The Man Who Made Death Wait

The Man Who Made Death Wait

(A Sulmari Tale)

There lived a man named Jahan, they say,

who drank his wine at the end of each day.

He feared no thief, no beast, no blade.

But Jahan feared...

the grave.

One copper night, beside his gate,

an old woman whispered,

“Death comes late.

But when dawn breaks

she comes for you.”

Jahan laughed.

“Then she'll have to come through.”

He barred his door

and fled out back,

his brother's best cloak

stuffed in a sack.

His neighbor cried,

“Bring back my hat!”

“Tomorrow!” said Jahan.

Imagine that.

He hid with goats

where the thorn trees grow.

“Death,” he laughed,

“will never know.”

He counted six.

Then counted seven.

The black goat stared.

Jahan stopped laughing.

The goat looked at Jahan.

Jahan looked back.

The goat took one bite

from his brother's cloak.

Jahan ran.

Next day he crossed

the burning plain,

changed his face

and changed his name.

“A potter,” he claimed,

“of some renown.”

“Then make us a bowl.”

His smile fell down.

He punched the clay.

He bent it flat.

Someone asked,

“What the fuck is that?”

“A bowl.”

“For what?”

Jahan sighed.

“A goat.”

And threw the thing

in the fire to hide.

The clay split open.

The sparks flew high.

Behind him came

an old woman's sigh.

“Still running, Jahan?”

He turned around.

No woman.

No footprints.

Only ground.

So Jahan ran

to the Southern Sea,

bought a boat

and shouted with glee,

“Come find me now!

Come take me here!”

The water answered…

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Jahan rowed

till morning light.

Never once

looked down that night.

By dawn he'd survived.

By noon he'd been brave.

By supper he'd danced

on Death's own grave.

He hadn't fled goats—

He'd ridden the beast!

The potters had begged him

to stay for a feast!

The boat?

A ship!

The waves?

Ten men high!

And somehow by evening

Jahan could fly.

Someone asked,

“Was there a sword?”

Jahan said, “Two.”

There were no swords.

You know this is true.

So Jahan came home

beneath copper light,

opened his wine

and feasted that night.

“Three times!” he cried.

“Remember the date!

Three times did Jahan

make Death herself wait!”

Everyone laughed.

Everyone cheered.

Except one old woman

who quietly appeared.

Crooked her staff.

Silver her hair.

Warming her hands

as if she'd always been there.

“You don't believe me?”

“I believe what you say.”

“I outran Death.”

“So you did today.”

“I fooled her three times.”

The old woman smiled.

“And how far did you run?”

“Half Sulmar!” he cried.

“And where are you now?”

Jahan looked down

at his own front door.

The old woman smiled

a little more.

“I made Death wait.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Then where is she?”

The woman tilted her head.

“You ran through the hills.

You ran to the foam.

You ran from Death

and then came home.”

Jahan whispered,

“Then where has she been?”

The old woman smiled.

“Waiting.”

Jahan swallowed.

“Waiting for what?”

“Not what,” she said.

“For whom.”

“You made Death wait,

that much is true.

But, little Jahan—

she was waiting for you.”

Morning came

over stone and sand.

The fire was cold.

Beside it—

a crooked staff

stood in the land.

His brother took back

his stolen cloak.

His uncle his sandals.

Nobody spoke.

His neighbor found

his missing hat.

Looked at Jahan.

“Well.

There's that.”

So drink your wine.

Love while it's late.

Run if you must.

Make Death wait.

Laugh while there's laughter.

Breathe while there's breath.

There's no shame

in running from Death.

But don't call her beaten.

Don't boast you've prevailed.

Don't think because morning has come

that she's failed.

The road may be long.

The hour may be late.

Death has nowhere else to be.

Death can wait.