Dreams of the Compass Rose

by Vera Nazarian

  The woman was death. And death, cursed ages ago by the goddess Risei-Ailsan, had been robbed of a certain scythe. The potent curse of Ris caught up with her at last, and this scythe was taken by a young man, crazed by tragedy and an overabundance of love for a young dying woman. And because of the nature of it, now the young woman would never die, and death could never catch up with the young man, were she to chase him until the end of the world. There were oohs and aahs of awed wonder, as the listeners settled in closer to hear Belta Digh’s mesmerizing voice.

  “Poor death . . .” someone said.

  But then someone else boxed the first speaker on the ear.

  “Poor nothing!” said Belta. “Poor us! Woe to us all! For while death has many scythes, one for each and every one of us, only our own scythe can bring our blessed end. We will all continue dying in our own time—that has not been changed. However, by withholding that one young woman’s scythe, the whole world will be delayed in the final accounting hour. Or so said death to me.”

  “Seert! Stop running. Seert . . . Let me speak to you!”

  He heard death’s cries continuously in his head now, memorized the very timbre of her haunting voice.

  And he ignored it firmly, while his legs continued pumping, endlessly, tirelessly, as he skimmed lightly over the earth.

  How much time had gone by, he did not know. And in truth it no longer mattered. He had ceased feeling anything, lost track of his very pulse, the feeling of breath being drawn. There was only that wan razor-sharp crescent of unknown metal, held firmly between his fingers. . . .

  That, and the knowledge that Ahiroon would live now, forever.

  “Seert!”

  The eternal shadow was just behind him. He could see the billowing edges of its cloak, rolling in the wind like storm clouds racing upon the sky.

  He turned his head, and deliberately laughed, his mouth open into the wind, laughed at it. There.

  “Seert. . . . You, whose name in the ancient tongue means an intense loyal heart. . . .”

  Death’s voice continued, pleading with him softly, always pleading.

  “Don’t you know that you also will never die now? And yet neither will you live. Only continue running from me. . . .”

  He ignored her, his arms pumping back and forth in a rhythm of magic, while the world around blurred with motion.

  “And neither will she live, truly, the woman you love . . .” whispered death. “It was her time, and her body had been wrecked with illness. Give her peace, Seert! Both of you are only deluding yourselves and postponing the inevitable!”

  “Shut up, dark Hag!” he exclaimed. “Nothing you’ll ever say will change my mind. I will run thus until the universe falls around me! If that is what it takes to buy life for my Ahiroon!”

  In answer, death once again moaned sadly, and continued calling out his name. Somewhere in the part of the city where gold was not uncommon, a bedroom window was opened to the sweet air of night, and orange candlelight streamed out like a fan of brightness. Death came into this bedroom softly, and leaned over the shoulder of a pale emaciated young woman, propped up by a mountain of pillows and reading a thick old book.

  “Ahiroon . . .” whispered death.

  “Why hello again, pathetic Hag,” said the young pale woman in a strong living voice, raising but one brow archly, and continuing to read.

  “At least look at me, Ahiroon!” said death sadly.

  The young woman put down her book, and then looked up with exasperation. “What now?”

  Death sighed, then took in the appearance of the young woman. “You look very thin and pale, Ahiroon. Skin and bones. Have you been eating, at least?”

  “And what is it to you?” the young woman snapped at her. She then lifted an extremely bony wrist and with surprising strength yanked death painfully by the vaporous hair.

  “There,” said Ahiroon. “How do you like that, ugly Hag? Do you realize I can do anything to you now, and you could never do anything to me? How does it feel to have the tables turned, for once? Oh, and would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Tea will be fine, thank you,” said death, settling down at the woman’s bedside while Ahiroon rang for a servant. “Yet this is all an illusion, Ahiroon, you must realize. Your strength is not real. Your poor ill flesh has been frozen in a moment of time, that is all, and you will never again get better.”

  “Hrumph!” said Ahiroon.

