The Way Back

by Gavriel Savit

  It was as if their strength were hers.

  It was thrilling.

  Far ahead she could see Rokhl, the Rebbe’s granddaughter, slipping on the wet snow as she ran. There was no question: they would catch her.

  Bluma’s heart swelled with dark pride.

  And then, behind her, like deep thunder, she heard his voice roll out.

  She could not help but turn around. The Rebbe was there, robed in white. His eyes were obscured from Bluma’s view beneath the cowl of his prayer shawl, but still, she could feel them fixing on her, flipping her open like an old book.

  The Rebbe’s hand was raised, and he was speaking.

  “” intoned the Rebbe. “.”

  The Rebbe had spoken to each candle, lamp, and hearth in the street, and as the final word escaped his lips, he dropped his hand, and they heard and obeyed: from every window, blazing light spilled forth into the road.

  The Lileen had outpaced Bluma when she turned around, and ahead of her now, they yowled and spat, swerving, leaping, corralled into the shadows at the center of the street by the sudden flood of light.

  Something had happened: there were only five cats now, instead of six. One of them had been caught, banished in the illumination like a shadow in the sun.

  Hissing madly, three of the remaining Sisters wheeled about and sped back past Bluma toward the Rebbe, their claws unsheathed, their coats bushy and tall, and Bluma heard the Rebbe speak again.

  “” he said. “.” And, before Bluma’s very eyes, the three attacking cats, mid-leap, wore thin and, screaming, vanished. She saw the remaining two Lileen trip and stumble, stunned, their eyes wide with anger and fear.

  But beyond them, Rokhl continued to run, sliding into a wide intersection, scrambling as she turned.

  Bluma couldn’t allow the girl to get away.

  Reaching deep within herself now, she found a final well of strength and raced on, past the stunned Lileen and into the crossroads. Ahead, she could see the Rebbe’s granddaughter, fleeing, running, every window she passed on either side bursting forth with sudden, brilliant light.

  “Stop!” she called out. “Wait!” But the Rebbe’s granddaughter continued to run, sliding around the next corner.

  Bluma followed close behind.

  This street was narrow—barely even a street at all—and it was suddenly dark by contrast with the bright street behind. Bluma blinked, trying to acclimate her eyes to the dim.

  Was there something up ahead?

  The Rebbe was far behind Bluma now, and she was surprised to hear his voice again, as if he spoke from the mouth of every door in Zubinsk.

  “” whispered the voice of the Rebbe. “.”

  Bluma stopped.

  It was as if, by the power of these words, her eyes had changed: still she saw where the darkness lay, but it no longer had the power to hide things from her.

  Now she could see, fast approaching in the dim, a small knot of Hasidim dancing along the narrow road, and, in the very center of their circle, a horrible, familiar figure, clapping her hands in time with the dance:

  Death was coming down the street.

  She was singing, singing a melody to which there were no words, and yet Bluma could not stop herself from hearing a single word, like a shadow of the melody, floating down the alleyway:

  Bluuuuuuumaaaaaaa…

  Something twitched between her fingers, and Bluma looked down.

  The spoon. She still held the spoon.

  And it was starting—slowly, of its own accord—to spin around its empty basin.

  The edges of Bluma’s vision began to blur. She could not catch her breath, could not slow her pounding heart. There was something, something heavy, pressing down on her chest, and she felt as if her mind might simply flee in fear.

  She was coming.

  The Dark One was coming.

  And ahead, oblivious, Rokhl ran toward her.

  Now Lilith’s words rose back up in Bluma’s ears:

  She will join our Sisterhood, one way or another.

  What was Bluma doing? Chasing another girl toward Death?

  “Rokhl!” she called out, and far ahead of her, the Rebbe’s granddaughter turned back, breath misting in the chill air.

  What could Bluma say to her? Where could they be safe?

  Rokhl’s eyes grew wide. “Who are you?” she said.

