by Neil Clarke
Danel continued, his tone identical to my own when long ago I’d instructed him in the dusty basement in Saint-Germaine. “Perhaps Michal felt he was achieving his perfection with his sacrifice. If he could bring an end to the evil that was destroying so many, that threatened the entire world . . . ”
The automaton’s golden pupils slowly dilated, and I felt a twinge of vertigo.
“. . . the evil that had caused his creator such suffering and pain.”
He glanced down the corridor to where Mrs. Katz had disappeared. “The loss of a soul before achieving its perfection is the greatest tragedy; and if forcibly taken, the greatest evil. What could do this?”
“I—I do not know.”
“I would like to speak with this Reb Ludska,” Danel said. I nodded. “Of course, Danel.”
I followed Danel into the echoing noise and stale smells of too many cooked meals and too many people crowded together. The converted cargo hold was a maze of stacked crate walls and sheet partitions hung on strung laundry line. The faces were a haunting mix of fear, irrational hope, and deliberate ignorance. Their mouths flowed with a constant babel, halting like crickets at sight of me and Danel, only to resume with increased tempo and hushed imprecations when we passed. Some made hand signs to ward off the evil eye.
Physically and emotionally depleted after years of expulsion, resettlement, and tragedy of a scope the world, including its Jewish remnant, could not or would not comprehend, these last ten thousand Jews of the continent milled, kibbutzed, and strove to weave dreams from nightmares. Their hands were rubbed raw in recalling past woes and anticipated future ones; yet their eyes were alight with an insane hope, that damnable incorrigible Yid hope, that this time, this new land, this new world would be different. Forty light-years to reach the new Promised Land? Feh! No problem. Indeed, the number was auspicious. Did not Noah traverse the great deep in forty days and nights to the freshly cleansed earth? Did not Moses and the Israelites wander forty years in the desert to reach Eretz Yisrael? The dual star that cast its brilliance in silver and carmine light upon their new home world . . . this star, this HD 10307 . . . shone within the constellation the Gentiles named Andromeda. But it had another earlier name, a Babylonian one learned long ago in a former exile: Anunitum, the Lady of Heaven. And who was the Lady of Heaven, but God’s Shekinah? Nu? Is it not clear? HaShem still guided His People Israel, His Presence in His Shekinah still encompassing them. And as He brought them home to Eretz Yisrael from Babylon, one day He would do so again!
Such is Yid hope, Yid obstinacy, Yid eternal self-delusion.
The Seer of Safed was secluded in an inner chamber of a makeshift enclosure in a far corner of the cargo hold. Given the choice, he would not see me or the abomination of the automaton golem; but la marine interstellaire uniform and the officer’s insignia upon Danel’s shoulders he could not deny; and where Danel insisted I go, he could not gainsay. Reb Ludska was proud but not stupid.
His twelve closest disciples in their black frocks and pastry—shaped hats frowned at us in silence, their thin lips faint creases within their beards. One apostle guided us through seven successive rings of dyed ship linens hung on ropes as makeshift walls, like seven levels of a city, until we reached an immense rectangular shipping container converted into the Rebbe’s sanctuary and personal abode.
Our guide had us wait while he passed the final screening drapery, one painted with a Star of David encircled by arcane mystical symbols and the multifarious Hebrew names for God. A low rumble of voices came from inside, but the words were obscured by the clamor and hubbub of Jews arguing, petitioning, davening, and yelling at their children, sounds that a mere seven walls of bedclothes on clothesline could only muffle. Our Ludskite guide returned and held the starred curtain aside for Danel and me to enter, then closed it behind us.
To our left, the inside of the long container was obscured by darkness save for the wan orange glow of an atomic cell lamp that served as a ner tamid, God’s eternal light, watching above a makeshift ark. Upon a linen-shrouded table, I perceived the unmistakable oblong outline of a Torah scroll under the dyed sheets. The congregants would face astern when praying, toward Earth, toward Jerusalem. I wondered what they would do when settled upon New Zion, if any of us reached it.
On our right, the container was partitioned by another cloth divider, of a deep red, fluttering almost imperceptibly in a current of warm air. It was lit from behind and bright light leaked around its edges, like flames spouting briefly from embers. Passing through this last barrier, we entered the apartment of Reb Ludska.
