Blood Moon Redemption

by Judy DuCharme

  A cheer rose. It was weak, as the people were not strong, but it was a cheer.

  The story of Sophie’s tassel in a bottle spread throughout Eretz-Israel. The Jews had their land back, but survival was tough. The Brits and the Arabs worked against them. The blessing of God’s protection was sought after by everyone called Jewish.

  Sophie and Samuel displayed the bottle prominently in their small home on the mantel of the fireplace. Hospitality arose as a natural and necessary fact in the life of a Jew. Sophie and Samuel were masters of it. Rabbi Steele had accumulated a great deal of wealth, and when his wife passed away he joined Sophie and Samuel’s dream of going to Eretz-Israel. He committed himself heart and soul to help every Jew be fed, housed, and cared for. He funded Sophie’s love for cooking, and their home was a place of caring, helping, and lots of eating.

  The bottle encasing the tassel became like a mezuzah, the small metal tube which held Scripture passages attached to the door frame on Jewish homes. Jews traditionally touched it as they entered and exited a home and then would kiss their fingers. After touching the mezuzah at the door as they entered, guests would often do the same with the bottle: touch, kiss their fingers and then bring the fingers to their forehead to receive a blessing.

  At least once a week, a guest would watch this ritual, shake his head, and look askance at the rabbi. “Rabbi, the holy writ states, ‘Thou shalt have no idols’.”

  Rabbi always smiled and shook his head just the slightest. “My friend, the holy writ says, ‘Thou shalt have no gods before me.’ The tassel is a relic from 1492 when God, blessed be He, showed Himself strong on behalf of His people. He has done that ever since for those in possession of it. But it is not the tassel, it is the remembrance and honor of the great almighty God. Him only we serve and by His mandate and blessing we also serve you.”

  At that, all would embrace, and the eating would begin. The little house reverberated with joy.

  Nadir could not believe he was being given an audience with the Mahdi. His whole body shook as he walked in, keeping his head down and praying that he would not offend in any way.

  “Mahdi, my ruler, we have heard of a relic with protection properties. It is nearby in the home of Jews.”

  “Go on.” The Mahdi did not look up but focused on his food as he reclined on his exquisite rugs. As ruler of the Arabs in the area known as Palestine, he held great power and was not known for patience.

  “They say the God of Israel protects those that have it and all situations around it.”

  The Mahdi paused, his wine glass almost to his lips. His dark eyes stared straight ahead for a full minute. “So, if we remove it, perhaps this land will be ours, as it rightfully should be.”

  The young messenger shifted his feet. “A correct conclusion, sir, I, uh, presume.”

  The Mahdi turned toward the young man, who now felt the sweat dripping down the side of his face. “Go carefully. Is the relic protected?”

  “Not really. It is on display in the home of a young couple who are doing their best to feed everyone who passes by.”

  The Mahdi cut a piece of meat and noisily sucked it. He chewed slowly and burped after swallowing. “Do they ask each guest if they are Jewish.” He spat.

  “No, but they all partake of a ritual of touching the relic, kissing their fingers, and then rubbing the forehead.”

  “You could do that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And eat?”

  “Yes, and, sir, if they do ask if I’m Jewish?”

  Mahdi took another sip of his wine. “Make up a story of how hard it was to get here, how Jewish friends helped you, and now you want to help settle their land and protect it. Ask questions about the relic and get the details so we know. Go a few times before you take it, so it isn’t too obvious. Then hide it so nothing can be traced to you. We’ll retrieve it later, so we can use it to help us obtain more land.”

  Her Nadir, chosen by the Arab ruler, the Mahdi himself, to steal the relic from the infidel’s home was ecstatic. “My dear wife, we will become wealthy if I accomplish this task.”

  “And if you don’t. . . ” Bashra looked him straight in the eye and then down. She wrung her hands. “Dear husband, what if . . . ”

  The house was plain, but warm from the cold and cool from the heat. Only two rooms were sufficient. Most cooking was done on the roof or outside the living room that held a few chairs and a box for a table. The bedroom was just a bit smaller than the living room, and Bashra knew she could bed down a few children in the room when the time came. The mat that served as a bed was comfortable and was easily moved to the roof on those beautiful nights when they loved to gaze at the stars before sleeping. It was sufficient.

