by Rena Rossner
Laptitza looked at me, her eyes pleading. “Open. The. Windows.” She gritted her teeth as another contraction washed over her, causing her to grip my hand so hard I felt as though my bones would crack. I waited until she breathed freely again, and then I went over to the windows.
“What are you doing?” Marghita said.
“If my sister wants fresh air, I will not deny her.” When a woman was about to give birth, we would open the ark where the Torahs are kept in the synagogue—it was a segulah—a kind of charm to help open the door to a woman’s womb. “Where I come from, it’s an old folk custom to open windows and doors while a woman is in labor.”
“It is a demon who is putting these ideas in her head,” Marghita said. “Trying to get in. Don’t listen to her.”
I ignored Marghita and opened the windows, one by one. Cold air filled the room and Marghita and the midwife crossed themselves and shivered.
“This is unhealthy,” the midwife said. “She will catch a chill.”
The sky was full of stars, bright and gleaming against the dark night. The moon filled the room with light.
“The door… to the… balcony…” Laptitza whispered to me between breaths, between pangs.
My father used to give the honor of opening the holy ark in synagogue to men whose wives were about the give birth. Let this be a segulah for my sister, I prayed. As I opened the door to the balcony, Laptitza let out a primal scream and her son entered the world.
I was the only one who saw the flash of light in the sky in that moment.
Laptitza panted, the baby cried, and before the midwife could get the baby out of the way, my sister started screaming again.
“It’s a boy.” The midwife handed the baby to Marghita. Then she looked back at my sister and her face paled. “There is a second one…” she whispered.
Marghita and the midwife clamored at me to close the doors and windows, but I refused, and I’m not ashamed to say it. They were too busy with the birth of the second baby to force me. My sister knew what she needed, and my father’s wisdom saved her.
Laptitza bellowed again and a second baby came crying its way into our world.
Twins. Two baby boys.
The room was quiet; only the babies whimpered. I looked from the midwife and Marghita to the babies and I saw why.
Each of the babies had a shining golden star on their forehead.
Marghita crossed herself.
The midwife’s hands were shaking.
Laptitza closed her eyes.
I closed the doors and windows.
Marghita whispered, “These are not my son’s children. They are marked by her sin. They carry the mark of the devil. These children are cursed!” Then she looked at me, hatred in her eyes. “This is your fault. You should not have opened the door for the devil. He wanted in; she knew it—” She pointed at my sister. “—and you conspired with her. You let him in!”
She handed the babies to the midwife and sent everyone out of the chamber, even me. I feared for my sister’s life. For my life.
I hid in the stairwell until I heard all the footsteps subside. I heard the door open, and Marghita said, “It is customary to bury the afterbirth sheets. I will do it myself to ensure that no evil eye will come upon the babies and their mother.”
I followed her and hid behind the door to the kitchen as she went outside. She put down the sheets, which looked heavier to me than they should. Then I saw the bundle at her feet move. I put my hand to my mouth to stifle the sounds I wanted to make. I didn’t let any demons in when I opened the windows—she was already in the room. Marghita took out a shovel and began to dig.
Tears streamed down my face.
She dropped the bundle into the hole and covered the wriggling sheets with earth, then she wiped her hands on her skirts, crossed herself, and went back inside. She didn’t notice me, hiding behind the door. As soon as she was gone, I went outside. I dug with my hands, dirt filling my fingernails, I’d have dug with my face, with my teeth and my lips if I thought it would help. My tears wet the earth. I felt the earth begin to soften, and it parted for me. I saw white; I felt warmth; I pulled the bundles up out of the earth and clutched them to my chest.
I looked up at the castle windows, but I didn’t see anyone looking out. The windows were all closed. The lights out. My hands were shaking so much I could barely use my fingers.
I unwrapped the sheets as carefully as I could and started to cry again with relief when I saw the babies still alive and breathing. The stars on their foreheads shone bright—and I rushed to cover them up again. I strapped the babies to my body with the sheets, creating two slings to press them to my chest, then I drew a circle around me, remembering the story my father told me about Honi HaMeagel. I stepped inside the circle and planted my feet in the earth—not praying for rain this time, but for mercy.
“In the name of Hannah Bat Isaac,
daughter of Solomon,
Hashem, Lord of Israel,
I beseech you to aid me,
in this, my time of need.
Is man like a tree of the field,
that he should go into siege before you?”
My father’s words came back to me.
“You shall build fortifications
against the city that makes war with you,
until its submission.”
Slowly it turned into a kind of lullaby.
“Is man like a tree of the field,
tall as a sycamore,
strong as an oak?”
I looked down at the babies, cradled at my breast.
“Hăita liuliu, go to sleep,
When you get up, you’ll be bigger.”
Where could I hide them? What kind of life could I offer them? Had I saved them from one kind of death only to deliver them to another?
