The Way Back

by Gavriel Savit

  The supply seemed endless.

  As Yehuda Leib took in the assemblage—candle after candle, flame after flame—it became clear to him that there were far more lights in this house than its little area ought to be able to contain.

  And yet here they were.

  To his living eye, the candle flames seemed strange, redundant: their light paled in the face of the fire that blazed in the hearth, the sunlight that came streaming through the window.

  But with his Death’s Eye, he saw another truth: there was nothing here but darkness and light. All he could see was the points of flickering flame. The wax, the candles, the table, the hut—all were choked back, hidden by the thick darkness. Only the bright fire of the hearth gave any illumination to the room.

  Slowly, careful not to disturb any of the flames on the floor, Yehuda Leib began to tiptoe forward.

  One simple candle on the rough wooden tabletop drew him in—sturdy and straight, neither too wide nor too tall. Its flame burned bright and constant, barely giving a flicker, and though Yehuda Leib could not see it with either eye, the wick that ran down the center of the candle was of blood-red thread.

  It felt just like him.

  One long stave of wax had dripped down its side, trailing along through the gutter of the table’s grain, and if he had cared to follow it, Yehuda Leib would’ve found that it met up after some ways with the wax trail of another, similar candle not far off: a candle that seemed impossible to describe.

  But he was far too taken with his own candle to look anywhere else. He found it fascinating, irresistibly compelling, and he itched to feel its smooth wax against his fingers.

  But a voice spoke from the door as he reached out his hand:

  “I wouldn’t.”

  * * *

  —

  With the cold spoon in her hand, the Nameless Girl pushed her way into the House of Death.

  This helped to determine what she found there.

  It was a small hut, simple, nearly bare: a fire in the hearth, an old wooden table, a single worn chair. The floor was made of earth, packed down by years and years of crossing feet. In the corner, an ancient broom had gnarled, warped to fit the pattern of the two grasping hands that had held it day after day.

  Barely, though, had the Nameless Girl come through the door when she shut her eyes and drew a deep breath in through her nose.

  What an aroma!

  Every surface—table, mantel, chair, and floor—was crowded thick with bowls of chicken soup. Each bowl was different: earthenware, lacquered wood, polished metal, bone china. Even the soup within each bowl was different: some were clear yellow broths dancing with globules of fat; some were carcass soups, cloudy and rich. Some had chunks of meat or vegetables—carrots, potatoes, onions—some had matzo balls, some had noodles. Gouts of steam rose from certain bowls, and some had layers of fat that had separated and solidified on their surfaces.

  The Nameless Girl’s mouth began to water. She could not say how long it had been since she’d taken anything to eat, but whatever the time, it had been far too long.

  Slowly, careful not to disturb any of the bowls on the floor, the Nameless Girl tiptoed her way into the hut.

  Hung above the fire in the hearth was a large pot. Inside, she could hear a roiling, bubbling boil, and nearby, just outside the radius of the fire’s blazing heat, she could see a stack of upturned empty bowls sitting in wait—though whether they had been emptied or were waiting to be filled, she could not say.

  She had just begun to reach out her hand for one of the empty bowls when something caught her notice.

  She knew that smell.

  And, turning, she found, laid on the seat of Death’s chair, a bowl of soup that she might’ve encountered on any Friday night of her life.

  This was it, without question: her bubbe’s chicken soup.

  There was no use resisting.

  The soup in the bowl had cooled, but the Nameless Girl didn’t care—she was terribly hungry, her throat parched and dry—and when she dipped the spoon into the soup, the Nameless Girl saw a cloud of black granules dance about the bowl.

  At first she thought that this was pepper, but it was not. It was dry ink, powdery black, that had once spelled out a name—though what the name was, no one quite knew.

  Desperate for relief, the Nameless Girl lifted the trembling spoon to her lips, black powder dancing in the oily broth, and she thrust it into her mouth.

  The soup was wonderfully delicious, as tasty as anything she’d ever had, familiar but surprising, cool but still bright and flavorful, and she swallowed it down hungrily.

  As she withdrew the spoon from her mouth, though, the razor edge of its basin nicked the inside of her right cheek, and Bluma yelped.

  Bluma.

  The soup traveled down Bluma’s tight throat into Bluma’s cramping stomach.

  Tears filled Bluma’s eyes.

  She had missed her name.

  Quickly, Bluma stirred the soup again, the cloudy color of rust seeping from spoon into bowl, and she lifted a second mouthful to her lips. This time the spoon nicked the inside of her left cheek on its way out, but Bluma could hardly be bothered to notice:

  Tears were running from Bluma’s slate-colored eyes down Bluma’s peaked cheekbones. Bluma’s lips crumpled as she gazed into the mirrored back of the spoon before her.

  Her face.

  Bluma’s own face.

  Her heart had wavered as she’d made her way through the gravestone maze outside—would she reclaim herself or give herself away?—but now she could not possibly imagine giving up her face or name again.

  And with a start, she wondered what sorts of mistakes she might’ve made if she hadn’t been trained by her bubbe over a lifetime of Friday nights to know the smell of her soup.

  Tilting the bowl, she gave it one final stir with the spoon.