  Bluma shook her head. “I don’t know.” Death was drawing near—there was no time. “It doesn’t matter.”

  In the back of her head, Bluma remembered the song sung in synagogue every Sabbath as the Torah scrolls were laid in their ark:

  It is a Tree of Life for those who cling to it….

  “The synagogue! Come on!”

  * * *

  —

  “Faster, boy,” cried Mammon. “Faster!” And, obligingly, Yehuda Leib put on a little burst of extra speed. Only two of the fingernails on his right hand were still attached to the wheelchair; his left hand was completely free.

  But time was running short.

  Just as they rolled into the intersection, a shock of bright lightning cracked through the sky, and there he was, not half a block distant:

  The Rebbe.

  There was the Rebbe.

  “Stop!” said Mammon in a hoarse whisper. “Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop!”

  Now Yehuda Leib fought to still the wheelchair, wrenching its wheels perpendicular to the slope of the hill, slipping, sliding, digging his heels in between the cobbles. He had to squeeze onto his jagged nail ends with his left hand to keep from losing control of the chair, and with a thrill, he felt the brittle nail of his right little finger snap in its mitten.

  Only one left now.

  “Listen to me carefully,” said Mammon. “We must approach slowly, decorously, as if we were only out to take the night air and happened upon him by chance.”

  Yehuda Leib could not imagine anyone venturing out to take the air in weather such as this, but it hardly mattered. His father’s light was there in his coat pocket, warm against his thigh.

  He had to sever his last nail, and he had to do it now.

  “You will not speak,” said Mammon, “under any circumstances. Even if he addresses you directly. Even if I address you directly. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Yehuda Leib, nodding, but he had barely even heard what the demon had said.

  This was the moment.

  “Splendid,” said Mammon. “Walk on.”

  He was out of time.

  There was no other choice.

  “Yes,” said Yehuda Leib. “Let’s go.” And, turning the wheels of the chair to face back down the hill slope, he swung his freed left hand madly, bashing it against his right, once, twice, three times.

  “What are you doing?” said Mammon, tension stealing into his reedy little voice. “What, what, what is this?”

  With the third swing, Yehuda Leib felt his final fingernail crack and break. The weight of the chair was lifted from him.

  He was free.

  With a great shove, Yehuda Leib launched Mammon away, confusion, panic, fury rising in the demon’s voice as, shaken by the cobbles, he rolled off into the falling snow.

  No time to lose.

  Yehuda Leib tore the mittens from his hands and drove his fingers into his pocket.

  The beautiful warmth of his father filled his bones.

  He hadn’t imagined it.

  He was still here.

  With care, Yehuda Leib drew the little glass bottle forth, bright and clear in the snowy night, and, clutching it against his chest, he began to cry softly.

  He had to get to the Rebbe.

  * * *

  —

  The Rebbe stood in the middle of the road, breathing hard.

 
On all sides of him, the blazing hearths and lamps of the street began to gutter and dim.

  The smell of dying candles crept into the air.

  Something strange was afoot, and the Rebbe did not understand. Once this wedding was done and put behind them, he resolved to question certain Ministers and Messengers of his acquaintance. He resolved to find out.

  For the moment, though, things seemed to have been set right—the dead who walked abroad had been banished or chased away; his granddaughter was unpursued, nearly to the safety of the synagogue. It would not do to abandon his vigilance this night, but for now the Rebbe thought he might again retire to the comfort of his rooms.

  And yet something was happening. Something was strange.

  Even the wind was behaving oddly: now crouching, taut, still and waiting, now thundering, whipping, tearing by.

  As if in flight.

  As if afraid.

  What did the wind know that he did not?

  With a sigh, the Rebbe turned. It had been a long time since he had exerted so much effort in one night, and he was not as young as he once had been. His footsteps faltered lightly as he trudged toward bed.

  He really must get some rest.

  The snow had begun to thicken, the flakes fatter and more numerous than before, and soon the Rebbe could barely make out the shapes of the houses on either side of the road.

