Wandering Stars

by Jack Dann (ed)

Then Reb Jeshaia, who was the wisest of all the blue Jews on Zsouchmuhn, even before the great exodus, one or two of them it wouldn’t have hurt if they’d stayed behind to give a little help so we shouldn’t find out too late we were in this miserable state of things because Snodle seized up and died, Reb Jeshaia nodded that it was a mission for a fool and he said, “We’ll send Evsise.”

  “Thanks a lot for that,” I said.

  He looked at me with the six eyes on the front, and he said, “Evsise. Should we send Shmuel with one good antenna? Should we send Chaim with a defective hop? Should we send Yitzchak who is so crippled with lust he gets cramps? Maybe we should send Yankel who is older than even Snodle and would die from the journey then we’d have to find two Jews? Moishe? Moishe argues with everyone. Some cooperation he’d get.”

  “What about Avram?” I asked. Avram looked away.

  “You want I should talk about Avram’s problem here in front of an open Talmud, here in front of the dead, right here in front of God and everyone?” Reb Jeshaia looked stern.

  “Forget it. I’m sorry I mentioned,” I said.

  “Maybe I should go myself, the Rabbi should go? Or maybe you’d prefer we sent Meyer Kahaha?”

  “You made your point,” I said. “I’ll go. I’m far from a happy person about this, you should know it before I go. But I’ll do it. You’ll never see me again, I’ll die out there looking for that Kadak, but I’ll go.”

  I started for the burrow exit of the yeshiva. I passed Yitzchak, who looked sheepish. “Cramps,” I muttered. “It should only wither up and fall off like a dead leaf.”

  Then I rolled, hopped and unwound my way up the tunnel to the street, and went looking for Kadak.

  The last time I saw Kadak was seventeen turns ago. He was squatting in the synagogue during Purim, and suddenly he rolled into the aisle, tore off his yarmulkah, his tallis and his t’fillin, all at once with his top three arms on each side, threw them into the aisle, yelled he had had it with Judaism, and was converting to the Church of the Apostates.

  That was the last any of us saw of him. Good riddance to bad rubbish, you ask me. Kadak, to begin with, was never my favorite person, if you want the truth. He snuffled.

  Oh, that isn’t such an averah, I can see you think I’m making a big something out of a big nothing. Listen, Mr. Terrific-I-Flap-My-Wings-And-You-Should-Notice-Me, I’m a person who says what’s on his mind, I don’t make no moofky-foofky with anyone. You want someone who beats around the bushes you should talk to that Avram. Me, I’ll tell you I couldn’t stand that Kadak’s snuffling, all the time snuffling. You sit in the shoul and right in the middle of the Shema, right in the direct absolute center of “Hear O Israel, the Lord, Our God, the Lord is One,” comes a snuffle that sounds like a double-snouted peggalomer in a mud-wallow.

  He had a snuffle made you want to go take a bath.

  A terrible snuffle, if you’ll listen to me for a minute. He was the kind, that Kadak, he wouldn’t care when he’d snuffle. When you were sleeping, eating, shtupping, making a ka-ka, he didn’t care … would come a blast, a snort, a rotten snuffle could make you want to get rid of your last three or four meals. And forget talking to him: how can you talk to a person who punctuates with a snuffle?

  So when he went off to convert to the Apostates, sure there was a scandal … there weren’t that many Jews on Zsouchmuhn … any thing was a scandal… but to be absolutely frank with you, I’ll speak my mind no matter what, we were very relieved. To be free of that snuffle was already a naches, like getting one free. Or seven for five.

  So now I had to go all over there and back, looking for that terrible snuffle. It was an ugliness I could live without, you should pardon my frankness.

  But I went through downtown Houmitz and went over to the Holy Cathedral of the Church of the Apostates. The city was in a very bad way. When everyone had gone to Kasrilevka, they took everything that wasn’t bolted down. They also took everything that was bolted down. They also took the bolts. Not to mention a lot of the soil it was all bolted down into. Big holes, everywhere. Zsouchmuhn was not, at this point in time I’m telling you about, such a cute little world anymore. It looked like an old man with a krenk. Like a pisher with acne. Very unpleasant, it wasn’t a trip I care to talk about.

