The Light of the Midnight Stars

by Rena Rossner

  The next day, when the sun set on the town of Trnava and the stars came out, unusual things began to happen. The stars shone brighter in the portion of the sky above the town. They seemed to dance until they shone with unearthly light and then blinked out. Weeds grew stronger along the banks of the Trnávka river, winding their way out of the confines of gardens, restless and seeking, taking over small patches of forest. Here and there, little flames of fire burst in strange and random places, but then were quickly put out. Sweaters unraveled when no one was looking, and wool sometimes wove itself into garments at night. A fox appeared in the forest and did very un-foxlike things—and owls swooped and dove upwards at the moon instead of down towards the fields.

  People always said that the weather in Trnávka was temperamental, not something that could be trusted. Every once in a while, especially around harvest time, when the Solomonars built huts and raised strange branches up at the sky, there was a cloud-shaped mass over the town that looked very much like a dragon. But that was the way of clouds, the residents assumed, and most were content to leave it at that.

  A curiosity. Nothing more.

  Months went by, then years. It took a long time for the first spots of black to begin to appear on the trees.

  And by then, it was too late to stem the tide of what was coming.

  Sarah

  It happened slowly and then all at once. The darkness was determined to creep in and there was nothing we could do to stop it.

  Now, no night goes by without my dreams tormenting me with darkness. I am defenseless against it. The serpent doesn’t come to me again.

  I’m outside watching Abba trying to push back the Black Mist out of our garden by spreading dew that turns into a white mist over the field. I watch him weave letters into words as he mouths, “Bestow dew and rain as a blessing,” and I follow every motion he makes. I see little wisps of cloudlike smoke swirl out from my hands and join his. Neither of us notice until it’s too late. I created smoke, which sparked, and before we know it, our garden and the field behind our house are on fire. I watch in horror as everything burns. And I can’t shake the look I see in Abba’s eyes when he turns around and sees me there.

  “Go back inside the house where you belong! Look what you’ve done! You are not ready.”

  “I was trying to help!” I yell back. “Maybe if someone taught me, I could actually help.”

  “‘Those that churn out nothing but sparks are driven by rage. When fire blazes from anger, it devours the earth and all its produce,’” he quotes from The Book of Devarim. “Go study the passage and do not come back out here until you understand.”

  “But I wasn’t angry!” I rage at him. “I was calm! I did everything you did!”

  He turns his back to me and calls down rain to put out the fire.

  I go inside, trying and failing to hold back the tears that mix with the rain that falls.

  “What happened?” Eema says when I come in.

  “Nothing.” I shrug.

  “She set the field on fire,” Levana says from her perch at the window.

  I lunge for her, arms outstretched. “You little tattletale!”

  Hannah takes two large strides and stands between us, her green eyes like hard gems. “Don’t you touch her. She’s not to blame for your mistakes.”

  “It wasn’t a mistake,” I say, looking around her to see if I can still get a grip on Levana.

  Eema wraps her arms around me from behind. She intends it as an embrace, but instead I feel trapped—caged by her arms. “Enough of this. Come, let’s sit and you can tell me what happened.”

  “Nothing happened,” I grumble.

  “That’s what you always say,” Hannah replies. “I hope it didn’t get anywhere near my plants.”

  “I didn’t touch your precious garden,” I spit out at her, even though I did. I destroyed it.

  “Shhhhhh…” Eema glares at both of us, while Levana sits by the window watching everything, a smile playing at her lips.

  I’m so angry it feels as if smoke will come out of my ears.

  “Hannah, Levana, go outside and see if your father needs help.”

  Hannah puts on a shawl and opens the door, and a second later I hear her scream. Levana gets up from her window perch and scowls at me as she follows Hannah out the door. Before it closes, she pokes her head back in and sticks her tongue out at me.

  I try to lunge for her again, but Eema’s strong arms hold me back.

  “Tell me what happened.” Her voice is gentle but firm.

  I shrug my shoulders again.

