All of these changes were unexpected by Vov, who had so recently discovered freedom, and had no experience with consequences. With each passing day, as the child within her matured, she grew more isolated from the outside world. Like a secret, Vov was muffled in quiet. She might have suffocated had she not known that secrets were delusory, mirages spanning the distances between those who kept to themselves. Through summer and fall, she lay in bed alone, each day watching the changing seasons, while at night she dreamed of a village redeemed of secrets and their consequences. In her reveries, the redeemer was a whore.
She birthed her son in early winter. She swaddled him in her tresses of hair gone wholly silver, and nursed him on her breasts: the pink nipples that were the last tinge of her passing youth. She didn’t name him, for they’d nobody to address but each other. She simply sang him harvest songs, and taught him what she knew about women and men, to prepare him for the ordeal foreseen in her sleep.
It began the following week, when Esther paid a visit, excusing her intrusion on the grounds that new mothers need the care of a neighbor. She asked Vov to let her hold the boy. One look at him, a glimpse into his cobalt eyes, told her that Chaim was the father.
— What do you call him?
— I don’t. He’s always with me.
— Where’s Ezra? Why didn’t he name the boy after his family?
— He’s not here anymore.
— Then he knows the truth.
That afternoon, Esther posted a letter to the magistrate in the capital city, anonymously accusing Vov of adultery.
Several days later, Ben’s wife, Rachel, came to the farm, claiming she’d brought the baby a gift. While Vov unfolded a tattered blanket, Rachel looked over the child, and determined, by studying his oblong ears, that Ben had fathered him.
— Was Ezra surprised to have a son after so many years?
— He didn’t. The child’s my own.
The encounters came more regularly after that. Vov was visited by the wife of every man she’d ever known. And every woman found that the boy, by the curve of his nose or the jut of his chin or the splay of his toes, unequivocally resembled her husband.
Vov calmly observed each moment of recognition, just as she had dreamed. The magistrate in the capital city, on the contrary, could not comprehend the sudden influx of letters about her, sometimes two or three a day, anonymously accusing her of adultery.
In and of themselves, missives such as these were not rare: Wives sent them, unsigned, all the time, and the magistrate would respond by dispatching his bailiff to extract a confession from the errant woman. For the sake of consistency, a guilty plea was required. The mandatory punishment was exile for life.
But the present case was different. If the accused had simultaneously birthed a son with each of these women’s husbands, then she was a demon and couldn’t be punished. On the other hand, if she wasn’t a demon, and her children weren’t legion, then something terrible must have possessed the whole village. For the first time in decades, the magistrate left the capital city to investigate.
His bailiff rode ahead of him, reaching the region before dawn, rousing each family, herding them to Ezra’s parched farm. Men, women, children: Folks who hadn’t seen one another in years, ever since the last great harvest, were brought together. They huddled for warmth, but, curiosity smothered in secrecy, didn’t speak to one another.
At last, the magistrate arrived in his royally appointed carriage, painted scarlet and gold to match the colors of his velvet cloak. A footman laid down a platform for him, on which he stood, twisting the white threads of his beard, while the bailiff ousted Vov from her bed. He harried her into her clothes, and led her, child in arms, to the inquisition. The magistrate held up his staff and commanded her to confess.
— You shall not lie. You will tell the kingdom what you have done.
— I have given birth. To a son.
— Where is your husband?
— I don’t have one.
— You were married to Ezra the widower.
— He died two summers ago.
— Then he isn’t the father. You admit that there’s no chance.
— See for yourself. You’ll find Ezra in the cellar.
While the bailiff went to verify her claim, the magistrate turned to the assembled villagers.
— The accused has confessed to having a child out of wedlock. Who is the father?
Nobody spoke, not even a murmur. The magistrate shook his head. He bade his footman to bring him his docket, from which he withdrew a letter and read the first anonymous accusation of adultery he’d received.