Tapestries, actual tapestries, lined the walls and floor. Who among his minions had sacrificed their own baggage allotment to permit this, I did not know. Then again, it was not impossible that “exchanges” had been made with His Holy Emperor’s officials. Some of the Hasid sects had prodigious resources not evident in their penurious appearance. And, as was true with death, they could not take any riches into this last great exile. A half dozen fold-out chairs lined both walls, and the Rebbe stood between them awaiting us.
Rebbe Shlomo ben Yitzhak Ludska, the Seer of Safed, had the chest of a scarecrow and the belly and tuchus of Behemoth, a little man seeming to rise from within the body of a larger one. By force of will I quenched the memory of the sweeping gaze of searchlights, the barking of dogs, and a child’s broken matryoshka doll shattered upon soot covered rails, the smaller dolls spilling from its belly like seeds from a smashed gourd.
The Rebbe was dressed in a tent of black: an ebon jacket, slacks, and vest of a material so non-reflective it seemed to absorb light.
Only the twisted white fringes of his tallit katan broke free, loose threads squeezed from the constriction of his ballooning vest.
Behind him, a dark-haired boy in a red-knit yarmulke sat at a metal desk between a stack of old books and a small potted castor oil plant. He poured over a volume splayed open on the desk, his nose nearly touching the yellowed pages. His lips trembled as he read silently. I estimated he was either eight or nine, his round cheeks still plush with the cushion of childhood.
Reb Ludska did not offer his hand in greeting. He glared at Danel. He ignored me completely.
“Thank you for seeing us, Reb Ludska,” Danel said. “You are aware of the unfortunate incidents that have befallen two members of the crew?”
The Rebbe’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly to briefly show a ring of white around his irises, ice blue, and the bristles of his gray moustache rose with the flaring of his nostrils; but then weariness seemed to suffuse him. He sighed and motioned for us to sit. He settled himself upon a chair that squealed and groaned under his weight. We sat opposite him, the woven carpet embroidered with a kabbalistic tree of black circles and branches separating him from us.
“Unexplained deaths,” he said. His voice was rich and melodious yet hollow, like a monk singing hymns alone in a cathedral. A bitterness was in it as well, one I recognized too often in my own voice. “And here you are again,” he said to Danel.
“Again?” I asked.
A look of disdain crossed his face. “You’re supposed to be a genius, no?” He leaned forward. “When wells run dry or crops are poor . . . “ He chuckled dryly. “When children go missing or the Plague blackens flesh, regardless that Gentile and Jew are equally afflicted . . . the blame for these they cast at our feet as kindling and set us afire.” His eyes burned as if seeing these flames. Then, seeing his own reflection in the mirror of Danel’s face, the flames went out and his shoulders sagged. “Are they blaming us yet again?” he asked, his voice weary, the question posed rhetorically.
Danel answered, “Yes.”
I was surprised by his candor. He voiced the threat, but there was no cruelty in it, merely truth. “Many are unhappy with this mission,” Danel said. “We are travelling to the edge of charted space. Few ships have voyaged so far across the Deep. Some have not returned.”
“‘Here there be monsters?’” I mocked.
“Exa
ctly, sir. And some of the crew fears we carry the monsters with us.”
Reb Ludska bowed his head and mumbled a prayer. “Danel,” I said, “That’s . . . ”
“Some worry about a contagion you may have unknowingly brought on board or . . . “ His glass eyes swiveled from the Rebbe to focus upon me. “. . . designed to specifically target the crew as a form of retribution.” My face betrayed my thoughts. He nodded. “Nonsense. I agree, sir. I am only providing you what I have heard in the hope to avert any further unfortunate incidents. Much has been said outside the Captain’s hearing. There are so many unsubstantiated and unlikely assertions that no single one has united the crew to independent action.”
“Mutiny?”
“I fear it is possible, sir.”
“What else has been said?” I asked.
“The suppositions vary from a Zionist grudge against Arabs like Lieutenant Haran for the massacres in Palestine to a Jewish plot to commandeer the Joan d’Arc by killing the crew. Others among the more devout have rekindled old fears and superstitions concerning Jewish warlocks and witches.” His voice changed as he played a recorded voice whispering, “‘Spawn of their father the Devil.’” In his own voice, Danel continued, “My hope is Rabbi Ludska can help Chaplain Thévet deter this. The Chaplain has spoken out against such inflammatory statements, and the Captain has warned that such talk is sedition.”
“Bully for him,” I said. “So Reb Ludska is correct? They blame us for these deaths?”
“Not wholly, sir. Some blame Deimons. Others say it is merely a space psychosis brought out in travelling the Deep Dark.”