  But there was a little left of that crazy farchachdah Cathedral still standing. Why shouldn’t they let it stand: how much does it cost to make a new one? String. The dummies, they make a holy place from string and spit and bits of dried crap off the streets and their bodies, I don’t even want to think about what a sacrilege.

  I rolled inside. The smell, you could die from the smell. On Zsouchmuhn here, we got a groundworm, this filthy little segmented thing everyone calls a pincercrusher. Lumbricus rubellus Venaticus my Uncle Beppo, the lunatic zoologist, calls it. It isn’t at all peculiar why I remember a foreign name like that—Latin is what it is, I’m a bissel scholar, too, you know, not such a dummy as you might think, and it’s no wonder Reb Jeshaia sent me on this it-could-kill-a-lesser-Jew mission to find Kadak. I remember because once I had one of them bite me in the tuchis when I went swimming, and you learn these things, believe you me, you learn them. This rotten little worm it’s got pinching things in the front and on the sides, and it lies in wait for a juicy tuchis and when you’re just ready to relax in a swim, or maybe to take a nap on a picnic, chomp!, it goes right for the tuchis. And it hangs on with those triple-damned the entire species should go straight to Gehenna pinch-things, and it makes me sick to remember, but it sucks the blood right out of you, right through your tuchis. And you couldn’t get one off, medical science as hootsy-tootsy as it is, you could varf from the size of a doctor’s bill, even the hootsy-tootsies can’t get one off you. The only thing that does it, is you get a musician and he bangs together a pair of cymbals, and it falls off. All bloated up with your blood, leaving a bunch of little pinch-marks on your tuchis you’re ashamed to let your lust-mates see it. And don’t ask why the doctors don’t carry cymbals with them for such occasions. You wouldn’t believe the union problems here on Zsouchmuhn, which includes musicians and doctors both, so you’d better be near a band and not a hospital when a pincercrusher bites you in the tuchis, otherwise forget it. And when the terrible thing falls off, it goes pop! and it bursts, and all the awful crap it had in it makes a stink you shouldn’t even think about it, the eyes, all twelve of them could roll up in your head, with the smell of all that feh! and blood and crap.

  Inside the Cathedral of the Church of the Apostates, the smell. Like a million popped pincercrushers. I almost went over on my face from that smell.

  It took three hands to hold all of my nose, a little whiff shouldn’t slip through.

  I started reeling around, hitting the strings they called walls. Fortunately, I rolled around near the entrance, and I stretched my nose a couple of feet outside, and I took a very deep breath, and snapped my nose back, and held it, and looked around.

  There were still half a dozen of them who hadn’t run off to Kasrilevka, all down on their stomachs, their feet winding up and unwinding, very fast, their faces down in the mud and crap in front of the altar, doing what I suppose they call praying. To that idol of theirs, Seymour, or Simon, or Shtumie, whatever they call it. I should know the name of a heathen idol, you bet your life never, better I should know the Latin name of a miserable worm that stinks first, let me tell you.

  So there they were, and let me assure you it pained me in several more than a couple of ways to have to go over to them, but … I’m looking for Kadak.

  “Hey,” I said to one of them. A terrific look at his tuchis I got. Such a perfect tuchis, if ever there was one, for a pincercrusher to come and chomp!

  Nothing. “Hey!” I yelled it a second time. No attention. Crazy with their faces down in the crap. “Listen, hey!” I yelled at the top of my voice, which isn’t such a soft niceness when I’m suffocating holding my nose with three hands and I want to get out of that place already.

  So I ga
ve him a zetz in the tuchis. I wound up every foot on the left side, and I let it unwind right where a pincercrusher would have brunch.

  Then the dummy looked up.

  A sight you could become very ill with. A nose covered with crap from the floor, a bunch of eyes filled with blue jelly, a mouth from out of which could only come heathen hosannahs to a dummy idol called Shaygets or something.

  “You kicked me,” he said.

  “All by yourself you figured that out, eh?”

  He looked at me with six, and blinked, and started to fall over on his punim again, and I started to wind up I’d give him such a zetz I’d kick him into a better life.

  “We don’t accept violence,” he said.

  “That’s a terrific saying,” I told him. “Meanwhile, I don’t accept an unobstructed view up your tuchis. So if you want I should go away and stop kicking you, so you can go root around in the dreck some more, what you’d better do is come up here a minute and talk to me.”

