by Maggie Anton
The only good thing was that Grandfather spent the night with us, first sharing the Mishna that Father was teaching, and then continuing to chant psalms after I fell asleep.
“I thought Father wouldn’t let you sleep with me anymore,” I said when I saw Zahra laying out his bedding.
Grandfather gave me a wan smile. “He thought that your need for comfort tonight outweighed Shmuel’s disapproval.”
“Did you see him at the funeral, standing outside the cemetery?” When Grandfather nodded, I asked the question that had been haunting me. “I think it was his prayers that brought the rain.”
“Without a doubt,” he replied. “We never had droughts the entire time I lived with him in Kafri.”
“Why did he wait so long?”
“Rav Huna is the head rabbi in Sura, so your father must defer to him. It would be presumptuous for Hisda to imply that his prayers would bring rain when Huna’s didn’t.”
My anger flared. “So all those children had to die first?”
Grandfather sighed. “Many years ago, when your father was Rav Huna’s student, they quarreled. Hisda suggested that a teacher needed a bright student more than the student needed a certain teacher.”
“So Rav Huna thought Father had insulted him?”
“Huna did indeed. He said that he didn’t need Hisda, rather that Hisda would need him until the age of forty.”
“What happened?”
“Your father moved to Kafri and gathered his own students,” Grandfather said. “For many years he and Rav Huna bore such resentment that they would not even visit each other.”
“But Rav Huna asked Father to be on Sura’s beit din with him,” I protested. “His son Rabbah studies with Father.” Surely they must have reconciled.
“Even so, Hisda never overturns one of Huna’s rulings.” His voice, already low so as not to wake the others, grew softer. “And your father is very careful about what he teaches his students.”
So because of some petty quarrel years ago, Father wouldn’t pray for rain until Nega took his own granddaughter. Between my sorrow and anger, it took me a long time to fall asleep.
After two days in my room, Achti’s bleeding had slowed, and she was able to sit up and eat some solid food.
“I wish I could make her a healing amulet,” I said.
Rahel looked at me with alarm, and I quickly added, “I know. I can’t inscribe one while I’m dashtana. I can scarcely do anything while I’m dashtana.” I felt helpless and useless.
“You shouldn’t complain. Persian women have far more restrictions.” Zahra waited until she had our attention. “And I should know. My parents were Persian.”
Before anyone could comment on Zahra being a convert, I asked eagerly, “Tell us.”
The other women leaned in closer. “When my mother became dashtana—that’s what Persians call it too—she put on certain old clothes that she only wore then,” Zahra began. “She had to stay at least fifteen paces from fire and water, and three paces away from other people.”
“Do Persians really worship fire?” Pazi asked.
“Of course not,” Rahel replied. “They worship one God, creator of everything, as we do. They just call him a different name, Ahura Mazda.” Many of Rahel’s clients were Persian, so she knew about their religion.
“Fire, water, air, and earth are his holy creations,” Zahra added. “Persians don’t want them polluted.”
Before anyone could change the subject, I asked, “How could she cook anything if she is kept away from fire and water?”
“A woman who is dashtana doesn’t stay at home,” Zahra said. “Her gaze causes pollution as far as she can see, so she stays in a small, windowless hut.”
I gasped in horror. Locked up alone in a small, windowless hut for at least a week? How did Persian women stand it?
“No water and no fire,” Beloria said slowly. “It must be miserable when the weather gets very hot or cold.”
“My older sister did the cooking, and it was my job to bring Mother’s food and drink to her.” Zahra’s face saddened at the memory. “She wasn’t allowed to consume much.”
“How long did she have to stay there?” I asked.
“After three days without bleeding, she underwent some ritual with the Magi. Then she was pure again and came home.”
We silently considered this until Rahel said, “Persians are commanded to procreate too, so their women are probably pregnant or nursing much of the time and thus don’t have to worry about being dashtana.”
Even so, I thought it was a cruel thing to do to women. The next morning I gratefully recited the daily prayer that thanked Elohim for making me a Jew.