  “Sarahleh…”

  “What? Why can’t he teach me? Why can’t I help?”

  She raises her brows as if to say, You’re really asking that question now when you just set a field of wheat on fire?

  “I know I can do it. But when I follow everything he does, it turns to fire and ash in my hands. He says I need more discipline, more control. But how can I learn any of that if he doesn’t give me a chance to practice?”

  “It takes years to learn to do these things. One does not pick up an instrument and play it immediately. There are steps, chords, finger work, breaths that must be taken. Skills that must be developed.”

  I scowl. “I can still conjure fire faster than any of his talmidim.”

  “That may be the case, but that doesn’t mean you can control it. Control is more than half the battle.”

  “But King Solomon himself says in wisdom there is anger! Fire and anger are important. Fire can heal, fire keeps us warm, fire cooks the food we eat.”

  The door opens and Abba walks in. “And fire can bring death and destruction.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, trying to look contrite. But I’m not. Not really. “I didn’t mean to burn all of the grain.”

  “There will be no more going out of this house until you can fill a cup with water.” His face gleams with sweat and his clothes smell like ash. “From the air,” he adds.

  I’m ashamed, but I can’t help the fact that when I follow all of his instructions, I only conjure smoke. Maybe that’s all I can do.

  He walks over to the kitchen and comes back with a tin cup. “Close your eyes and concentrate. Pull water from the air. When this cup is full, then we can discuss you leaving this house again.”

  I don’t say a word for the rest of the night. I refuse to meet my sisters’ eyes, refuse to eat. I leave dinner early and climb into bed and stare at the ceiling. Abba doesn’t make Levana do tricks. He doesn’t forbid Hannah from leaving the house. I refuse to fill the cup with anything but anger. All he wants is to control me, and I won’t play his games.

  When my sisters fall asleep, I sit up in bed. My parents are speaking in the other room. I get up and tiptoe to the door.

  “… she’s just so stubborn.”

  “Where do you think she gets it from?”

  “She’s more powerful than any of my students, but everything she does uses raw power. She must learn control or I don’t know what will be. Each time she does something like this, she risks exposing the entire community.”

  “I know the two of you lock horns, but you must find a way to put aside your anger and help her channel hers.”

  My father grunts. “She is unteachable.”

  Tears fill my eyes. I turn back to my bed and pull the covers up over my head. I cry until there are no tears left and there is only darkness.

  The cup remains empty. Abba checks it every morning. Eema makes me sit beside her every night by the hearth and weave instead. Hannah and Levana both have looms, but she doesn’t make them sit and work at theirs. Levana always has her nose buried in a book of prayer—her lips move like fish lips opening and closing, over and over again. I can’t stand how smug she looks. I think she only pretends to pray so she doesn’t have to do chores. Often, I catch her staring up at the sky. And Hannah can be wherever she wants to be—inside, outside, in the kitchen, or the garden, or out in father’s lean-to study with him, writing down his th
oughts in her perfect flowing script. Nobody makes her fill cups of water unless it’s to water the garden. It’s not fair.

  Eema says I’m talented, that the strands of wool in my hands look like they weave themselves. I think, if that’s the case then I shouldn’t have to sit here at all. It’s not like she’s teaching me anything. If my hands want to weave, I say, let them weave, but leave me out of it. My fingers yearn to feel the heat of fire again, but not the kind that burns in the hearth—they want to channel the fire that burns inside me. The fire I know has the power to make a difference.

  One night, Abba sits down next to me after dinner. He stares at the fire, then at the loom in my hands, then back at the fire. “The avodah of the heart is fire,” he says. “It is not your task to learn how to light fires now, but how to put them out. You must channel the burning you feel inside you into prayer—not rage.” He hands me a small book of prayers. His siddur. I stare at it in my lap.

  I still think he’s wrong. In dark times, you need all the light you can get.