  Bashra walked close to her husband. “What if you don’t?”

  “Do not speak of it.” Nadir’s eyes flashed, and he raised his hand.

  Bashra stepped back. “Do not strike me, Nadir. I care for your well-being.”

  “Forgive me, dear one. But we must not consider failure. We must plan only for success. My job will be secure. We can have a bigger home.” He glanced around at the cement walls and meager furnishings. “I will buy you a real table, not a big box, with a cloth over it. I want to do well for you.”

  “You will, Nadir, you will. If Mahdi is sending you, it is most certainly the will of Allah. We have no need to fear. Forgive me.”

  Nadir stepped toward Bashra, and she slipped into his embrace. He ran his fingers down her long, silky hair. “Your hair is finer than the mane of the grandest black stallion in the Mahdi’s stable. You will always be my beautiful bride. How I wish you did not have to wear your burka always.”

  “Oh, do not say that too loudly. I wish it, too, but alas, I must. It is the law. It is who we are.”

  “Perhaps I should take you with me to the Jews’ house and there you could wear your hair down and uncovered and pretend you are a Jew.”

  Bashra spat. “You go pretend. Do your job, husband. But forget not who you are. I will not pretend for the sake of my hair. I will not defile myself by eating food in the home of my enemy.”

  “Yes, you are right. However, I must. And I may have to go more than once.”

  “It is the will of Allah.”

  “Yes, and then we will be wealthy and never have to do such things again.”

  “May Allah bless your work.”

  “I must go. The driver should be here anytime.”

  Bashra pulled her burka over her head, tucking in any unruly strands of hair. When she was done, she walked behind her husband out the door to await the driver who would take him near to the Samuel Orbin home.

  Bashra had to admit she loved the approving glances of the neighbors as they walked by when a car from the Mahdi came to pick up her husband. It was both a fearful and honorable position to have. She realized that if he failed or displeased the Mahdi, he might not come home one day. She knew also it was rumored that if one man was eliminated by the Mahdi, the family may well be eliminated as well. Once, in a very hushed conversation, Nadir told her that if he wasn’t back by a certain time she must go to their secret place, not even to her sister’s home for there she would be found.

  As teens, when they first fell in love, before their parents had arranged for them to be together, they would secretly meet in an outcropping of rocks along a wooded hill. They were able to sneak into the woods from different points and wind around to the rocks. The rocks, several feet high and scattered about, sheltered a little dug out place where Nadir and Bashra could sit and hold hands and dream and talk. They wondered if other young couples had been there as well before them. Once they kissed and feared the wrath of Allah. When nothing happened, they decided to inform their parents of their affection one for the other.

  Surprisingly, both sets of parents were fond of their child’s choice. A meeting was set between the parents and arrangements made. Not long after, Nadir and Bashra became man and wife.

  Now Bashra shivered as she remem
bered the time Nadir did not return and she thought she’d lost him. She’d gathered her few belongings and under the cover of darkness fled to the rocky hiding place. Terrified at every sound, she huddled and cried, asking Allah to protect her.

  Then she heard a whisper. “Bashra, Bashra, are you here?”

  Knowing it could be a trick, she said nothing and wrapped her arms tighter around herself as if it would hide her more sufficiently.

  “Little Mare, Little Mare, I am here.”

  It was indeed Nadir, her man who compared her beauty to the sleekness of the stallions and wild mares they watched in the Mahdi’s compound. She let out a little squeal and soon found herself in Nadir’s arms, crying and laughing.

  She hoped that this venture to steal the relic would not fail. To fall into the hands of an angry Mahdi would most likely be a fatal journey.

  CHAPTER 7

  PRESENT DAY, CHICAGO

  Tassie stood by the fountain in Grant Park. The wind caught some of the spray and sprinkled her face. Moving a few feet away, she glanced around for an available bench, so she could munch her sandwich and decompress. High-powered lunches with senior partners and clients made her relish the days of simple lunches and walks to the fountain.

