“From Alexandria.”
“Oy. I am being punished. Give me your money, madame. It is the law. You will not need it where you are going. Save us both the trouble.”
“I have forty-nine, one dinar less. I will give it for an answer to a question.”
“Ask.”
“How many have gotten out of here alive and human?”
“Wrong question. They always ask the wrong question. None. None have gotten out of here alive and human. Now give me the gold.” He climbed up her robe, stuck his hand in her bosom, and took the coins. Fatima wanted to admonish the imp, but held her tongue. “I shall help you,” Isaac said, counting the gold, “for I am fond of obstinate troublemakers. When you are asked to surrender a belonging, it behooves you to do so without bargaining. Surrender is the key.”
Fatima descended farther into the tunnel. The air turned moist, made her feel heavier with each step. She held up her staff and lamp, saw moss the color of emerald filling every crevice, yet her path remained barren. Various night insects roamed the moss, feeding, scurrying, creating a living, ever-changing Persian carpet. She wished she could touch; wished her lost hand could graze upon the surface. And she reached the second circular gate, carved of emerald. She pushed, shoved. “Open, Isaac.”
“My name is Ezra.” A little orange imp jumped out of a cloud of orange dust.
“I seek entry.”
“And I seek payment. I will have your robe.”
“But it is much too big for you. You could fit ten of your kind in this robe.”
“I have a large family. Give it.” He climbed up the robe, unfastened the clasp, shinnied up above her head, held on to the back of her collar, and jumped. Fatima teetered. Ezra dangled in midair, hanging on to the collar. “Let go,” he said. “It is my robe.”
“Wait, I am wounded. I lost a hand.”
Ezra jumped down, ran around. “May I see?” he asked. “Please?”
“You will have to help me with the robe first.” She patted the pocket of her dress to make sure the vial of potion was there, and not in her robe.
And the imp Ezra said, “Uncover your wound so I can see.”
“I cannot, for I do not have a free hand.”
“You need a healer.” Ezra bunched up the robe and lifted it above his head, almost disappearing under it. “Proceed with your journey,” her bundled robe seemed to say. “Your time is limited. And, for being kind to me, I will offer you help. In this realm, if someone asks you to uncover your wound, do so.”
Beyond the emerald gate, the air grew heavier still, reeking of an earthy stew. She came upon the mushrooms. Small at first, multihued, reds, sienna, ocher, browns, and greens. As she marched deeper, the numbers increased. Cuddled and coddled by the moist air, a metallic-blue mushroom grew as big as a shed. Next to it was one with velvet skin the color of avocado. Fatima felt hunger pains. The third gate was of lapis lazuli. “Let me guess,” she said to the dark beyond. “Your name is Abraham.”
“No,” the approaching yellow imp said. “I am called Jacob.”
The price of entry was her necklace of lapis beads, and she paid it.
And Jacob said, “I will offer you help, dear mistress. The paths of folly are not always distinguishable from the ways of wisdom. Please, hurry.”
Below Jacob’s gate, unrecognizable dark fruit seemed to sprout from jutting rocks. The fruit was veined, streaked, with the texture of polished marble. She stopped and reached out with her wounded arm; a bat flew down from above and covered the fruit with its satiny black wings. Its eyeless face snarled at Fatima. Bats everywhere, thousands upon thousands, hanging from fruits, from rocks. Bats flew singly in every direction, creating a barely audible, disconcerting symphony. Yet her path remained clear.
The gate was gold; its keeper was Job, the green imp; and his price for passage was the brooch of gems. The imp Job said, “I will offer assistance, madame, for you need help. Remember, sometimes it is wiser to choose death.”
Fatigue possessed Fatima entirely, took root within her soul, flourished, sprang leaves within her veins. She wished to lie down, but the earth beneath her was not inviting. She should have stopped back at the moss, left her body to the insects of the night. She should have lain down in the giant-mushroom beds. She should keep moving.
She came across a small ruby lying alongside her path, and then a sapphire, a diamond, another ruby, and then a pile, and then piles. Gems of all sizes, gold of all shapes, treasure chests that would make kings and queens salivate. And she did not have the energy to reach. She passed a gilded mirror lying against the wall. She watched her reflection, but she did not look like anyone she knew. She moved on.
The gate was mahogany, and its keeper was a blue imp. She wept as she paid with her red headscarf of silk and the gold chain around her forehead. “Your light seems to be dimming,” Noah said. “I will offer help. Delete the need to understand. In this world and that of tales, the need is naught more than a hindrance.”
Grief approached like an infection, overpowering her gradually and irrevocably. She marched, cried. A tear fell to the ground before every step, her dragging feet deleting any trace of the watermarks. The crows were in Noah’s domain, and their food was carcasses. Most of the bodies were human, flayed, hanging from rusty hooks, dripping an endless supply of red. Black birds on the ground drank from brooks of blood flowing on either side of her path. The ravenous crows fought over rotting morsels. She could not lie down here.
Elijah’s gate was turquoise. “I seek entry,” she said, “but I have nothing more to give.”
“I will take your clothes,” the indigo imp said. “Your ragged dress, your undergarments, even your shoes. I will be of service to you. I offer you this. Down here, you are always naked.”
Past Elijah’s gate, the earth upon which the dead walked was muddy ash and smoke, like the remnants of soup stock left to simmer but long forgotten. The walking dead mimicked her, thousands upon thousands — a colony of purposeless ants, they muddled about, bumping into each other, eyeless or eyes not seeing. Men, women, and children; horses, cats, and dogs; lions, tigers, and apes; dwarfs, demons, and giants. Dead. Whatever outfits any wore were frayed, their flesh decayed. She shivered. None crossed her clear path. And she came upon the seventh gate.
“I know who you are,” Fatima said to the keeper of the marble gate.
The violet imp looked surprised. “And I know who you are,” he said.
“This must be the final gate. I have arrived at the last domain. You are Adam.”
“It must be so. Welcome, my lady. Yet I still require payment. I will take the seven rings of silver around your arm. You will no longer need them.” He climbed to her shoulder, pushed down on the rings. She felt the flooding pain as they fell, dragging Jawad’s bloodied shirtsleeve. The blood thumped in her arm. It dripped from the stump where her hand used to be, drained slowly. She stared at her wound, felt her fight seep out of it.
“Walk,” Adam said. “You do not have far to go.” He blew out her lamp. “You do not need this down here. Move. I will help you. I offer this. In the underworld, death awakens.”
“And you call this help?”
She marched. As she had expected, snakes slithered everywhere except along her path. Boas, asps, and rattlers. Desert snakes, swamp snakes. She barely noticed them. Naked, helpless, exhausted, and bereft, she staggered forward. Dullness, her sole possession, clung to her.
And the ground fell below her.
And the ceiling lifted higher.
And the walls opened before her.
And Afreet-Jehanam sat on his throne.