The Way Back

by Gavriel Savit

  “Are you sure?” said Yehuda Leib.

  “I’m not supposed to say,” said Issur. He was suddenly very uneasy. “What are you going to do?”

  Yehuda Leib gestured to the forest at large as if to say, What else is there?

  There was a long, heavy silence.

  “Well,” said Issur. “I hope you survive.”

  “Yes,” said Yehuda Leib. “So do I.”

  “Best of luck,” said Issur, and, turning to the path, he gathered his reins.

  “You know,” said Yehuda Leib, “if you really want me to survive, you could give me a lift. Just as far as Zubinsk.”

  Issur rolled his eyes. “Oh, sure. So you can steal my cart when I’m not looking?”

  This was incredibly stupid. There would only be cause for Yehuda Leib to steal the cart if Issur didn’t give him a lift.

  “I promise I won’t do that.”

  But now Issur was beginning to enjoy his power, and a little smirk curled at his lip. “What, I’m supposed to trust you? You attacked me, just yesterday, like a vicious animal.”

  “Yes,” said Yehuda Leib, clenching his jaw rhythmically. “I did. And I’m sorry.”

  “Oh-ho-ho!” laughed Issur Frumkin. “Now you’re sorry! Would you have been sorry if I were on foot?”

  Of course he wouldn’t. “Of course I would.”

  “Well,” said Issur, “I don’t believe you.”

  Yehuda Leib was becoming desperate. “Issur, please,” he said, and then, impulsively, “I can pay?”

  Issur lifted his lantern high and peered down as Yehuda Leib rifled through his pockets.

  “Ha,” said Issur, entirely without humor. “Keep your money. You’ll need it if you ever make it to Zubinsk.”

  Yehuda Leib was growing frightened. The donkey cart was his best chance, and if he didn’t manage to get on it, who knew what might happen?

  “Issur,” he said. “Issur, I’m sorry. Please.”

  Issur scoffed. “You’re not sorry. You hate me.”

  He couldn’t quite believe it, but once again, Yehuda Leib had been caught off guard by just how awful Issur Frumkin really was.

  “I’ll say it again, Yehuda Leib: I wish you the best of luck.”

  And then, softly at first, then louder and louder, a drumbeat of snowy hooves.

  Someone was coming down the path.

  Someone on horseback.

  Someone big.

  * * *

  —

  The drumming of the hooves slowed first to a trot and then to a walk.

  Yehuda Leib crouched low in the snowy brush, his own breath deafeningly loud in his ears.

  The horseman was huge, his long, dark coat spilling down on either side of the saddle. His thick beard was black with patches of gray, and his cloudy eyes hid something sharp and angry, like needles secreted into soft, gauzy cotton.

  “What’s your name, boy?” he said to Issur, busying himself with his saddlebags. His voice was rough, ragged, like it had been torn apart and stitched together a thousand times.

  “Missursur,” murmured Issur.

  In a swift, violent scuffle, the horseman seized Issur by the front of his shirt and dragged him in close. “You speak clearly when you talk to me.”

  “Issur! My name is Issur!”

  With a heave, the horseman returned Issur to his seat. “Good.”

  “What’s yours?”

  At this, the horseman began to laugh.

  It wasn’t a friendly sort of laugh.

  “Avimelekh,” answered the horseman. “You come from Tupik?”

  Issur nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m looking for a boy there called Yehuda Leib. You know him?”

  “Yes,” said Issur. “I do.”

  Low in the bushes, Yehuda Leib stiffened, his muscles tightening in preparation to run.

  Avimelekh was busy packing sticky black tobacco into a long, knobbled pipe. “Know where I might find him?”

  Beneath its hulking rider, the dark horse snorted, stamped, tossed its head.

  “Last I saw him,” said Issur, “he was down by the river. But that was hours ago.”

  Yehuda Leib nearly jumped out of his skin.