  “Would you like to spend eternity in this bed, reading books?” continued death. “Seeing endless sunsets and dawns and afternoons displace each other until boredom eats you alive?

  Your cheeks will never be pink again, and your eyes, lovely though they are, will be forever glassy. The hands that lie on the coverlet will always shake slightly as you turn the pages. You will always rely on others to help you walk even a few steps. Is it worth it, to exist like that?”

  “There’ll be time to read a million wonderful books,” said Ahiroon with a shadow of a smile. “More books than any single person in history has ever read or will read. I will read them all!”

  “And what then? After the last book is written, then read, and the world comes to an end, what will you do with your existence?”

  The servant came in bearing an aromatic pot, and Ahiroon personally poured a cup for her unwelcome visitor.

  Death swallowed a bit, then moved a shadow lock from her pale grand forehead.

  “Ahiroon. . . . Don’t you feel sorry for poor Seert? He loves you so much that he has in all effect given up the rest of his own existence. Even now, he is running from another manifestation of me, holding tight your scythe. He stole it to give you life, and yet you can never be together, you and he. . . .”

  For the first time, Ahiroon put down her own cup and stared at death, a kind of intensity beginning to brim in her glassy eyes.

  “Once again, I ask you to reconsider . . .” said death softly.

  “Never!” exclaimed Ahiroon, with more angry passion than death thought her capable of.

  “At least have pity on him, the one you love! For love of you, he cannot and would not stop running!”

  And then Ahiroon began to laugh. A terrible wheezing sound, as from an animated corpse.

  “I, love him? I? I never said I wanted to be with him, not for a moment!” exclaimed the young woman, laughing wildly. “I simply want to live, and he—the fool who can’t take no for an answer—he wants to love me! A great arrangement, I say! Let him love me and run for all eternity! Don’t you understand, Hag, that I just want to be free? Free of him, free of you! Not to be loved, but to be free, and to be my own!”

  Death stared in sudden quiet understanding at the young woman. Stared at her blazing glassy eyes, her trembling hollow cheeks, her mass of cobweb hair. . . .

  “Very well . . .” said death then, and was gone.

  And Ahiroon, whose name meant blood, was left laughing hysterically, book forgotten, pale and bloodless as the sheets beneath her.

  “What a terrible young woman, this Ahiroon!” several exclaimed, while Belta poured another round and collected their coins.

  “And what a noble loyal youth, this Seert! No wonder his name stands for ‘heart.’”

  “Yes, well . . .” mumbled Belta Digh. “I’d hold back judgment, if I were you.”

  “What happened then, Mistress Digh?”

  And Belta told them the rest of her tale.

  “What happened? Why, death was so unsettled by this turn of events that she again came to my tavern. And I, of course, gave her advice. Very simple, I told the silver-skinned one. Once and for all, you need to stop chasing the thief.”

  Seert ran through the blazing golden desert. Straight ahead, the disk of the sun floated like a great apricot in the liquid honey that was sky. And beneath the soles of his feet air warped, as heat rose from the white sands.

  Was it only a mirage, or had the ever-present shadow trailing him disappeared somewhere behind, in the swirling waves of dunes?

  And wh
at of the voice? There was now a silence in his mind. And the whispers had quieted into the hum of the wind. . . .

  Seert skimmed lightly over the sands, leaving no trace, lighter than the scampering legs of a scorpion. He continued to move into the disk of the sun, and looked behind him once only. Strangely, he saw nothing.

  A trick, he thought. The devious Hag is playing hide-and-seek with me. What if I oblige her?

  And for the first time, Seert allowed the rhythm of his pumping heart, his flailing limbs, to differ. He slowed down after some time, and suddenly, like a shock, was back in the living cradle of the world.

  Desert heat swept over him. The soles of his feet finally made impressions and sank into the sand. Seert walked for some time, stumbling, and then stopped altogether, while sweat ran down his clammy flesh.

  He sat down then in the partial shadow of a roving dune, and stared at the bundle clutched in his arms.