  He kept looking. I wound up tighter. You could hear my sockets creaking. I’m not such a young one anymore. He got up.

  “What do you want? I’m worshipping to Seymool.”

  Seymool. That’s a name for a God. I wouldn’t even hire something called a Seymool.

  “You’ll worship later. That buhbie isn’t going anywhere.”

  “But Zsouchmuhn is.”

  “Very correct. Which is the same reason I got to talk to you now. Time is a thing I got very little of, if you catch my meaning here.”

  “Well, what is it you want, precisely?”

  Oy, a Talmudic scholar, no less. Precisely. “Well, Mr. Precisely, I’ll tell you what it is precisely I want. You know where it is I can find a no-good snuffler called Kadak?”

  He stared at me with six, then blinked rapidly, in sequence—two and four, three and five, one and six—then went back in reverse order. “You have a nauseating sense of humor. May Seymool forgive you.”

  Then he fell back on his face, his legs up winding and unwinding, his nose deep in dreck. “I say Kadak, he says Seymool. I’ll give you a Seymool!”

  I started to wind up for a kick would put that momzer in the next time-zone, when a voice stopped me. From over the side of that stinking Cathedral—and you can bet I was turning yellow from not breathing—a woman said, “Come outside. I’ll tell you about your friend Kadak.”

  I turned to look, and there was this shikseh, all dolled up in such a pile of colored shmatehs and baubles and bangles and crap from the floor, I thought to myself, Gevalt! this turn I should never have crawled out of the burrow.

  So anyhow I followed her outside, thank God, and let my nose extend to its full length and breathed such a deep one my cheek-sacs puffed up like I had a pair of bialies stuffed in. So now this bummerkeh, this floozie, this painted hussy says to me, “What do you want with Kadak?”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, “I’ll get upwind from you, meaning no offense, lady, but you smell like your Church.” I rolled around her and got a little away, and when it was possible to breathe like a person, I said, “What I want is to go join my lust-mates on Kas—, on Bromios, but what I got to do, is I got to find Kadak. We need him for a very sacred religious service, you’ll excuse me for saying this, dear lady, but you being Gentile, you wouldn’t understand what it is.”

  She batted four eyelids and flapped phony eyelashes on three of them. Oy, a nafkeh, a lady of easy virtue, a courtesan of the byways, a bummerkeh. “Would you contribute to a worthy charity to find this Kadak?”

  I knew it. I knew somewhere on that damned looking for Kadak it would cost me a little something out of pocket. She was looking directly at my pouch. “You’ll take a couple of coins, is that right?”

  “It isn’t exactly what I was thinking of,” she said, still looking at my pouch, and I suddenly realized with what I’ll tell you honestly was a chill, that she was cross-eyed in four of her front six. She was staring at my pupik. What? I’m trying to tell you, butterfly, that she wasn’t staring at my pouch which was hanging to the left side of my stomach. She was staring with that cockeye four at my cute little pupik. What? You’ll forgive me, Mr. Silent Butterfly With the Very Dumb Expression, I should know that butterflies don’t have pupiks? A navel. A belly-button. Now you understand what it is a pupik? What? Maybe I should get gross and explain to a butterfly that shtups flowers, that we have sex through our pupiks. The female puts her long middle finger of the bottom arm on the right side, straight into the pupik and goes moofky-foofky, and that’s how we shtup. You needed that, is that right? You needed to know how we do it. A filth you are, butterfly; a very dirty mind.

  But not as dirty as that nafkeh, that saucy baggage, that whore of Babylon. “Listen,” I said, “meaning no offense, lady, but I’m not that kind of a person. I’m saving myself for my lust-mates. I’m sure you’ll understand. Besides, meaning no offense, I don’t shtup with strangers. It wouldn’t be such a good thing for you, either, believe me. Everybody says Evsise is a rotten shtup. I got very little feeling in my pupik, you wouldn’t like it, not even a little. Why don’t I give you a few nice coins, you could use them on Kasri—on Bromios. You could maybe set yourself up in business there, a pretty lady such as yourself.” God shouldn’t strike me down with a bolt of lightning in the tuchis for telling this filthy-mind cockeye heathen nafkeh what a cutie she is.