Vov didn’t object to what was written. Everyone else feigned astonishment. The magistrate waited impatiently until they stopped. Then he read another letter, and a third, letting them fall to the breeze as Vov readily agreed with each. He counted off dozens more—twenty-four more irate wives, twenty-four more seduced husbands, twenty-four more illegitimate children—and released them to the wind. Nobody moved as the paper swept through the crowd. At last the bailiff returned from his errand. He confirmed that Ezra was dead.
— Then who is the father, Vov? You acknowledge every anonymous accusation, as many letters as there are families in your village, yet you have only one son.
— But don’t you see? I shared my body as a secret with every man. I took some of each inside of me. Now some of every man is in my son. All of them share him as a secret. All are his father.
— That’s abnormal, Vov. It’s abominable.
— The secrecy?
— The biology. Hand over the boy. I’m taking him with me.
— He’s my child.
— You’re bound for exile, trollop. He’ll go to the university, where they’ll slice him open to find out how this happened.
The magistrate began to walk toward Vov. Chaim stepped in front of him, and told the magistrate not to touch his son. The bailiff dragged him into the dust. Ben took his place, and repeated what Chaim had said. The bailiff removed him from the magistrate’s path. Meir blocked the way with his great girth.
The bailiff shoved him into the dirt. Each husband in the village successively stepped up, and was ousted.
As the women watched, they started asking questions: If every man had the same secret, and every woman knew it, who was deluded? None could say, nor could they be sure what else was common knowledge. Talking up seasons of sown silence, sharing the routines and rituals they’d each so assiduously hoarded, the women discovered that all their secrets, so carefully cultivated, were as similar as turnips.
By then the bailiff had cleared the last man, and had seized hold of Vov, while the magistrate, beard trembling, wrenched the baby from her hands. The child cried out. His wailing thundered across the sky, tears pouring down.
At once all the fathers rose, bolstered by their wives. Together they were much stronger. They hauled away the bailiff and ousted the magistrate. They eased the sobbing child to his mother’s breast. As the boy began to nurse, the tempest lifted. Folks looked up, into falling rain. Mother and child stood by their new family, cleansed by the roiling storm.
ZAYIN THE PROFANE
Zayin never asked to be the Messiah. Daughter of the village apothecary, a widower named Menashe, she already had plenty of responsibility for a thirteen-year-old girl. For example, she had to wake up every morning at dawn, to dust and sweep her father’s little shop. And in the afternoon, while he napped upstairs, she had to stand on tiptoe at the counter, taking orders.
Zayin was a good girl. She didn’t complain, even when her father sent her to houses where boys tormented her with unsolicited kisses, and taunted her for spurning their advances with accusations that she and her papa were too affectionate. She didn’t understand, quite, what they meant, but she knew that she loved him alone in the world, and would do anything at all for his sake, as he’d done everything for her. She intended to be his helpmeet forever, as young girls will, and her efforts played no small part in the pr
osperity of his shop: His prescriptions were as effective as could be expected, never deadly, yet it was her light step as she delivered those medications, her still voice and gentle smile, that nursed folks most. Nobody liked to pass a whole winter without a head cold. And, in summer, when she wore flowers in her hair, there was a veritable epidemic of hay fever. Illness lost its stigma in the village on account of young Zayin. People even looked forward to new ailments, as a gourmand longs for the pangs of hunger.
How else to explain the town’s attitude toward rumors of a great plague sweeping the countryside? At first the news came from shiftless old cadgers, flea-bitten beggars peddling rat-eaten clothes swindled from the dead. They swore that they’d seen whole cities extinguished in a breath, and had endured the crush, escaped the holocaust, only because death prefers to embrace fresh youth. Ordinarily, local rowdies would have ousted those filthy old men with sticks and stones, and the village aldermen would have taken the additional precaution of barring the town’s gates, but the reputation of Menashe the apothecary made folks confident that there was nothing to worry about—and perhaps a visit from Zayin to anticipate. Even the initial influx of refugee families from the east the following day merely made villagers wonder why every town couldn’t have a good druggist with a pretty daughter to assuage their cares.