  Was it her imagination, or had the soup grown a bit warmer?

  Bluma had begun to gather up the last spoonful when her attention wavered.

  What was that delicious smell?

  Near her bubbe’s bowl, another very much like it, but somehow improved—better seasoned, perhaps, with larger chunks of meat, and the bowl itself not simple glazed crockery, but china, decorated with a tasteful geometric pattern.

  Now that was a soup.

  And it was still piping hot.

  Careful not to spill the broth, Bluma grasped the bowl at its very brim and pulled it toward the edge of the table, twirling the spoon by its handle lightly between her fingers.

  But at that very moment, she heard a voice speak from the door.

  “I wouldn’t,” it said.

  Bluma whirled around in surprise, the spoon slipping from her hand to clatter down onto the wooden table.

  * * *

  —

  Yehuda Leib whirled around in surprise. Something had clattered onto the wooden table before him, but his eyes were fixed on the dark figure in the doorway.

  Death had come home.

  “You,” he said.

  “Yehuda Leib,” said the Angel of Death, “you must be very careful. If you make one false move—if you even breathe incorrectly—it may have disastrous consequences.”

  “You,” said Yehuda Leib again. “Give me back my father.”

  The Angel of Death shook his head slowly. “I cannot.”

  “You mean you will not,” said Yehuda Leib.

  “That is also true,” said the Angel of Death. “But what I meant to say is that I cannot—it is not within my power.”

  “You lie!” cried Yehuda Leib, and, looking down upon the wooden table before him, he saw what had clattered there: not a spoon, to Yehuda Leib’s eye, but a long, wicked double-edged dagger, and he seized it now, pointing it at the Angel in the doorway.

  “G
ive me back my father!” he said again.

  “Be careful,” said the Angel. “That blade will sever anything at all it is pressed against, even things that are not visible to your eye.”

  “I’m counting on it,” said Yehuda Leib, and, blade outstretched, he began to make his way through the candles toward his enemy at the door.

  “Stop,” said the Angel. “You must stop now, before you put out a light that ought to go on burning.”

  “Then give me what I ask!” cried Yehuda Leib.

  “This?” said the Angel, reaching deep into his black coat. “Is this what you desire?”

  The small glass bottle held one tiny, fading point of light—barely anything—and if Yehuda Leib hadn’t known to look for it, he wouldn’t have seen it there at all.

  “Yes,” said Yehuda Leib through tight-shut jaws.

  “This,” said the Angel, “is not your father—not in the way that you think. But all the same I will give it to you if, once I have finished speaking, you ask it of me again.”

  Yehuda Leib could not still his trembling chin long enough to speak clearly, but he dropped the point of the cold blade down to his side.

  “Good,” said the Angel of Death. “Now consider: What will you do with this light once you hold it? No flame burns here without a wick or candle.”

  “What,” said Yehuda Leib, swallowing hard, “what about the fire in the hearth?”

  “Ah,” said the Angel with a smile. “Very good. You have noticed the way in which the hearth fire burns, have you?”

  In truth Yehuda Leib had not—he had only meant that the fire in the hearth seemed to have been built with logs of wood—but, turning his head now, he saw: the fire burned, bright and hot, but the wood within was not consumed.

  “You are quite right,” said the Angel. “That is a Light that burns and burns and never goes out. And, Yehuda Leib, if you allow me to keep this”—and here he brandished the small glass bottle—“that is where I intend it to go. It will join the Eternal Light, and some part of it will never go out. But if you should keep it, it would languish, as it has already begun to do, and go out forever.”

  Yehuda Leib sniffed, tears rolling down his cheeks. “But it was not yours to take.”

  “No,” said the Dark Messenger, shaking his head softly. “But I never come on my own errand.”

  This all made unbearable sense to Yehuda Leib, and yet he could not stop the fury from blossoming in his chest. “It’s not fair!” he said.

  “No,” said the Angel. “It is not.”

  “I want him to come back,” said Yehuda Leib.

  “But he cannot,” said the Angel with a sigh. “He must go forward.”

  Again, the grief bloomed in Yehuda Leib. “But I’m so angry,” he said. “And so sad.”

  “Why?” said the Angel.

  “Because you took my father,” said Yehuda Leib.

  “No,” said the Angel. “No. You did not know your father.”

  And, stepping forward, the Angel reached out his hand.

  * * *

  —

  Stepping forward, the Angel reached out her hand.

  “Stay back!” said Bluma. “You cannot have me!”

  Now the Angel chuckled.

  “No,” she said. “It is not your time. And that is why you must not taste of the soup before you.”

  “This?” said Bluma, staring into the bowl. “But this is mine.”

  “Yes,” said the Angel. “And if you take one bite, you will find it so delicious that you will not stop until the bowl has been entirely drained. That would be a great tragedy.”

  “A tragedy?” said Bluma. “For me to take control of myself?”

  Now the Angel smiled sadly. “Yes.”

  * * *

  —

  “Stay back!” said Yehuda Leib, raising the knife in his hand. “You cannot have me!”

  Now the Angel chuckled.

  “No,” he said. “It is not your time. All I require from you is the return of my instrument.”

