King of the Fields

by Isaac Bashevis Singer

  The men of the village tried to learn the oral Torah from Ben Dosa. They also needed a teacher of the aleph-beth for their little children, one who would explain to them the laws of Moses and the holy word of the Pentateuch, as it was called in the language of the Greeks. He could help them correct mistakes that had fallen into their version of the Gemara. They all remembered the words that Rabbi Yochamin Ben Zaki had given to the invaders of Zion: Give me Yavna and its sages. Yes, they had as much trust in Kosoka as their rabbi finally had. And they were prepared to build a little hut for Ben Dosa and his bride after they were married.

  It was considered appropriate for Sarah to fast on the day of her wedding, and to wash the feet of old and sick women as the start of doing good deeds. When she was given a quill and taught to sign her name on the ketubah, she burst out wailing and could not hold the quill in her trembling hands. No wine was allowed at the poor repast when the seven blessings were recited. To be a Jew in exile meant permanent mourning. Just the same, they put up an old silk-woven chuppah, or canopy, and found a shabby silk dress for the bride. They covered her face with a faded veil and provided her with an old silver ring.

  Ben Dosa was dressed for the occasion in a white robe, in order never to forget that in the end every man must die and be dressed in a shroud. There was a custom among the Jews that at the beginning of the ceremony the bride be led around the bridegroom seven times, in keeping with the saying of the prophet: And the female will surround the male.

  The whole wedding ceremony took place under the stars. In his speech, the rabbi mentioned the names of Ben Dosa’s father, Dosa, who had been a teacher of Jewish children in the town of Sura. While the ketubah was being written, the rabbi asked the bride if she was a virgin, and this caused an outburst of laughter among those present.

  It was the custom that an earthen dish be broken by the bridegroom at the end of the ceremony, to symbolize the destruction of the temple. Ben Dosa stamped on it with his right shoe, and as it shattered, it was taken as a sign that he was still young and potent. When Kosoka was handed the customary goblet of wine, it slipped out of her hand, which was considered a bad omen, that she would die in childbirth. But Ben Dosa said the Jews were not allowed to believe in such superstitions; according to the Talmud, the life and good fortune of Jews did not depend on the stars, for it is written: Astrology does not determine the fate of the nation of Israel.

  (2)

  Cybula and Yagoda spent the first night after their flight in the same cave in which they hid on the night Kora killed Lis. They found a pelt they had left behind, remnants of coals from the fire they had lit, bones from the meals they had eaten. The river that flowed at the bottom of the cave gurgled and splashed now as it did then.

  It was pleasant to be alone once again with Yagoda. Cybula could tell her whatever came into his head: words of wisdom, foolish words. He could boast to her, invent lies, chatter about his dreams, daydreams, his exploits with women. She listened to everything, even demanded more. Sometimes she asked a question which proved to Cybula that she really understood him. Sometimes like a child she begged him, “Tell me a story.” And Cybula would begin to spin a tale, inventing it as he went along.

  Outside the cave it was the end of summer. But inside there was a chill which Cybula had not felt before. Yagoda snuggled close to him, trying to warm his body with her belly and breasts. But from time to time a frosty wind ran down his back. During the day, while pursuing an animal, Cybula realized that his eyesight was not what it once had been. How had this come about? When? He closed his right eye, and it was clear to him that the left eye did not see as well as the right. He made up his mind not to tell Yagoda. She was worried about his health, and complained that he ate too little. He used to eat raw flesh, from which the blood still ran, but he had suddenly acquired an aversion to blood. Ben Dosa had said that when Cain slew Abel, the God of Jerusalem told him: “Your brother’s blood cries to me from the earth.” Cybula now thought that he could hear the animals’ blood calling out of the earth: “Why do you kill us? What harm have we done you? What if someone were to shed your blood?”

  Yagoda went in search of animals and fish, while Cybula sat outside, warming himself in the sun and scribbling letters and words. He was not ill, but he was also not well. The cave did not suit him as it once had. He had grown accustomed to sleeping in a bed, not on rocks. Since meat was no longer acceptable, he longed for bread, for pretzels baked on hot stones, for the porridge which Kora sometimes cooked for him of oats and with mushrooms to enrich the taste. Something puzzled him, and he could not rest until he found the answer. He was unable to stop thinking about Kora. She had always spoken about her great love for him. She had always sought ways to please him. She had risked her life for him. At every opportunity she said that he, Cybula, was her god, and that she would not live an instant after he was gone. And at the same time, she was frolicking with a band of robbers, thieves, and murderers, disgracing herself and the memory of her murdered children. Cybula thought that until he solved this riddle he would not be able to die.

  Cybula also missed Ben Dosa. Where was he now? He would probably lose his life during his journey to faraway lands. How good it would be to have him here, to listen to his tales, his parables, the wisdom he gleaned from books written by gods in faraway cities, in faraway times. And then, all at once, Cybula himself began to speak to the gods.

  “God of Jerusalem, are you really here with me? Are your eyes everywhere and do they see everything? Do you know where Ben Dosa is? Is Kosoka still with him?”

  Another time Cybula spoke to the god of death. “Shmiercz, god of all gods, are you really the most powerful? I will serve no one but you. As the god Sun shines on everything alike, so you bring death to everything alike. When you lay your hand on someone’s head, all his cares cease: hunger, thirst, all ills, all pain. You are the ruler of the mountains and valleys, all rivers, all rocks. Whoever is in your hand knows true rest. Bestow your peace upon me, Shmiercz. I am tired of the gods of life.”

