The Thin Executioner

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Down… down… down into a void. It seemed like his fall would never end. Tumbling head over heels into a cold, wet, black and roaring hell.

Finally Jebel slowed until he was hanging in the freezing darkness. He instinctively opened his mouth to scream. Water gushed in and he choked. As he gagged and thrashed wildly, his body rose and bobbed to the surface.

Jebel broke free of the water’s hold and gasped a hasty breath. Then he was driven under again, only to pop up after another struggle. Spitting out water, he looked for the bridge and Tel Hesani, but he had been swept out of sight of them. Then he was submerged again, swallowing, drowning. The cold consumed him. He was moments away from the end.

The current forced him up. He gulped for air, jaw working like a fish’s. He threw out his arms, clutching for the stars, begging the gods for mercy. Then…

Silence. The roar of the river faded. The current dwindled. The chill left his bones. He trod water for a few bewildered seconds, blinking dumbly. Then his eyes fell on something, and excitement flared inside him — a boat!

Jebel tried to hail the people on the vessel, but all he could manage was a croak. Rather than wait for his voice to return, he swam swiftly, arm over arm, legs a blur behind him. He felt sure that when he stopped to look, the boat would be gone. But when, long seconds later, he paused to check, he was within several strokes of its stern.

There was a rope ladder hanging from the side. Jebel grabbed hold of it and pulled himself up, emerging from the water like a dripping rat, shivering, shaking, teeth clattering. But he was alive! Despite the odds, he had somehow miraculously survived.

“Hello?” Jebel called.

There was no answer, and for an awful few seconds he thought the boat was deserted, that it had broken free of its moorings and was headed towards an unmanned calamity. But then somebody stood up near the bow, a tall man in a golden robe, his back to Jebel.

“Sir!” Jebel cried, stumbling forward, raising a hand. “I fell into the river. I saw your boat and climbed aboard. I hope you don’t…”

He fell silent. The man hadn’t turned, but there was something familiar about him, the color of his robe, the straight black hair hanging down his back. Jebel felt that he knew the captain of this boat. And it wasn’t a good feeling.

“Greetings, Jebel Rum,” the man said in a low, dry voice. “I have been waiting for you.”

“Wuh-wuh-waiting?” Jebel stuttered. “I duh-don’t understand.”

“I have been busy tonight,” the man murmured. “Three in a fire. Two in a rock fall. Many killed by bats or the um Gathaah.”

“How do you know about the um Gathaah?” Jebel wheezed. “Who are you?”

The man turned slowly. He had an infant’s face, but it was made of clay, not flesh. Only the eyes and lips moved in that dreadful, eerie mask, but they belonged to no human. The eyes were those of a raven, while the lips were blue and icy, wisps of fog rising from them as he spoke.

“I am Rakhebt Wadak,” he said. And in case Jebel was in any doubt, he added emotionlessly, “The god of death.”

Jebel stood by the bow, gazing at the river. It was the as-Sudat, and yet it wasn’t. The water glowed a deep blue color, much like Rakhebt Wadak’s lips, and there was an extra layer over the raging current of the river, a gently flowing sheet. In the distance Jebel could see other boats, some like the one he was on, others radically different. All were traveling in the same direction, drifting along at the same sedate speed.

Jebel glanced at the imposing, clay-faced figure of Rakhebt Wadak. He had filled with terror when the god of death revealed his identity, but that soon passed. Jebel knew that when Rakhebt Wadak came to collect your spirit, you had to go with him. There was no point fearing death at that stage, as you were already lost to the lands of the living.

A gentle wind swept over the boat, and Jebel shivered — he was still in his wet clothes, and his hair was damp, which confused him. According to the stories, the dead went naked into the embrace of Rakhebt Wadak, who filled the holding cells below deck with their spirits. Since the rest of the details were true — the boat, the robe, the clay face, the hair — why not that part?

Jebel stepped away from the bow. Rakhebt Wadak was gazing ahead, his small, black raven’s eyes on the river. Jebel coughed to attract the god’s attention. “What are those other boats, sire?”

“Boats of death,” Rakhebt Wadak replied without looking around. “There are many people in the world, of many faiths. To satisfy them all, death must wear a variety of faces, more than you could ever imagine.”

“Are they all going to the same place?” Jebel asked.

“Yes.”

Jebel hesitated, then decided he had nothing to lose. “And where is that?”

Rakhebt Wadak’s head turned, and he gazed at Jebel. Although his face didn’t change, Jebel got the sense that the god was smiling. “We ferry the dead to the point where we offload them. Beyond that…” He shrugged.

“But I thought… I mean… you are the god of death, aren’t you?”

“I am a god of death,” Rakhebt Wadak corrected him.

“Then surely you must know where the spirits go.”

The god shook his head. “Death is not the end. It is a midway state. We ferry spirits to the beginning of the next realm, but what lies beyond this world is as much of a mystery to us as it is to you.”

