I know I need to tell Illyas. And I need to find Layala’s soul in death.
I’ll try once more to get into death. Marrow and mud might get me in.
I raise my eyes to the heavens and pray, pray I will be able to enter death this day.
I have a few ghoul bones stored in jars, and I slip them into my pocket as I make my way to the cemetery. There, I chew on the bones, sucking the marrow out as quickly as I could, chanting and praying all the while. I drink from my canteen, filled with water from death’s river. And I eat the bones themselves, wincing as they slice down my throat to my stomach.
Let me in, death. Let me in. Let me in. Let me in.
I chant, and drink, and eat, and swallow grave dirt and stone and marrow and bone.
Just as I am about to give up, a tingle shoots through my body. I feel as if I’m underwater, drowning.
And as I’m gasping, I feel that familiar lighting strike through my body, and I enter the grayness and stillness of death.
Paths swerve ahead of me, each one going in a different direction, giving the illusion of choice. Birds the size of my fist flutter in the green-purple sky, clumps of feathers missing from their small bodies. A small fox, more a pale pink than the fiery orange of life, sits and watches me before turning his tail in my direction and sauntering away.
“Layala!” I choke as I stumble forward.
Death smells like rot, and I gag, dry heaving as I fall to my knees. I ignore the roiling nausea and force myself to stand. Swaying on my feet, my hands reaching out to grab something, anything, to not stumble and vomit all over. My knees almost buckle, but I catch myself and settle back into my stride.
“Illyas!” I cry. “Where are you?”
I hurry off, through death’s Waiting Place, through the stillness that weighs heavily around me.
“Illyas?” I call.
The Waiting Place, which should be filled with souls waiting to pass into Mote, is empty. The land is a small area, mostly made of watered-down colors, a pale imitation of life. Patches of grass more gray than green dot the ground, bending in a breeze I cannot feel. Flowers, white and gray and black and shades in between stand idly, as if waiting for permission to wilt and die.
The stones are cracked, the gaps wide enough I can fit my fist into them. And what used to be green is yellow now, yellow and brown and the color of rust. Even pieces of the sky are missing, leaving black spaces behind, like shards of glass.
Death is decaying. Death is decaying. Death is decaying.
I shove the thoughts away.
“Layl?” I call out, taking the handle of the single white door floating in a mist of clouds and water droplets.
The door opens and lets me through, revealing a town beyond. The streets are a pale blue, washed out gray cobblestone, with rows of pale gray light torches lining it. Small stone cottages sit connected to each other on either side of the streets, dull white light flooding out from the candles lit at their windows. The sky above me is a washed out purple, with clouds that look sickly in their off-whiteness and their shriveled, floating appearance.
“Layl? Illyas?” I call out, glancing into each window I pass.
Souls, like bodies, lay in beds or sprawled out on the cottage floors. A few sit in chairs, turning the pages of blank books, as if staring at the pages would make words appear.
“Layl!” I yell louder. “It’s maman!”
A bird the size of my palm darts before me, startling me back a step. It rests atop one of the tall torches, cocking its head as it follows my movements.
“Nado?” I hear a voice say. Then, “Maman!”
Two shadowy figures approach, and I run to them, stumbling over my own feet.
“Layala!” I cry, taking her into my arms, only for her to turn to smoke and reappear before me.
“Maman?” she says. “Why—”
“It’s death, baby, you have no body.”
I turn to look at Illyas, who’s frowning. “Nado,” he says. “Where have you been? I couldn’t visit you.”
“I couldn’t get in; death wouldn’t let me. But first,” I say, turning back to Layala. “Tell me, Layl. What happened at the river?”
But her lips curl up into a tight line, and she says nothing.
“Layl. You have to tell me.”
“I fell in, I think,” she says, but she’s not looking me in the eye. And her arms are crossed tight over her chest. “But I remember feeling a hand on my back.”
“Oh, Layl,” I say and want to squeeze her so tight.
“Maman, really, I drowned. It happens. I’m … happy. I can now take on Death’s mantle, I can have a purpose.”
“No, Layl, it doesn’t just happen. Tell me who pushed you. Tell me, because your jido sacrificed himself for you.”
Illyas goes still. “Nado?” he questions softly.
“I’m sorry, Illyas. Truly, I am.”
Layala screams.
“I died, maman. I died. I am meant to die!”
She’s on her knees now, hunching into herself. I want to take her into my arms, soothe her. But I can’t.
“Please, Layl, you have to tell me.”
“You!” she shouts and moves away from me. “You did this to him.”
“I have to raise you, Layl. And the only way—”
“No, you don’t. You should leave me dead. I was ready to die, maman. I didn’t want to, but then I did. And I’m—”
“No, no, Layl, no. You can’t die, not now,” I argue. “That can’t be. I found you. You should have been floating down the river or at its bottom. You can’t say you were meant to die if it wasn’t a natural death.”
“I don’t know, maman. I remember something pushing me in, then something else pulling me out, but I was fading.” She’s screwing up her face, and I know death makes it difficult to remember things, especially for a young soul.
She must note my strain, because she smiles softly. “It’s okay, maman. I should have been dead all these years. And Rami should not die. Sayil should not have to take Death’s mantle, not if I am willing.”
“But you’re not, Layl. You can’t.”
“Yes, maman, I am, and I will.”
“No, no, Layl, please,” I say, and I’m on my knees begging my own child to let me bring her back to life.
She kneels before me, and her voice is hushed now. “I’m sorry, maman, but I’m dead. I’m here, and I’m dead, and I’m with baba. And I’ll find jido.”
“I’ll be alone,” I say. “And you, you were to have a long, happy life.”
“I will, maman!” she says, laughing now. “Don’t you see? I will have a reason for my life. I will be Death.”
“You can’t stay dead, Layl. I can’t—I won’t accept that.”
My fingers itch to touch her, to pull her in to me. But I keep them at my side. “Listen, Layl, I am your mother, and nothing is more important to me than you. Nothing. Not my life, not even your father’s, nothing.”
Her face contorts and her shoulders shake, but in death there are no tears. My heart twists and I want to pull her out of death and sit her by the fire in our home and tell her that everything will be fine.
I get to my feet now, and I stare at Layl. “I am bringing you back to life, Layala. And so help me, you are going to stay alive this time.”
She looks at me with those wide, wide eyes. “Maman, no. I will drown myself again and again if I have to.”
“Layala,” Illyas says. “Your mother is right. She is giving you another chance—”
“Don’t you see?” Layala shrieks. “I want this. I want to be Death. I want the mantle passed to me. I want to do something with my life. And this is it!”
“No!” Illyas and I yell at the same time.
Layala takes a step back, and before Illyas can reach out for her, she’s running. Running away from us, her back the last I see of her before she disappears behind a cloud of mist.
Illyas turns to me, his eyes mournful. “Bring her back, Hakawati. If it’s the last thing you do.”