  When I don’t respond, he continues. “When Betzalel designed the mishkan, he used the same holy letters—the same holy fire you contain once created the world. But Hashem filled Betzalel with the wisdom to know when and how to use his abilities, something you still need to learn, my Sarahleh. You must weave curtains for your house before you can weave anything for the holy sanctuary.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I finally say, breaking my week-long silence. “There is no mishkan anymore. No curtains I make will ever adorn the front of the holy ark or the entrance to the holy of holies.”

  I stare into the flames of the fire in the hearth and my fingers move on their own—up down, up down, up down and through. It’s boring and repetitive and easy.

  “Only you can make that choice,” he says. “We choose what it is we call holy.”

  I place the prayer book under my pillow that night, but I don’t open it.

  I decide I will practice what I want to learn at night when no one is awake. I light a tiny fire—hot white letters of flame suspended in the air above my bed like a flare that says here, I am here, see me burning, and then I put it out. I do it again. Then again. I try to move the flame elsewhere, out the window—and back. To the forest—and back. All the way to the center of the town square where it dances, free like I wish I could be.

  I practice weaving too—but not at the loom. First, I unravel the blankets on my bed and weave the threads into a nicer pattern. Then I try with one of my sweaters. Then I work on the living room rug. Once I’ve woven and rewoven everything in the house, I close my eyes and travel elsewhere. To the neighbors’ house. To the smith’s cottage where he and his wife sleep soundly under a blanket full of holes. I repair the holes. See? I can do good too.

  In the morning, I’m tired and Eema doesn’t understand why. Some things I have to keep secret. One day I will surprise them all. But not yet. And not by filling a cup with water.

  I’m getting stronger and soon I’ll set out and fight the Black Mist myself.

  Eema calls my name and I snap out of my thoughts. “Sarah, pay attention to what you’re doing.”

  I look down at my loom and see a faint wisp of smoke. “Sorry, Eema.” I take a deep breath and stretch my arms over my head. Then I stare at the hearth wistfully.

  “You must resist.” Abba stands behind my chair. His voice takes me by surprise and I startle and stare up at him, though I don’t mean to. I’m still angry at him, but now that his eyes lock with mine, I can’t look away. I see the two tiny flames—blue with a little bit of orange, dancing in his eyes. “Your soul is a candle of God,” he says. “Just as the smallest of flames reaches for a larger flame, so too you must yearn for unity with God. In unity there is strength. The prayer of one man is amplified by joining his voice with the voices of others. You want to break away from the wick that binds you, such is the nature of fire, but you must resist. The burning bush was not consumed. Do not allow yourself to be consumed.” He bends down, kisses my forehead, then walks away.

  I don’t want to resist. But I hear his voice in my head, over and over again.

  Resist. Resist. Resist.

  I sit sullenly, weaving strands into fabric. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. I feel stifled. It’s hard to breathe. I look down at the loom. The light wisp of smoke is there again—a hint of sulfur in the air. I’m nearly done with the section I was working on, and the loom itself is hot. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I untangle the white letters that have woven themselves into a flame inside my head. I weave them instead into a curtain, like the one I hold in my hands, and neatly fold it and put it away. I am getting better and better at what I can do.

  A little bit of time goes by and Eema takes up her loom and sits next to me.

  Levana is lazily twirling one of her curls and pretending to embroider stars onto a pillow. Hannah is shucking peas for tomorrow’s supper from the part of the garden I didn’t destroy.

  “Did I ever tell you the story of how four Jewish princes served in King Nebuchadnezzar’s court in Babylon?” Eema says.

  “Tell us the story, Eema, please!” Levana perks up. I keep concentrating on the motions of my hands. Resist. Resist. Resist.

  Eema looks in my direction like she’s waiting for me to respond.

  I’m not really in the mood to hear a story, but I nod.

  Hannah keeps shucking peas. Nobody asks her. Lately she acts like she’s an old woman. Like she’s above stories. I want to snap at her, point out that she didn’t answer, that maybe she’s the one who should tell the story, but I don’t. Resist. Resist. Resist.

  “Oh good,” Eema says. “Then I’ll tell you their story.

