He Who Cannot Die

by Dan Pearce

  I looked upon the man who had attended every feast since I first started hosting them. He was a short and chubby story teller, celebrated for his talents as he traveled from village to village putting on shows and rubbing elbows with eminent members of society. He was a known playboy, always bedding-down with a different highly-desired woman in whatever village he visited. He had accumulated quite a lot of wealth of his own, and suddenly the man disgusted me. Every obese inch of him was an offensive testament to me of what Vim, I myself, and the people who lived there had become. I seemed to see Grub for exactly what he was in that moment, and I saw what I had become to everyone else as I studied him. “You see no problem in this woman’s death?” I asked.

  He looked down at the dead woman. “It is sad, I suppose. But she made a choice. She knew what could happen, so no… I am not sad for her.”

  “Are you sad for her orphaned children?”

  He looked at them then smiled at me in a way meant to calm me. “Her choice is not our concern. Who knows but that one of her children will one day take this sad story and use it to become a great storyteller like me.”

  His line of thinking poked an already steaming volcano of ire. “You think she chose to be poor?” I demanded. The crowd was silent now, listening intently as our discussion unfolded.

  The chubby man became uncomfortable and his temples began to visibly throb. “Cain, had she succeeded in plucking the eye, she would have earned a life for those children she could only dream of having when she woke this morning.”

  That was the straw. The last heavy straw. The weight of the many decades that had led us all to that moment came crashing down on me at once. I didn’t erupt though. Instead, I got quiet. And I smiled. “You like telling stories, Grub. Do you not?”

  “Yes. You know that already.”

  “When you start your next story, I want you to start it like this…”

  “Like what?” he said, clearly confused.

  I placed one hand against his shoulder. “Start it with these words,” I said. “As I, Grub, stood on the edge of the great pit, laughing at the dead staring eyes of the desperate mother…”

  Grub’s own eyes became very concerned. “Cain, I don’t understand where all this is coming from.”

  “And I then looked upon the eyes of the great Cain who had far more wealth and power and prestige than I will ever know…”

  “Cain…”

  I placed my free hand on his opposite shoulder. “This is how I want you to tell the story,” I said. “I want you to tell them that the great Cain took me by both shoulders, and he… Oh, you are the story teller, Grub. You’ll find a way to finish it,” I said as I gave him a forceful shove. His feet desperately tried to plant themselves on solid ground but were unsuccessful as he fell backwards into the pit. He landed flat on his back, directly between the dead mother and the boar which squealed and ran to the opposite wall. As he struggled to stand, Grub began gasping for breath to replace the wind that had just been knocked out of him.

  I looked around me at the growing multitude of onlookers. I was the wealthiest, most powerful man in that village, and in any village, and I knew it. They knew it. The crowd collectively gasped, but not a soul among them protested or did anything. They all knew what could happen to them if they did. Each of them just stood watching with gaping jaws as it all unfolded, trying to make sense of whatever it was they had just witnessed. Some seemed concerned for Grub. Others for whatever demon had seemingly taken over me. Others just seemed to wonder what all this would mean for the upcoming feast.

  “Do not help this man,” I barked at the crowd. “If Grub is even half the man he thinks himself to be, he will find his own way up from the pit again. Before the sun is gone, remove the woman’s body and fill the pit with earth. If this man has not yet pulled his fat face to higher ground, so be it.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Grub didn’t deserve what he got that day, and he also did deserve it. In truth, we all deserved it. Each of those people I rubbed elbows with that day deserved to be thrown into the pit, one at a time, while the dead mother’s children watched.

  The perceived value of everything in this world, and everyone in it, was flipped upside down for me when Sisha died. I didn’t know it in the moment, but that day at the pit marked the beginning of a full-blown identity crisis, which would eventually lead me back down the path of finding my original, better version of myself. The shift wasn’t instant though. Breaking free from money, and fame, and power, and things was a process. I wanted to somehow have the version of myself back which I had always liked and felt was worthy of others. I also wanted to hold onto everything I had built for myself. The moment at the pit only caused a panicked spur within me to find a more satiating existence, but change takes time.

  Wanting no part of the surface-deep friendships I suddenly recognized surrounded me, I ordered the upcoming feast, and all future feasts canceled. I sent everyone home, apart from a few of my laborers, and ordered the caged boars to be killed and distributed to the poor. Knowing Grub was too fat and weak to pull himself from the pit, I let him fail in his many attempts to do so, then left him to sit beside the dead woman’s body for some number of hours. The dispersing of the crowd had calmed the boar, which spent most of those hours sleeping in the shadows opposite Grub. Eventually I ordered the boar killed, the mother’s body removed, and I allowed Grub’s friends to pull him from the pit, along with instructions that he was never to return to Vim.