  For this reason, he heard before he could see: stamping, shuffling feet coming up from behind, a pair of thin, bony hands clapping along in time, and, high above it all, a single voice, singing a wistful, stumbling melody.

  The Rebbe was sure he recognized the tune, but he could not for the life of him say what it was.

  He turned now and blinked into the snow.

  “Hello?” he said.

  Through the thick veil of white, he could see obscure shapes, figures: a clutch of young men dancing in a trudging circle, each of their feet falling in time with the clap of the bony hands.

  And Someone—Someone in the midst of the dance.

  The Rebbe could not see through the snow.

  “Hello?” he said again.

  The clapping and dancing continued unabated, but with the sound of sudden sighing, now the song broke off.

  “Oh,” said a voice from the center of the circle. “Oh, holy Rebbe, help me. You must help me.”

  The Rebbe took a step forward, squinting to see through the snow.

  And at just this moment, blue lightning came forking through the sky, and there was a sudden illumination in the street.

  In the center of the circle, the Rebbe of Zubinsk saw him: long, thick beard blacker than the night, caftan blacker than the darkness hidden inside your eyes.

  The Rebbe of the Dead.

  * * *

  —

  “Rebbe?”

  Yehuda Leib was enfolded in snow that fell thicker and thicker by the minute. “Rebbe, I need your help.”

  He could see so little now. The street seemed like a wash of featureless white. Was he even headed in the right direction?

  “Rebbe, please!”

  But there was no answer.

  Carefully, foot over foot, Yehuda Leib moved forward. Every now and again he heard a hint from the road ahead: murmuring voices, shuffling feet, snatches of a bony rhythm.

  “Rebbe?” he called, his voice no more than a hoarse whisper.

  He had seen the holy man. He knew he had.

  Gradually, his tenuous steps slowed and then stopped.

  Now that his feet were still, he was sure he could hear something else—something ragged.

  Something near.

  Yehuda Leib turned his head and squeezed his eyes shut. Sure enough, there it was, clear and close:

  Breathing. Raspy, reedy breath.

  “Hello?” said Yehuda Leib into the gloom.

  For a moment, the breathing broke off.

  And then, all of a sudden, Mammon struck, a furious, snarling tangle of sharp teeth and tearing fingers, and he was on Yehuda Leib’s back, smashing him into the ground, bashing his face against the snowy cobbles, twisting and tearing at his hair, spitting venomous words like cheating and thief and show you and pay, and Yehuda Leib elbowed and pushed and kicked, and somehow he managed to throw the demon from his back, but the little glowing glass bottle slipped from his fingers and flew across the snowy street, and he was scrambling, he was so cold, chasing its light into the darkness, but again Mammon pounced and hit him hard, and his sharp teeth drove into Yehuda Leib’s shoulder, and the boy cried out and rolled, throwing his weight atop the demon, and he was free again, and the light, the light, he had to get to the light, but now Mammon saw it and recognized it, and in a tight, rasping snarl, “Mine,” he said, “it’s mine, it’s mine!” and swiftly he scuttled over the snowy road to scoop it up in his grasping fingers.

  And at the sight of Mammon’s sick little smile, his dark eyes glowing in the light of his departed father, Yehuda Leib’s fury stirred and rose.

  “Get your hands off him,” he said.

  And Mammon began to laugh.

  Yehuda Leib launched himself across the street, grabbed the little demon by the lapels of his coat, and slammed him again and again against the snowy ground, and all the while, crazed, manic, the demon was repeating it—it’s mine, it’s mine—and with the third impact, the glowing glass bottle slipped from his clutching fingers, and Yehuda Leib hurled the demon aside and began to crawl toward it, but in a flash, Mammon was on top of him, laying all his weight between Yehuda Leib’s shoulder blades, twisting his reaching arm painfully back, smashing his face down into the snow, and “Oh no, you don’t,” he said, “that’s not yours, you dirty little thief,” and Yehuda Leib couldn’t move him, couldn’t budge, couldn’t even turn his face toward the light, and he thought his arm would break, and he called out:

  “Rebbe, Rebbe, please!”

