The next day, also much improved, Milo bought a ticket to an orbital resort, where he ate lunch from a vending machine and then managed to find an air lock on a mechanical floor, with no one watching and no one likely to come by soon.
It was no particular trouble for him to get around the codes and make the switches work. He opened the hatch and, wearing gym shoes, slacks, and a light jacket, stepped through into the lock.
No, Milo, protested his very sad soul. It was the voice of a soul that had been on its way to a birthday party with dancing and free beer but was hit by a train before it got there.
Without preamble, he threw the emergency toggle inside the air lock and let the instant decompression blast him into space.
It was painful, since there was sunlight and radiation this time. Drifting away, between space and a twilight ocean, he roasted on one side and froze on the other. Within, he popped and fizzed and went dark.
For his last thought, he tried to think something holy, but a dying brain is a slippery thing.
I wonder, he thought, if the brothers of the Damocles Society still have that goddamn goose.
Milo woke up on the sand beside a slow clear river.
The sun in the white sky was a small, fierce, fossil sun. The sun of bleach and bones.
His memories of eight thousand years came back, as usual. He welcomed them and his sense of his larger self, as usual.
What was unusual was the feeling of gray melancholy in his stomach and soul. This, he knew, was left over from his suicide. It took a degree of emptiness to end your own life, and that emptiness didn’t wear away between worlds.
“Take your time,” someone said.
A pale man, thin and angular, with softly blazing eyes, crouched in the sand at Milo’s feet. Long black hair wrapped him like a shroud, or maybe like wings.
Death. One of them, anyway. Not Suzie.
“Where am I?” Milo asked.
Death said, “You’re right where you’re supposed to be,” and vanished in a burst of dust and hot wind.
Asshole.
A heavy, oceanic sadness filled Milo.
Suzie. He sat paralyzed for a while, remembering.
Then he shook himself and did his best to come alive. He had forced himself out of bed on half a million Monday mornings and knew how to do this.
Okay. To begin with, once again, where was he?
The afterlife, like time, was infinite, but he had a definite sense of having been dumped beyond the fringes. Like, if he usually woke up in Boston, this time he found himself on the moon.
At least he was dressed for it. He found himself wearing the robes of a desert traveler.
Milo had been a Bedouin nomad in a former life and knew it was foolish to travel in the heat of the day. So he pulled his robes over his head to make a kind of tent and closed his eyes awhile.
—
He woke up shivering under a star-washed sky and hiked along the river in the night.
Just after dawn, when the heat had begun to rise, he came upon the river’s source: a tiny oasis with green weeds and a single date tree. Beyond this splatter of life, the desert stretched like a windblown tortilla.
Would it be best to backtrack, Milo wondered, hoping the water led to bigger water and maybe to people? Maybe he could just stay here and become the official Water-Hole Hermit.
As he stood there, considering, someone called, “Halloooooo!”
He beheld a rider on horseback, leading a camel, atop a nearby ridge.
Milo waved. The rider waved back and nudged his horse downhill.
He was, Milo observed as he approached, a man with a proud beard and an air of cheerful assurance.
“Do we find you in need of assistance?” this person asked Milo.
“A state of indecision,” answered Milo, “at least.”
“You’ll make slow headway on foot,” the bearded man predicted. “I offer you my companionship and the loan of a camel.”
Milo bowed his head and said, “Thanks.” He held out his hand and said, “Milo.”
The traveler shook the hand and said, “Akram.”
Akram began unloading camping equipment from the camel. Milo assisted by leading the horse to drink.
The tent Akram pitched bore a logo, advertising, in silver letters, AKRAM THE REMARKABLE.
“Remarkable what?” Milo asked. Astronomer? Dogcatcher? Beard grower?
“Juggler,” Akram explained. He tossed some tent stakes into the air, whirled them around in a lazy circle, then stomped them into place.
“Remarkable?” asked Milo. “Not ‘Great’? Not ‘Astonishing’?”
Akram lowered his eyes and said, “Modesty intercedes.”
—
The juggler was kind enough to share his tent, and the two of them slept through the heat of the day. Milo dreamed about Suzie.
Her voice, in the dark. Far away.
“Milo!” she called faintly. Was this a sign? Was she still in the world, in the afterlife? At twilight, Akram shook him awake.
“Milo!”
“Suzie?” he croaked.
“Well, no.”
There followed an hour of pulling down tents, loading camels, and brewing fresh coffee over a fire, after which Milo climbed aboard Akram’s camel.
The beast tried to bite him. Succeeded a little.
Milo shrugged. How would he feel if a stranger climbed on him? They would get to know each other, and their rapport would improve.
Later, the camel kept wandering off course and wouldn’t listen when Milo shouted and flicked the reins. Akram would have to trot after him and tow him back. Minutes later, off course again.
Each time he redirected the animal, Akram murmured, “As-salāmu alaykum.”
“?‘As-salāmu alaykum’ means ‘God is good,’ right?” Milo asked.
“It does.”
“Then why, when this excellent camel needs correcting, over and over—”
“It’s better than cursing. Curses darken the soul. I am sorry he’s so troublesome.”
Milo recalled from his own life as a Bedouin how to be virtuous and grateful.
“Satan is a fine animal,” he assured Akram. “Merely headstrong. Is he young?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Then I’m sure he will mellow and provide many good years of service.”
“If you appreciate him so,” said Akram, “he is yours. I gladly make you this gift.”
Aw, sonofabitch, no!
But refusing a gift was rude.
“As-salāmu alaykum,” said Milo, bowing his head.
Akram’s horse tossed its head proudly, almost dancing across the sand.
“That sure is a nice horse,” said Milo.
Akram didn’t answer.
It was a long, starry night.
—
Followed by a hot day with hot winds, spent dozing in the tent. Followed by another starry night. Then, an hour after dark on the second night, lights appeared over the horizon. Gradually, soft grass and date palms rose around them, and they found themselves on the outskirts of a grand oasis.
Grand enough to have buildings and streets. The streets were lined with candles and colored lanterns and people. It smelled like food, incense, animals, and burning wood.
Satan did his best to ruin the moment. He drooled a thick, sustained rope of snot, saliva, and vomit, leaving behind something like a snail trail. People made faces as he passed.
Milo stayed focused on the good things.
I might stay here awhile, he thought. Maybe a long while.
It seemed like a happy thought. Underneath it, though, was Milo’s awareness that he had no reason to be anywhere else.