Enchantress: A Novel of Rav Hisda's Daughter (38 page)

“You can do that?” I asked in astonishment. Though if the information were to be found anywhere, it would be there.

“I will try.” Her face took on the expression of one listening for something far away. “Yes, Father, don’t fret. I will be there soon,” she murmured.

I kissed her cheek and silently backed away. Grandfather had been dead for twenty years.

Em was waiting outside. When I thanked her for her kindness she inclined her head toward Mother’s room and said, “After the funeral,
charasheta
from all over Bavel will come to mourn her. Word travels fast among women.”

“Isn’t her identity supposed to be secret?”

“The head sorceress and her family only require such protection during her lifetime,” Em replied.

“So this is my opportunity to meet the others.” I could never forget that my horoscope foretold that my enemies would be other women.

“And their opportunity to meet you.” There was warning in Em’s voice.

 • • • 

The night following Shabbat, I woke shivering with cold.

Rava sat up abruptly. “Samael—he is here.”

I jumped out of bed, threw on my nightdress, and wrapped a cloak around me. “I can’t let Mother die alone.”

When we entered the
traklin
, I could see light coming from Mother’s room. My feeling of dread intensified and I slowed at the doorway. It took time for my devotion to overcome my fear, for despite the aromatic herbs I could smell the rotten stench of Nasus. It was Samael I saw first, a dark-hooded figure leaning over the head of Mother’s bed as if in intimate conversation with her. I swallowed hard when he seemed to acknowledge my appearance with a nod. Father and Em dozed on their cushions while two slaves stood on either side of the bed, all oblivious to the horror in their midst.

I stepped aside for Rava, and he positioned himself beside me. Samael straightened up and stared at Rava, not that I could see any eyes or other distinguishing features. In response Rava gave a small bow in Samael’s direction, but otherwise he didn’t move. They continued to gaze at each other until Father’s head abruptly jerked up and he looked at Rava and me in surprise.

Rava inclined his head toward the Angel of Death and whispered to Father, “He is here. It won’t be long now.”

Tears rolled down Father’s cheeks as he stumbled to Mother’s side and laid his head on her bosom. They had been married over sixty years, and I had never heard them quarrel. My eyes filled with tears, but I couldn’t look away, even when I caught sight of Nasus, a shadow flitting around the ceiling.

Thus I was aware of Mother’s final living moment, just before Samael’s sword glinted momentarily in the lamplight. I put my hand on Father’s shoulder. He broke out in great, gulping sobs—sobs as heartbreaking as mine.

 • • • 

To protect their purity, men in priestly families did not observe mourning except for their closest relatives. Thus, because of Ashmedai’s pledge to Mother, almost none of my brothers and nephews had attended a funeral or performed any other bereavement ritual. Father had not entered a cemetery since his own parents died.

The rules and procedures the Rabbis instituted for mourners were now a reality instead of a subject for study. During Shiva, the first seven days after her funeral, none of us could work, bathe, or use the bed. We were also forbidden to cut hair or launder clothes, but knowing Mother was on her deathbed, the family had done this the previous week. For the men the most onerous limitation was the prohibition against Torah study.

The most difficult restriction for me was that against speaking. Because Elohim told the prophet Ezekiel to “grieve and be silent” after his wife died, we could neither greet others nor reply to them during the first three days, exactly when it hurt the most. I could weep, wail, and moan, but not talk. For the rest of the Shiva week we could respond when addressed, but not initiate a conversation.

 • • • 

By the third day, I was grateful to be spared the strangers’ endless awkward expressions of sorrow and attempts at consolation. I was more grateful to be relieved of having to reply graciously, thanking the ill-at-ease visitors for coming when the least thing I felt was thankful. What would I do now without Mother’s wise and gentle guidance? How would I negotiate the treacherous path that lay before me in Machoza without her help? The adult part of me was grateful that she’d lived a long, satisfying life and died without suffering, but inside I was a lonely little girl who wanted her mother.

