The Way Back

by Gavriel Savit

  Scarcely had the dripping contempt of this last word died away when the great braying voice of the ogre at the door shook through the pavilion.

  “Lord Mammon the Avaricious!”

  Belial’s pale face turned bright pink. “Surely not,” he said.

  A spasm of chatter spread through the pavilion. Mammon had not been expected, and he was a demon of great power and influence. Before long, the crowd was practically surging toward the little old fellow in the wheelchair, each demon eager to have his ear.

  “No, no, no,” said a high, reedy voice, cutting through the racket. “I shall be more than happy to entertain all offers, but not here, and not tonight. I am only passing through.”

  Bluma wriggled and pushed her way into the mad press.

  “No,” said the voice. “No, I cannot stay. You really must visit me at my Treasure House. As I say, I am only passing through.”

  He was small, Lord Mammon, in the figure of an aged man, shriveled and vaguely yellow, like an old lemon. His spectacles and sharp teeth gleamed in the diffuse moonlight, but Bluma had scarcely any attention to spare for them.

  Bluma’s eyes were drawn, like water down a drain, to the wheelchair in which Lord Mammon sat.

  At first she thought it must’ve been made of fine wickerwork, and then possibly of intricately carved bone—it was so thin and delicate.

  Only when she saw the unnaturally stiff posture of the mittened hands that pushed the wheelchair did she realize:

  It was made of fingernails.

  Coaxed through the woven fabric of the mittens, they had been carefully trained into the shape of seat and armrest and axle, and it must’ve taken ages to grow them so long—decades. In fact, Bluma could hardly believe that the ten looping nails that formed the wheelchair had had time to grow out of the young boy behind it.

  And then, with a shock, Bluma recognized him:

  Yehuda Leib.

  She had seen him only yesterday (had it only been yesterday?), and somehow in that short time, he had grown wan, lean, and haggard, his hair long, his jaw set, his eyes deep and searching.

  He was looking for something.

  Quickly, sharply, Bluma tucked her chin down. It was becoming an instinct now, moving her face away from importunate eyes in order to preserve her anonymity. She felt a small spasm of guilt as she performed the maneuver: Yehuda Leib was in an even more precarious position than she, and she felt bad not leaping to help.

  And this is why, when she looked back up again, the guilt and fear in her gut blossomed large.

  The keen blue eyes of Yehuda Leib were staring directly at her.

  Even an ordinary wedding would’ve brought guests and visitors—the family and friends, the hopeful poor, gawkers and pleasure seekers.

  But this was not an ordinary wedding. And in addition to all these, there was a large contingent that came to Zubinsk solely to see the holy Rebbe, grandfather of the bride:

  His Hasidim.

  A Hasid is nothing without his Rebbe, just as a sail is nothing without the wind, dough nothing without the oven. It is said that a Rebbe’s holy being contains a fragment of the soul of each and every one of his devoted Hasidim, and for this reason, a Hasid is never quite complete unless he is beside his Rebbe.

  And so they came, from far and from farther, however they were able—trains, carts, donkeys, and many, many, many pairs of sore and aching feet—to be near the saintly Rebbe. It was a very auspicious occasion, the wedding, and it was said that the Rebbe himself would be officiating, stretching up his holy hand from beneath the wedding canopy in order to draw down the heavenly cord that would bind the bride and groom together in marriage.

  It was an occasion not to be missed.

  And so on and on they came, more and more of the Hasidim, until Zubinsk was nearly overrun with threadbare black coats and long, ragged beards. Impromptu prayer sessions formed in streets and alleyways. Mystic whispers and melodies of meditation bloomed out from between the bricks and cobbles. The inn, the boardinghouses, even the private rooms put up for hire were full to bursting, often with three, four, five young men sharing the scant space intended for just one. And this was to say nothing of those Hasidim who came to town without the means to find themselves lodgings; the square was full of them long after sundown, and as the darkness thickened, one by one they made their several ways toward the best shelters they could find: empty market stalls, stables, sheepfolds. The study house had become a sort of makeshift campground, with Hasidim lounging, praying, singing, falling asleep on every available surface.

