City of the Plague God

by Sarwat Chadda

  “This is it?” If this was the afterlife, it was pretty disappointing. I remember someone at the masjid telling me there’d be seventy heavenly companions waiting.…

  The train wasn’t coming back, and standing there was achieving nothing, so I struck out toward the biggest mound. It seemed as good a plan as any.

  The tell grew before me. Its steep slopes still bore the marks of humanity. Steps, sagging with the weight of countless centuries, crisscrossed the sides, and there were paths too straight and angular to be anything but the work of stonemasons. I followed one of the walkways and explored the skeletal remains of a forgotten civilization. The buildings sagged like molten candles. Statues lay broken on the ground—whether they were supposed to be beasts or gods I couldn’t tell anymore. I saw a few tall stone slabs—steles—engraved with cuneiform and other unintelligible markings.

  I stubbed my toe against something half-buried in the hard-packed sand. I hunched down and pulled it out. I brushed off the encrusted grit and ran my fingers over the smooth wooden shape of a lion. Someone had taken a lot of care in carving it. The mane had been delicately cut, as had the wide-open roaring mouth and the wrinkles in the folds of fur. The eyes were inlaid obsidian. I put it in my net shopping bag.

  “Beauty must be preserved, eh?” someone said.

  I spun at the voice, and a figure rose out of the shadows of the ruins. His face was hidden under a black-checkered keffiyeh, and his kaftan was dusty. Pebbles crunched under his heavy hiking boots as he climbed over a wall. The leather satchel he carried looked familiar, worn and oily dark with handling, the edges frayed and repaired with duct tape.

  The way he looked at me made my heart ache. “Do I know you?”

  He laughed.

  It was a laugh I thought I’d never hear again.

  “Alhamdulillah.” He reached up and pulled his keffiyeh loose. “So, what brings you here, Yakhi?”

  My heart surged as he revealed his face. I swallowed hard. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  “And I you,” said Mo.

  IT WAS MO. MO MAKING A FIRE. MO EATING ONE OF Gilgamesh’s cookies. Mo sitting cross-legged in the dust and ruins, smiling. And laughing. At everything.

  That’s what I’d forgotten: how much Mo laughed.

  Dying hadn’t dented his spirits one bit.

  There was nothing to say, and too much to say. So my eyes just drank him in. Having him back was all I’d thought about, all I’d dreamed about for two years. I watched how he constantly fiddled with his keffiyeh and beat the dust off his clothing while stealing glances at me, making sure I was still there, that this wasn’t a dream of his.

  We sat in a shelter at the foot of the tell. It must have once been part of a temple or sacred dwelling. The broken walls were covered with friezes of men and women in strange outfits with bands of cuneiform running both above and below. This may not have been my idea of the perfect afterlife, but it was certainly Mo’s. Notebooks lay scattered in all corners, and I saw his translations written on the open pages.

  “So, am I dead?” was my first question.

  “You tell me,” he said as he nibbled. “Is there any reason you should be?”

  “I don’t think so…” I said. “Though I did have an incident with a train recently. That should’ve brought me here.”

  “Oh?” Mo’s raised eyebrows disappeared under his keffiyeh.

  “Do you remember finding any strange-looking flowers while you were in Iraq?”

  “I saw lots of flowers.” His eyes crinkled. “As botanists tend to do.”

  “Think, Mo! It would have been somewhere remote, an unlikely place for any flower to grow. You took a cutting and mailed it to me just before you…just before your accident.”

  Mo took a minute to ponder it. “Hmm. I did find a flower out in the desert south of Basra.…Like an orchid, but totally adapted to an arid environment. I was amazed that it could survive there.” He looked up at me. “And yes, I did ship you a cutting. What about it?”

  I took a deep breath. Might as well get this over with. “The last cutting you sent me was from the flower of immortality.”

  “Ya salam! That can’t be! According to the stories, a snake ate the last one.”

  “And pooped out the seeds, continuing the circle of life.” I grinned at him. “You, Mohammed Aziz, rookie botanist, actually found the flower of eternal life and didn’t know it. You coulda been rich and famous at a young age, if you hadn’t…” I trailed off. It was all so ironic and unfair.