By the fourth day, people from outside Sura were arriving. Scholars and students came to comfort Father and my brothers, but a steady stream of women outnumbered them. I recognized Rishindukh and Shadukh, but most needed to introduce themselves or be presented by Em or Yalta. Clearly my mind was numbed by grief, because only when a tall, slender woman gave her name as Nebazak of Machoza did I realize that these were
charasheta
, here to mourn their late leader and, for a select few, pay homage to the new one.

Some embraced me with warmth and shared sorrow, others were more reserved, but nearly all gazed at me inquisitively. Some came right out and inquired if I was a
charasheta.
Late in the day, I understood why. For the vast majority of women, marriage meant leaving their birth home and moving to their husband’s, rarely or never seeing their parents or siblings again.

 • • • 

Thirty days after Mother’s burial, Rava and I boarded a boat for Em’s house in Pumbedita. Along with us were all four of my sons. Things went badly from the moment I introduced Chama to Joseph and Sama.

I had not planned to inform Joseph of my previous marriage until he was older, but now I had no choice. As I feared, Joseph refused to accept that I had another husband before Rava, even when Rava corroborated it. Men might have more than one wife—Joseph knew that from the Torah—but a woman could only have one husband.

Even though it was dark when we docked, I thought things would get better in Pumbedita. But when Abaye rushed out to greet us, I had never seen him look more distraught.

“I am certainly glad to see you,” he said. “For nearly a week a seven-headed demon has invaded the study hall.”

“In the daytime?” I asked in surprise. Most demons were deterred by sunlight.

“Not only in the daytime,” Abaye said, “but it assaulted the students even when they came in pairs.”

“What have you done to remove it?” Rava asked.

“I’m not proud of this”—Abaye looked down at the floor—“but I heard a certain pious rabbi was coming to visit, so I told my students that nobody should invite him to spend the night.”

I was appalled. “So he is staying in the study hall.”

Abaye blushed with shame. “I was so desperate that I hoped for a miracle.”

Rava and I turned to each other. I said, “We must go there at once,” just as Rava declared, “We can’t let him fight the demon alone.”

Leaving the nursemaids in charge of our children, we hurried to the study hall. A dim light was coming from a window, so we peered in. Rava gasped, and I clutched his arm in horror. A wizened old man was staring fearfully at what appeared to be an enormous snake with seven heads, each hissing threateningly. Suddenly a head struck at the rabbi, who jumped away and bowed his head.

“He needs help,” Rava whispered. “We must add our entreaties to his.” Then he closed his eyes and knelt in prayer.

At the same time, I appealed to the angels to drive the hideous creature away and to prevent it from returning. If I hadn’t witnessed it myself, I never would have believed it, but moments later the head that was menacing the rabbi fell off. He opened his eyes at the thud of it hitting the ground, and a look of confidence replaced his earlier fear.

The demon made six more attacks, and each ended with another of its serpent heads on the floor. It took hours before the last head was severed, and we watched with amazement as the demon’s remains abruptly disappeared. The rabbi waited nervously, but eventually he spread out his cloak and lay down.

Rava and I agreed to say nothing of our intervention. When we finally got up in the morning, Abaye informed us that both demon and pious rabbi were gone. “Unfortunately a student congratulated me on our success, and the rabbi realized that I’d contrived for him to rid us of the menace.”

“I gather he was angry,” Rava said.

“He was outraged,” Abaye reported. “He refused to stay in Pumbedita a moment longer.”

“Have you ever fought a demon before?” I asked Rava when we were alone.

He shook his head and shuddered. “I pray I never do again.”

 • • • 

When we entered the
traklin
to dine, Homa was smiling broadly and two youths, obviously twins, sat next to Abaye.

“Let me introduce these new students.” Abaye’s voice was full of pride. “Avimi bar Rechava and Haifa bar Rechava.”

My jaw dropped as I recognized the boys’ father’s name as that of Homa’s first husband. I looked to her for confirmation and her beaming face communicated what I wanted to know.

“Abaye is the nicest, kindest husband a woman could want,” she gushed, gazing at him with adoration. “As soon as he learned their uncle had died and the widow refused to support their Torah studies, Abaye invited my boys to come study with Rav Yosef and board with us.”

Abaye deflected her compliment. “Any Torah scholar would do the same, especially for such excellent students as Avimi and Haifa. Since I have not been blessed with more sons under my roof, I am pleased to welcome my wife’s.”