  Daniel, Chananya, Mishael and Azarya were royalty themselves—Jewish royalty! Imagine that! Daniel was only fifteen years old when he was taken captive from his home in Jerusalem and brought to Nebuchadnezzar’s palace—your age, Sarahleh.

  Soon they became the king’s most trusted advisors. But one day Nebuchadnezzar decided that all of his subjects should worship his god. He set up a golden statue made from the gold he’d plundered from the Jews in Jerusalem in a place called the Vale of Duro—the same valley where he’d slaughtered the Jews that he’d brought from Jerusalem to Babylon. He also set up an enormous furnace.

  The king sent Daniel to Alexandria so he wouldn’t bear witness to what he was about to do, but Chananya, Mishael and Azarya were there. The king announced that anyone who did not bow down to his golden idol would be burned alive in the furnace. He gave a signal, music started up, and everyone but Chananya, Mishael and Azarya, bowed down.

  “How dare you disobey my orders!” the king said.

  “We only have one God,” they answered. “He will protect us.”

  “Burn them alive!” Nebuchadnezzar said.

  The three boys were thrown into the furnace, but Guvriel, the angel, came down from heaven to protect them. They were not consumed.

  Nebuchadnezzar told Chananya, Mishael and Azarya to come out of the fire. Then he chastised all the other Jews: “This is the strength of your God, and yet you bowed down to my idol?”

  Chananya, Mishael and Azarya said, “In Egypt, when Hashem commanded the frogs to plague the land, they never hesitated: they jumped into the ovens of the Egyptians. If the frogs did so for no reward from heaven, how could we not be willing to do the same when we know that there is a reward for those who die to sanctify God’s name?”

  After that, the Jews of Babylon were moved to keep the tenets of their faith, even in exile, and God took mercy on them and returned them to the Land of Israel where they rebuilt the Holy Temple.

  “It was their faith that kept them from being consumed,” Eema says.

  Levana sighs wistfully. “I love your stories, Eema. I could see everything, as if it were painted across the sky.”

  “Did you like the story, Sarah Sziporka?”

  Hannah snorts and I shoot her a glare.

  “I don’t understand,” I s
ay. “If they couldn’t be consumed, why didn’t Bnei Yisrael worship them instead? They emerged from fire unscathed. Clearly, they were powerful. More powerful than anyone else in their generation.”

  “Because they had the wisdom to know that their power came from the Holy One, Blessed Be He,” Eema says.

  And now I see where she’s going with this.

  “In the selichot prayers we say, ‘May the God who answered Chananya, Mishael and Azarya in the furnace, also answer us!’” she continues. “Maybe one day there will be a prayer that says, ‘May the God who helped Sarah Sziporka Solomonar also answer us.’” She winks at me.

  I fight the urge to scowl. Resist. Resist. Resist. My body is a candle. My hair like a flaming wick. But I am not a flame, I am a daughter of Solomon. I understand what my mother is trying to tell me. Like Chananya, Mishael and Azarya, I will not be consumed if I have faith in a higher power.

  I only wish I knew what He has planned for me, because it’s clear that if I stay in this house, by this fire, weaving silently at my mother’s side I will burst into a blazing inferno.

  Levana

  I go to synagogue with Abba at the end of Shabbat. There’s a twinkle in his eye, and I take his hand as we walk.

  Lately, it always feels stifling inside, with Sarah moaning about how she has to stay indoors, and Hannah pouting about how she can’t go out to her garden because it’s Shabbat, and Eema and Nagmama looking at me with worry in their eyes every time I stare at the sky. But sometimes outside is no better. The air is thick tonight. Cold and menacing. The sky was dark long before the sun actually set.

  In synagogue, I watch the men light the Havdallah candle as soon as there are three stars in the sky. I see Abba transfer flame through the curtain of the women’s section. The men sing the prayer that separates light from darkness, the holy from the mundane, the Jewish people from the rest of the nations, and I hum along, mouthing the words under my breath.