The House of Lost Spirits: A Paranormal Novel

by Einat Shimshoni

  “Yes, that expression is suitable,” he says, as if passing it through some entrance test into his world of words. “But, I don’t know its equivalent in Swedish.”

  It turns out that the way Oved chose to pass his unlimited time was by studying as many languages as possible and keeping himself updated in them. He had a full command of Aramaic, Hebrew, Arabic, Latin, English, French, German, Russian, and a good knowledge of Polish, Italian, French, Czech, and Missionary Swedish, of course. The Middle East is an ideal location for language enthusiasts, considering the number of armies that invaded it from many parts of the world and attempted to establish their culture in the region after their conquests. Add to that the religious pilgrims and tourists, who visited the country from all corners of the globe over the ages. Most of Oved’s nocturnal outings preserve and expand his knowledge of languages. He warmly recommends that I, too, find some field of interest and stick to it.

  “See what happens to those who get stuck here? They go completely crazy.”

  And, to prove his claim, he yells out loud:

  “Hey, Benny, sing a song for us.” That is immediately followed by a deafening screech in response.

  “Don’t you dare suggest it!” from the direction of Helen’s room that makes him smile in satisfaction.

  “I can’t go out,” I tell him. “I spent the whole night standing at the door, and just could not do it.” Saying that out loud is even more depressing than thinking about it. I don’t know what I am expecting. Perhaps, I hope that Oved will attempt to encourage me, tell me that it is natural to be frightened at first, and press me to try again. But he doesn’t do either of them, only stares at me with his smug and overbearing expression.

  “He who risks nothing gains nothing.”

  “Benny took risks and doesn’t appear to have gained much,” I point out.

  “That, young lady, is another inaccurate finding. There is a difference between taking risks as a strategic move, and deliberately entering a dangerous situation, as an intentional surrender. The first means increasing the chances of making a profit at the cost of increasing the possibility of losing. The second is just an expression of cowardice.” Oved looks rather pleased with his analysis, and it doesn’t bother him at all to call Benny a coward and hint the same about me. He grows less and less pleasant to me each moment. I want to burst his bubble of conceited self-satisfaction.

  “So, is that how you died? Did you take a risk to increase the possibility of profiting, but lose it all in the end?”

  To my surprise, he smiles broadly.

  “It’s possible to put it like that. Certainly.”

  “What happened?”

  “A mistaken assessment of the situation,” he replied briefly. This time, I’m not sure whether he is expecting me to beg to hear the story, or if he prefers to avoid telling it.

  I begin to think that mistakenly assessing a situation is also the reason that I have gotten here.

  “So, how do you do it?” I ask. Even if it makes him even smugger, I need his advice.

  “The moonless nights are best,” Oved replies. “Although, since the appearance of streetlights and electric bulbs, there is almost no place that gets completely dark. Even the caves in the desert aren’t as quiet and secure as they once were.”

  “Yet, you still go out,” I say.

  Oved stretches his arms to the sides.

  “I always felt stifled within closed walls. After all, I am a nomad by birth.”

  “But you say that the Nabateans already lived in towns by the time you were born.”

  “That’s right,” Oved agrees, “but that doesn’t mean they spent all their time in one place. The people of my nation were nomads, and when they stopped wandering, they turned into merchants. In winter, they would inhabit the towns or small villages, but, in spring, they would set off on the Incense Trade Route.”

  “So, was that what you were? A trader?”

  Oved bursts out laughing uninhibitedly on hearing my question.

  “No, I was not a merchant, though I did participate in several trade expeditions. The first of them was when I was thirteen years old and big enough to accompany my father and older brothers. Our caravan made its way to Egypt, where we bought fabrics and tools that came from the port of Gaza, to trade them later for spices and precious stones in the cities of Aram.”

  After deciding a minute earlier that I don’t like Oved, and having started thinking what pot plant I can replace him with, his story is now arousing my curiosity. I have always loved history. This way, when the present becomes boring, choosing the past is a good option. Phrases like ‘The Incense Trade Route’ and ‘The Cities of Aram’ conjure up the legendary world of the stories of ‘A Thousand and One Nights.’ Oved, who enjoys the presence of an enthusiastic audience, is happy to cooperate.

  “The route was tiring and boring, though visiting the markets of the port cities was a thrilling and colorful experience. I always thought that Avdat was a large city, but its city market was nothing compared to the port market, which was active with busy bartering.

  “At one of the stalls that displayed jewels of carved ivory and precious stones, my father bought an expensive necklace of blue opals for my mother. He slipped the string of beads into a leather pouch that he always wore around his waist. I remember that a talisman made of a red stone caught my eye. It bore the image of a warrior carrying a sword. The merchant explained that the trinket would assure the warrior who wore it of courage and bravery in battle. I asked my father if we could buy it. I did not believe in the power of charms, but the shiny stone was smooth, and the carving of the swordsman was the work of an artist. My brother, Na’aman, laughed at me, ‘you have to be worthy of brandishing a sword to own such a charm,’ he said. He was the closest in age to me, but was old enough to be counted among the guards of the caravan. This vital position brought him both honor and a sword of his own.