  “You want to find this Kadak?” she asked, staring straight at two things at the same time.

  “Please, lady,” I said. My nose started running.

  “Don’t cry,” she said. “Seymool is my God, I trust in Seymool.”

  “What the hell has that got to do with anything?”

  “We are the last of the Faithful of the Church. We plan to stay on Zsouchmuhn when they Relocate it. Seymool has decreed it. I have no hope of living through it. I understand cataclysms are commonplace when they pull a planet out of orbit.”

  “So run,” I said. “What kind of dummies are you?”

  “We are the Faithful.”

  It gave me pause. Even Gentiles, even nut cases like these worshippers of Shmoe-ool, whoever, even they got to believe. It was nice. In a very dumb way.

  “So what has all that got to do in even the slightest way with me, lady?”

  “I’m horny.”

  “Well, why not go in your Cathedral there and shtup one of your playmates?”

  “They’re worshipping.”

  “To that statue that looks like a big bug picking its nose, with the dreck and crap and mud all over it?”

  “Don’t speak disrespectfully of Seymool.”

  “I’ll cut out my tongue.”

  “That isn’t necessary, just stick out your navel.”

  “Lady, you got a dirty mouth.”

  “You want to know where Kadak is?”

  I won’t tell what nasty indignities came next. It makes me very ashamed to even think about it. She had a dirty fingernail.

  So I’ll tell you only that when she was done ravaging my pupik and left me lying there against a mud-wall of a building, the pink schmootz running down my stomach, I knew that Kadak had been as lousy an Apostate as he had been a Jew. One afternoon, just like in the synagogue years before, he ran amuck and started biting the statue of that bug-God they got. Before they could pry him off, he had bitten off the kneecap of Shmoogle. So they threw him out of the Church. This nafkeh knew what had happened to him, because he had used her services, you could brechh from such a thought, and he still owed her some coins. So she’d followed him around, trying to get him to pay, and she’d seen he’d bounced from religion to religion until they accepted him as a Slave of the Rock.

  So I got up and went to a fountain and washed myself the best way I could, and said a couple of quick prayers that I wouldn’t get knocked up from that dirty finger, and I went looking for the Slaves of the Rock, still looking for that damned Kadak. I walked with an uneven roll, hop, unwind. You would, too, if you’d been ravished, butterfly.

  Just a se
cond you’d think on it, how would you feel if a flower grabbed you by the tuchis and stuck a pistil and stamen in your pupik? What? Oh, terrific. Butterflies don’t have pupiks.

  Talking to you, standing here in sand, is not necessarily the most sensational thing I’ve ever done, you want to know.

  The Slaves of the Rock were all gathered in a valley just outside the city limits of Houmitz. The Governors wouldn’t let them inside the city. Who can blame them. If you think those Apostates were pukers, you should only see the Rocks. Such cuties. It is to varf!

  Big rocks they turned themselves into. With tongues like string, six or seven feet long, all rolled up inside. And when a krendl or a znigh or a buck-fly goes whizzing past, slurp! out comes that ugly tongue like a shot and snags it and wraps around and comes whipping back and smashes the bug all over the rock, and then the rock gets soft and spongy like a piece rotten fruit and absorbs all the dreck and crap and awfulness squished there. Oh, such terrifics, those Rocks. Just the kind of thing I would expect a Kadak to be when he couldn’t stand being himself no more. Thank you oh so very greatly, Reb Jeshaia for this looking mission.

  So I found the head Rock and I stood there in that valley, all surrounded by Rocks going slurp! and squish! and sucking up bug food. This was not the best part of my life I’m telling you about.

  “How do you do?”

  I figured it was the most polite way to talk to a rock.

  “How did you know I was the chief Slave?” the Rock said.

  “You had the longest tongue.”

  Slurp! A znigh on the wing, cruising by humming a tune, minding its own business, got it right in the punim, a tongue like a wet noodle, splat right in the punim, and a quick overhead twist and squish! all over the Rock. It splattered on me, gooey and altogether puke-making. Definitely not the kind of individual to have a terrific dinner out with. The guderim was all over me.

  “Excuse the mess,” said the chief Slave. He really sounded sorry.

  “Think nothing,” I said. “That was a very cute little overhand twist you gave it there at the last minute.”