“Demons?” Reb Ludska’s face went pale.
“Dei-mons, sir,” repeated Danel. “Another human superstition, I’m afraid. When la marine interstellaire established its base on Deimos, they discovered the moon riddled with tunnels and caves. Some argued these were made by alien intelligences whom they nicknamed ‘Deimons.’ The von Dänikens took this up but the whole idea was mostly ridiculed. That is, until similar tunnels were discovered on Ceres, Tethys, and later Centaurin B. No artifacts of any sort or aliens have ever been discovered; and the xenogeologists claim extensive evidence indicates that these tunnels are natural phenomena for low G planetoids of a similar type. I concur.”
“Sailors are not so easily divested of their superstitions,” I said.
“Correct, sir. Deimons replaced . . . “ He paused, then said, “. . .’gremlins’ as the cause of any unexplained mishaps occurring among the fleet and colonies.”
Reb Ludska’s lips twisted faintly into a wry smile. “Are they Jews then, these Deimons?”
“No Jews have been permitted in space until this voyage, Reb Ludska,” Danel said.
The Rebbe nodded. “See? And now these Deimons have competition. They must be scared of going the way of the, what you said, Gremlings.”
“This is not a humorous matter, Reb Ludska,” Danel said.
“I suppose not. But if we didn’t have humor, we’d have drowned the world in tears long ago.” He looked down at his hands. “‘Deimons,’” he muttered. “Such goyishe nonsense.”
“What is an erev-rav, Reb Ludska?” Danel asked.
The Rebbe’s eyes slid up to meet Danel’s. “Erev-rav? Where’d you hear anything about . . .?” He clapped his hands and our Ludskite guide stepped briskly through the curtain, glancing at Danel and me warily.
“Aaron!” The Rebbe called to the boy sitting at the desk. Aaron raised his head from his studies, his eyes veiled behind bangs of straight black hair. “Go with Reb Ephrem. Stay with him until I call for you.”
The boy slid off his chair without a word and passed between us and the Rebbe. He was small for his age. He reached up and took Ephrem’s hand. The man blanched slightly under Danel’s scrutiny, then he parted the curtain and they left. The Rebbe waited until he heard the susurrus of muffled chatter from the cargo hold rise and fall as Ephrem and the boy passed through the bedsheet partitions of the perimeter. “Such discussions, however foolish, are not for the ears of children,” he said. He sat back and folded his hands upon his lap.
“Foolish?” asked Danel.
“Yes. Dybbuks, ibbur, lilin, ruhotra, golems . . . “ he pointed at Danel, “. . . erev-rav are found in whispered warnings by parents frighten ing their children to behave; and in the aggadot of the Talmud to extort obedience from ignorant Jews in the keeping of HaShem’s mitzvot; and in shtetl stories to assuage the helplessness we’ve felt under Gentile oppression by imagining fantasies where the goyim instead fear us!” He ran his hands through his hair, closing his eyes as he did so. Opening them, he saw Danel unmoved and impassive. “You would continue with this narrishkeit?” he asked. Danel waited.
The Rebbe sighed. “An erev-rav is the consequence of the mixed seed of Adam and Lilith.”
“Lilith was a demon, a female spirit of the sitra ahra . . . the other side, the realms of Darkness,” I said to Danel. “A succubus who purportedly stole the seed of men and the breath of infants. She was blamed for sudden infant death syndrome.”
The Rebbe nodded. “Just so. Silly, isn’t it, doctor?” To Danel, he said. “Like Lilith, the erev-rav are spirit thieves, vampyrs who revel in the spreading of the dark which is their abode. Nu? Nonsense.”
“There is no greater dark than that upon which we sail,” said Danel.
Reb Ludska’s eyes rolled upward and he shook his hands at Heaven. “Oif a nar iz kain kasheh nit tsu fregen un kain pshat nit tsu zogen!”
You should not ask a fool a question, or give him an explanation! He leaned forward again, as if by his will alone he could pierce the automaton’s metal skin. I was struck by the incongruity of the rabbi striving to have a machine see reason, be logical. “The nukba di-tehoma rabba, the maw of the Great Abyss, is all around us,” he said with passion, as if giving a sermon to the sad remnant of his flock. He slapped both hands against his chest. “But it is what is inside us that matters! Man with his God-given capacity to reason, to hope, and to love is all that stands between HaShem’s Creation and the Abyss.”