It was still raining daily when my flow was due again, but there were hours when the sky cleared intermittently. Pushbi had taken ill, so Ukva agreed that Achti should stay with us for Pesach and, if necessary, until her eighty days of impurity for miscarrying a girl had passed. Judging by her improved color and appetite, my sister had nearly regained her health. I expected that she’d feel sad and cry occasionally, but instead she was moody and sullen. Instead of coming outdoors when the weather improved, Achti stayed in bed. She preferred the rain, spending hours at our window staring at it fall.
I was outside in the garden with Rahel, trying to take advantage of some sunshine to finish inscribing a bowl, when Achti surprised me by joining us.
A determined look on her face, she said to Rahel, “I need you to make a kasa d’charasha for me.”
“As soon as you’re ready to go home, I’ll be glad to,” Rahel replied. “Some protective spells would be a good thing after all that’s happened.”
Achti stared into the distance instead of meeting Rahel’s gaze. “I don’t want one for healing or protection.” Her voice was hard as stone. “I want a curse bowl.”
I nearly dropped the quill I was holding.
Rahel, however, showed no surprise. “I don’t make curse bowls.” Her voice was just as hard as my sister’s. “Not for you, Achti, not for anyone.”
Achti threw herself at Rahel’s feet. “But you have to. She’ll murder me next if we don’t stop her.”
Achti was shaking with fear as I helped her up. “Who are you so afraid of? Maybe we can help you another way.”
This time Achti locked eyes with me, and my stomach knotted in fear as I realized what she was going to say. “There is no other way. The woman is Pushbi, my husband’s mother.”
Rahel and I listened in shock as my sister poured out her wrath. “She’s a kashafa, I tell you. She knew I was pregnant with a girl so she made me miscarry,” Achti insisted. “All she wants is a grandson, even if it kills me. And since Ukva won’t divorce me, she’s determined to get rid of me herself.”
Rahel and I exchanged skeptical looks. “You’re not well, Achti,” I said soothingly. “Why don’t I help you go upstairs to rest?” My poor sister must be mad with grief.
“You don’t believe me?” she accused us. “She gave me balsam oil for anointing my hair and then offered to let me light the lamp for Shabbat. She didn’t tell me what it was though, and when I recognized the scent, all she said was that she must have made a mistake.”
We stared at her in horror. Balsam oil smelled nice but was highly flammable. Mother wouldn’t let anyone use it for anointing, not since a kitchen slave was badly burned by walking too close to the hearth after using it.
“Ask my maidservant,” Achti pleaded. “She’ll vouch for everything I told you, and more.”
I didn’t want to, but I believed her. Nobody could make up such a horrible story. But this was Rami’s mother, and after we married I’d be living under her roof. Would she try to set me on fire, or maybe something worse, if I didn’t give her a grandson? It was too late to change my mind and choose Abba for my husband; Rami would never agree to divorce me and Jewish Law didn’t allow a woman to divorce her husband. I thought of Rami’s wonderful smile and how I’d enjoyed kissing him, and knew I wanted to marry him. That mean
t dealing with Pushbi.
Rahel questioned Achti’s slave girl, to be certain, but still refused to write a curse bowl for her.
“I’ve never written one. I don’t know how,” Rahel admitted. “But I can send you to someone who does.”
“You can? You will?” Tears streamed down Achti’s cheeks. “Oh, thank you. You’ve saved my life.”
“I can’t guarantee she’ll help you. You’ll have to let her decide.”
Achti grabbed my arm. “Let’s go now, before it starts raining again.”
I stood up and turned to Rahel. “Where does the woman live? How do we get there?”
Rahel beckoned to Imarta, who was bringing a new supply of pots. The two women conferred, and Rahel said the potter would take us there. It wasn’t too far for Achti to walk, and the fresh air would likely do her good, but her maidservant and Zahra must come with us.
“The woman you want to see is called Tabita,” Rahel said, as she walked us to the courtyard gate.
“What if Mother or Father asks about us?” I was having doubts about this quest and we hadn’t even left yet.
“I’ll say that I sent you to buy more ink for me—which Tabita does sell.” Rahel handed me her purse. “In fact, you may as well get some while you’re there. It will save me a trip.”