  Yehuda Leib’s eyes narrowed. “Why? What are you going to do?”

  “I am going,” said the Angel of Death, “to show you the rest of your father. Would you like to see?”

  Slowly, Yehuda Leib nodded.

  “Very well, then,” said the Angel of Death. “You must give me my blade.”

  Gingerly, Yehuda Leib took the flat of the cold knife between his thumb and forefinger and held out the hilt to the Angel.

  “Good,” said the Angel, and, navigating swiftly through the burning candles on the floor, he made his way to Yehuda Leib’s side and bent low over the table.

  “What are you doing?” said Yehuda Leib.

  “Retrieving the balance of your father,” said the Angel, and, using the knife’s keen edge, he pried a small blot of hardened wax up from the table and handed it to Yehuda Leib.

  “There,” he said. “You wished me to give you your father, and there he is.”

  The blob of wax seemed entirely ordinary: pearly white, cool to the touch, its pooled shape strange and accidental.

  Yehuda Leib could see the burned end of a spent wick trapped inside the wax, and for a moment he thought about trying to shape it into a tiny new candle, but there was neither enough wax nor enough wick remaining.

  The candle was spent.

  “Does it not move you?” said the Angel.

  Yehuda Leib clenched his jaw. It was only wax.

  “I thought not. But all the same it oughtn’t go to waste. Come.”

  Now the Angel led Yehuda Leib across the burning floor to the hearthside, where, above the roaring fire, a great pot full of molten wax was hung.

  “Here,” said the Angel, and softly, deftly, he used his blade to carve the spent wick out of the hardened wax in Yehuda Leib’s hand. Then, laying aside the knife, he drew forth the small glass bottle once more, uncorked it, and coaxed the fading point of light onto the last of the wick between his fingers.

  “There we are,” said the Angel of Death, and, bending low, he let go of the wick, which floated, smoldering, down into the great unconsuming fire in the hearth.

  “Until we meet again,” said the Angel of Death to the waning wick.

  Yehuda Leib gave a heavy sigh.

  “Now you,” said the Angel.

  “What?” said Yehuda Leib.

  “There are two halves to every living soul,” said the Angel. “The part that goes wandering about the world, it is my task to retrieve. But the part that stays here with us”—the Angel gestured first to the wax in Yehuda Leib’s hand, and then to the ancient pot—“must be returned as well.”

  Yehuda Leib gazed through the clear wax to the craggy bottom of the pot.

  “Now you,” said the Angel.

  “And what happens to it?” said Yehuda Leib.

  “I am not the only Messenger to frequent this place,” said the Angel. “Another passes through the door many times each day, bringing fresh-woven wicks to dip into this wax, and when those candles are cool and dry, they are lit from the fire below and released through the window.”

  Yehuda Leib peered out the window beside the hearth. With his living eye, he saw a bright blue sky filled with summer sun. With his Death’s Eye, he saw the wide night sky, filled not with stars but with flickering candles.

  “Here,” said the Angel of Death. “Now you.” And, rising up on his feet, Yehuda Leib dropped the blob of hardened wax into the pot.

  “Until we meet again,” he said, his voice faltering.

  And this might’ve been the end of things.

  But as the wax began to melt, the fire beneath the pot surged, sending a gout of light up beneath the brim of the Angel’s wide black hat.

  And for the first time, Yehuda Leib saw his face.

  * * *r />
  —

  “Come,” said the Angel to Bluma. “I will show you.” And, navigating swiftly through the steaming bowls on the floor, she made her way to the pot above the fire. “If you would hand me your bubbe’s bowl?”

  With care, Bluma bore the cooled bowl of soup across the room to the Angel by the fire.

  “Here,” said Bluma.

  With practiced reverence, the Angel took the bowl from her hand and emptied its contents into the pot. Then she lifted her spoon in her hand—where had that come from?—and ran its razor edge along the inside of the bowl, scraping every last bit of the soup from the bowl. Finally, she plunged the spoon into the pot and gave it a stiff stir.

  “Until we meet again,” said the Angel, and she added the now-empty bowl to the stack nearby.

  “Goodbye, Bubbe,” said Bluma. “Your mother says she’s sorry.”

  Now the Angel withdrew the spoon and laid it down beside her. The Fire flared with warmth.

  And it was in this light that Bluma saw again the sight that had sent her fleeing in the first place:

  The face of Death.

  It was her own, of course—lined and wrinkled, her hair turned to gossamer, but there was no mistaking the slate-gray eyes, the peaked cheekbones.

  The face was Bluma’s.

  “Why?” said Bluma. “Why must you look like that?”

  Death frowned, light and tight. “I might ask you the same question. For as much as it frightens each of you to see my face, it grieves me to see each of yours.”

  Staring into the swirling pot of soup, Bluma realized: Because the Messenger comes for each of us in turn. Because, if by nothing else, we are bound together by her visit.

  And in this way, it is a kindness. In this way, the Messenger’s terrible face is a reminder that none of us is alone.

  “Thank you,” said Bluma softly.

  But to understand this requires the knowledge that Death’s face shifts and changes.

  To understand this requires the ability to look past our own deathly visage.