  Slowly, deliberately, the horseman leaned forward, thrusting a thin kindling taper into Issur’s lantern.

  Issur swallowed. “And he’s always running around town down there. There’s no knowing.”

  The horseman lit his pipe, puffing three or four times, and then blew out the taper in a long gout of smoke.

  “Maybe at his mother’s house?”

  “Issur,” said Avimelekh, and then, pulling his horse to attention, he looked Issur straight in the eye. “I’ll remember you.”

  It was not until the rattle of his spurs had faded back down the path that Issur let himself exhale. “Well,” he said. “I guess you’d better get in, Yehuda Leib.”

  * * *

  —

  In the glow of the lantern, the velvety darkness on either side of the path looked thicker, fuller than before.

  How could the stillness feel so crowded?

  Issur had demanded the payment he had been offered before letting Yehuda Leib up into the cart, and though Yehuda Leib couldn’t help but think this petty, he’d gladly yielded up one of his two cold coins.

  He would’ve given almost anything to be in that cart, and he was more grateful than he could say not to be alone in the darkness anymore.

  But he did wish the donkey could move a bit quicker.

  And the ride was hardly luxurious—there was barely enough room for both boys at once, to say nothing of all the junk that had been piled beneath the tarpaulin in back: rusty tools, dented pots and pans. This was all intended for sale or trade in Zubinsk, Issur explained.

  Issur had a lot of explaining he seemed to want to do—he babbled when he was nervous. Yehuda Leib had always taken it for showing off, throwing his knowledge around.

  Maybe he was just nervous all the time.

  Either way, he was certainly nervous now, and he’d chosen the single worst topic to babble about:

  The demons in the darkness.

  “They congregate in ruins, in cemeteries, in the wilderness,” said Issur, “because they can’t pass into areas of civilization except under very special circumstances. Which is why they’re so eager to get you when you’re in the forest.”

  All this talk was putting ideas in Yehuda Leib’s head—tiny, gnashing things, clinging onto his collar, working into his hair.

  “…even, Yehuda Leib, even in the holy Talmud. Far more of the demons than there are of us: eleven thousand to one. That’s in the Talmud! And they’re particularly dangerous at night.”

  Avimelekh had been moving twice, perhaps even three times, as fast as they. How long would it take him to determine that Yehuda Leib was not in Tupik?

  “Only three things can protect us from them,” said Issur, counting them out on his fingers. “Salt, cold metal, and red thread.”

  Yehuda Leib sighed. “Salt?” What on earth was he prattling about?

  “Salt. When you build a new house in an unsettled area, you’re supposed to mound salt in the corners of each room before you sleep there the first night. The demons’ magic can’t pass beyond boundaries of salt. And because cold metal comes from civilization, they can’t stand the touch of it.” Here Issur flipped up the collar of his coat to display a thin sewing needle threaded through the fabric.

  “As for red thread,” he said, “I don’t know how it works, but it’s the strongest. They tied some onto my bassinet when I was a baby.”

  This was intolerable. If Issur was going to be prattling, at least he could share some useful information.

  “Issur,” said Yehuda Leib. “What do you know about Avimelekh?�
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  Issur looked over at him, his face suddenly drawn with concern. “I’m not supposed to say.”

  “No,” said Yehuda Leib. “But you’re not supposed to run off with the donkey, either.”

  For this, Issur had no answer.

  “Issur,” said Yehuda Leib. “If he’s dangerous, then what you know might help keep me safe. It might—”

  But before he could say another word, Issur’s voice came bursting forth like water from a dam.

  “He beat my father up, once. It was really bad. They were afraid he might die.”

  Yehuda Leib swallowed hard.

  “He’d gamble, he’d get drunk. People were scared. So when the constable came to town saying we had to send conscripts for the Tsar’s army…”

  “They sent Avimelekh.”

  “Right,” said Issur. “Without even warning him. And as scary and angry as he was before…”

  “Issur,” said Yehuda Leib with a sigh. “You don’t think your donkey could move a bit faster, do you?”

