Simantov

by Asaf Ashery

  Libby was about to lash out at the Doula when she was stopped by a loud peal of bells. The alarm bells on all the watchtowers were ringing, echoing around the ranch. Teachers and cadets looked surprised as they scrambled up the basalt walls to their assigned positions. They were well trained and knew this wasn’t a drill, but the sight that greeted them was totally unexpected.

  Libby had joined them on top of a rampart and watched the unfolding scene with disbelief. The orange hues of the evening sky were a perfect backdrop to the spectacle. She turned her face from the twilit west toward the north, whence “evil broke forth.” The Nephilim were coming.

  The majestic figure of Adriel emerged from a horizon that seemed to be closing in. He spread his glorious wings and each motion sent waves of fear toward the defenders. The black-winged angels flying in formation behind him swooped down in a turbulent display of primordial force.

  Whips cracked and steel scraped leather as weapons were drawn from RAD belts. There was a guileless naiveté about the way the cadets and instructors urged each other to fend off the onslaught. The Nephilim attacked their targets with implacable efficiency. The girls were tossed aside, cast down on the earthworks at the base of the wall. A winged cyclone now circled the main building and, seconds later, Libby watched as Doula Ashtribu was dragged from the window and carried into the air by four Nephilim. Libby drew her service gun and ran toward them, but something strong and flexible, like the tip of a bamboo stick, hit her right shoulder and sent her hurtling to the floor. The gun flew from her hand, landing on the black dirt. A whiff of orange juice and buttered toast with jam engulfed her like an intoxicating perfume. When she managed to pick herself up, she was facing a resplendent Naphil, with shining black wings looking down at her like an aardvark surveying a nest of termites. Incredibly, it was from him that the soothing smell of juice and toast emanated. The condescending grin on Adriel’s face prompted her to whip out her backup gun and empty the cartridge with maximum rapid fire.

  Folding his wings, the Naphil hugged himself, displaying the beautiful feathers. The bullets seemed to be absorbed by all the blackness. Libby jammed in another clip and fired again, this time more slowly, desperately, at her target. Adriel stood firmly, unperturbed and unhurt, emitting his soothing smell. She regretted not retrieving a RAD belt from a wounded cadet or from one of the hysterical instructors who fled when the defense line collapsed. When his body was about to take the last bullet, he switched positions and spread one of his wings.

  His gaze was fixed on her, and she noticed a spasm of pain go through him when the bullet struck, but it only lasted a second; then he spread his other wing and again stood imposingly before her, exposing a tiny hole under his left nipple. He leapt at her and his face bent to hers until their eyes were level. He started poking at the wound in his chest until his whole fist was submerged. A sound of tearing and crackling, like that of a dry twig, echoed in her ears. Behind his back she could see Doula Ashtribu disappear into the sky. The Naphil withdrew his fist, dipped in angel blood. The drops fell to the ground, hissing like a provoked snake ready to strike, quivering and bubbling as they mingled with the dust and basalt. A sweet smell of blossoms gushed out of the wound.

  Adriel stretched out his other hand, grabbing the red-hot gun from Libby and tossing it aside. Gripping her open hand, he folded her fingers into his and looked her straight in the eye.

  “I don’t like being shot at, even when it’s for a good cause. Next time we meet, I’ll make sure you never shoot at anyone again. In the meantime, keep this.”

  He spread his wings and was airborne with a flourish that ruffled Libby’s hair.

  Whatever was in her hand felt sticky and rough. Opening her fist, she found a flattened bullet and a bone splinter covered in a greenish material that looked like coral reef. Libby was used to threats from her work as a police officer and a Daughter of Lilith, but this one evoked something new: desperation.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Doron made his way to the lab, relieved not to be part of the investigating team. Microscopes, vials, pipettes, and test tubes were his instruments, and this was fine with everyone, provided the results were delivered on time and with the correct color codes.

  Libby, Moscovitz’s sidekick, was waiting for him in the hallway. She looked funny, as if she had gained a whole career of experience overnight.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Like everyone else, waiting to see how it ends.”

  Doron still remembered what it was like to be young and enthusiastic, to try to impress your veteran colleagues. He continued on his way, but Libby stopped him.

  “Where’s Biton?”

  “Summing up the case. He and Mazzy want to make sure he has nowhere to run when they arrest him.”

  “What’s he charged with?”

  She didn’t look good, as if something was haunting her from the inside, something bad.

  “Do you want something to drink? I could make coffee.”

  “What is he charged with?”

  It wasn’t a question really, more like an order, one that had to be obeyed. Doron couldn’t say what it was that bothered him, but the discomfort made him blurt out the information quickly, so that she would leave him alone.

  “There’s a match between the DNA in Almadon’s coffee and the snippets of hair found on the stage in the theater. Also between those and the drop of blood found in the professor’s greenhouse. Now it’s conclusive: he’s a serial killer and we’ve nailed him.”

  “So why aren’t we celebrating?”