  Even as the night wore on, now and again a straggling pilgrim would arrive at the study house, and a new round of excitement would break out: bottles passed, toasts of l’chaim proposed, hands clapping, voices singing with the joy of the Eternal.

  By the time the snow began to wander down from the sky, it was long after nightfall. The steady stream of arrivals had dwindled. More and more of the bearded heads in the study house began to nod, and before long, aggrieved shushing was more likely to be heard than singing or prayer—after all, sleep is sleep.

  This drove the last of the ecstatic revelers, four young Hasidim named Fishl, Mendl, Velvl, and Reuveyn, out of doors. It was there that they stood—laughing, smiling, stamping in the cold—when midnight fell.

  There was a clatter of bells from the Russian church on the hill; the knot of Hasidim paused to hear.

  It had been a long day of reveling and excitement. Each of the young men was overwhelmed with gladness and anticipation, and the bottle of vodka and pipe of tobacco orbiting their circle did nothing to still any of their heads.

  All the same, one by one, through the dying hum of the bells, each of them began to think he heard…footsteps in the snow.

  And turning their eyes to the long road into town, they saw one final guest make his arrival:

  A young man in a black coat.

  * * *

  —

  Blacker than the darkness hidden inside your eyes.

  “Come, stranger, come!” cried Fishl. “Join us!”

  The dark stranger paused in the middle of the street.

  Softly, through a cloud of pipe smoke, Mendl tsked his tongue. “Come, friend.”

  “Of course,” said Fishl. “Come, friend, and join us.”

  The stranger made his way over to the little knot of Hasidim.

  “Welcome,” said Fishl. “Welcome.”

  It had been a very long time since the Dark One had been given welcome anywhere; it produced an odd sensation in his throat—something like sorrow, but then again, nothing like sorrow at all.

  Slowly, stumblingly, Fishl began to go around the circle. “This is Reuveyn; the fellow behind all the smoke there is Mendl; the one who won’t stop singing is called Velvl; I am Fishl. And what is your name?”

  Four pairs of bloodshot, smiling eyes turned toward the Dark One.

  “It depends who is asking.”

  The Hasidim burst into laughter.

  But this was literally true—the caretaker of the Russian church on the hill would’ve called him by a different name than the four Hasidim who stood before him now.

  “Very well,” said Fishl, “very well. We’ve all felt like we had to run from something before. But you needn’t worry. You’re among friends.”

  The Dark One was acquainted with this word, friend, but never before had it been spread around with such profligacy in his presence.

  “And where do you come to us from, my friend?” said Mendl.

  There it was again. Were they mocking him?

  “I travel from place to place,” said the Dark One. “But my home is always near.”

  “I understand completely,” said Reuveyn. “I spent a couple of years traveling, and at a certain point the road itself becomes your home.”

  A gene
ral murmur of understanding went about the circle.

  “Listen, friend,” said Fishl. “If something weighs on you, some deed you have done, if you are weary, perhaps you ought to see the Rebbe.”

  “Yes, certainly,” said Reuveyn. “The Rebbe is very wise. And the wonders he works are pure miracles! One poor pilgrim I met walked three full days to sit with the Rebbe and recite Tachanun just once, and when he returned home, he found that all his hens had laid eggs with heavy gold coins where the yolks ought to have been.”

  “That’s nothing,” said Fishl. “My cousin and his wife were struggling to conceive, and so he came to see the Rebbe. Before my cousin could even say a word, the Rebbe took one look at him, wrote out a verse from the Psalms, folded up the piece of paper, and told him to put it beneath his wife’s pillow. And what do you think? In nine months’ time: triplets. Triplets.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Mendl. “The Rebbe is capable of all this and more. When he sits for meditation, he traverses the distance between Zubinsk and the Palace of Heaven in less than an hour’s time. But do not be deceived: far and away his greatest gift is the revelation of people to themselves. It is impossible to spend even five minutes in conversation with the holy Rebbe without learning something about yourself, and that something can be so fundamental that it changes everything in your life. It certainly did for me.”