“Then you don’t know what will happen to me?” Jebel asked.

“No.”

Jebel wandered around deck, feeling no different than he had when he was alive, except he was a lot colder than normal.

“Why am I so cold?” Jebel complained, wrapping his arms around himself. “If I left my body behind in the as-Sudat, why do I still feel a chill?”

Rakhebt Wadak pointed a long finger at a door in the deck near where Jebel was standing. “Look there,” he said.

There was a ring in the door. Jebel grasped it and pulled. The door swung up smoothly, and he peered into the gloom of a holding pen. There were shapes — long, stretched, thin, glowing, circling the chamber with slight swishing sounds. Some twined and twisted around one another, while more tried to keep their distance. Jebel had never seen forms like this before, but he knew instantly what they were.

“Spirits,” he sighed.

“Yes,” Rakhebt Wadak said. “The essence of the dead, parted forever from their bodies. Good and bad, old and young, powerful and weak. They all wind up here or in the bowels of a boat like this. Are they aware of what has happened to them?” His head tilted as if the question had been put to him. “I do not know. I simply ferry them from one point to the next as I always have, as I always will.”

Jebel lowered the door and frowned. “If those are spirits, and that’s where they all end up, why am I not down there with the rest of the dead?”

Rakhebt Wadak trained his beady raven’s eyes on Jebel. The Um Aineh shivered again, but this time it wasn’t from the cold. The full weight of the situation struck him. He was standing on the deck of Rakhebt Wadak’s boat, face to face with a real god! And the god of death, no less, the most fearsome and dreaded of all. It was enough to drive a man mad, and for a few dangerous seconds Jebel teetered on the edge of insanity. But then Rakhebt Wadak spoke.

“I get lonely,” the ferryman said. “Occasionally I pluck a spirit early, before its time is up, so that we can talk.”

“Lonely?” Jebel echoed. “But you’re a god.”

Rakhebt Wadak sighed — the sound of a hundred corpses shifting in their graves — then pointed to another boat. “We never meet or rest. Our lives are an eternity of servitude. Do you know what it is like to be a slave?”

“Yes,” said Jebel sadly.

“Then imagine living that way for countless thousands of years. From the first moment of life we have operated, and we will continue until the last living thing passes on. Loneliness does not describe my true feelings, but it is the closest word that you have.”

“Can’t you… I don’t know… resign?” Jebel asked.

Rakhebt Wadak shook his head. “This is not a job. It is what we are. We do what we must and we can never stop. It is the way of our kind.”

A lengthy silence followed, Jebel pondering what it must be like to be in the god of death’s position, Rakhebt Wadak thinking whatever it is that immortal gods think about when they’re ferrying the spirits of the dead downriver.

“What do you want to talk about?” Jebel finally asked.

“Your life… your people… what you ate today. Anything.”

Jebel thought for a moment. “Do you know who Sabbah Eid is?”

“I have heard of him.”

“Well, this all started with the fire god. Actually, no, that’s not right, it began with my father….”

Jebel told his story, and Rakhebt Wadak listened silently, asking no questions. It was impossible to tell if he was fascinated or had heard similar tales dozens of times before.

“… The bat hit me, I lost my footing, and you know the rest,” Jebel concluded.

Rakhebt Wadak hadn’t moved while Jebel was talking. Now he raised his head, and there was the sound of him sniffing the air. “I sense the spirits of many Um Biyara. If any survived, they are few in number.”

“The fewer, the better,” Jebel growled.

Silence again. This time Jebel considered what Rakhebt Wadak had said earlier. Clearing his throat, he muttered, “Did you find my story pleasing?”

“I do not experience pleasure or displeasure,” Rakhebt Wadak said. “But it was engaging, and for that I thank you.”

“Could you answer a question for me in return?” Jebel asked.

“If I can.”

Jebel gulped. “You said you plucked my spirit before my time was up. What did you mean?”

“You were not dead when I summoned you,” Rakhebt Wadak said. “Close to death but still alive. If I had waited, your spirit would have been consigned to the hold.”

“But I’m dead now?” Jebel pressed.

“We would not be talking if you were,” the god said.

“Then what happens next?” asked Jebel. “Do I keep you company until you tire of me? Do you drop me back in the as-Sudat or slit my throat?”

“I drop you back,” Rakhebt Wadak said. “Soon, before I reach my destination. The river will finish what it started, and I will take possession of your spirit.”

“But isn’t it possible… couldn’t you…” Jebel trailed off into silence.

“Spare you?” Rakhebt Wadak shook his head. “Death spares no one.”

“But it can surely give them more time,” Jebel said. “You could put me ashore and collect my spirit later.”

Rakhebt Wadak grunted. “Each person has a natural life span. Yours has been decided. I would break the rules if I returned you.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Jebel asked. “Would you be punished?”