Only Menashe was distraught. He cautioned that his medicines could not cure a plague, but folks were too keenly occupied, watching refugees arrive and die, to hear what he had to say. And then it was too late.
An eighteen-year-old peasant named Fayvel was the first villager to complain. He claimed that a devil sat on his chest while he slept, stealing his breath. His brothers wanted to know what the dybbuk looked like, but he didn’t know because the creature vanished the moment he awoke. After a few days, the demon came up with a cleverer idea: Instead of floating off at dawn—devils naturally lose their mortal weight in daylight—the beast climbed down inside Fayvel’s lungs. There it was always dark; the night never ended, and Fayvel, become but a second skin for the demon, always slept.
Unable to rouse him with pinpricks or lamp burns, his brothers visited the apothecary. Menashe’s shop was already crowded with relatives of folks who, while not yet as ill as poor Fayvel, already couldn’t breathe in their sleep. They begged the druggist for an elixir that would lift this evil. They reached out hands heavy with silver, but he simply stood behind his counter, arms in the air, hollering over the din that, medically speaking, there was nothing to be done.
Upstairs, Zayin listened to the commotion. She’d never heard such noise in the shop, but strangest to her of all sounds was the voice of her own father: In her thirteen years, she hadn’t once heard him shout, or turn someone down.
After several hours, Menashe cleared out his shop. He came up to take a nap. Zayin wished to ask him many questions, but her fear that he’d yell at her, as he’d shouted at his patients, made her quiet. She kept out of his way. From the corner, she watched him haul his body into bed. He called her over. Shutting his eyes, he murmured that she didn’t need to tend the shop, as he’d already locked it up. Then he folded his hands over his belly, and fell into a heavy sleep.
After a while, Zayin grew tired of being idle. Intending to sweep the floors, she wandered downstairs, where she saw some men at the door. She let them in. Fayvel’s three brothers crowded around her, all at once trying to explain what was the matter.
— Fayvel will die if the devil inside him isn’t doused.
— I’m sure my father can fix a tonic. I’ll bring it tonight.
— There’s no money for anything fancy.
— I’ll tell Papa not to make you pay. He’ll understand. He’s good that way.
She sent them home and started to clean, pleased to be doing more than was expected of her. She dusted the sills, and was about to polish the countertop when her father came to her.
— Were those men’s voices I heard?
— Fayvel’s brothers were here. He needs a tonic to get the devil out of him.
— It isn’t a dybbuk, Zayin. It’s a plague.
— Whatever it is, Fayvel needs some medicine. I promised to bring a draft to him tonight.
— You don’t understand. I closed the shop for a reason. I haven’t got a remedy for Fayvel. I can’t make one.
— Because of his money?
— Stupid girl! Listen to me. A plague is deadly. I have a cure for nobody.
— Papa, you can do anything. You’re an apothecary. Why are you yelling at me?
He shook his head and led her up a ladder to the attic laboratory.
She had never been there before, amid his bottled secrets, shelved alphabetically according to arcane names pronounced by no one since the fall from Eden. Ancient roots and pollens smuggled from that model garden into the mortal world: Like every apothecary, Zayin’s father trafficked in sacred contraband, distillations of eternity that, administered in the right combination and quantity, were said to lend a body grace with which to clear the evils of disease, but that, drunken gratuitously, might disburden soul of flesh. Menashe watched his daughter peer into his stone crucible, tap on the copper basin of his still, lift the heavy bronze pestle from its mortar, and set it down again. When at last she’d satisfied her curiosity, and could appreciate what he did, he told her that nothing she saw there, neither equipment nor stock, made the least medicinal difference.
