by Rena Rossner
Abba nodded, and I saw there were tears in his eyes. These were the words our ancestors would say when they went off to war. It felt fitting because I’m going off to battle an unknown illness, without knowing if I will succeed. But it was more than that: their customs are not our customs, their faith not our faith. I’ve never even been inside the home of a non-Jew—and now, I sit and write these words inside a royal residence! I will describe everything soon in great detail, but for now, I must finish recording what happened earlier.
“Don’t worry, Abba. I won’t let you down.” I pecked a kiss on his cheek and turned to Jakob. He lifted me up onto his horse and swung himself up behind me. He grabbed the reins and tugged on them, giving the horse a quick kick, and we set off at a gallop.
I tried to turn my head and look back at the house. I saw the candles lit, burning in the window. Two beacons of light in the darkness.
I will return, I promised the house and my family in it. Then I turned to face the road ahead.
I’m about to sleep in the largest and most comfortable bed I’ve ever seen. May the God of Solomon protect us all.
Our great sages compiled a prayer to be said in urgent times—a blessing, and this is it:
“May it be your will, Lord our God, to help us understand your ways and circumcise our hearts so that we may fear you. Forgive our sins that we might be redeemed, and distance us from pain and suffering. Satisfy us with your abundance and gather all our scattered brethren from the four corners of the earth to bring us together in our own land. May those who err be judged, may you punish the evil with your wrath, and may the righteous rejoice in the rebuilding of your sacred city and the redemption of your holy sanctuary and the restoration of the house of Solomon and may the light of his son, our messiah, blaze bright. May you answer us before we call upon you, and may you listen to us before we speak, for you are the one who answers us at every moment of despair and distress. Blessed are you, Lord our God, who hears our prayers. Amen.”
—The Book of the Solomonars, page 2, introduction
Most of the town’s inhabitants were blissfully unaware of the strange things that were happening. At first, it was only those who tilled the forest for lumber who saw the spots on the trees. Then the farmers began to notice that a thin black mist had settled on their crops like dew early in the morning—but it would be gone by midday and so would their thoughts about it. But the mist clung to their shoes. Some loggers found it on their clothes. And when families began to notice black rot at the corners of their homes and spots that appeared on their walls, then in their lungs, they began to wonder: if the red-haired Solomonars that lived among them could control the weather, then perhaps they were the ones causing the blackness to spread? Perhaps, they thought, there was only one way to cure the trees without uprooting them—they had to uproot the source of the disease.
It started as a whisper, but it soon turned into a thought borne on wind that began to infect the air.
A feeling just under the surface, as though the skin the town wore had begun to itch.
The Black Mist swept into the townspeople’s homes through their chimneys. It spoke nasty thoughts in their ears.
Reb Isaac’s family was about to be cast off the path they once thought they knew. And by the time they understood what was happening, it was too late.
The Black Dragon had reared its ugly head:
Find them, it said, for their laws and not our laws, their rules not our rules.
They do not obey the laws of the king.
Find them and uproot them.
Sarah
Everyone is asleep except me, which is why I hear it—the heavy tread of Abba’s boots as he leaves the house. I’ve never been brave enough to follow him, but I’m tired of sitting around and waiting for something to happen. Tired of waiting for his approval. What is the use of doing things the way they’ve always been done if the Black Mist keeps creeping in and no one can do anything to stop it?
Every day, we hear mourning bells ringing from atop the four churches in town. The Christians believe the sound will drive out the demons and send the Black Mist away, but the bells do nothing—they only increase the sense of foreboding in the air.
I wait and watch to make sure no one stirs, then get up out of bed, tug a coat on over my nightgown, shove my feet into my boots and creep out of the house to follow him. I’m done waiting for the right time to come.
I let the door close behind me and look down the road in both directions. I can barely make out his shape on the road—the mist is so thick. I see the imprint of his large boots in what’s left of the snow. The mist swirls around his ankles but refuses to touch him—it parts in his wake like a trail for me to follow.
He stops when he gets to the Malženická gate. He looks around, takes something out of his coat pocket, opens a door in the wall and steps through. I rush to the place where he stood—an urgent pulse in my chest says please, please be open, please. I touch the wall and it gives under my hand. Joy! I open the space just enough to slip through.
I see the shape of my father disappearing into the Šenkvický wood. I follow him to a clearing. There are at least ten men already there—a minyan. But they are not praying. Each of them is off in the trees alone. They don’t speak to one another, and their lips mouth words that only the air can hear.
I recognize them from our community—men and boys. All of them Solomonars. Some as old as I am—boys on the cusp of something more. I’ve heard about tikkun chatzot—when King David, the father of Solomon, would wake at midnight to praise God. Abba always says that King David only took sixty breaths of sleep a night. The fire of curiosity inside me is kindled. I want to take sixty breaths too.
If I were a boy, I would be out here with him. Every night.
I watch them for a while as they pray. Some of them bow to a higher force—like trees bend their branches to the wind. Others reach their arms up to the sky. Abba is suffused with a kind of glow, as though he saps energy from the stars themselves. He looks serene, at peace with himself and his place in the forest. They all look like they belong there.