  And then he saw it, lying just where it had been dropped, only an arm’s length distant, crumpled, dark, trampled over in the snow: his mitten.

  His salt-filled mitten.

  Mammon was exultant, laughing, twisting his arm, reaching for the light with his long, bare toes, and he failed to notice Yehuda Leib’s other arm stretching out through the snow.

  With a buck and a flip, Yehuda Leib threw Mammon from his back, and, grabbing, sprinkling, he sent a hail of salt raining down on top of him.

  There was a sudden stillness.

  Slowly, Mammon began to sizzle, and then to smoke. Large splotchy burns materialized in a spray across his skin where the salt had fallen. Clawing at his face and rolling in the snow, Mammon retreated backward into the snowy night with a bloodcurdling screech.

  And, just like that, his terror and anger echoing behind him, Mammon was gone.

  Yehuda Leib wasted no time. In the barest moment, he had the light in his hands again, and he called out once more:

  “Rebbe!”

  * * *

  —

  The snow fell softly, and the Messenger of Death drew near the Rebbe of Zubinsk. Slowly, the dancing Hasidim began to circle them both.

  “Holy Rebbe,” said the Dark One with a sigh. “Oh, holy Rebbe. They have taught me a new and cruel sorrow.”

  “Who?” said the Rebbe of Zubinsk.

  “Your Hasidim,” said the Dark One. “They have given me welcome. They have called me friend. And only I know that they are mistaken.”

  The Rebbe frowned. “How?”

  The Dark One shook his head as if to dislodge this question from his ear. “Hmm?”

  “How do you know that they are mistaken?”

  “Why, I know it.”

  The Rebbe’s frown deepened. “How?”

  There was a cry from the darkness—somewhere, nearby, a boy in distress—and the Rebbe turned over his shoulder to look
.

  There, beyond the dancers, in the gloomy fall of snow, could he see a shining light?

  “I shall tell you,” said the Dark One, and the Rebbe turned back. “I have met every man, every woman, every child whose time has ever come to pass. Sometimes the suffering are gladdened by my approach, but when the moment finally comes to look me in the face, no one, not one of them, has ever greeted me as a friend.”

  Now the Rebbe chuckled, and he shook his head softly. “You, my friend, are a fool.”

  And again, a sound from over his shoulder: a bloodcurdling screech. The Rebbe turned swiftly. There was danger in the darkness, and someone had called for his help.

  “Then teach me, Rebbe,” said the Dark One. “Teach me to be a fool no longer. I cannot bear this sorrow.”

  “Time is short,” said the Rebbe with a shake of his head. “I cannot teach you. Only consider this: Two are required to meet in friendship. And to decline to shake the outstretched hand because someday it will no longer be there is as foolish as to decline to eat dinner because someday the plate shall be empty. Nothing at all is permanent. Not even you.”

  “Then what ought I to do?”

  The Rebbe had just opened his mouth to answer when again, from over his shoulder, Yehuda Leib’s voice came cutting through the night:

  “Rebbe!”

  It was certain. There was a flickering light in the darkness. The Rebbe was needed.

  But the Dark One needed him too.

  As the Rebbe turned to go, Death reached out with his bare bony hand.

  And no man—no matter how holy—may feel the hand of Death and live.

  * * *

  —

  The moment the bony hands ceased their clapping to reach out for the Rebbe, the dance was at its end. As if waking from a dark dream, the five Hasidim blinked their woozy eyes in the snowy gloom.

  And what they saw was terrible.

  Death stood in their midst, ancient and ragged, reaching out with twiggy thin fingers, grasping desperately for their holy Rebbe.

  The Rebbe was turning, turning away, his face drawn with concern, turning away to help.