  “Did you have brothers?” Oved inquired.

  “No,” I reply.

  “Benny also had no siblings,” Oved remarks in a thoughtful tone. “It’s strange.”

  “Why is it strange?”

  “It seems that the further mankind progresses, the lesser its will to reproduce becomes,” Oved replies.

  I want to tell him about my perception of humankind’s uselessness, and that its unrestrained reproduction will destroy our planet, but my desire to hear the rest of his story is stronger. Oved needed no more than a quick reminder to continue from where he left off.

  “So, I asked my father for a sword, if that would give me the right to carry the charm. ‘I know how to handle it,’ I promised him. Na’aman continued making fun of me and claimed that if they put a sword in my hand, I would cut my leg. I was ready to attack him. Although he was a few years older than me, I was almost the same height as him, and although I did not have a sword, my fists were ready and accustomed to brawling. But my father grabbed my arm and held me firmly. ‘It’s not enough to know how to wield a sword. You also have to know how to use your head,’ he said. It was not the first time my father reprimanded me for my thoughtless recklessness.”

  Oved smiles with satisfaction as he recalls this childhood memory. I have no trouble imagining him as an aggressive and grumpy adolescent.

  “Certain that was the end of the story, I was surprised when my father turned to the merchant and asked the price of the charm. It wasn’t high. ‘And what about this?’ he asked and pointed to a short-bladed dagger with geometric carvings on its ivory handle. The merchant quoted a price, and my father took it in his hand. ‘If you show me that you know how to use it properly, I will buy both the dagger and the talisman for you.’

  “I picked up the dagger and sized up its weight. Then I scanned the surrounding market to look for a suitable target.

  “I pointed to a tree that was a few meters away. There was a nest in the tree,
and I promised I would aim the dagger precisely beneath it. I had spent many hours of my leisure time practicing the skill of throwing knives, but I did not tell my father that I usually aimed directly at the birds’ nests rather than beneath them.

  Na’aman remarked that he hoped for the sake of the unfortunate bird that it wasn’t roosting at the time, and that was precisely the prodding I needed. I grabbed the dagger with confidence and sent it flying fast. The blade cut through the air and its point made a direct hit right below the nest.”

  “So, did you win the charm?”

  “Both.” Oved replies proudly, as if he were once again that thirteen-year-old youth, who had triumphed over his older brother in a wager.

  “My father cautioned me to use his gifts wisely, and we continued on our way. After the colorful market and port, the return to the monotonous and wearying road was even more difficult. We reached every night camp exhausted and covered with dust and sand. It got to the stage where I began to regret begging my father to allow me to join the caravan. When Na’aman passed me on horseback like all the other guards and saw me playing with my new dagger as I sat on a camel, twisting its ivory handle between my fingers and snapped at me, ‘Take care you don’t cut yourself. It will make it difficult for me to protected you if robbers attack us.’ I needed enormous restraint not to aim my dagger at his back as he rode away.

  “Everyone talked about robbers, the greatest threat to the caravans. They gave offerings at temples to assure the success of the voyage and offered prayers to the deity, Obodas, to protect them on their way, though, in my heart, I hoped the prayers would not be answered. The journey was so dull that I wished for an arousing encounter that would provide me with heroic tales of bravery to share with friends who were still too young to join the caravan and remained in the city with the women and the old men.”

  “I get the feeling that such an encounter did come about in the end,” I say. Oved would not take the trouble to tell a story about a caravan that sets out and returns home without incident. I suspect that he might even add confrontations with robbers to his account—also if none really occurred—if only to add interest to the tale.

  “And I bet it was you, who forced their surrender with your new dagger.”

  Oved does not miss the tone of doubt in my voice, but ignores me and continues telling his story.

  “One day, our caravan reached a narrow pass. It was a particularly hot day, and the leader of the tribe rushed us to be sure we would reach a safe camping area before nightfall. Two horsemen were sent on ahead to check that the way was safe. The caravan progressed slowly to the cross-point and stopped to await the return of the two guards. But they did not return. The minutes went by; the animals caught the scent of tension and weariness of their riders and began to stir anxiously. My father rode to the head of the line to discuss the situation with the Chief of the tribe. They both looked troubled. A tense discussion followed whether to send two more riders or continue waiting. And then, loud cries and hoof beats were heard. ‘Dismount the camels! Cluster together in the center!’ We heard orders. ‘Guards, take up positions!’ the Chief of the tribe cried as he drew out his sword.

  “I swiftly jumped off the back of the camel. The people from the caravan tried to arrange the camels in a circle, and cluster at its center while the armed guards on their horses took up defensive positions. But the robbers were faster than them. With roars, they set upon them out of clouds of dust, riding their superior horses and brandishing their swords in the air. The earth trembled under our feet. It was impossible to differentiate between the various characters that merged in battle, all in a swirl of colors and sounds. People pushed me to the sides, and merchandise falling on the ground struck me. Bales of delicate fabrics rolled on the ground, and panic-stricken camels crushed them under their hooves. In the hustle and bustle, I noticed my father’s leather pouch fall on the ground. I bent down to retrieve it, but a second before I pulled it toward me, a heavy foot landed on it. The foot belonged to a large-sized man, dressed in black, who looked at me from above with a smile.