“Hăita liuliu,” I sang.
“Hear O Israel, God of Abraham,
protect these babies.
Please let them grow bigger,
tall as an aspen tree,
strong as a cedar…
In the name of Hannah Bat Isaac,
Hăita liuliu,
Hăita liuliu…”
The melody breathed through me.
“Hăita liuliu,
That which is planted in good soil
by many waters,
may it bring forth branches,
may it bear fruit.
Hăita liuliu—
answer me God,
answer me.”
I claimed my name and birthright. I never thought it would be me taking my father’s place, naming his name as my pedigree to anyone but a future husband. But the world I thought I once knew has been turned entirely upside down and so I did the only thing I could. I gave myself a chance to grow. As I chanted, I felt the energy I once knew so well weaving itself between the words—like a stream that comes from rain, growing in strength, traveling from my mouth down through my body. Like sap travels through a tree, I felt power wash through me. My feet rooted themselves in the ground, and I felt the once-familiar tickle of plants reaching out to curl themselves around my feet.
I closed my eyes and placed my hands on the heads of the babies. And I blessed them.
May God bless you and keep you.
May the Lord shine His light upon you.
May He be gracious and merciful.
May He lift his face to yours
and give you peace.
I pulled my feet out of the earth as two tendrils of green began to rise from the soil—one for each soul Marghita tried to plant.
I will show her, I thought, what happens when you plant a Jew.
One day, a forest will grow there. One day, there will be nothing left of the castle but ruin.
But my sister’s children will live on.
Then I ran as fast as I could towards the forest with the babies cradled in my arms.
It grows late and I must sleep. I will finish my story tomorrow.
Laptitza
I sit up in bed.
“The babies! Where are they?”
“Shhh, Laptitza…” he croons.
“You must rest.”
But I don’t want consolation.
I want my children.
“I still hear them crying,” I say.
“Can’t you hear them?”
He smooths my hair out of my eyes.
“I don’t hear anything,” he says.
“Mother says that they were stillborn—
that they didn’t even cry.”
I rock my head from side to side.
“They cried. My babies cried.
They haven’t stopped crying…”
My eyes stare straight through him.
Maybe I can see past him,
through the walls of the palace,
to where my babies cry.
“I don’t think Mother’s lying,” he says.
“I just returned from battle
and I need to sleep.”
“My babies don’t sleep,”
I scream at him. “They cry!
They want their mother.”
He glances at the door,
then puts his hand on mine.
“Mother says the babies
were marked by the devil.
They died before they had
a chance to live, my sweet.”
“No. You’re wrong,” I say.
“They were the most
beautiful babies.
Boys with golden stars.
They shone with light.”
Please listen to me.
I’m begging him.
Tears wet my cheeks.
“They live. They cry
all day and night.
Why doesn’t anybody
hear them?”
Nikolas sighs.
“I’m going to bathe
and change out of these clothes,
and get a good night’s sleep.
I think that you should too.”
“I grab his shoulders.
“How can I sleep—
(My voice cracks)
“—when my babies cry?”
He removes my hands
from his coat.
“I don’t know, Laptitza.
I only know that I have to.”
He walks out of the room
and leaves me alone.
My babies are alone.
Who will listen to me?
Wisdom is more beautiful than the sun, and above all the order of stars. It is the force that nourishes the world.
—The Book of the Solomonars, page 31, verse 9
Perhaps the greatest of all human abilities is the power of resilience. Babies survive. They bloom where they’re planted. The Black Mist was pushed out of the forest. But by the next morning, tendrils of it crept through cracks between window and pane, between door and frame, and all the way into the palace.
Sometimes, even if you think you’ve kept your windows closed, all it takes is the tiniest crack of a door, an imperfection in the window frame for the mist to find its way in. Sometimes the evil is already inside, ready and waiting. The mist only needs to find one person willing to allow black thoughts to take root. Someone intent on watering those thoughts so that they might grow.
Hannah
22 Iyar 5123
I hid the babies in a cave in the forest last night, not far from the linden tree where we once buried the relics of our past.
They will die if I leave them there—their cries may have already attracted wolves or foxes, or worse—men. But I had no choice. Last night, I had to choose one grave over another. Too many farmhands here could send word back to the palace. And my parents’ home will be the first place they look. With the stars on their foreheads so bright, there’s no way anyone can hide them.
This morning I will bring them milk. I will say that I’m going to pick mushrooms in the forest. It’s not a good plan, but I don’t have another one.
Last night, I decided to cover the entrance to the cave with branches and brush. I was about to go out and scavenge for things, but then I stopped. I felt power thrumming from the earth. I reached out and touched one of the closest trees. It wrapped a branch around my wrist, anchoring me to it.