It’s only because I’m watching so closely that I see it. One of the men disappears. I widen my eyes, then blink rapidly a few times. At first it looks like he’s melted into the tree behind him, but it’s an illusion—he’s gone, well and truly gone. Then the mist swirls through the clearing and I rub my arms at the sudden chill. I’m so focused on him that I don’t see the mist start to coalesce and rise until I look back to where my father was standing and see in his place a pillar of cloud that jets up to the sky. There is no explanation other that what my eyes see. The mist and rain and swirling wisps of clouds have formed a giant winged creature in the sky—like a serpent with wings. It has a long tail which swings up towards the heavens, the head of a horse and the mane of a lion. Its breath is so cold it freezes water in the clouds. I’ve seen things my father can do before, but never this. The shape shifts and merges, as clouds do in the sky, but all its forms are magical, all of them white and dragon-like and clear.
The creature sends out a roar that sounds like thunder and bends its head down in the direction of the clearing. I see my father now sits on its back, a set of silver reins in his hands. I don’t understand how he shifted from man to cloud-beast and back again to man riding a cloud-beast, but then it takes off into the sky, dropping white mist from its great claws and rain from its great jaws and the wind rises each time it flaps its wings. I watch until I can’t see it anymore. When I look back down, nobody seems to have paid the dragon any attention. It’s as though what just happened is no different to them than having seen a bird flit through the sky.
My shock turns to rage. I’ll never be allowed to be a part of this.
The men are all still focused on their prayers, shuckling with the rising wind, faster than before, but with no less concentration. I know my mouth gapes open; my breath is hitched and fast. It’s a miracle none of them have noticed me yet. The sound of my hea
rt is like the beat of a drum. I see one of the men bend his knees, like he’s bowing to God in one of the blessings of the silent Amidah. When he straightens up, he reaches his arms to the sky and in a rush of wind and feathers he turns into an owl that takes to the sky, leaving his clothes behind him.
It’s impossible. Yet I can’t deny what my eyes see.
I notice one of the younger men. His long red sidelocks start to grow and twist around him. Guvriel, I think, Reb Amram’s son. He crouches down. It looks like he’s about to prostrate himself before God, but instead, he turns into a glowing furry orange mass that floats in the air for an instant, no faster than a breath, then reforms itself into something new. A fox. It looks around the clearing and I duck and hide, worried it will see me, smell me, but then it streaks off into the woods. I pick my head up and watch it dart and dance between the large oak trees, circling maples, then leaping into a brush of hawthorn where I can see it no more.
I feel a tug in my gut, and curiosity gets the better of me. If one man can disappear, another can melt into a cloud dragon and ride it, and another can become an owl, or a fox—what might I be capable of?
I follow the fox all the way down to the river, where he stops to drink from its banks. I’m so mesmerized by the sight of him that I don’t notice until it’s too late that I’ve wandered straight into a buckthorn bush on the riverbank. The skirt under my coat is stuck. I try to untangle myself and prick my finger on one of the thorns.
Immediately, the fox lifts its snout and turns its head. Its eyes lock with mine. I’ve never felt so stupid. I watch as it makes its way over to me. It sniffs my skirt and my shoes, then looks up at me.
“It’s okay,” I say. I have no idea if the fox can understand me. My voice sounds so loud I’m sure everyone and everything in the forest heard me. “I know who you are,” I say. I’m certain the fox can hear the thrum of my heart. “I don’t even know if you can understand me, but I was following you, and now I’m stuck.” My face burns red.
The fox turns around and disappears into the forest and my chest spikes with panic. What if he leaves me here? What if he doesn’t come back? I’m not sure what would be worse—seeing him come back with one of the men from our village, or with Abba. I will burn up in an inferno of mortification either way, but my father will certainly sentence me to spend the rest of my life weaving by a hearth. I turn my eyes up to the sky and blink back tears. I will not be ashamed of my curiosity. I focus on the anger I feel. When I leave this forest, I will demand that Abba starts to teach me all these things. It is my right—my birthright. But for now I say a silent prayer that the fox comes back alone.
I hear the snap of a twig and my head turns in the direction of the sound. I expect to see my father, to feel the weight of his disapproval and the fire of his rage, but it’s only the fox, back in human form (and fully clothed, thank God).
He leans down and starts to work at my skirt. I can’t believe I got myself into this situation. Me—the one who ravels and unravels all of our neighbors’ rugs at night while they sleep—got my skirt so caught up in the thorns that even I can’t untangle it. I feel something warm at the hem of my skirt and jump a bit—was that his hand? My face blooms with a new flush of red. I look down and my skirt is glowing, but there’s no smoke or flame. Guvriel’s lips move as his hands glow, and I watch the thorns and brambles untangle themselves and recede. Is his magic plant-based like Hannah’s? I want to ask, but before I can control what comes out of my mouth, I say, “Teach me.”
“Come,” he says, and walks away. He doesn’t look back to see if I’m following him.