  I did whatever I could to rid myself of the guilt I felt after Sisha’s death. Knowing I was not currently a man who should have any part in raising those children, I secretly sent my workers into nearby villages to find a proper caretaker for them. They returned and presented the names and situations of three women who fit my criteria. I settled on Teenai, a woman who lost her own two children a few years earlier when her brother abducted them and disappeared into the Eastern wilderness. The children’s father had gone searching for them, but never did return. Teenai had suffered the worst kind of mourning ever since. It was the kind which would never end for her since she would never have answers of what happened to all those in her care.

  Sisha’s children were escorted to Teenai’s village by two of my workers and a woman whom I knew to be a caring grandmother. As per my instructions, a lifetime worth of wealth was then delivered to Teenai, only after she freely accepted the task of caring for the children. Teenai, it seemed, was as good a woman as had been reported to me, and I freed myself of the feeling of responsibility I had for those orphans by giving the woman all they would ever need. The guilt for Sisha’s death lightened but returned all too often to ever believe I was free of my role in that, and in the many other terrible things I did or allowed to happen since I lost Mila.

  I awoke many a night to nightmares of Sisha. The dreams were mostly identical except for the words Sisha spoke to me. In each nightmare, I sat against the cold clay wall of that same pit. I would watch as Sisha was lowered down beside me. There was never sound above us. The pit was so quiet and empty except for the boar’s heavy breathing. Sisha always came and sat beside me, then informed me that her life was soon to end. In some dreams, she blamed me. In other dreams, she pointed to the mark on my chest and told me I deserved it. In the worst dreams of all, she freely forgave me, just before the boar came charging at her and killing her while I held her. In every dream, I held her while the boar violently killed her. And in every dream, I held the corpse of Sisha against me and began to cry as I looked down at her only to see the face of one of the women I had loved in the past. This was my nightmare, and it recurred for many years after Sisha’s death.

  During that time, I slowly eliminated any person from my life whom I knew wasn’t an actual friend. I rid myself of the false pretenses which constantly bombarded me, and I freed myself of the ulterior motives that those wanting to be close with me always seemed to bring. This, in turn, led me to a loneliness that I hadn’t felt in some time. I had so much. I had so m
any things. And I had nobody to share it all with. That hollowness I felt before my feasts returned, only it grew into something much bigger which couldn’t be filled. Even as I set Vim on a much better path by giving much of what I had to the poor, and by establishing programs which would keep any person from going hungry, the hollowness spread. The loneliness grew.

  Romantic love had become common by then. I saw it nearly everywhere I looked. For the first time in history it wasn’t uncommon at all to see an old man or woman kneeling beside a fresh grave, mourning the loss of someone with whom they had trekked so much of life. Marriage was an idea that wouldn’t be born for quite some time still, but love and commitment were not different simply because there was no such institution.

  I couldn’t deny that the places I witnessed love least were in the homes and lives of those with the most money or the most power. Those idolized by the masses dipped in and out of it, but love never seemed to last. Eventually I was smart enough to realize that the entire reason the power and the wealth and the fame was so desirable to me was because it was the safest way to avoid falling in love with someone new. There was no place for love when life was so jammed-full of everything else. I could see that.

  And I became lonelier. Seeing love in the streets of Vim made me lonelier. The more I stepped-back from my pursuit to obtain additional wealth, the more my loneliness grew. Eventually I saw smiles that would remind me of a past lover’s smile. I saw moments between lovers that would remind me of some moment I had experienced with one of my lovers in the past. I even saw quarrels and bickering and nagging that somehow pleasantly reminded me of those I had loved before, as well. The more I thought of the past, the more my loneliness grew. The more my loneliness grew, the more I wanted to experience love again. And finally, I hated the loneliness so much that I set out to do something about it.

  I didn’t go find a woman to love. Instead, I went in search of witches.

  I suppose during my time in Vim, I had grown to be such a believer in my wealth’s ability to solve any problem that I felt it could solve my problem of love and loneliness, as well. Surely, where dedication and sweat had failed in the past, wealth could now triumph. Dishon and I had never been able to find our own answers or to get close to the witch, but both the witch and the answers were out there. Wealth would bring them to me or me to them. I was certain of it.

  I promised incredible and immediate riches to any man who could bring me either the witch Tashibag, or any other mighty witch who had the power to help me with a problem so big that no witch in the vicinity of Vim could handle it. With no specific details about my curse, I simply put out the word near and far, inviting any person who felt it was a challenge they might like to accept. Any interested person was to be in Vim on the day of the new moon for further instructions.

  I hosted another feast that day, this time for an audience of eager scouts. Forty-seven men in all showed up for the event, and three women. These people had traveled from lands nearby and from lands I didn’t know were civilized. Some of them brought brawn and muscle. Others brought clever minds. A handful of them brought both. Others didn’t bring much at all but liked the idea of wealth so much that they figured they might as well give it a go. I turned no person down who desired to take on the challenge, since I would only pay the person who first brought me the right witch.