  Mo was too mind-blown to speak, so I went on. “I planted the cutting, just like you told me to, and I must have inhaled its pollen or eaten a leaf or gotten some of its sap in my bloodstream. Somehow it entered my system, and things have gotten really complicated since then.”

  “What do you mean by ‘complicated’?”

  So I told him about Nergal and his demons, the destruction of the deli. Mo went pale when I told him about Mama and Baba being in intensive care. “But they’re still alive, right?”

  That sent a chill down my spine. “They aren’t here, are they?”

  “No, they’re not,” he said, relieved. Then he removed a flask from his satchel, opened it up, and dripped a thick, red liquid onto a cookie.

  My eyes began to water. “Is that the Baghdad? How did you get it here?”

  He held out the flask, and one sniff was all I needed to tell me, yes, it was our fabled shock-and-awe sauce.

  “You gave it to me, Yakhi,” said Mo. “Every time you pour it down the sink and say ‘For you,’ my flask is refilled. The ancient Mesopotamians used to make offerings to the departed, and the system still works.” He held out the dripping cookie. “Want a bite?”

  “Seriously? On a cookie? No wonder Mama never wanted you on food prep.” I shook my head. “Can we get on with the story? Nergal’s in town, looking for the flower, and I teamed up with Ishtar and her daughter to stop him.”

  “Ishtar has a daughter?” he asked between chews. “What’s she like?”

  “Nothing like her mom,” I said. “In fact, nothing like any girl I’ve ever known.”

  “That’s not exactly a long list, is it?” said Mo, smirking.

  I ignored that. “So we need to get back to the world of the living and save our parents.”

  Mo paused. “We?”

  How could he not realize this? “Yeah, we. I figured you knew all this, and that’s why I’m here. If I’m not dead, then you must have sent for me. There has to be a way to get you home.”

  He laughed suddenly. “Just think: If I’d taken a bite of that flower, I’d be immortal, too! I never would have died!”

  “I don’t know why you find that funny,” I said sourly. “We were all really upset. We’re still really upset. We take your death very seriously, and so should you.”

  “Me?” he asked. “Why?”

  “Because it destroyed our world! Nothing’s been good since the night we got that call. Do you know what it’s like, wading through the day when your heart’s been shattered into a million pieces? It’s impossible to care about anything, because the only thing that mattered is gone. Forever.”

  “And yet here I am, sitting beside you,” he said simply.

  “This doesn’t count!” I kicked the dust. “And don’t tell me I should be content with remembering the good times. I wanted more and didn’t get them. Neither did Mama and Baba. You took all that from us. The night you became a shaheed.”

  That’s what everyone called him now. He’d died trying to help the country he loved. But if the idea of Mo becoming a martyr was meant to make the reality of his passing easier to take, it had totally failed.

  “They still have you, Sik.”

  “Yeah, the spare. Great,” I muttered. “You were the one they pinned all their hopes on.”

  “That’s not true—”

  I wasn’t listening. Too many memories were fighting it out. “‘Oh, look at these grades. Mohammed’s got a scholarship! There he goes, off on ano
ther great adventure! Why, Mr. and Mrs. Aziz, you must be sooo proud of him. Sik? He’s in the kitchen, washing the dishes.’”

  “I always thought you liked working in the deli.”

  “Someone had to help Mama and Baba. You were never—”

  He held up a hand, cutting me off. “Let me get this straight. You miss me, but you resent me. Because I went on trips?”

  “No,” I said, feeling weary. “Because you never took me.”

  “But you were too young, Sik. The places I went were hard.”

  “So? I would have had my big brother to protect me.”

  He spread out his arms. “Here you go, then! We’re camping under the extinction of galaxies!”

  I gazed up at the wild, exploding colors in the night sky. “Is that what they are?”

  “A billion stars going supernova, death on a cosmic scale. This is Kurnugi, Sik. This is where you go when it all ends.”

  “Well, it hasn’t ended for me yet.” I stood up. “I have to get back, and you’re coming with me.”

  He just shrugged, as if his death wasn’t that big a deal. “Just pluck a flower from the community garden and take it to—”

  Oh, boy. This was a conversation I didn’t think I was ever going to have. “The garden is gone, Mo. They paved over it.”