Danel said nothing. He returned the old man’s gaze. They seemed joined in some hidden battle of wills, or just petulantly engaged in a child’s staring contest.
It was Reb Ludska who first lowered his eyes, sinking slowly back onto his chair. He waved a hand dismissively. “But you are not a man. You can never comprehend.”
In the subsequent silence I could hear the distant cries of a woman screaming at her wailing child. These faded leaving no sound save for the soft buzz emitted by the Eternal Lamp in the dark sanctuary beyond.
“What attracts an erev-rav?” Danel asked.
The Rebbe’s face blushed. He stood, his body shaking. “It’s a fairy tale,” he yelled. “A fable, a chain around our necks forged by our own fears. We must break them! We must make a fresh start and not drown in our own drek! And you, Reb scientist,” he shouted at me. “You believe in this? The greatest Jewish scientist of the age should ask such questions? Folklore! Myth! Bubbemeisers!” He stabbed his finger toward me. I noted he was one who bites his nails. “You cannot, Mr. Rabbi Scientist, make a pilpul study of that which is imaginary. What is the weight of a thought? How many centimeters is a dream?”
The curtain parted and two identical black-garbed Ludskite men peered in, faces goatish with alarm at the Rebbe’s shouting.
Reb Ludska walked between them and into the darkness of the sanctuary. Beneath the faint orange glow of the Ner Tamid, he pulled a prayer shawl over his head, a tallis of silvery luminescence, and began to daven, rocking slowly back and forth, head bent before God, murmuring a rolling litany of prayer.
The Rebbe’s two guardians motioned for us to leave.
Danel remained silent until we stood again outside my cabin. “Sir, may I ask your impression of Reb Ludska.”
“A beaten man,” I said. “But a Jew’s Jew. One who grows roses from his crown of thorns and braids his hair shirt. He won’t forget or forgive past wrongs, but h
e will not be ruled by them as long as he has a single sheep to lead. ‘To save a single Jewish life, or any life, is to save the world.’ And for us, that world is to be New Zion.”
Danel stared at me with the same inhuman impassivity that Reb Ludska had found so unnerving. I was used to it, however. I opened the door to the cabin and then paused, reflecting. “His ardent dismissal of Jewish mystical beliefs was . . . somewhat surprising. I am pleased he shares my views on such claptrap. But it is odd that the famed Seer of Safed should be so dismissive. To quote another sage, albeit a Gentile one, ‘Methinks he doth protest too much’” I shrugged. “But with all your talk of the crew’s superstitions concerning Jews and Deimons, he may be trying to dispel such fears. Goodnight, Danel.”
But Danel did not leave. Instead, he said, “That may be true, but . . . “ He stopped, studying me, and for the first time his impassionate stare made me uncomfortable.
“Do you think he was lying?” I asked.
“I detected no indication of untruth.” He hesitated again.
“But . . .?”
He looked away. “Do you recall Marcel the Marvelous, sir?” he said with uncertainty. I chuckled. “The stage magician?”
I had taken Danel to The Moulin Rouge where Marcel performed while the late night patrons gathered and ordered drinks before the can-can girls made their appearance. We sat in the back, furthest from the stage, where there was little light and Danel was hidden behind his hat, gloves, and winter scarf.
“Yes, sir. The magician. There was no untruth in him as well.”
Danel’s lenses fixed upon me and I felt like a butterfly under the scrutiny of a lepidopterist.
“And yet he deceived,” he said.
I saw Danel for the last time three days later.
Beneath the unfaltering hums and steady vibrations of the ship’s engines and the clockwork sibilant hiss of ventilation compressors, a growing sense of fear and ill-ease infiltrated the rhythm of life upon the Joan d’Arc. It was seen in the wariness of the crew delivering supplies to the colonists, the number of guards that accompanied them, and the diminishing of what little small talk there had been between Gentile and Jew. It was evident in a rising wariness among the shipmen toward their passengers who outnumbered them fifty to one, and in a growing wildness in the eyes of the colonists who woke to the knowledge that they were yet again penned in, crowded together in the immense hold, and restricted to D deck; an environment reminiscent of the Displaced Persons facilities—and the concentration camps. I again thought of the Rebbe struggling to protect his vestigial flock and willing to say anything, even deny his beliefs, to save their lives as Peter denied Jesus to save his. And like sheep, my tribesmen herded even closer together within their makeshift shtetl and no longer ventured outside to the permitted encircling hall of D deck, with few exceptions.