending goblin by the neck, the general slammed him bodily down into the dirt and, with his bare fist, pounded the hapless guard’s helmet over and over and over again.
Sounds of screaming, pleading, apologizing filled the tent.
But far, far worse was the silence that fell when they broke off.
Slowly, the general rose and brushed the dust from his knees.
Behemoth cleared his throat loudly and stepped forward.
“Lord High General,” he said. “This is the boy, Yehuda Leib.”
Now Dumah turned, his interest piqued. Slowly, deliberately, he waved his hand through the air, and Behemoth translated:
“Honor guard!” he said. “Dismissed!”
Quietly, the goblins of Dumah’s honor guard dispersed, careful not to turn their backs to the lord high general as they dragged their fallen comrade from the tent.
Dumah stalked across the chamber and lowered himself into a huge wooden chair at the far end. A round table sat beside him, littered with papers, and he shoved several of them aside in order to put his massive feet up.
Knitting his thick fingers together beneath his nose, he fixed his dark eyes again on Yehuda Leib.
The Way Back Page 24