Joseph Lewis: Omar the Immortal

They had several long minutes together in the cold dark cabin of the wounded Frost Finch to watch the island loom up larger and larger before them. The fiery dot on the shadowed plain grew larger as well, and soon burst apart into a dozen lights, and then a hundred.

“It’s a town,” Omar said.

Riuza spent a few moments banging around the cockpit, but she gave up trying to salvage the controls and came to stand back in the center of the cabin beside him with one hand on the overhead rail and the other hand holding the collar of her heavy jacket closed tight around her neck. Omar saw a wisp of pale steam curl off the woman’s shaven scalp.

“It’ll be very soon now,” she said.

The cold wind blasting through the front windscreen grew more wild and all of the nets and bags and sacks and strings inside the cabin danced and whipped through the air around them. And out in the darkness, the scattering of lights continued to grow.

“That’s no town,” Omar said softly. “It’s a city!”

“I think you’re right.” Riuza nodded. “It is a city. It even has a… get down! ”

She tackled him to the floor just as the airship collided with a tall black spire. The dark tower of jagged rock scraped along the port side of the gondola and they heard the terrific ripping sound of every layer of the balloon overhead being shredded open to flap violently in the wind. The Finch nosed down more steeply and a quiet scream rose in the air as they fell faster and faster toward the ground.

Omar sat up, clutching Riuza to his side as he tried to wedge himself between the cabin wall and an empty box of dried beef. “Well, dear lady, it certainly has been an adventure. I’m sorry it had to end this way.”

She snorted and a small smile curled her lip. “I thought you said we were going to live.”

“Yes, well, I’m the optimistic sort. So…” He leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth, luxuriating in the warmth of her soft lips and tasting the salty sweetness of her tongue in his mouth. He leaned back and smiled at her.

She gave him a wry look. “I would hit you, but you’re handsome enough, and we’re about to die, so I’ll let it slide. Just this once.”

And the Frost Finch crashed into the earth.

Omar had half a second to hear the steel frame of the airship keening and wailing as it twisted and bent around him. He heard glass shatter and fabric tear, wood splinter and flesh thump. There was the grinding of stone and the groaning of brass pipes. And in the distance, there was shouting. But that half a second ended when Omar flew forward with Riuza still in his arms and he collided with the front of the cockpit.

The world ended, for a time.

When he opened his eyes, the sun was high overhead. He was lying on a cold bumpy street and he could see the sides of stone buildings around him. There was a giant smoking skeleton of steel off to his left, and to his right there was a group of people standing and kneeling around the body of Riuza Ngozi. The pilot coughed and her hand moved.

We’re alive. We’re both alive. We made it to Ysland. The airship is destroyed and three people died, but we made it. I made it. I’m here. Ysland, at last!

A scowling old man knelt down over Omar and the Aegyptian looked up into the wind-burned and bearded face. In his best Old Rus, Omar asked, “Is this Ysland?”

The man raised an eyebrow, and nodded. “It is.”

“And is there much sun-steel here? The hot gold? The bright metal?”

The man shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said slowly. “I have no gold. But you, you’re hurt. It’s very bad. I’m sorry.” He reached across Omar’s chest and lifted up a heavy cloth lying on the man’s shoulder. Omar rolled his head over and saw the stump where his left arm used to be.

A wild giddiness swam up into his brain at the sight.

My arm is gone. All gone. I’ve lost my arm. I’m sure I had it a moment ago. What did I do with my arm?

The ground shone with dark blood as far as he could see in every direction.

My blood. All of my blood. It shouldn’t be outside like that. That’s very wrong.

His teeth chattered for a moment, but he rolled his head back and reached up with his right hand to grab the old man’s wool shirt and pulled him down close. “I know there is sun-steel here. Where is the gold that keeps this island warm? Where is it? How much is there?”

The old man chuckled and shook his head as he loosen Omar’s grip on him and straightened up. “There’s no gold here, friend. Iron a-plenty, but no gold.”

“I don’t care what you call it, old man!” Omar felt his arm shuddering, felt his mind slipping back toward oblivion. His skin was cold and his vision was growing dim. “What keeps this island warm? Why isn’t it covered in ice?”

The old man shifted back and pointed at the northern horizon, and then to the east, and then to the south. Omar followed the man’s finger to see the huge smoking mountains around the city. Omar shook his head. “Volcanoes? No, no, no. But the stories. The stories said… I thought…” He clawed at the old man’s arm and hauled himself up onto his knees. He teetered off balance from the missing weight of his arm. Gripping the old man for support, he stared at the northern volcano with a terrible icy emptiness in his belly. “The stories were wrong. I was wrong.”

He stared across the street at Riuza, and then up at the brass ribs of the Frost Finch rising high above the city, with a few charred shreds of fabric still clinging to the beams. The airship’s engine was burning brightly and belching a thin column of black smoke into the sky. Staring and panting, he saw the stoic faces of the Yslanders all around him, all dressed in rough leather and fur, all standing outside simple stone houses, all carrying simple steel tools and weapons, and adorned in nothing more ornate that carved bone trinkets.

“There’s nothing here,” Omar whispered.

The hills outside the city shivered with yellow grass, and the lower slopes of the volcanoes gleamed with patches of snow on the black rocks, and the more distant mountains shone with sunlight glancing off their pale gray faces and snowy caps.

The roads were paved with gravel and dirt. The buildings were mortared with clay. The only animal in sight was a shaggy little pony.

“Nothing.”

There were no shining temples, no golden palaces, no proud warriors fighting alongside the spirits of their ancestors, no wise priests conversing with the souls of their predecessors. He saw no sun-steel, no marvels, no legends come to life, and no answers to the mysteries of the universe.

“It was all for nothing.” He pitched forward onto the stone street and his vision went white.

Is this my fate, then? Is this finally the end?

Against the hard gravel road, he felt the tiny lump of his golden pendant pressed into his chest through his shirt.

And after a moment, he felt the dull throbbing of his heart beating on and on and on…

No. There is no end for me.

At least, not yet.