The Way Back

by Gavriel Savit

  Finally, “Yehuda Leib?” said Bluma.

  And “Bluma,” he replied. “So it is you. What happened to your face?”

  * * *

  —

  “What happened to your face?”

  Bluma and Yehuda Leib stood in a nearby backyard to which they had retreated for a bit of privacy.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” said Bluma.

  “I think I might,” said Yehuda Leib.

  Bluma sighed. Maybe he would—but everyone knows: believing is not the same thing as understanding.

  “I traded it, I suppose,” she said.

  “For what?” said Yehuda Leib.

  “For not having to have a face anymore,” said Bluma. “A face that people recognize.”

  She expected Yehuda Leib to scoff at this, but he didn’t—he frowned, as if considering the value of this price, and then nodded lightly.

  “And what about you?” said Bluma. “What happened to you?”

  There was a faraway look in Yehuda Leib’s eyes. “I don’t quite know,” he said.

  “Your hair’s grown long,” said Bluma.

  “Has it?” said Yehuda Leib, feeling at the nape of his neck. “I slept for a long time, I think.”

  This seemed perfectly reasonable to Bluma, for though only a day and a night had passed since they’d stood together at the threshold of her parents’ house, she had learned well the ways in which the Far Country can warp and stretch time. One day could be a moment, one night an eternity.

  “There was a demon,” said Yehuda Leib, but Bluma spoke up sharply. “I don’t care for that word,” she said. It was Lilith’s phrase, and it was out of her mouth before she’d even managed to consider whether or not it was true.

  Yehuda Leib shrugged. “Maybe we’ve met different kinds of demons.”

  “I expect we have,” said Bluma.

  But Yehuda Leib was preoccupied. His eyes, beautiful and sharp, were glazed, fixed, as if he were staring at something very, very far away.

  “Bluma,” said Yehuda Leib. “I met my father.”

  “Your father?” said Bluma. “I always thought he was dead.”

  Yehuda Leib shook his head insistently. “He isn’t. Well, he wasn’t.” And then, quietly: “He won’t be.”

  “What was he like?” said Bluma.

  “Scary,” said Yehuda Leib. “Terrifying. But also warm. Familiar. And strange. I don’t know. I didn’t get enough time.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Bluma.

  And suddenly, Yehuda Leib’s faraway gaze was sharp and near again. “Why?” he said.

  Bluma shrugged. “Because if you wanted more time with him, I think you should’ve gotten it.”

  Yehuda Leib averted his eyes and began to chew at the inside of his lower lip. “Bluma,” he said. “I’m going back.”

  “What?” said Bluma. “To Tupik?”

  “No,” said Yehuda Leib.

  For a moment, she considered asking him where, then, he meant to go.

  But they both knew.

  “Why?”

  “Because,” said Yehuda Leib, “he’s a bully. And a tyrant.”

  “Who is?” said Bluma. “Your father?”

  “No,” said Yehuda Leib. “The Dark One.”

  “Oh, I know her,” said Bluma.

  And though they spoke of Death with different words, neither noticed. For everyone knows: those who walk in the shadow of Death can see only its nearest face.

  “You do?”

  “She tried to catch me in Tupik.”

  Yehuda Leib’s expression fell.

  “Oh,” said Yehuda Leib. “Oh, Bluma, I’m so sorry.”

  Bluma shrugged and slotted her hands into her pockets.

  “What are you going to do?” said Yehuda Leib. “Keep running?”

  She shook her head. “There’s no running fast enough.”

  At this, Yehuda Leib nodded.

  “And what about you?” said Bluma.

  “I’m going to get my father back,” said Yehuda Leib. “I’m going to fight against the Dark One. And I’m going to win.”

  Yehuda Leib’s eyes were blazing. Bluma had never seen such determination in her life. Idly, hand in her pocket, she ran the pad of her thumb through the basin of her spoon.

  “Good,” she said. “Then I’ll come with you.”

  Yehuda Leib grimaced, and then, after a moment, he spoke. “All right.”