Naturally, the girl was perplexed. Was this not his only laboratory? Was there another ladder yet to climb? Were there attics and ladders stacked, invisible except from within, all the way to the heavens? She wondered if her father might be more than just a druggist, but before she could inquire, Menashe had uncorked one of the priceless powdered mysteries on his shelf, and held it out to her: Confectioners’ sugar, he said, and, when she didn’t believe him, he had her taste for herself. With the utmost care, she pointed a slender finger into the powder, and touched it to her tongue. The uncut sweetness burned.
Before she could pose a question, he let his daughter know the whole formula. He said that the antidote to an illness wasn’t the product of a laboratory, nor did it grow in a garden. It came from within the patient. The active ingredient, so to speak, was hope. If folks believed that his pills and tonics worked miracles, they sometimes indirectly did—more often than the harsh chemicals with which city doctors routinely massacred the sick. The city doctors claimed to practice science, but Menashe had studied enough to know what they didn’t, and to acknowledge what they wouldn’t. He said that, given a chance, the body was a finer apothecary than the most learned chemist, but that people placed their faith elsewhere, in elixirs. His nontoxic pills and tonics simply concentrated folks’ faith, the belief that they were entitled to another draft of life, and directed it back inside, where it belonged.
Zayin took in her father’s words, and knew that he was wise. Only one matter confused her.
— If it’s that simple, why can’t I just bring Fayvel a tincture of sugar water? If he thinks that it’s a remedy . . .
— The body is a good apothecary, Zayin, but a plague cannot be cured. Fayvel won’t survive. Everyone who catches it will die. If I waste my reputation on hopeless cases, my medicines won’t be as potent against lesser disease. Be practical, and don’t go outside, or let anyone in. The plague will pass in a few weeks, but for now there’s no knowing who’s sick.
Fayvel’s brothers were preparing for another all-night vigil, loading the hearth with coal, when the apothecary’s daughter arrived at their hovel. In her hushed voice, she asked if the patient was still alive. They pointed to his bed by the fire. She smiled. She asked to be left alone with him, and, because the estimable Menashe was her father, they went off to sleep in the hayloft.
The girl was gone before dawn. Fayvel’s brothers didn’t see her leave. They gathered around him. One of them leaned on his chest, to feel if he was breathing. He gasped. Sighed. He opened his eyes. He asked for Zayin. They didn’t know what to tell him.
&nb
sp; — I asked her to marry me. She wouldn’t do it.
— Because you’re dying, Fayvel.
— Not anymore. Do I seem sick still?
While Fayvel hardly looked prepared to plow a field, his brothers had to admit that even his ability to talk bespoke progress. They wanted to know which of Menashe’s drugs the girl had given him. He swore that she’d brought none, yet he couldn’t say what she’d done to bring about his unexpected recovery. He could recollect only that she’d been clutching his hands for a long time and talking to him, whispering, really, when the demon in his chest released him, or, perhaps, he released the demon.
— What was she saying? Was she praying? Did she cast a spell?
— I don’t know what she told me, but there was sense in her murmuring, and something more, a singing from elsewhere. I was scared to open my eyes, that she’d disappear forever. I held her hands tight. I looked at her. It was like staring into a sunrise. I asked her to marry me, but I knew she wouldn’t. She isn’t one of us.
His brothers weren’t sure exactly what he meant by that. But they knew that he was right, because her voice scarcely stirred the air when she spoke and her feet barely touched the earth where she walked. She had, almost, the substance of light.
Several days passed. As Fayvel convalesced, other folks got worse. The plague threatened to suffocate whole families. Given another week, the town itself might have ceased to breathe, had Fayvel’s brothers not confided to a grain merchant, whose wife lay ill, Zayin’s extraordinary visitation.
— But Menashe himself pronounced that there’s no earthly remedy. He’s closed up shop.
— It wasn’t one of his drugs that made Fayvel better. It’s Zayin herself. You see, she isn’t one of us.
The Book of the Unknown: Tales of the Thirty-six Page 10