  “What’s the matter?”

  There was someone—or something—rattling between the trees.

  “There,” he said. “Don’t you hear that?”

  Issur shook his head. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Issur,” said Yehuda Leib, rising to his feet. “Issur, stop the cart.”

  “What?” said Issur. “Just a second ago, you wanted me to go faster.”

  Yehuda Leib was growing frantic. “Stop the cart. Stop the cart!”

  “Fine, fine,” said Issur, reining in the donkey.

  Yehuda Leib leaned out into the cold and dim and listened with all his might.

  But it was the aroma that gave him away.

  Thick, sticky black tobacco.

  * * *

  —

  Yehuda Leib had barely managed to dive beneath the tarpaulin before the horseman drew up and began to speak.

  “Issur,” he heard the man say. “You seem nervous.”

  “What?” said Issur with a forced laugh. “Me?”

  “You know the boy Yehuda Leib—”

  “No,” said Issur, and then, “But of course, yes, I mean. No, I haven’t seen him. But yes, I know him. As you said. And as I said. Before.”

  Yehuda Leib fought not to sigh aloud.

  “When did you say you last saw him?”

  “Earlier,” said Issur.

  “Yes,” said Avimelekh. “When?”

  “Oh, hours and hours,” said Issur Frumkin. “Back in Tupik. Down by the synagogue.”

  The cart jostled as it went over a thick tree root.

  “The river, you mean,” said Avimelekh.

  “Hmm?” said Issur, just a bit too loudly.

  “You said you saw him by the river. Not by the synagogue.”

  Issur was silent.

  “The reason I ask, Issur, is that I dropped something near where we met last, and when I tracked back to retrieve it, I saw the strangest thing: a pair of footprints, small, like a boy’s, leading out from between the trees and ending right next to your cart ruts. How do you explain that?”

  Softly, foolishly, Issur Frumkin murmured, “Demons?”

  Yehuda Leib could feel his heart beating in every extremity of his body.

  With a jangle and a clank, the horseman cut in front of the donkey, and Issur was forced to pull his cart to a swift stop. “Hey!”

  “You’re Moshe Dovid Frumkin’s boy, aren’t you?”

  Again, Issur failed to speak.

  “I know your family, Frumkin. I know what kind of people you are. So why don’t I make this clear: I came looking for one boy, but I could be perfectly happy leaving with another.”

  “Ah,” said Issur.

  “I’ll ask you one more time,” said Avimelekh. “Where is Yehuda Leib?”

  It was over.

  He was caught.

  Yehuda Leib drew in his breath, tore back the tarp, and launched himself into the trees.

  Branches, needles, thorns, tearing at his coat and cap and face, and he raised his arms to keep them away from his eyes, and the horse was crashing through the brush behind him, and it would be upon him now if he didn’t move, move, move, and he leapt sideways, putting the trees between them, but the horse was deft and dodged, and he would never outrun this man, never, never, never, and he could not see into the dim, and he had to do something, had to think, but his heart was banging and his jaw was tight and he was afraid the pounding hooves would trample him into the loam and he dove down into a low copse and the hooves pounded past.

  What could he do?

  Soon the horse was reined in, turned around.

  Gradually, it began to pick its way back toward him.

  He had to do something. The longer he waited, the closer the horseman would come.

  Far off, in the direction of the path, he could still see the flicker of Issur Frumkin’s lantern.

  Slowly, the horse’s padding came to a stop. Avimelekh slid from his saddle, crouching low to the brush.

  “Boy!” he called.

  Now.

  In one motion Yehuda Leib was up and flying, racing through the trees toward the lantern light, and he could hear Avimelekh cursing, fumbling to get back into the saddle, and Yehuda Leib was nearly to the path when the crash and thunder of pursuit rumbled out from the trees behind, and he was desperate, tears in his eyes as he tore across the brightened track, and he yelled to Issur to help him help him, and he was back into the brush and the black and running, and the horseman was with him, but suddenly he was running alone and there was stillness behind him and he slid and found himself beneath a branching bush and there he stayed.