  This took Bluma by surprise. She’d been prepared to argue, to explain how no one on their side of the Cemetery had ever managed to evade Death before, how she had reason to believe there were beings in the Far Country who had the resources to help her.

  “Aren’t you going to try and talk me out of it?” said Bluma.

  Yehuda Leib shrugged. “Do you want me to?”

  Bluma shook her head.

  “Then what good would it do?” said Yehuda Leib.

  And softly, in the empty aloneness the spoon had begun to carve out inside her, something warm began to flicker and glow.

  Yehuda Leib was not yet prepared to leave—his thoughts were fixed on a set of shadowy windows above a nearby general store—but daylight was in short supply in that season, and neither he nor Bluma relished the thought of setting out after dark.

  At first Yehuda Leib suggested meeting back up by the wrought-iron gates of Zubinsk’s main cemetery, but Bluma was resistant—that place made her skin crawl.

  “No,” she said. “I bet it’s still packed with them.”

  Yehuda Leib was not so sure, but Bluma was adamant.

  “But how else can we get back in?” said Yehuda Leib.

  Bluma swallowed. “There’s a second cemetery,” she said. Her stomach squirmed as she told Yehuda Leib how to find the entrance to the narrow alleyway. What if Lilith was still there?

  “Why don’t I just come with you now?” said Bluma, but Yehuda Leib shook his head.

  “There’s something I’ve got to do,” said Yehuda Leib. “Alone. I’ll meet you there.”

  Bluma began to chew on her lower lip. “And you’re sure we’ll be able to get through?”

  “Not yet,” said Yehuda Leib. “Give me an hour.”

  But as Bluma turned to go, something made her freeze in her tracks.

  “Oh no,” said Bluma, her teeth gritted hard. “Oh no.”

  “What is it?” said Yehuda Leib.

  Bluma turned back. “Don’t look,” she whispered, “but up there on the rooftop—”

  “The cat?”

  “Yes,” said Bluma.

  “It’s been there since we arrived.”

  “Yehuda Leib,” said Bluma as quietly as she could, “I think I’m being followed.”

  This was trouble. Bluma’s breathing began to quicken.

  “Oh no,” she said again. “Oh no, what do I do?”

  “It’s all right,” said Yehuda Leib softly. “Do you think you’re in danger?”

  “No,” said Bluma. “No, I think there would be more if they meant to attack.”

  “Good,” said Yehuda Leib. “That’s good. Can you lose her?”

  Bluma swallowed. “I’ll try.”

  “All right,” said Yehuda Leib. “One hour.”

  “One hour,” said Bluma.

  “Go.”

  * * *

  —

  The light in the street was cold and gray as Yehuda Leib made his way behind the backs of the fervently praying Hasidim toward the entrance of the general store. The front windows were large, the glass so clean it sparkled, but little of the diffuse, cloudy sunlight managed to penetrate the gloomy shop.

  Yehuda Leib tried the doorknob, and it turned smoothly in his hand. He stepped inside, swinging the door shut behind him, and in the
sudden quiet of the still shop, the tinkle of the small entrance bell above seemed deafening.

  “Hello?” said Yehuda Leib, in as loud a whisper as he could muster.

  There was no answer.

  Lightly, he began to move farther into the shop. It was clearly a prosperous establishment: despite signs of heavy wear on the floorboards and countertops, the fixtures were in fine repair—dustless, polished to a high sheen.

  The merchandise, too, was of good quality: sturdy suits and stylish dresses, fragrant coffee beans and teas. There were jars full of preserved fruit, dry goods in sacks and barrels, the finest hand tools and farm implements that money could buy, their hafts and blades gleaming. Yehuda Leib had never seen so many new things in one place before: crisp umbrellas, cushy baby carriages, shelves and shelves full of stiff-spined books, magazines, newspapers. His stomach moaned loudly as he passed a display of sweets in brightly colored packages, but he moved swiftly on.

  He’d just seen it: a gash of bright light leaking from the back-room door.