  I had drawn a portrait of Tashibag on the shaved skin of a sheep and educated them of the things they should be looking for. Before they all departed, they knew of Burdo, they knew of the white serpent, they knew of her passion for cursing those she deemed guilty of terrible crimes, and they knew just how much she didn’t want to be found. I asserted to them that other witches just as powerful as Tashibag might certainly exist, and the reward would be the same should one be found.

  The group of fifty were finally dismissed to go and complete their task. Some of them departed immediately, anxious to begin their hunt. Others partnered-up and sat for hours making plans together. Others sat pensively for some time, working out their own internal game plans. Four different men and one woman decided the challenge was not for them.

  As the last of them finally left the feast, I knew it would be some time before I saw any of them again. I knew that I would never again see a significant percentage of them. I knew some would die, and I felt no guilt for it as the dangers of the task were made well-aware. I also knew that there was a chance, even if it was a small chance, that this just might work. My wealth just might find an answer that could free me from my curse, and it was only at that point that I would let myself love again. That was the promise I made myself as the last of the scouts embarked on their journeys.

  Apparently, witches of great power were either very difficult to find or very difficult to persuade. In the twenty-two years that followed, only three of those men ever returned with a witch in tow, and none of those witches had magic powerful enough to break my curse.

  The first witch arrived eleven or so years after the scouts departed. She looked barely older than a child, and I immediately wanted to laugh the idea of her away. She did turn out to be a very powerful sorcerous who, at a very young age, had developed magic that could greatly slow her aging. By her best guess, she was a hundred and seven years-old. Her hair was fiery red, a color I had never before seen on a person’s head. She called herself Agallah, and just like the witch Ackgri, she seemed to know all my thoughts before I could speak them. Agallah came to Vim willingly, having been accurately promised wealth of her own if she could help me with my problem.

  Agallah died the same day she arrived at my home. It had been so long since my curse had brought death to another that it took me a long moment to realize that the witch’s skin was aging and rotting in the same way that had happened to Racheele and Annia. I never mentioned my curse to Agallah. She perceived it and said it aloud to me, then asked if it was so. I nodded to confirm, and she quickly became ash before my very eyes.

  The second scout returned three years after Agallah died. The man he brought with him was called Andri and had been bound and coerced to journey many hundreds of miles to reach me. The man spoke gibberish only and seemed unaware of his surroundings or his situation. The supposed witch was mentally retarded and held no magic I could see, though the scout swore to stories telling otherwise. I sent the scout away with nothing and hired a caretaker to attend to the man who stayed in Vim many years before he died.

  The last of the scouts showed-up twenty-two years after I first sent them all away, long after I assumed they had all given-up or died. He had been young and strong when he left, and now had the appearance of a man on the downhill side of his life.

  He brought with him the witch Malel, an old woman whose kindness was sincere. Malel asked for no wealth or riches. She only asked for a home and an assistant whenever needed to travel and gather the items she needed for magic. Malel confessed she was too old to do much of any of it on her own anymore and was happy for a new and more appreciative land to work her final days. I was reminded of an older version of Mila when I looked at Malel, and whether the woman could help me or not, I knew I wanted her to remain in Vim. I promised what she asked and requested the man who brought her wait outside.

  “Say nothing to me of your curse,” she said, once we were alone.

  “I will not.”

  Malel nodded and sat herself in the middle of my open floor. She pulled her legs across one another, and she motioned for me to do the same. I sat across from her, and watched as she opened a small satchel, and pulled a dried herb from it.

  “The stone on your neck,” she said pointing to Annia’s necklace. “Lend it to me.” I pulled it off and placed it in her waiting hand. “This is full of such beautiful magic,” she said as she closed her eyes and seemed to absorb some of the glowing stone’s energy.

  I began to speak but was silenced by the witch again.

  She clasped a tight fist around the dry herb. Her knuckles moved to the crackle of the plant being grinded within and fi
nally she opened her hand again to reveal a handful of green flaky powder. With her other hand, she tapped my glowing stone against the herb, and whispered some sort of charm. The green powder lit bright with blue light, which matched the glow of Annia’s necklace. Malel handed the necklace back to me and told me she was done with it.

  I placed it around my neck and again began to speak, but again was met with a request for silence.

  Malel tossed the entire handful of glowing powder into the air above us, and it floated down until it had speckled our hair, our skin, our hands, and the ground upon which we sat. She then held out both hands and nodded toward mine, indicating that I should take hers.

  I reached both my hands toward her and a surge of anxious electricity seemed to scream out of my fingertips and into hers. She immediately jerked her hands away from mine. “I can do nothing for you, Cain,” she said, now wearing the obvious fear that had suddenly taken hold of her.

  “Why do you say that? Surely there is…”

  “No. There is nothing.”

  I looked at her in disbelief. “Can you at least…”