I feel stupid. Teach me? That was all I could think to say? I’m sure he’s going to return me to Abba, and I’ll be humiliated and punished. I should run. Maybe I can find a way back on my own, slip back into bed before anyone notices I’m gone, pretend none of this ever happened. I could follow the river, but I’m so turned around that I don’t know which way to go. If I was Levana, I would look up at the stars and let them guide me—but I’m not. I’m the same silly girl who always gets into trouble.
I look up and don’t see Guvriel anymore. If I don’t start walking, I’ll lose him completely.
He stops at a small outcropping of rocks, like a cave. I expect him to wait for me to catch up, but he sits down and gestures to the rock beside him.
Does he think I need to rest before we keep walking?
“I’m fine,” I say.
“I’m Guvriel,” he says. “Guvriel Ben Amram.”
“I know who you are.” I scowl. “I’m—”
“Sarah.” He dips his chin in my direction. “And you’re not fine. What are you doing out here? It’s dangerous.”
“I didn’t mean to follow you,” I say, but then I stop my mouth. Resist. I take a deep breath. “I was following my father. I wanted to know where he goes every night, and then I saw… well, everything. I’ve never seen anyone turn into a fox before. I’m sorry I watched. And then I got stuck. And you know the rest. But if you’re just going to…”
“You don’t need to apologize for your curiosity.”
“I’m sure my father would say otherwise,” I snort. “But thank you for untangling me.”
“I’m sure you’ve seen stranger things than I have in your time, Sarah.”
“I wish,” I reply.
He looks up at the sky. “There’s something I need to say before this watch is over.” His lips start to move, silently at first, then he says the words out loud. It’s a prayer—a passage of tehillim and something else combined.
“What are you saying?” I ask.
He finishes murmuring the words and looks at me quizzically. “I forget that women don’t study the same things we do. I only thought, as Reb Isaac’s daughter—”
“Stop. He doesn’t teach me anything,” I cut him off. “We barely study at all.”
He furrows his brow.
It doesn’t make sense to me either, I want to say, but this time I have the wisdom to keep my mouth shut.
“The night is separated into three watches,” he explains. “Three ashmurot of angels. Each watch—each group, waits with bated breath for their turn to sing shirah. It says God roars like a lion at the changing of the watch, and that each watch has its own sound. The first is like the braying of a donkey, the second like a pack of dogs barking, and the third is the sound of a woman whispering to her husband.”
“That’s beautiful,” I whisper, then realize my cheeks are warm. I clear my throat and say, louder, “I’ve never heard that before.”
“I was reciting part of Perek Shirah. We say it every night. Don’t you?”
I shake my head.
“It’s something you should know, Sarah,” he says, surprising me with his words. I look up and see his face is twisted into a frown. “The passage I was reciting is from the Talmud, tractate Tamid—about the ner tamid, the eternal flame. Tell me you know what that is…” He looks troubled.
I roll my eyes. “Of course I do.”
He laughs. “And you know how to use it too… huh?”
I look down at my boots. My face is on fire. The entire town knows what I did. I don’t like being reminded of it.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says.
I don’t respond.
“Sarah, I don’t know one boy your age who could have done what you did,” he says. “It was impressive.”
I look up at him and narrow my eyes, trying to figure out if he’s making fun of me. But his eyes are green and clear and true.
Me? Impressive? Nobody has ever called me that before. Impulsive, yes. Disrespectful—all the time. Never impressive.
“I don’t think my father thought it was impressive,” I say softly, running my fingers over the moss on a rock beside me.
“Of course he did! The whole community did. We all knew to expect great things from you after that. It was all anyone talked about in the yeshiva. That one of Rabbi Isaac’s daughters did in an instant what it would take us y
ears upon years to learn.”
I stare at him, part skeptical, part incredulous. I feel confused and a little bit angry. Maybe he’s mocking me? “If none of the boys my age in the yeshiva can light a fire, then how are you able to turn into a fox? Something you’re saying doesn’t make sense.”
He nods his head like he takes what I say very seriously. Nobody ever takes me seriously. I’m more confused by this interaction than ever.
“That’s a good question,” he says. “There are a few answers. But mainly two: one, every Solomonar in our community has different innate abilities. Some of us are born with them; others manifest them later in life. But certain things come more naturally to some of us. At least, that’s what my father says. We don’t understand why. And two, the ability to manipulate the elements—like what your father and you can do, is rarer still. From what I understand, you started a fire far away from where you were, without speaking a word.”
“It wasn’t like that—I mean, it was far away, but I was repeating the words my father said.”
“Interesting. He didn’t tell us that.”
“That’s because he didn’t ask. He just sent me to my room and sentenced me to weaving by the hearth for the rest of my life.”
Guvriel looks like he tries to fight the grin that spreads across his face. “Ah yes. I too have idled many hours by the fire.”
“Weaving?” I gape at him.
He blushes. “Knitting, actually.”
I laugh out loud, and he claps a hand over my mouth. Then he quickly removes it, as if my skin has burned him.
“Sorry.” His face is as red as his sidelocks. “I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s okay, I should have been quieter. My father makes you knit?”
He chuckles and scratches the back of his neck, “No. My mother makes me darn my own socks.”