  Carefully, Yehuda Leib approached and pulled it open.

  At first he thought the room was empty, the warm lamplight spilling out over a sturdy desk strewn with ledgers and account books. There was a cast-iron stove in the near corner, its door hanging open to reveal a fire at the very furthest extremity of its life. The chair behind the desk was shoved away on the diagonal, its backrest filling the shoulders of a man’s suit jacket, and, beyond, on the rear wall, a set of stairs climbed up to the apartment above the shop.

  With a deep breath, Yehuda Leib stepped in, crossing rapidly toward the stairs, but as he came around the desk, he jumped:

  There, on the floor, cross-legged before the open maw of a large safe, was a man, feverishly working, sodden with sweat. His tie was undone, his sleeves pushed up, and all around him on the floor were dozens of piles of cash.

  Yehuda Leib’s gasp awoke the man from his frantic counting, and with a start, he reached deep into the safe and pulled out a wicked-looking pistol, which he pointed straight into Yehuda Leib’s face.

  “It’s mine!” he yelled, spittle flying from his lips. “It’s mine! You can’t have any of it!”

  His eyes were bloodshot and wide, and Yehuda Leib had no doubt at all that the man would pull the trigger if he felt the need.

  “I don’t want it!” said Yehuda Leib. “I don’t want anything!”

  The mad merchant laughed as if he couldn’t possibly believe this, and with his free hand he began raking up wads of banknotes and shoving them into his pockets. “Sure,” he said. “Sure you don’t. Then why are you here?”

  What could he say?

  “I…”

  He couldn’t tell the truth—that much was certain.

  “I have a delivery,” said Yehuda Leib.

  “A delivery?”

  “Yes,” said Yehuda Leib. “Complimentary samples.”

  At this, the merchant lifted his pistol away from Yehuda Leib.

  “Complimentary?” said the merchant hungrily.

  Yehuda Leib nodded.

  “Fine,” said the merchant, and he laid the pistol back inside the safe. “Bring it around back. I’ll look through it later.”

  And with that, he began to smooth and unfurl what he’d wadded into his pockets, counting as he went.

  Slowly, Yehuda Leib exhaled. The cracked lips of the merchant fluttered and mumbled as he counted and recounted his bills.

  Nothing else in the world seemed to matter to him.

  Carefully, quietly, Yehuda Leib made his way up the stairs, and when he emerged into a dim corridor above, he was immediately on his guard.

  A rich crystal chandelier hung overhead; all but one of the candles it bore had burned out. A tall young woman in an evening dress of pale blue satin stood beneath it in the flickering light, bare inches away from her image in the mirror. She turned sharply at the sound of Yehuda Leib’s arrival, her eyes staring, bloodshot, just like the man’s below.

  “Is it enough?” she said. Her voice was tight with panic. “I don’t think it’s enough.”

  She was wearing fine white gloves, and there was at least one ring on each of her fingers. Bangles and bracelets of gold and silver lined her arms up to the elbow, and her neck was laden with layer upon layer of pearls and pendants, beads and lockets, ribbons and chains. Her face was caked with rouge, and the rivulets of black that dripped from her eyes showed that she had been crying.

  “Do you think it’s enough?”

  Her eyes were locked frantically on Yehuda Leib’s. Three different tiaras were plaited into her hair.

  Yehuda Leib swallowed hard and gestured over her shoulder with his chin. “Look again.”

  This did the trick. With a swift shushing of satin, the young woman turned back, surveyed herself in the mirror, and resumed her soft sobbing. Yehuda Leib was forgotten.

  Quietly, Yehuda Leib pushed his way through the front door of the apartment and into the well-appointed sitting room.

  There was a fire crackling in the hearth. Someone was seated in a high-backed armchair, staring into the flames.

  Slowly, Yehuda Leib made his way around the edge of the room, keeping his distance, until he could see the little man.

  Yehuda Leib’s stomach dropped. His heart began to race. The spectacles were cracked, and the face was covered in a spray of splotchy red burns, but he had been right.

  It was definitely him.