  “We still don’t have anything to link him to the Judge’s daughter. Hizzonor wants heads on a platter. And they can’t find a connection between the cases. When Biton and Mazzy are done checking all the clues and angles, they’ll wrap it up and get Almadon from his house. See if they can get a confession out of him this time.”

  Libby mulled over his last words; her hand rummaged in her bag, looking for something.

  “How long will it take?”

  “A day or two.”

  Too long. She expected an answer within hours, not days. Less than an hour ago she had been facing a Naphil and shot him. In return, he had handed her a bone, a shell, and a threat.

  “Are you very busy right now?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, the case is closed.”

  “And if I give you something that will move us forward, will you check it?”

  Libby took out an evidence bag. Doron shot her a dismissive look.

  “Where did this come from?”

  “I don’t want to look stupid, but I have something…”

  “That just wound up in your bag?”

  Libby knew she could not hand the bullet to forensics. She wasn’t supposed to be at the ranch, and she couldn’t shoot at something that didn’t exist. She knew the ballistics experts wouldn’t be able to track the bullet’s trajectory inside the Naphil’s body. And they’d laugh at her if she told them how it was retrieved. But she knew that she had to hand over the Naphil’s other souvenir; she had to involve somebody else in this affair.

  Even if her story was fantstical, someone would find it hard to ignore what she held in her hand. Doron looked at the contents of the bag.

  “It’s a bone. What’s the connection to the case?”

  “I have a feeling the answers you may come up with will be more intelligent than my hunch that this is somehow connected.”

  Doron examined the bone, its greenish spongy texture. He could not identify the substance, but the way it was spread out aroused his curiosity. Two hours and a dozen tests later, he decided that the bone was intriguing enough to interest Biton.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It was morning. Rachel rose from her makeshift bed and started up the mountain. She knew her way along the narrow winding paths.

  Members of the other order allowed her to approach and she had time along the trek to mull over the consequences of her move.

  Rachel arrived at t
he cave, her destination. She gazed down at the hidden spring where her spouse was bathing. She had to admit the man still looked great.

  But looks weren’t everything.

  Her fears and misgivings were rooted in the past, in memories of the man she had loved, the one who was permitted to love her. It was the only time she had allowed life to carry her away, to take control of her. The renewed contact beginning with the violent eruption of his image into her mirror and coffee cup, the phone call in which he said they would not sleep until their daughter was safe: all these had shattered her peace of mind. Rachel continued to gaze at the father of her daughter, the love of her youth, and tried to muster the courage to approach him.

  It was the seventh time Israel immersed himself and the baby he was holding in the spring water. Despite being immersed, the baby, who appeared to be about two years old, was not crying. Israel continued the ritual, dunking and lifting, allowing the water to cover and then buoy the child. It was early morning; her man had always favored those hours between light and darkness, between day and night. Daybreak ushered in shadows, and Israel felt more comfortable when shadows fell across the land. But now, at the crack of dawn, with Eos’s eyelids just starting to flutter, the shadows were slow to rise.

  Rachel shivered. She watched his body and noticed how his skin stiffened and his hair bristled. He had apparently retained his muscular physique; the monastic life in the Galilee had curbed his natural tendency to put on weight. His long hair dripped water but even in the dim light of dawn, Rachel saw that the silver hairs outnumbered the dark ones.

  Israel raised his hand to pick up a towel from a nearby rock, exposing his unique tattoo in all its glory. Written along his arm was the verse, “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit better than he that taketh a city.” The arm with these words enfolded the child’s body, then made way for the white towel. After drying the child, he dressed him in a warm woolen garment and proceeded to dry himself.

  When he raised his eyes to the roof of the cave where Rachel was standing, tears of joy filled his eyes. The light in the valley below was beginning to chase the shadows from the gullies and ravines.

  “Homesick?” he called out to her. His voice reverberated around the depths of the cave. Rachel stayed at her post, determined not to let him trip her with his silvery tongue, not to let him throw dust in her eyes. She would promise him nothing until he had named his price. Israel’s ambitions always came with a price tag, while he was an expert at evading payment.

  “You can’t be homesick for a place you’ve never been to.”

  “I meant did you miss me.”

  “I know.”

  He lifted the child and showed her his face.

  “What do you say?”

  “About what?

  “About him.”

  The child was calm, seemingly unperturbed by the cold, the early hour and the fact that Israel did not really know how to hold an infant. The last time she had witnessed such self-assurance was when Mazzy held her daughter Noga.

  “He’s got your eyes and Aunt Malka’s ears,” Rachel said. “Is this why you summoned me?”

  “We live in perilous times. Times that are a-changing.”

  “Interesting times. Some people make a career of uttering vague pronouncements and later claiming that they were right. Some of them even work with our daughter.”

  One of Israel’s ambitions was to live in “interesting times,” but unlike the Soothsayer team, when times were not interesting enough, he tried to change them.

  Now he looked calmer. His basso profundo addressed her as if she were an accomplice in an as yet uncommitted crime.

  “Tell me a little about our Mazal.”

  “I’m afraid she’s going to disappoint you. She lacks the distinction you always sought.”