  He stared at me, aghast. “Paved over the garden? To make what?”

  “Uh, a parking lot.”

  “You didn’t save anything?!”

  I wished I were dead. For real. “I…I didn’t visit the garden as often as I should have.”

  “One thing, Sik. I asked you to do one thing for me. That garden was supposed to be my legacy.…”

  Now I was angry. “Like I didn’t have enough to do helping Mama and Baba? Daoud’s completely useless. He—”

  “Ah, Daoud. How is he? Still playing terrorists on TV?”

  Mo’s constant easygoing nature made it impossible for me to stay mad. “Yeah. I don’t know why he doesn’t just give it up. I kinda feel sorry for him, wasting his life, dreaming of being a hero.”

  “Ah, Daoud will save the day. You just wait.” Then Mo turned back to our small camp. “So, Ishtar and Nergal in New York City? Tell me more. I want to know everything.”

  I gazed across the tells dotting the landscape as far as the horizon. I peered harder. “There’s a dust cloud out there.”

  Then the quiet night rumbled with roars. Far away, but getting closer.

  Mo sprang up and dug binoculars from his satchel. “Ugallus on the hunt.”

  I snapped my fingers. “Lion-men, right?”

  He laughed. “Glad all my stories sunk into that dense head of yours.”

  The roars grew louder as they headed straight for our mound.

  “Uh, what are they hunting, exactly?” I asked nervously. “Should we run?”

  “Nowhere to run to,” Mo answered matter-of-factly. I wished I could be as fearless.

  Now that they were closer, I could see that in addition to the sprinting lion-men were a pack of actual lions, including a pair harnessed to a chariot carrying two people.

  “Erishkigal,” muttered Mo. “It has to be.”

  “The goddess of death,” I remembered. “Now should we run?”

  Mo lowered his binoculars. “No point. This is her queendom.”

  The lions and ugallus reached the tell long before the chariot and its occupants did.

  An ugallu leaped to the top of a boulder, panting hard. He was twice the height of a normal human and muscled like a sprinter, and from the shoulders up he bore a thick-maned lion’s head. His body was covered in scars; some of them looked fresh, like the big one across his face that had taken out an eye. “On your knees before the Queen of the Night,” he ordered.

  The lions and other ugallus gathered around us, sniffing and growling softly. The un-subtle threat made the hairs on the back of my neck rise straight up. The ugallus smelled musty. Their long embroidered kilts had seen better days: The colors were faded and the tassels frayed or missing entirely. Despite their hulking, muscular physiques, the guardians looked ill, with mangy pelts and fangs yellow and blunt. Still long enough to put deep holes through a skull, though.

  “On your knees!” roared the one-eyed ugallu.

  Mo took my arm and hauled me down beside him. He looked over at me. “Let me do the talking.”

  I couldn’t help it…when the chariot rolled out of the dust cloud, I had to look up. The wood creaked as the passenger stepped off, leaving the charioteer to park the vehicle.

  Erishkigal bore an aloof, regal beauty. Her hair was midnight dark and spun with strands of cold moonlight, and her skin was pale, covered by a plain black robe and a cloak that she shook off and tossed to one of her ugallus.

  “Face in the dirt,” snarled One-Eye.

  A chill descended as Erishkigal stopped in front of us. “Mortals are not permitted in my realm.”

  Mo said, “I can explain, Your Majesty. This is my brother and—”

  A deep, threatening growl from One-Eye shut him up.

  Erishkigal crouched to my level and gazed into my face. Her eyes were colder and emptier than the edge of the universe. “We have punishments for those who violate my domain. Exquisite sufferings that last—”

  The charioteer coughed loudly as she joined the queen. “‘Exquisite sufferings’? Really, Erish? Are you still doing that whole ‘torture trespassers’ routine?”

  Wait a minute.…

  Erishkigal’s jaw tightened. “This is none of your business, Sister.”

  Wait another minute.…

  I raised my eyes to get a better view of the charioteer.

  Ishtar waved at me. “Hi, Sikander. Nice handbag.”

  “SHUKRAN,” I SAID, HOLDING UP GILGAMESH’S NET shopping bag. “They’re all the rage nowadays.”