“What if she’s not there?”
“She’ll be home. Tabita hates to get her feet muddy.”
As we walked toward Sura, all I could do was worry. What were we getting ourselves into, two grief-stricken sisters who wanted to curse their mother-in-law? What would the charasheta think of us? Would she even consider Achti’s request or would she refuse just as Rahel had? Maybe she would curse us instead? What if she told Pushbi? What if she told Mother? I kept telling myself that we had no choice. Pushbi had tried to kill Achti.
Yet as we passed the synagogue we usually attended, I had to admit that I was curious, and more than a little excited. I was going to meet a powerful charasheta, one who practiced dark magic. According to Imarta, Tabita was an elderly widow who lived with a large extended family. Their house was located in a prosperous neighborhood on the outskirts of Sura, about a half hour away. That was a relief. At least she wasn’t a kashafa who lived all alone in a decrepit hovel.
For a woman who’d just risen from her sickbed, Achti kept us at a surprisingly fast pace. Before I knew it, we were surrounded by the walls of residences that, judging from the distance between one gate and the next, sat on large swaths of land. Imarta was in the lead now, confidently directing us to continue straight or turn here. Abruptly she stopped in front of a gate with a white crescent moon painted in the middle.
I wasn’t sure what to do; I’d never gone to a stranger’s home where I wasn’t expected. But Achti confidently banged on the door, and we were soon confronted by one of the biggest men I’d ever seen. I took a step back in alarm and then noticed that he was wearing a slave’s collar. Oh, the doorkeeper.
“We’re here to see Tabita,” Achti announced. “Rahel, wife of Rav Mari haKohen, son of Rav Hisda, the judge, sent us.”
To my relief, he let us in. Slaves hanging up laundry gave us a quick glance before returning to their work, and those grinding grain didn’t even look up. Another slave met us halfway across the large courtyard, conferred with the doorkeeper, and rushed back indoors.
When we reached the house proper, a woman around Imarta’s age greeted us. “Come in. Anyone recommended by Rav Hisda’s family is welcome here.”
That was a relief. Even if this wasn’t a rabbinic family, at least they had some respect for rabbis. The woman led us into the salon, which was already prepared for us. A cushion each for me and Achti on the stone floor, none for the slaves, and two silk cushions that had to be for Tabita. I slowly took my seat, my heart pounding. I had imagined that strange and evil aromas might linger in the charasheta’s home, but the room smelled perfectly ordinary.
We didn’t have to wait much longer. No sooner had Achti sat down than there was a rustle of silk at the inner door. Assisted by a maidservant, a thin, gray-haired woman entered and surveyed us with frank curiosity. This had to be Tabita.
Abruptly she smiled and held out her hand to me. “Hisdadukh, how nice to see you again.”
FOURTEEN
SEVENTEENTH YEAR OF KING BAHRAM II’S REIGN
• 290 CE •
I nearly fell off my cushion. Tabita was a friend of Mother’s. She’d been visiting the day that Rahel made me her apprentice. She had been the one to say that my incantations would be more powerful because I studied Torah.
I stood and kissed her cheek. She still wore the same lotus flower perfume. “And to see you again, Tabita.”
“I hope that your studies are going well.”
I nodded and wondered if my being an apprentice charasheta would work for or against us. Then Achti coughed and I remembered my manners. “This is my sister, Achti. She’s the one who needs your help.”
Tabita turned her penetrating gaze on Achti, who proceeded to tell the charasheta what she’d already told Rahel. Tabita questioned the maidservant briefly, and then came back to me. “This woman is your mother-in-law too. Do you agree that she should be cursed?”
I could feel my panic growing. What was I doing here? I wanted to go home and pretend I’d never come. But one look at my sister’s furious visage and I knew it was too late to back out. “I’d prefer that it doesn’t kill her.” I already had one death on my conscience. “Could you just make her so sick or weak that she doesn’t have the strength to bother us?” I pleaded.
“What is her name? Including her matronymic.”
“Pushbi bat Nanai.”