  Little by little, like snow accumulating on a cold stone, the Dark One began to think:

  He did feel heavy. He did feel tired.

  What could the Rebbe show him?

  “You ought to see him!” said Fishl.

  “Yes, you ought to,” said Mendl with a sigh. Of the four Hasidim there assembled, he was the only one who lived close enough to make regular visits. “But it’s been a long time since the Rebbe gave private audiences.”

  “Is the Rebbe ill, God forbid?” asked Reuveyn.

  “No, no, no,” said Mendl. “God forbid. But surely you heard of the passing of his wife, Fruma Rivka, three years ago?”

  “I remember it well,” said the Dark One.

  “We all expected that the Rebbe would resume his normal activities after a year of grieving, and then again maybe after two, but now it seems more and more unlikely. He never speaks in public except to pray. He rarely eats. When morning prayers have ended, he sits for hours in meditation on the very same chair until the time comes around for afternoon prayers. He grows thinner and thinner, paler and paler.”

  For a moment, the cold gloom of the night seemed insuperably heavy.

  “But the faithful among us are sure,” said Mendl. “The Rebbe’s fifth and final granddaughter is to be married in the morning. Surely, surely, the holy joy of the occasion will help us to lift the Rebbe back up again, and even higher than before. It is our job to encourage, to foster, to grow that joy to as great a height as possible.”

  “Yes,” said Fishl, and “Yes!” said Reuveyn.

  “Come!” said Mendl. “What’s this dirge you’re singing, Velvl? Let’s have a dance, a real dance!” And handing his clay pipe to Reuveyn, he began to clap and sing.

  Swiftly, gladly, the others joined in, whipping one another around, kicking their legs and throwing their arms in the air, singing and dancing with everything they had—which was mostly vodka.

  The Dark One stood at the edge of the circle, stock-still in the falling snow. In the shuffle, somehow, he had ended up with the bottle. Red-faced Fishl looked over his shoulder now and saw it in the Dark One’s hand, and he gave a great whoop and a laugh that called down the shushing from five different windows.

  “L’chaim, my friend! L’chaim!” And he mimed swigging from the bottle.

  It had been quite some time since someone had offered the Dark One a drink, and it took him a moment to figure out how it was done. Soon, though, he swigged and coughed and found himself smiling. The drink tasted like sorrow—but then again, nothing like sorrow at all.

  “L’chaim,” said the Angel of Death.

  To life.

  * * *

  —

  Bluma turned her face sharply toward the ground and shuffled backward, hiding herself in the press of demons all around her.

  Something was wrong.

  When she looked up again, she could see Yehuda Leib scanning the crowd, his brows low.

  He knew he had seen something.

  Fortunately, he did not seem to know what.

  “Lord Mammon,” said Belial, stepping forward. “What a pleasant surprise! We had not expected to see you here.”

  “Ah,” replied Mammon. “Belial.” With a motion of his hand, he signaled Yehuda Leib to stop. “I am afraid I cannot say that your presence here is particularly surprising…”

  Or particularly pleasant was the implied conclusion.

  Belial stiffened. “I am rather more generous with my time than some, it is true.”

  “Oh yes,” said Mammon. “Nearly as generous as you are with other people’s money.”

  A titillated buzz ran through the crowd. Belial, it seemed, was rather in debt to Mammon.

  “Now, now, Lord Mammon,” said Belial. “It is not the done thing to discuss such matters at parties. You might’ve been sensible of that if you’d ever been invited to one.”

  Mammon let out a demonstrative sigh. “Oh, very clever, Belial. But I shan’t deny it—I am, alas, far too often taken up with serious matters of business to spend much time in company. Even tonight, I cannot stay long. I am afraid I am only passing through.”