  In his grasp, the metal claw that was the scythe flashed like a razor in the sun. And as he blinked; once, twice, it shimmered, winking back at him, beckoning like mother-of-pearl. Honey waves of sunset flowed outside the window.

  Ahiroon put down the tome of riddles and ancient mysteries, and lifted her wan gaze to see him enter her bedchamber.

  “You!” she said.

  Seert stood silently before her, his eyes ghosts, and his whole demeanor not much different from that of the Hag.

  “I suppose I should thank you,” she said. “Idiot that you are. You’ve bought me precious time.”

  “Ahiroon . . .” he whispered, his voice hoarse like the desert. “I think I’ve won. . . . I’ve outrun her, you know. For you, Ahiroon. . . .”

  She looked at him blankly, strangely. “Where is it?”

  “The scythe? I still bear it. I’ll bear it for you always.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “What?”

  “I said, give it to me!”

  He stared at her in sudden horrible grief. “But—” he said, “If you touch it, you will die, my love!”

  “I’ll do no such thing, and I’m not your love! Now, give it to me.”

  “But—”

  “If you truly care for me, for once, do this one thing right, Seert! It’s the only thing I’ve ever asked of you!”

  And Seert stared at her, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes, muttering, “I looked at the scythe, and things seemed so clear to me then. I thought, if I came back, you’d feel differently. . . . After all that I’ve done for you, after all that came to pass. I conquered death itself! And for what?”

  “Good question,” said the emaciated young woman.

  And he saw the pale metal of the crescent shimmering in his hands again, and the glaze of her eyes.

  “Take it!” he said, while the shimmering came to permeate him. “Take it then, and damn you!”

  He reached out to her, and placed the gleaming pale thing right in her lap. It rested there, colors swimming against the pale cotton coverlet next to a book with an old tattered spine. And he turned around then, and was on his way out.

  “Thank you, Seert. . . .” Her voice came shadow-soft from behind. “Maybe you do love me, after all. That, I will not forget now.”

  Hope surged in him, like a sudden waterfall. He turned, eyes igniting, was about to speak, implore once again—

  But she lifted her thin bony wrist, and stopped him with one undeniable weakling gesture.

  “No, no more. Go, gentle heart. Go to your own well deserved peace.”

  And he knew it was to be thus, at last.

  “Is that all?” asked a thoroughly drunk tradesman, hiccuping loudly. “So, did she die in the end, Mist—hic—Mistress Digh?”

  “Now, now. . . . I believe I’ll tell you more of this tale another day, good folk,” said Belta, seeing many other inebriated eyes, not to mention a goodly stink of belches. “The hour grows late, and I’ll be closing the bar now. Off to bed with you all!”

  “Oh, you gotta tell the rest, Mistress Digh—”

  Their drunken clamor was incredible.

  “Closed! Off with you now!” roared Belta, striking the small copper closing bowl that hung on a string near the counter.

  And that was that.

  Everyone knew the sound of that bowl, and the powerful alto. In about five minutes, the drinking room was cleared, and thankfully no one had to be carried out tonight. Belta helped a slightly staggering man to the door, the last of the poor idiots, and then shut and locked it firmly behind her.

  She then blew out the candles near the window, leaving only the ones burning at the counter, and started to put away the dirty mugs and scrub the place down. In the corner, a shadow moved.

  Belta swung around, her apron splattered, a dish rag in her hand, and then, recognizing the shadow, let out a sigh of relief.

  “Ah, it’s only you, death. You scared me there for a moment. I almost pelted you! Thought you were old drunkard Givas, who often hides here around closing time. Or, worse, I thought it was the girl, here already. . . .”

  “Not yet,” said a voice like dusty cobwebs. “It is only I.”

  “Good,” said Belta, and handed death the dish rag. “Then start scrubbing. It’ll help you pass the time.”

  “I am worried . . .” whispered the shadow, taking the rag with possibly trembling silver fingers, and rolling up sleeves of darkness to expose pale wrists, arms and elbows.

  “Hrumph! Don’t be, I’ll take care of it, don’t worry,” said Belta as she proceeded to clean like she meant business.