  If she had extra time she could walk along Lake Michigan to lower her stress level, not to mention help her maintain fitness. Although she worked out at the gym near her office and in her apartment, nothing matched a fresh air walk.

  She allowed the glistening rainbows the fountain created to mesmerize her. A familiar voice startled her from her reverie.

  “Hello, Tassel. How are you?”

  She almost dropped her sandwich. “Why, Hector, what a surprise. And disappointment.”

  “Have you done your background check of Omar?” The straggly little man acted like her boss.

  “Where do you get off, telling me—”

  “I know you’re falling in love, Tassel.”

  “What of it? It’s a free country.”

  “He’s not from this country.”

  “So, what, Hector? He has every right to be here.” Tassie threw her hands in the air. She didn’t have time for him today.

  “True, but the country of his heritage does not like Jews.”

  “Oh, please. We are both contemporary. In case you didn’t know, multi-culturalism is in vogue right now.”

  “He covers his hatred well, Tassel.”

  Tassie struggled not to yell. “Hatred? What are you talking about.”

  “Before you give him your heart, Miss Tassel, press a little further.”

  Tassie shook her head and turned to stare at the fountain. Feeling the anger subside a bit, she turned back to Hector. He was gone. She stood, knowing in the vastness of this park, he should still be visible.

  “Sheesh, he’s like the invisible man.”

  Tassie sat back down to finish her sandwich but had lost her appetite. She tossed it in the trash can and walked back to her office.

  “Honey, could I tell you a little bit more of what I’ve learned in my research? On Blood Moons?”

  “Mother, I . . . ”

  “Sweetheart, just pretend I’m a boring witness, but you’re required to listen.”

  Tassie closed her eyes and shook her head. “Fine, Mother, I’ll be polite.”

  “Wonderful! You’re a gracious daughter.”

  Tassie pulled out a chair, turned it around, and straddled it. “Hector will be glad.”

  Her mother whirled around. “Who? What did you say?”

  “Did I say that aloud? It’s nothing, Mother, nothing important.”

  “No, please, what was the name you used?”

  Tassie lowered her eyebrows but said nothing.

  “Did . . . did you say Hector?”

  Tassie gripped the back of the chair. “Mother, quit begging. It was a frumpy old guy that they let into the office . . . why, I don’t know. Said I needed to listen to the blood moon stuff from you.”

  Her mother plopped into a chair and fanned herself with her hand. “Did he have long straggly hair?”

  “I knew it.” Tassie stood up. “Mother, you can’t just ask people to come to my office and persuade me to do something. It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s unethical.”

  “I’ve never spoken to him.” The color had drained out of her face.

  “Of course, you did. He told me to listen to your research stuff. Who else even knows about that?”

  “Well, actually, a number of people know. But Tassie . . . sit down, dear.”

  “This is so exasperating. It’s like you sending the neighbor to school to remind me to behave. It’s wrong, Mother, wrong.” Tassie scraped the chair across the floor and sat down. “Okay, I’m sitting, but not for long.”

  Her father walked in, patted Tassie’s shoulders, and kissed the top of her head. “Sweetheart, settle down. It is an interesting story. You should know.”

  Tassie leaned her head against her dad and took a deep breath. “Okay, Mother, how do you know Hector?”

  Her mother locked eyes with her husband for a moment. “I was pregnant with you. I met a Lydia Abrams at the shower my friend Geraldine had for me. You remember Geraldine? Her daughter Annie and you ice skated together one winter when we lived in—”

  “Yes, yes, go on. I remember.”

  “Sorry.” Mother waved her hand which she often did when nervous.

  Her father set down two cups of tea in front of Marge and Tassie. “Tea for my girls. Take your time, Marge. Tassie’s in no hurry, are you, Tass?” He winked at her.

  Rolling her eyes at her dad, Tassie picked up her cup. “Of course not . . . I’m never in a hurry.”

  Her mother reached across the table and patted Tassie’s hand, then picked up her own cup. “Thank you.”