  “And how is our granddaughter?”

  She kept quiet. This was Israel’s way to unnerve her, by showing her how up-to-date he was: he knew about Noga and about her own vulnerability where the little girl was concerned.

  “What do you want?”

  “To turn back the clock.”

  “Meaning?”

  “To make you a mother again.”

  Rachel immediately thought of the days and nights she’d have to spend in the role of mother and nurse. It wasn’t only sleepless nights, diaper changing and the long wait to see if the investment was worth it; Rachel wasn’t afraid of hard work, but she was not willing to go back to first grade in the school of life. It wasn’t making space for an inquisitive toddler taking his first steps, it was the empty space when he left the house one day. The emptiness, vulnerability and helplessness that would accompany his declaration of independence. The child would grow up while the mother stayed behind. The fact that her daughter now roamed the world freely, without her supervision, made her reject the pleasure of repeating the experience. The events of Mazzy’s life in the last few days had turned a mother’s fear into a reality.

  “You’re on the wrong platform; that train left the station a few years ago,” Rachel said.

  “I would still like you to be a mother to Zohar, to raise him, to make sure he realizes his potential.” In the meantime Zohar had succumbed to sleep, Israel gently laid him in the shade, covering him with a prayer shawl.

  “Where’s his mother?”

  “She’s not really fit for the job.”

  “What’s the rate you’re willing to pay the babysitter?”

  “Our daughter will go on breathing. At least until Zohar is old enough to get to know his half-sister.”

  Rachel was visibly alarmed by this last pronouncement. His attitude toward his nearest and dearest always bordered on the extreme, like the way he conducted his life. He may still have had some feelings toward them, but just as he had abandoned them twenty years ago, he would surely do so again. He had become cold and calculating, as if dealing with complete strangers.

  “How do you know where all this is going?”

  “A little bird told me.”

  “A pigeon?”

  “With a message. They didn’t even bother to encrypt it. Just a verse from Isaiah. A message you can find in any house.”

  “Which verse?”

  “Cease ye from man whose breath is in his nostrils, for wherein is he to be accounted for.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Bottom line? The Gates of Heaven are about to open.”

  After all these years, he was still capable of shocking her with his blunt honesty.

  “This indeed sounds worrying, but why to Lilith’s Daughters in particular?”

  “The primordial order is restored. For women who refuse to be helpmates, this is bad news indeed.”

  Rachel’s face reflected her calculation of the survival odds of whoever was embroiled in that conflict. For Israel, however, this offered an opportunity. Rachel knew that she had to bargain for what she wished to achieve.

  “What is it you want,” Israel asked, when she didn’t respond.

  “I want them to keep away from her. I want to cause enough damage to scare them, or to make them focus on me. Anything to keep her out of it. I want the same thing you want, but not for the same reasons.”

  “This means hurting one of them.”

  “If that’s what you say,” said Rachel.

  “So you want what everyone in this game wants. You want the names.”

  Rachel knew that Lilith’s Daughters were the only ones possessing this knowledge. At least, that’s what she had thought until now. She had no time for shilly-shallying, for tactics.

  “Do you have the names?”

  “Not the names; I have names. Not enough to win, but it can make the difference, pave the way.”

  “So what do you need me for?”

  “I have the perfect plan. It is not without risk, but it will satisfy everybody in the end. I need one madman to carry it out and lots of luck. I’ll give the madman the names that I have, and he’ll
forestall the opening of Heaven’s Gate. Everything will remain as before, and except for the Nephilim, everyone will be happy.”

  “And if you can’t find a madman, a madwoman will do.”

  “Actually, a madwoman is preferable; it will instill in them enough doubt about fighting. Whatever you say about Lilith’s Daughters, they managed to domesticate them pretty well.”

  “So how come everyone is satisfied at the end of the day?”

  “The appropriate name will enable you to kill the appropriate Naphil. Everybody’s happy. The Gate of Heaven stays closed, Lilith’s Daughters calm down. You are endowed with the ability to heal all wounds. Even if something does happen to Mazzy, you can heal her and be at peace with yourself. The end of the world does not come; Zohar gets a babysitter. I am content.”

  “And all this happens without you risking yourself one jot. Really! At worst, something might happen to the babysitter.”

  “I told you my plan was perfect.”

  “How will I know which one? Who to pick?”

  He smiled at her, impressed with her gumption, her desperation and her love.

  “It’s luck, but I trust you to know. You will know when you call his name, when you look him in the eye, when you get close enough.”

  She kept quiet. Thoughts whirled in her brain, but she tried to maintain as cool a face as she could.

  “Is it your boss’s idea for you to stand here in this spring?”

  Israel looked down at the slumbering child, “Thy path is in the great waters, and thy footsteps are not known.”

  This was as close as he would get to suppyling a motive, and even this offer would be for a limited time. He preferred her to be the madwoman, but if not, he had a Plan B. Israel might be insensitive on occasion, but he was never out of control.

  “I must say goodbye to her.”

  “I’d advise you to do so also in the event that your mission fails.”