  Eventually, as they got the tavern in order, there was a knock on the door. Death and Belta froze simultaneously.

  The candles sputtered soft and golden in the silence.

  “You realize that I can’t lie?” said death. “I never could.”

  “But I can,” retorted Belta. “Now, go sit still, there in the corner.”

  And she went to open the door.

  Ahiroon, pale and staggering like a wraith, entered the tavern slowly. Her eyes burned with an unholy intensity, while her fingers clutched a shimmering blade of unknown silver metal.

  “Are you Mistress Belta Digh?” she said in a surprisingly

  strong voice of passion. “I am here to make a deal with death. Is the sorry Hag here yet?”

  “Come in, girl,” said Belta, showing her customary robust smile. “Yes, death is here. There, over at that table. But never mind her, you’ll be dealing with me.”

  “Is that so? Then pour me a mug. I’ve discovered that I can neither die nor get drunk.”

  After the brew was poured, and everyone settled at different ends of the long table, Belta cleared her throat and began to speak.

  “So,” she said. “It appears that you, death, and you, my dear Ahiroon, are at a quandary. And I was asked by both parties to mediate between you—glad to oblige, by the way.”

  “Go on,” said the young woman, never glancing at the shadow. “Tell Hag that I have the scythe, here in my hands. And I know its secret. This scythe in her hands will end my life. But in the name of Risei-Ailsan, in my own it will end hers, if she gets anywhere near me! That’s the real reason she’s so desperate to get it back!”

  “You can please talk to me directly, you know. . . .” said death, folding bony silver fingers together in front of her.

  “Silence!” snapped Ahiroon. “I choose to have my dealings through Belta.”

  Silver fingers drummed on the table.

  Belta Digh leaned back in her chair comfortably, and took a swig of her own brew. She looked back and forth from one to the other. And then she took another deep swallow, while they waited, death and the young woman, in nervous tense silence.

  “Technically speaking,” said Belta, “death has no life—no offense—that could be ended. But it does own up to an existence of sorts, will you agree?”

  Death nodded, and Ahiroon snorted.

  “Then I propose a trade, a standard contract between the two of you. So that death can exist t
o do her necessary job on all of us—sooner or later, yes—and Ahiroon can go on living until she is old and gray, quite a bit more so than me.”

  “What?” said death. “You didn’t tell me that was part of it!”

  “And you promised I could have a go at her with the scythe!” said Ahiroon angrily. “I’d like to chase her down and give her a prick or two before I agree to anything! You promised!”

  “Now, now,” said Belta. “Simmer down before I box your ears, both of you. Or else, out you go from my tavern, and you can handle this yourselves!”

  Silence came quick as anything.

  “Now then,” said Belta, leaning forward against the table. “There’s one thing that only I know about each of you. Death, despite what everyone thinks, is incapable of telling a lie. Hence she is incapable of making a false promise. And you, Ahiroon, my proud intense girl, are also incapable of lying—that’s why you were always honest with Seert, up to the very end. Now, knowing that about both of you, it’s quite safe for each to trust the other’s given word. After you make your mutual promises, Ahiroon will hand me the scythe, and I will pass it on to you, death. And then the two of you will never see each other again for at least forty years. After which you, death, may come to her at last, but gently, so that she’ll never know or feel the blade of silver against her neck. . . .”

  And, saying that, Belta sat back again, and lifted her mug.

  After a long silence, death spoke first. “I promise,” the shadow said, “to leave you alone, Ahiroon, until you read five hundred books.”

  “I read fast,” said Ahiroon, looking death boldly in the eyes.

  “Then maybe you should slow down and take time for long walks in the garden, and playful afternoons in the spring?” suggested Belta. “It’ll put color in your cheeks. Besides, that gives you at least a book a month.”

  “A thousand,” said Ahiroon.

  “You drive a bitter bargain. Done,” said death softly.

  “Well then. I too promise not to harm you, Hag, and to give up my scythe unto your keeping.”