“Oh dear.” Tabita rested her chin on her hand. “I didn’t realize your mother-in-law was a charasheta too. This will complicate matters.”
Achti elbowed me. “I told you she was a kashafa.”
Tabita shot Achti a withering look. “That is not a word to use in this house, especially if you want my assistance.”
Achti began a litany of apologies, but Tabita waved them away. “I would like to help you, but in this situation I must consult with the head charasheta.”
Achti and I blurted out our questions simultaneously.
“How long will that take?” my sister wanted to know.
“There’s a head charasheta?” I asked. “Who is she?”
Tabita ignored my question. “I should know within a week. In the meantime, there are two items I’ll need you to procure: some menstrual blood and a potsherd with Pushbi’s excrement. Plus, of course, my fee.”
Achti’s face fell. “Pushbi is still bedridden with plague, so obtaining her excrement shouldn’t be difficult,” she said slowly. “But I don’t know about money…”
“Will you take some silk ribbons for payment?” I had quite a few left from the ones I’d woven. “As for the blood, I should be dashtana any day now.” I forced myself not to imagine the evil spirits that could be conjured with feces and dashtana. I was too worried already.
“You didn’t mention that Pushbi was ill. That changes everything,” Tabita said sharply. “We must work quickly while her star is still compromised.”
Achti and I waited as Tabita paced the room mumbling to herself. Finally she addressed me, “If you bring what I need by next Third Day, I can inscribe it then.”
“At the eighth hour,” I whispered as a shiver went down my spine. “When Samael rules the day and hour.”
“You have been studying.” Her tone was approving. “Very well. You may assist me when I bury the bowl.”
Astonishment nearly left me speechless. “But what about the head charasheta?” I stammered.
“We will be cursing Pushbi,” Tabita reassured us. “I merely need to consult her about which spell to use.”
The following Third Day I was invited to Tabita’s home after synagogue services. Pushbi remained ill, and Achti surprised everyone except me by insisting on looking in on her to fulfill the mitzvah of visiting the sick.
Rain still fell daily, but only during the night, and every field we passed was green and lush with new spring growth. It was a stark contrast to the dark and treacherous deed I was about to undertake.
Like Rahel, Tabita inscribed her kasa d’charasha outside. After our midday meal, to pass the time until the eighth hour, she showed me the workshop where her slaves produced ink.
“For this curse bowl, I’ll be using special ink.” She showed me a small pot containing a dark, viscous liquid. “A mixture of regular ink and menstrual blood.”
I forced myself not to draw back in disgust. “How do you use the excrement?”
“I rubbed it onto the bowl earlier, so it would have time to dry before I inscribe the spell.”
I swallowed hard. Until that moment I hadn’t known how Tabita would use the excrement and menstrual blood. A bowl covered with them would attract who knows how many demons. The Ninety-first Psalm named just a few of Ashmedai’s minions, and Nasus had her own as well. Father taught that there were so many shaydim around us that people would faint in terror if they could see them all. I knew this procedure could be dangerous, but I hadn’t considered how dangerous, especially for a novice like me.
It was a relief when the eighth hour arrived and Tabita let me watch as she inscribed the incantation. Despite my anxiety, I observed closely and memorized the words. Tabita must not have thought I could learn the spell so easily, for she made no attempt to hide what she wrote.
“To the ruchim who reside in the cemetery. May Pushbi bat Nanai be cursed so that sulfur and fire burn in her, that she be banned, broken, lost, finished, vanquished, and that shivers seize her. May the following verse apply to her: ‘They shall fall and not rise, and there will be no healing to their affliction, their eyes shall grow dim, so they cannot see. Pour out Your wrath on them, may Your blazing anger overtake them.’ And may the following verse apply to Pushbi bat Nanai: ‘Adonai shall smite you with madness, blindness, and dismay. Adonai will not spare you but rather the anger of Adonai shall rage against you, until all the curses that are in this book come down upon you. So may there be done to her swift judgment and misfortune.’ In the names of Mot and Yarod and Anahid, and the ruchim who reside in the cemetery, all this should be done to Pushbi bat Nanai.”