  This time Avimelekh remained mounted. The flickering lantern light seeped out around the edges of his broad silhouette.

  “Come on, son,” he called, urging his mount into a measured walk. “You’re wasting my time.”

  And the terror of it was that he was right. What could Yehuda Leib do? Hide in the brush forever? How long could he keep running back and forth across the path?

  “I’m not letting you get away,” said the horseman.

  “Yehuda Leib!” Issur’s voice split through the still night, and Avimelekh was startled, swiveling in his saddle.

  Yehuda Leib saw, and almost without thinking, he took his opportunity, running, running, running toward the sound, and the horseman heard his feet, and he twisted back just as Yehuda Leib passed by the shoulder of his horse, and he reached down and grabbed, and Yehuda Leib felt long, ragged fingernails rake the back of his neck, and the man had him by the collar, and he twisted and he struggled and he pulled, and for a moment his feet were off the ground, but then he was away, he was going, and his neck was cold and bare, and he turned back to see the horseman charging out of the darkness with the red woolen scarf in his hand, and he turned to the light and Issur was standing in the back of the cart and there was something in his hand and—

  With a sound like a ringing bell, Avimelekh fell hard from his saddle.

  His horse charged on into the forest, never looking back.

  Yehuda Leib stilled his legs.

  There, in the back of the cart, was Issur Frumkin, holding one of the dented pots from beneath the tarpaulin.

  He had hit the horseman.

  He had hit him in the head.

  Hard.

  * * *

  —

  From where Yehuda Leib had come to a halt, he could see the horseman’s boots twisting, squirming in the snow. Slowly, he made his way around the side of the cart, careful to stay out of arm’s reach.

  Avimelekh was flat on his back.

  His eyes were wide open, his jaw flopping wordlessly.

  In his hand he held Yehuda Leib’s woolen scarf, and beneath his head the pure
white snow was turning the exact same color:

  Blood red.

  “Issur,” said Yehuda Leib. “Issur.”

  “I don’t—I didn’t mean—”

  But now a low croaking sound was filling the air.

  Avimelekh was laughing.

  “Frumkin,” he said, his eyes flashing, and then, “Yehuda Leib.” His laughter broke off. “Yehuda Leib.”

  The horseman’s legs stopped moving.

  Beneath his head, the pool of red in the snow had grown as wide as the path.

  “Oh my God,” said Issur Frumkin. “Oh my God.”

  And there was a new kind of stillness lying on the path.

  “He would’ve gotten me,” said Yehuda Leib. “He would’ve taken me.”

  “I know,” said Issur.

  But neither of them felt comforted.

  It is difficult to say how long the two boys stood in silence over the body of the dead horseman. But the sound that broke the silence is sure:

  Footsteps. Footsteps in the snow.

  All of a sudden, the wind grew restless.

  Issur’s donkey began to stamp and snort, straining against her tackle; high above, the birds took wing for safer territory.

  And then he came around the bend, his coat blacker than the night, blacker than the darkness hidden inside your eyes—so black it seemed to eat up the light. At the sight of him, the donkey began to scream and pull, nearly tipping the little cart in her terror.

  “Whoa,” said Issur. “Whoa, girl!” But there was no calming her, and, buffeting her body against the shafts of the cart, she turned it around by sheer force of fear and bolted back up the path toward Tupik, dragging Issur, cart and all, behind her.

  And what he saw as he turned to look over his shoulder would haunt his eyes for the rest of his life:

  A small patch of moonlight.

  A dead man.

  A pool of blood.

  Yehuda Leib, looking very small.

  And a stranger, dark and tall, closing in along the path.

  * * *

  —

  “We meet again,” said the Dark Messenger.

  He seemed very tired.

  “Hello,” said Yehuda Leib.