  Yehuda Leib cleared his throat softly. “My lord,” he said.

  The beady black eyes flashed with reflected fire as they turned toward Yehuda Leib.

  “You,” said Mammon.

  * * *

  —

  It was long before and far away that Private Yankev Pasternak of the Tenth Division of the Imperial Army, Tomsky Regiment, met his end.

  It happened on an early November morning in a foggy ravine outside Sevastopol. Having been garrisoned in the city, the Tomsky men set out before dawn, taking up their positions under cover of darkness. Pasternak was nervous, but he was always nervous before an engagement—it was a kind of preparation, like laying a fuse.

  The ravine was narrow—so narrow that Pasternak wondered if there would be room to maneuver—and the combined nerves of the six thousand or so men filled it to its brim like a tin cup with acrid sweat.

  Pasternak checked and double-checked: musket primed and loaded, bayonet firmly fixed. Some men chattered, whispering about everything and nothing to tamp down their fear, but Pasternak didn’t say a word; Pasternak checked and double-checked.

  Primed and loaded.

  Fixed.

  The order finally came to advance as dawn spilled into the foggy morning. Behind them, far away, all the churches of Sevastopol began to toll out their bells in a fury of pealing to spur them on.

  Forward.

  But Pasternak had been right. The ravine was very narrow, and the British had set pickets ahead. They were firing by the time Pasternak reached the choke point. There were already bodies underfoot.

  The fog was very thick. All he could see was blossoms of musket fire flaring out in the gloom.

  Now his nerves were truly ablaze. Now he was ready to kill anything that moved.

  In his final moment, Yankev Pasternak thought he saw one of the Brits rushing forward through the fog—a soldier in a black, black uniform, blacker than the darkness he would soon find hidden inside his eyes—but before the figure resolved, a musket ball rang through his helmet like a bell.

  His eyes closed.

  And this was the end of Private Yankev Pasternak.

  But Pasternak didn’t know that. As far as Pasternak knew, he woke again in the aftermath of the battle, rising up from the morass of corpses into an empty ravine.

  Everything was still.

  His head ached terribly.
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  But the fog smelled sharply of spent powder, and somewhere nearby—he couldn’t quite say where—he could still hear the popping of gunfire, the grunt and the groan of striving men.

  Pasternak had died with nerves ablaze, and so that was how he remained: embattled, terrified, bloodthirsty.

  He was alone on the battlefield. He had to find the others.

  And so he retreated through the fog, bayonet at the ready, prepared to kill anything that moved.

  And in this manner, he made his way into the Far Country.

  “You there!”

  Pasternak wheeled about, his bayonet forward, as an officer on horseback cantered up through the fog.

  “What are you doing skulking around out here?”

  Pasternak stared. Speech was supposed to fire from the barrel of his mouth, but he could not quite recall how it was done.

  “You’re not a deserter, are you?”

  At this dangerous and insulting insinuation, Pasternak let out a percussive “No, sir!”

  “Well, come on, then,” said the officer. “The muster point’s just beyond the ridge.”

  The officer turned his mount sharply and made to spur it on. “What are you waiting for, soldier?”

  The noise of battle—thudding artillery, screaming horses—seemed to be growing louder in Pasternak’s ears with every second.

  But something was strange.

  Pasternak had never seen an officer with slit-pupil eyes before. The cockade in the officer’s hat was made not of ordinary ribbon, but of badly bloodied bandaging knotted into a rosette, and what was more, the mount beneath him was in an extreme state of decay, its bleached white ribs exposed beneath the saddle on its back.

  What army did the officer belong to? What army did Yankev belong to? These were indispensably important questions.

  But it is impossible to think clearly when your nerves are ablaze.

  “Move!” roared the fox-eyed officer. “On the double!” And Pasternak began to scramble up toward the muster point beyond the ridge.

  In this way, Yankev Pasternak was absorbed into the Magog Regiment of the 779th Division of the Army of the Dead, under the command of Lord High General Dumah, Whose Name Means Silence.