  “‘I think I’ll have that,’ he said calmly, ignoring the battle noise that raged around and asked if I would pick it up for him. I replied that if he wanted it, he could bend down and pick it up for himself.

  “The robber stared fixedly at me. He had small black eyes and a long scar of a cut across his face, from his right ear to his chin. I felt my heart thump hard, but I hoped he didn’t notice it. He bent down, and without removing his gaze from me, he picked up the pouch and passed his sword across my neck. He was faster and more experienced than me and hit my hand hard with the handle of his sword the moment I tried to pull out my dagger. My hand opened from the strength of the pain he inflicted on it, and my new weapon fell to the ground. The robber looked amused.

  ‘You have courage, child. You should consider a future as a robber,’ he told me. The blade of his sword was still at my neck. With a swift move, the robber cut the thin leather strip on which the charm hung and caught it in his hand. He stared at the red stone, and without a word, turned away from me and disappeared.”

  Oved stares at me, pleased with the look of surprise on my face, and, indeed, I am surprised. I was expecting to hear tales of heroism, not such a defeat. But Oved looks like someone who is enjoying relating pleasant memories, not one hurt by loss and humiliation.

  “What happened afterward?” I ask.

  “Nothing. The robbers got away with a third of the goods. We had to bury four members of the caravan in the sands and there were many wounded, among them, my father, whose arm bled badly, and shoulder was dislocated and swollen.

  “We reached the night camp after dark. An atmosphere of gloom fell on all of us, and the remainder of the voyage passed in heavy silence. The people pushed themselves to the limit to try and recover their losses and improve their situation when they reached Aram. Some worked and prepared for departure, some struggled to make it back and cope with the loss of the money they had spent on the goods bartered and bought. They had lost all of it. How miserable and weak they were.

  “My father told me to remain focused, to learn the trading profession from the people on the caravan, how to load and tie the goods, how to take care of the animals. He pushed me to study all of it so that I would also become a trader one day. But I made sure to learn their ways for the day when I would not be one of them.”

  ‘So, what did you become in the end?” I ask.

  Oved smiled smugly, and without giving me an answer, returned to practicing his Swedish.

  Around noon, I hear the screeching of brakes. The black jeep from yesterday is parked again in front of the house. The jeep-driver in his leather jacket sits at the wheel with another man beside him, warmly dressed in a gray diamond-patterned sweater. From the expression on his face, he doesn’t seem to understand what he is doing here. They don’t get out of their vehicle, so I can’t hear what they’re saying. Still, I remain fixed to the windows beside the front door.

  The jeep-driver pulls some pages out of a thick folder resting on the dashboard, and hands them to the man alongside him as they talk. He doesn’t seem to stop to take a breath, while the fellow with him just sits and nods as he eyes the papers suspiciously. He holds them as if they were dusted with dangerous and toxic material that might explode any minute, and almost without moving, he cautiously returns them to the document folder on his knees. Compared to the big hand movements of the jeep-driver, he almost appears to have turned to stone.

  At last, the jeep-driver grows silent. He seems to be waiting for a reaction, but his stony companion remains petrified. Then the jeep-driver pulls an envelope out of an inside pocket of his jacket and hands it to the man in the sweater. This was the first time he had to make some move that required the use of other body parts except for his neck. He nodded and waved his arms nervously, but the jeep-driver cheerfully patted him on the shoulder and stuffed the envelop
e in the document folder. The man in the sweater didn’t say a word. He looked anxious and scared—in complete contrast to the man beside him, who looked very pleased and spun the vehicle around in a sharp U-turn.

  I turn away from the window and see four quiet, concerned faces. When the jeep driver departed the previous morning, none of them thought he would return so soon. Now he has the official in his pocket.

  He returns the following day; this time with an animated young man who walks around the house and checks it out thoroughly, writing all kinds of annotations in his little notebook. They decided to return in a week with a team of assessors and equipment to force open the door. This information creates unbearable pressure on all of them. Benny looks more somber than usual, and almost doesn’t say a word. Leah drifts around the house restlessly, Helen screams all the time without a break, and Oved spends most of his nights away from the house, and his days in the attic with Milka, whom I haven’t seen since I first became acquainted with the house—something I plan to check out anyway. I try to ask Leah, but she is restless and avoids me all the time. Benny’s mood grows sullen and silent, and it is impossible to talk him out of it. I turn to Helen, thinking that it would be better to catch a round of screaming from her than to have to suffer the tense silence that emanates from all of the others. I go up to Helen’s room, and out of habit, I knock on the open door to inform her of my presence. Of course, nothing happens other than the joint of my finger penetrating the cracked door by two or three inches.

  “Ahem!”

  Helen immediately appears before me, and barks a short, sharp, “What” that is more of a statement than a question.

  “May I enter?”

  Helen folds her arms and raises her chin in a rather theatrical gesture of displeasure.

  “Does what I say make any difference? Does anyone even ask what they can do in this house?”