  She smiled widely. “It suits you.” Her bare toes played in the sand. For someone who’d recently died a horrible death, she seemed surprisingly cheerful.

  Ishtar shone, literally. It wasn’t just her ivory-white breastplate or silvery kirtle—she glowed softly from within, radiating a warm, comforting light that elevated her physical perfection to something on a higher plane. Here in Kurnugi, she didn’t need to hide her true nature. “How is my darling Belet?”

  “Angry, as usual.” Then I added, “And upset. She blames herself for what happened.”

  “Of course she does. But she has you around to give her a reality check from time to time.” Ishtar flicked her loose hair from her face, and starlight sparkled within her locks. “We would have been here much earlier, but Erish insisted on taking her chariot, rather than mine.”

  Erishkigal scowled. “You know I get airsick.”

  “You have a flying chariot?” I asked, seriously impressed.

  “Several,” said Ishtar casually. “They were all the rage in the third millennium BCE.”

  Mo cleared his throat.

  “Oh, yeah. This is my brother, Mohammed. The one I told you about.”

  Ishtar laughed. “The expert in all things Mesopotamian! You have done your brother proud, sweet Mohammed.”

  Mo blushed. “Just want to say I’m a big fan, Your Highness. Big fan.”

  Erishkigal huffed. “What man isn’t?”

  Ishtar took Mo’s hand. “Oh, do get off your knees. We’re all friends here.”

  “Of…of course, Your Highness.”

  Ishtar looked at us standing side by side. “Family reunions…Aren’t they beautiful? Your dashing friend Daoud isn’t lurking about, is he?”

  Why was she going on about him, the coward who’d fled during her last stand? “No. He’s only interested in himself.”

  Ishtar shrugged. “You are far too harsh on him, Sikander.”

  “Yeah! Daoud’s a great guy!” added Mo. “We used to spend all summer in the garden.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” I said. “Without me.”

  Mo scowled. “You were never interested in flowers. Daoud taught me how to press them
.”

  “Daoud? Why?”

  “He wanted to create fragrances. We Arabs invented the perfume-making technology, you know. Distillation, steam extraction from flower petals. He kept a kit back at the deli.”

  “Oh, I wondered what those smells were. So is that why you two were always hanging out?”

  “One of the reasons.”

  “See? Your friend has hidden talents.” Ishtar rested her chin on her thumb as she inspected me. “And speaking of flowers, you’ve gained certain benefits from one, haven’t you?”

  “You knew?” I asked.

  “I suspected, especially after your fight at the dockyard. Your skull was cracked and your arm broken, yet within a matter of hours your injuries were less than bruises.”

  Our reminiscences were interrupted by an irritated cluck.

  Ishtar rolled her eyes. “Oh, and may I introduce my much older sister, Lady Erishkigal, Mistress of the Everlasting Palace, Queen of Night, and Goddess of Death.”

  That was the problem with Ishtar: She stole all the attention. Even from other gods. Erishkigal stood there with her arms folded and a scowl on her face. “If you’ve quite finished?”

  Ishtar gave an offhand shrug. “All yours, dear sister.”

  Ouch. Ishtar was everything Erishkigal wasn’t. And they both knew it.

  You cannot escape sibling rivalry. Ask Cain and Abel. Ashurbanipal and Shamash-shumukin. Heck, ask Fredo and Michael Corleone. If the firstborn does better, then perhaps it feels more…acceptable? Primogeniture and all that. Mo had taught me how to ride a bike. He’d had a seven-year head start. But it doesn’t feel great when your younger sibling surpasses you.

  Erishkigal was as beautiful as Ishtar, but she held herself stiffly, while her sister always looked ready to dance. Erishkigal’s eyes were narrow and her lips thin. Ishtar smiled with her entire face.

  There was no joy in Erishkigal. Ishtar had taken it all.

  If that sounds like I felt a little sorry for the goddess of death, I did. I bowed to her. “Your Majesty.”

  She gazed down at us. “My dear sister has told me your tale, Sikander Aziz, and that of your brother. It’s unfortunate that he discovered the flower of immortality. It will bring great suffering to the human world.”