I was wondering if Abaye’s example might encourage Rava to be more generous toward Chama, when Joseph piped up. “How can they be your wife’s sons and not yours?”

I saw Rava wince and I groaned inwardly. But before Rava could chastise our son, Abaye grinned and replied, “An excellent question. Do you know about King David and Avigail?”

Joseph nodded but remained silent.

“Sometimes King David married women, like Avigail, who had been wed to other men first and already had children. Thus some of Avigail’s sons were her first husband’s while her son Kilav was King David’s.”

Joseph, deep in thought, looked back and forth between Rava, Chama, and me. Finally he addressed Abaye. “So my mother is like Avigail. First she was married to Chama’s father, and after he died, she married my father and had me.”

“Excellent.” Abaye put his arm around Joseph and gave him a quick hug. “My wife is also like Avigail. First she married the twins’ father, and after he died, she married me.”

 • • • 

Though Homa was relieved to learn that Eli’s curse wouldn’t cause Abaye and Bibi to die while Em lived, she was disappointed that I could only offer a spell to prevent them from fathering sons. Still, before a week was out she asked me to consult my
charasheta
friends about it.

“This last pregnancy I was so frightened of having a boy that I considered drinking
kos ikarin
.” She shuddered at the memory. “And until you suggested this spell, I was determined to drink it after I stopped nursing Silta.”

I hadn’t realized how desperate she was. “At least you can have more children this way.”

“Now that I have my sons back, I don’t need more boys,” she said. “Especially since Abaye has promised to raise them as his own, just as Em did for him.”

I arranged to see Rishindukh and Shadukh on Fifth Day, when Rava, Abaye, and the students were in court. The
charasheta
cousins invited me into their garden, where a profusion of blooming trees heralded the approach of spring, and tables held dishes piled high with nuts and dried fruits. They knew, of course, that I would be leaving Pumbedita, and after reiterating their condolences for Mother’s death, wished me much
mazal
in my new home.

“We heard you’re going to study with Yalta.” Shadukh’s high-pitched voice held more warning than congratulations.

“Is there something I should worry about?” I asked.

“Yalta is legendary for her bad temper.” Rishindukh held out her wine cup for a slave to refill. “For example, while dining at Rav Nachman’s at the end of Shabbat, Rav Ulla objected when Nachman sent the wine cup to Yalta to share. Ulla insisted that women were blessed through their husbands, who should recite the Grace After Meals for them.”

“Hearing this,” Shadukh continued, “Yalta became so enraged that she went out and smashed four hundred barrels of wine. Then when Nachman convinced Ulla to send her another cup to pacify her, she insulted Ulla by calling him an itinerant peddler as full of idle words as old rags were of lice.”

“I hope she doesn’t do that often.” I was shocked that Yalta had lost her temper so violently and at Nachman’s apparent complacency when she did.

“Yalta is the exilarch’s daughter, remember, and thus not easily cowed,” Rishindukh said. “A certain rabbi complained that her father’s slaves were violating Jewish Law, so they retaliated by imprisoning him in such a cold, drafty cell he almost died from the chill.” Her voice changed from disapproval to admiration. “Somehow Yalta defied the palace slaves, freed him, and immersed him in a warm bath until he was healed.”

“Though I can’t imagine where she found a warm bath in Machoza, with all those magi around trying to protect the purity of water,” Shadukh said.

I decided to take them into my confidence before discussing Homa’s dilemma. “I am honored to be learning from the head sorceress herself.” When they looked at me in surprise, I explained, “Mother informed me of her successor.”

Shadukh helped herself to a handful of dates. “Yalta is a great sorceress, but she cannot compare to your mother.”

“Yalta is like iron, strong and hard,” Rishindukh said. “Haviva was like silk, both strong and supple.”

“Our grandmother, our mother’s mother, was like that when she was head sorceress,” Shadukh said.

“Your mother was her successor,” her cousin told me.

I remembered my amazement upon learning there was such a thing as a head sorceress, that there was a hierarchy and organization among the
charasheta
. “Why was Yalta chosen? Why not someone more temperate?”