  “So . . . ”

  “So, Geraldine’s friend Lydia was visiting from out of town, and when she heard that I studied archaeology, relics, history, she began telling me all about her study of her family history and the relics connected to it.”

  Tassie’s voice rose a notch. “She told you about the bottle. Of course. Her name was Lydia. Hector is her husband.”

  Her mother ignored her tone. “No, she did not know about Hector. But she began to tell me the history of Christopher Columbus. I’d heard bits and pieces. I remember my grandparents talking about it, and of course, Uncle Rupert, but my parents were dismissive of it, so I was never curious. Which is surprising, because of my love of history.”

  “You were a lot like somebody we’ve watched grow up.” Her father returned to stand behind Tassie and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Actually, Tassie, you are so like your mother.” He rubbed her shoulders.

  Tassie breathed deeply. “I get it, okay.”

  “When I told her about the memory of my grandparents discussing Columbus, she asked their names. She thought Winkelman just might be in the Columbus genealogy and promised to look it up. We became fast friends and wrote letters to each other often. Indeed my grandparents and I were in the genealogy. I began to do my research in earnest.”

  “So, where does Hector come in?” Tassie sipped her tea and quelled the urge to tap her foot.

  “It was a dream, I think.”

  Tassie raised her eyebrows. Oh, Mother, puh-leeze!

  “I was eight months pregnant with you and tired all the time. I gained so much weight with you.” She looked at her husband and covered her mouth with her hand.

  The judge pulled out a chair and sat down. He grinned at Tassie. “There was a time a lady asked her when she was due.”

  “Yes, yes, I was six and a half months.”

  “And your mother responded, ‘two or three months’. This woman gasped and said, ‘I thought you’d say two or three weeks. I hope you don’t have to wear a sling’.”

  Tassie’s dad was laughing with tears rolling down his face.

  “I wanted to slap her.” Marge grinned. “But I said nothing.”

  Tassie shook her head. “I
think I would have kicked her. With sharp toed shoes.”

  “So anyway, I was big at eight months, waddling everywhere, and I sat down often for naps. It was one of those times. To this day, I’ve wondered if it actually happened, but I’ve always assumed it was a dream.”

  Marge brought her hands together against her face and stared across the room for a moment. “In the dream I woke from sleep to the doorbell ringing. Before I could get out of the lazy chair, the door opened a crack and an older man’s voice called my name. I was groggy and must have assumed I knew him. So, I called, ‘come in’.”

  Her mother paused and took a sip of her tea. “Well, this scraggly man came in. Slightly balding on top, he had long gray and blond hair, a few missing teeth, but the kindest eyes. He said, ‘Margie, Margie, don’t get up. I’ll just sit and visit.’ He told me his name was Hector Woodley.”

  The sound of Tassie’s cup crashing to the floor startled all of them.

  “Oh, my, Tassie, are you burned? Are you cut?”

  “I’m . . . I’m okay.”

  Her father had already knelt, mopping up the mess and picking up the cup. “I’ll get you another cup, sweetheart.”

  “No, no, Daddy. I’m fine, but . . . but, Mother, I never told you Hector’s last name.” Tassie’s hand shook.

  “Your Hector was Hector Woodley, too?” Her dad sat back down and laid his hand on his wife’s hand. “Maybe it wasn’t a dream.”

  “Daddy, how. . . ”

  “Well, look at the evidence, darling.” He retrieved another cup of tea and set it in front of Tassie.

  Tassie shifted in her seat. “Go on, Mother.”

  “Well he came in and sat right down. There was a bit of a smell. Reminded me of a farm we used to visit. It wasn’t overwhelming, but I noticed it.”

  Tassie gulped but said nothing. Good grief, he still smells.

  “’You’re studying your family history’, he said. I nodded, even though it wasn’t a question. ‘You need to know you are a direct descendant of Christopher Columbus, as is your little girl, here.’ Now, Tassie, we didn’t know if you were a boy or a girl. I was shocked that he said that and I was confused. But again, I just nodded. Then he said that you . . . ” She paused and glanced at her husband.