“Nobody can punish me,” Rakhebt Wadak said, but it wasn’t a boast, merely a statement of fact.

“Then what’s to stop you?” Jebel pressed. He had been ready to accept death, but now that he knew there was a chance to seize life again, he clutched at it.

“Why should I release you?” Rakhebt Wadak countered. “Of all those I have pulled from the water — warriors, priests, lords, even fallen gods — why should I release you? What makes you special?”

Jebel shrugged. “The fact that I asked?”

“Many ask.”

“You said that you enjoyed my story.”

“It was engaging but not the best I have heard.”

Jebel thought wildly. A dozen logical arguments presented themselves, but he sensed that Rakhebt Wadak would ignore them all. Then a crazy idea struck him, and he ran with it. “You’re lonely.”

“What of it?”

“I can be your friend.”

The god snorted. “Many humans wait for me to come for them. They welcome me. Some worship me. I am not short of friends.”

“But they only know you as an agent of death,” Jebel said. “They see you once, then never again. I bet you’ve never had the chance to greet an old friend on this boat, to say, ‘Hello, it’s good to see you again.’ Have you?”

Rakhebt Wadak was silent. Then quietly he said, “No.”

“If you let me go,” Jebel continued, “you can look forward to our meeting. If you grab me before I’m due to die, you’ll pull a true friend aboard. We can chat. Tell some jokes.” He laughed. “Kill some time!”

Rakhebt Wadak didn’t move, except for his eyes, which stared at the deck, then out across the river. “That might be… interesting,” he whispered.

“More than that,” Jebel said. “It might be nice.” While the god mulled it over, he added, “Do you know how long I’d have if you let me live?”

“No. I would sense it shortly before the end, but only then.”

“So you won’t know when to expect me.” Jebel smiled. “It will be a surprise when I pop up. An unexpected treat.”

There was another long silence. Then Rakhebt Wadak chuckled raggedly — it was not a natural sound for him. “You have the tongue of a politician,” he said. “But your heart is not small or twisted. Very well, you have convinced me. I will return you to the shores of the living.” He raised a finger. “But the other gods will not approve of this. They will probably punish you. You may come to wish that you had accepted death when you had the chance.”

“No,” Jebel said evenly. “No matter how bad things get, I’ll still be alive. I see how precious life is now. I don’t want to turn my back on it until I have to.”

“So be it.” Rakhebt Wadak turned to face the starboard side. He raised both hands above his head, and slowly, with much creaking and protest, the boat turned out of the current and angled towards shore.

“You don’t have to put me aside so soon,” Jebel said. “We can talk some more.”

“I would like that,” Rakhebt Wadak said. “But we draw close to the point of offloading, and if you do not step off now, it will be too late.”

“Oh. In that case, good-bye. No, I mean, so long. Until we meet again.”

He jumped. There was disorientation as he fell through the unnatural upper layer of the river. Then the agony of a great chill and aching limbs as he found himself back in the water, standing waist-high near the edge of the as-Sudat.

Jebel glanced over his shoulder, searching for the boat of Rakhebt Wadak, but all he could see now was the tossing tumult of the river. He waved once, in case the lonely god of death could still see him, then struck for shore before the current ripped him from his feet and dragged him under.

He waded out of the water with difficulty, slipping on the snow-lined banks, but eventually pulled his feet clear and rolled onto his back. He gazed up at the most beautiful clouds he’d ever laid eyes on. His chest rose and fell in gulps, and though his limbs shook, he felt nothing but happiness.

After a minute of appreciating his unbelievable good fortune, he got up before he froze to death — how embarrassing that would be! — and looked around. To his astonished delight he found that Rakhebt Wadak had set him ashore at the foot of the cliff where the um Hamata had lived.

The bodies of the dead cave dwellers now lay strewn around, most covered with a light layer of snow. Scavenging animals had been at work, and many corpses had been chewed and pecked at. Jebel forced his gaze away from the sad spectacle and limped to the cliff. He had little energy left, but he knew that he had to climb. If he made it to the warmth of the caves, he could crawl out of his wet clothes, rest, shelter from the elements, eat, and grow strong. To stay in the open would mean certain death.

Groaning and weeping, Jebel hauled himself up the cliff. He almost fell several times but clung on with the willpower of one who truly knows what death holds in store. Finally he made it to the mouth of the lowest tunnel, where he paused, working up the strength to drag himself forward.

Before he could, two pairs of arms darted out of the darkness and yanked him inside. For a frantic second he thought that the angry gods had come to Makhras to punish him in person. Then someone spoke, and he realized he was in the grip of a less powerful but just as dangerous duo.

“Do my eyes deceive me, Master Blair?”

“They most certainly do not, Master Bush.”

Exhaustion, fear, and shock wove their combined spell on Jebel, and he fainted. The last thing he heard before the welcome release of unconsciousness was cruel, mocking laughter in the dark.