  Belial showed his teeth in a smug grin. “Passing through? Found the odds a bit daunting, did you, my lord?”

  Now Mammon frowned in mock puzzlement. “Hmm? Odds, you say? I do not play the odds. Or, to put it rather better: once I have begun to play, the odds are irrelevant.”

  At this, Belial gave a derisive snort. “Lord Azazel has surrounded the gates, Mammon. Not even you could be arrogant enough to think that you can beat him to the Rebbe once the morning comes.”

  Mammon laid a hand on his chest and bowed his head in an exaggerated show of humility. “Of course not.”

  Belial began to chuckle exultantly, but he was cut short when Mammon continued:

  “I shall beat him to the Rebbe tonight.”

  This sent a flurry of murmurs through the crowd, and it took Belial an undignified amount of effort to raise his voice above the hubbub.

  “How, how, how ever do you think, Lord Mammon, that you shall be able to make your way into the territory of the living tonight without the help of a mortal’s invitation?”

  Mammon chuckled, and he leaned toward Belial in his chair with all the condescension he could muster. “I don’t need a mortal’s invitation, Belial.”

  “Oh?” said Belial, blundering forward. “And whyever not?”

  “Because,” said Mammon with a smile, “I have a mortal of my own.”

  Now the crowd exploded with chatter. A living mortal was a precious thing—perhaps the most precious thing a demon could ever acquire—and immediately, the onlooking fiends and devils began to speculate, craning their necks to see: Who was it?

  It was only bare moments before she heard—her name was bouncing about from lip to lip:

  Bluma.

  The rumor had spread quickly: a living girl loose in the cemetery. She must be the mortal of whom Lord Mammon had spoken.

  Bluma, they said. Bluma. Bluma.

  She could not stay here. Slowly, careful to keep her head down, Bluma began to edge backward toward the tent flap.

  In the midst of the chattering crowd, Lord Mammon flicked his hand forward. “On, boy,” he called, and without thought, Yehuda Leib began to move, rolling the wheelchair at the end of his hands toward the heavy iron gates. All he had ever known, his whole life through, it seemed, had been to push: pushing, pushing, pushing a wheelchair through the thick cloggi
ng snow, dodging and swerving between gravestones.

  He had never known anything else, it seemed.

  But no.

  He had.

  He had seen her, there in the crowd—he knew it. She had been off, somehow—skewed, like the right shoe on the wrong foot.

  But it had been her.

  Only who?

  With a clink, Yehuda Leib’s fingernail footrest met the iron gates; at a shove, the gates groaned open.

  A heavy hush fell over the assembled demons. It was a terribly dangerous thing, to try to pass into living territory: a demon could perish if it went wrong, cease to be entirely.

  But all of a sudden, with a shock, Yehuda Leib stopped his pushing and turned to look back over his shoulder. It was as if he had been sleeping, sleeping for an eon, and something was beginning to wake him: an aroma, sweet and clean, like linen dried in the breeze, like the soft toasted smoke of the hearth.

  Lord Mammon cleared his throat nervously. “On, boy,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “Walk on.”

  But Yehuda Leib had remembered.

  “On,” said Mammon again, his voice full and loud.

  That frown.

  How could he have forgotten?

  “On,” cried Mammon. “Walk on, or so help me—”

  The assembled demons had fallen silent, and when Yehuda Leib spoke, her name floated out to every ear:

  “Bluma?” said Yehuda Leib.

  His keen eyes seemed to look straight through her vague and dreamy face.

  Slowly, all the dark eyes of the cemetery turned to fix upon the girl.

  “On, boy!” roared Mammon. “On! Now!”

  With a jolt, Yehuda Leib pushed the little demon forward, through the gateway and into the territory of the living.

  An excited commotion blossomed through the crowd—this was, after all, a practical miracle.

  And then, one by one, as grinning Mammon clattered off over the cobbles into Zubinsk, each of the demons in the crowd began to realize that this miracle had been performed by way of a living human child.

  And there—just there—was another.