At first, I pulled away. I was scared that the forest wanted to claim me, to chain me to it. But then I inched closer to the tree again, pressed my hand to its bark, and waited for a response. A vine reached out and wrapped itself around my other wrist too.
I kicked off my shoes and drew a circle around me. I dug my bare feet into the soil and felt a rush of warmth. The roots wrapped themselves around my toes. I held my breath, then I shoved the only thing that came to mind at the tree—a door.
“Ptach li sha’arei tzedek,” I said—open the gates of mercy for me.
I also needed a cradle.
“Betzel knafeikhah tastireini”—hide me in the shadow of your wings.
The roots left my feet and wrists. They inched their way over to the mouth of the cave. Branches followed, and I watched leaves sprout, green and fragrant, covering the entrance to the cave. I saw other tendrils reaching under the door, making their way into the cave.
For a moment, I was scared. What if they were wrapping themselves around Laptitza’s babies—strangling them, claiming them as part of the forest? I gently lifted my feet out of the soil and pushed the branches back. Inside I saw a cradle, made of roots and branches, with soft moss as a mattress and a blanket of ferns and leaves. The babies slept, content and swaddled in the arms of the sheltering tree.
I went outside and put my shoes back on. I felt drained. Exhausted beyond measure, I closed the door to the cave and made my way home.
Stanna
Months go by. I think about my sisters constantly. I wonder how my parents fare. I am alone, isolated. I never appreciated them in my lifetime, I realize that now. Here, there is no one to guide me.
Theodora comes back from Ivan Alexander’s rooms one night, where they now sit civilly and discuss affairs of state and military strategy.
She and I don’t speak of what happens when I go to him, or that the swell of my belly means that something—someone has already begun to grow inside me—a child I know will change everything. Again.
She reaches her hand out for mine and says, “Come with me.”
“Where?”
“Trust me,” she says.
And I do. Just as I know she trusts me—though sometimes there is not complete truth between us. Our world has changed around us and we are changing with it. Our choices are not our own, even if we want them to be.
She leads me to the window and opens the shutters to the night air. She steps closer to me.
“Take off your clothes,” she says.
“What?”
“Do you trust me?”
I nod.
She takes off her clothes. I stare at her, bathed in moonlight. She is radiant. All hard and soft edges at the same time. Her hair is still short and spiky, slowly growing back, perhaps only to be cut again.
“Why?” I press, all my old fears crowding inside me, clamoring to be heard. What if she leaves you? What if she hurts you? What if you end up alone and lost in the woods again? What if she becomes just another fox you never see again?
“There is something I want you to see,” she says.
“It’s cold outside.”
“I would never harm you.”
Her words still strike fear within me, because I know how quickly everything I have could be taken away from me again.
I hear Esther’s words in my head, “Ka’asher avadeti, avadeti—whatever I lose, I lose—if I perish, I perish.” So be it. This is my destiny and I must embrace whatever comes. I hear my mother’s voice, her story—Esther who is my mother, my star. Esther who hid herself in the king’s palace. Esther who hid her face behind her veil and did what she had to do to save her people.
I pull my
nightdress over my head and let it fall to the floor.
Theodora stands on the window ledge and reaches her hand out for mine.
“What are you doing?”
“Trust me.” Theodora says again, but this time her words feel like they hold weight. Like my response enters me into some kind of bargain, and there will be no going back after this.
I shut my eyes. “Okay,” I say.
We stand on the window ledge. Our breath is frosty in the night air.
“Close your eyes,” she says.
I close them.
“It’s time for you to fly,” Theodora says as she steps off the ledge, my hand still in hers. We start to fall, and I open my mouth to scream, but then there is a crack in the air, like the breaking of a barrier, the skip of a heartbeat. Fire churns within me and spreads to my arms and lengthens them, to my toes and curls them, sleek feathers rise up from my skin, my body slick with scales, and in an instant, we are flying. Everything around me changes—the air, my skin, my perception of depth and space. I feel smaller, lighter, I look around. It is undeniable that… I am not the creature I once was. I look down, expecting to see a snake, but I am not a snake anymore. I am more like a bird. A kind of dragon. A teli, I hear a voice say. I look for Theodora and I see an owl flying beside me.
But I am not an owl. I am golden. Scaled and feathered. With wings that work and sing as they slice through the air. I was never a snake. I realize that now. I was something else entirely.
I hear the words I once said to Guvriel in my head.
What if I’m a creature that hasn’t been discovered yet?
“Everything has been discovered in God’s eyes, for He created every living thing.”
“Maybe I’m a song that no one has heard yet.”
“Maybe you are,” he says.
My heart stops in my chest. Maybe I am.
I seek my arm, but it doesn’t work like it used to—it’s webbed and feathered and impossibly large—it scoops the air like a sail. I look to my feet and see claws—my heart is in my throat and I tumble in the air.