Айзек Азимов - Wandering Stars - An Anthology of Jewish Fantasy and Science Fiction

Jechidah interrupted him. “Kill me if you must, Dumah, but spare me your lies.”

“I am telling you the truth, Jechidah. You will be absent no more than a hundred years, for even the wickedest do not suffer longer than that. Death is only the preparation for a new existence.”

“Dumah, please. I don’t want to listen.”

“But it is important for you to know that good and evil exist there too and that the will remains free.”

“What will? Why do you talk such nonsense?”

“Jechidah, listen carefully. Even among the dead there are laws and regulations. The way you act in death will determine what happens to you next. Death is a laboratory for the rehabilitation of souls.”

“Make an end of me, I beseech you.”

“Be patient, you still have a few more minutes to live and must receive your instructions. Know, then, that one may act well or evilly on Earth and that the most pernicious sin of all is to return a soul to life.”

This idea was so ridiculous that Jechidah laughed despite her anguish.

“How can one corpse give life to another?”

“It’s not as difficult as you think. The body is composed of such weak material that a mere blow can make it disintegrate. Death is no stronger than a cobweb; a breeze blows and it disappears. But it is a great offense to destroy either another’s death or one’s own. Not only that, but you must not act or speak or even think in such a way as to threaten death. Here one’s object is to preserve life, but there it is death that is succoured.”

“Nursery tales. The fantasies of an executioner.”

“It is the truth, Jechidah. The Torah that applies to Earth is based on a single principle: Another man’s death must be as dear to one as one’s own. Remember my words. When you descend to Sheol, they will be of value to you.”

“No, no, I won’t listen to any more lies.” And Jechidah covered her ears.

Years passed. Everyone in the higher realm had forgotten Jechidah except her mother who still continued to light memorial candles for her daughter. On Earth Jechidah had a new mother as well as a father, several brothers and sisters, all dead. After attending a high school, she had begun to take courses at the university. She lived in a large necropolis where corpses are prepared for all kinds of mortuary functions.

It was spring, and Earth’s corruption grew leprous with blossoms. From the graves with their memorial trees and cleansing waters arose a dreadful stench. Millions of creatures, forced to descend into the domains of death, were becoming flies, butterflies, worms, toads, frogs. They buzzed, croaked, screeched, rattled, already involved in the death struggle. But since Jechidah was totally inured to the habits of Earth, all this seemed to her part of life. She sat on a park bench staring up at the moon, which from the darkness of the nether world is sometimes recognized as a memorial candle set in a skull. Like all female corpses, Jechidah yearned to perpetuate death, to have her womb become a grave for the newly dead. But she couldn’t do that without the help of a male with whom she would have to copulate in the hatred which corpses call love.

As Jechidah sat staring into the sockets of the skull above her, a white-shrouded corpse came and sat beside her. For a while the two corpses gazed at each other, thinking they could see, although all corpses are actually blind. Finally the male corpse spoke:

“Pardon, Miss, could you tell me what time it is?”

Since deep within themselves all corpses long for the termination of their punishment, they are perpetually concerned with time.

“The time?” Jechidah answered. “Just a second.” Strapped to her wrist was an instrument to measure time but the divisions were so minute and the symbols so tiny that she could not easily read the dial. The male corpse moved nearer to her.

“May I take a look? I have good eyes.”

“If you wish.”

Corpses never act straightforwardly but are always sly and devious. The male corpse took Jechidah’s hand and bent his head toward the instrument. This was not the first time a male corpse had touched Jechidah but contact with this one made her limbs tremble. He stared intently but could not decide immediately. Then he said: “I think it’s ten minutes after ten.”

“Is it really so late?”

“Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Jachid.”

“Jachid? Mine is Jechidah.”

“What an odd coincidence.”

Both hearing death race in their blood were silent for a long while. Then Jachid said: “How beautiful the night is!”

“Yes, beautiful!”

“There’s something about spring that cannot be expressed in words.”

“Words can express nothing,” answered Jechidah.

As she made this remark, both knew they were destined to lie together and to prepare a grave for a new corpse. The fact is, no matter how dead the dead are there remains some life in them, a trace of contact with that knowledge which fills the universe. Death only masks the truth. The sages speak of it as a soap bubble that bursts at the touch of a straw. The dead, ashamed of death, try to conceal their condition through cunning. The more moribund a corpse the more voluble it is.

“May I ask where you live?” asked Jachid.

Where have I seen him before? How is it his voice sounds so familiar to me? Jechidah wondered. And how does it happen that he’s called Jachid? Such a rare name.

“Not far from here,” she answered.

“Would you object to my walking you home?”

“Thank you. You don’t have to. But if you want…. It is still too early to go to bed.”

When Jachid rose, Jechidah did, too. Is this the one I have been searching for? Jechidah asked herself, the one destined for me? But what do I mean by destiny? According to my professor, only atoms and motion exist. A carriage approached them and Jechidah heard Jachid say:

“Would you like to take a ride?”

“Where to?”

“Oh, just around the park.”

Instead of reproving him as she intended to, Jechidah said: “It would be nice. But I don’t think you should spend the money.”

“What’s money? You only live once.”

The carriage stopped and they both got in. Jechidah knew that no self-respecting girl would go riding with a strange young man. What did Jachid think of her? Did he believe she would go riding with anyone who asked her? She wanted to explain that she was shy by nature, but she knew she could not wipe out the impression she had already made. She sat in silence, astonished at her behavior. She felt nearer to this stranger than she ever had to anyone. She could almost read his mind. She wished the night would continue for ever. Was this love? Could one really fall in love so quickly? And am I happy? she asked herself. But no answer came from within her. For the dead are always melancholy, even in the midst of gaiety. After a while Jechidah said: “I have a strange feeling I have experienced all this before.”

“Déjà vu —that’s what psychology calls it.”

“But maybe there’s some truth to it….”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe we’ve known each other in some other world.”

Jachid burst out laughing. “In what world? There is only one, ours, the earth.”

“But maybe souls do exist.”

“Impossible. What you call the soul is nothing but vibrations of matter, the product of the nervous system. I should know, I’m a medical student.” Suddenly he put his arm around her waist. And although Jechidah had never permitted any male to take such liberties before, she did not reprove him. She sat there perplexed by her acquiescence, fearful of the regrets that would be hers tomorrow. I’m completely without character, she chided herself. But he is right about one thing. If there is no soul and life is nothing but a short episode in an eternity of death, then why shouldn’t one enjoy oneself without restraint? If there is no soul, there is no God, free will is meaningless. Morality, as my professor says, is nothing but a part of the ideological superstructure.