  It was too dark in the cave for him to write, and so, with a knife he had bought in Miasto, he tried to carve a figure out of a block of wood. It was to be the god of death. Cybula planned to carve the likeness of a skeleton, with a hole for a nose, and with teeth but no mouth. It was not an easy task, but he knew he would succeed. He had both time and patience. Yagoda slept, awakened, slept again. So it went through the day and the evening. Clearly she was troubled with something, but what it was, Cybula did not know. Whenever he asked her, she had but one answer: “It’s nothing.” Once she blurted out, “It’s you!”

  “Are you thinking about your matka?”

  “Yes. No.”

  “Do you miss Kora?”

  “No.”

  “Would you be angry if I killed her?”

  “Why didn’t you? She herself begged you to kill her.”

  “It is too late now. Besides, death is too good for her. If I had killed her, she would have had peace. Death is not a punishment, Yagoda.”

  Although the days had already grown shorter, that day dragged on. For the evening meal Yagoda gave Cybula a chunk of fish and two apples. But Cybula ate only half of one apple. Yagoda said, “If you eat so little, you will lose your strength.”

  “I don’t need strength.”

  No sooner had he uttered these words than a noise was heard outside, near the cave’s opening. Cybula sprang up, agitated. Had Krol Yodla’s riders come for him? By the light of the fire he recognized Kora. Yagoda cried out, “Matka!”

  “Yes, it is I,” Kora said. “I’ve come to you out of the hollows of the earth.”

  Cybula and Yagoda stood and stared. Kora said, “Come, help me. I’ve brought along a horse.”

  Cybula instantly felt new strength streaming into his body. He hurried to the cave’s opening, and Kora motioned him to come outside. In the dim light which shone out of the cave he saw a horse tied to a tree, laden with bags and satchels. Kora herself was wrapped in fur skins. H
e heard her say, “I couldn’t live without you.”

  “You miserable whore!”

  “I suppose that is what I am.”

  And she threw herself upon Cybula, embracing him, kissing him, weeping.

  “Where did you get a horse?” Cybula asked.

  “I stole it.”

  “How is Laska?” he asked, his voice quivering.

  “Ptashek recovered. Krol Yodla took Laska for himself.”

  “He took her for a wife?”

  “He already has three others.”

  “Did you see her before you left?”

  “They did not let me near her. She is a good-looking woman, she will do well. They always need women like her,” Kora said. “I couldn’t live without you.” There was a change in Kora’s voice. “I tried but I couldn’t.”

  “And the field?”

  “They’ve sown the winter wheat.”

  Cybula wanted to thank the gods, but restrained himself. “It will be easier to die now,” he said.

  “Together with me,” Kora said.

  He stood in the darkness and shivered, not knowing whether from the cold or from Kora’s return.

  “I tried to live without you,” Kora started again, “but I couldn’t. I thought of you day and night. I couldn’t sleep. A fire burned in my hut, but I was cold. I was cold as I’ve never been before. I covered myself with all the pelts I had, but I was still cold. This was not the ordinary cold, it could have come only from Baba Yaga. Once I left the camp and was on my way to you, I felt warm—despite all the rain and snow.”

  “All those riders couldn’t warm you?” Cybula asked.

  “Be still, Cybula, don’t be so sharp-tongued.”

  “Tell me about the camp.”

  “There is much work. Krol Yodla wants to be the krol of all krols. He meddles in everything, sticks his nose into every pot. The horse I took is not theirs but yours, from Miasto.”

  “How is Nosek?” Cybula asked.

  “Nosek joined them. He does whatever Krol Yodla tells him to do. He lives with Wilk and his mother now. Oh, that Nosek is like a man shaped from clay. He and Piesek are now Krol Yodla’s kniezes. I proposed to Nosek that he come with me, but he said, ‘Kora, I am deaf; I heard nothing.’ Those were his words. He is forever counting and calculating. Krol Yodla released him from plowing the field for the winter wheat because Nosek is to devote all his time to counting and measuring and weighing. Piesek also. They are a pair of stuffed men, like birds that are stuffed and only look as if they are alive.”

  Yagoda came out of the cave.

  Kora asked, “You no longer kiss me, eh? I am still your mother.”

  Yagoda did not answer. Cybula said, “You may kiss her. Whatever else she is, she is your mother.”

  Yagoda remained silent.

  That night Cybula demanded that Kora tell him the truth, the whole truth, and Kora did as she was told. It was difficult to know whether Yagoda slept or only pretended to sleep. Kora enumerated all the men she had had since she had begun to mature. Cybula asked her to leave nothing out, and it seemed that Kora remembered every instant of passion with these soldiers, even the words that were spoken to her, and the frivolous nicknames by which she was called. At times Cybula asked, “Were you not ashamed?”

  And Kora answered, “No. Not for a second.”

  “He spat at you, and you kissed him?”

  “Yes.”

  “It gave you pleasure?”

  “Great pleasure.”

  From time to time Cybula slapped her, grabbed her hair, pulled it. She said, “Pull, my god, torture me.”

  Once again he became young and strong. He entered her and she shrieked, “You are the best, the strongest! Not a man but a god, a young god! Tear my flesh, stab me, break my bones, drink my blood! Kill me!”

  “That is what I shall do.”

  “Yes, I came to you for this.”

  “You want to die?”

  “Without you I don’t want to live.”

  “You lie!”

  “No, no, my god. Why should I? I could have stayed in the camp. They all wanted me. They swallowed me with their eyes, from the youngest rider to Krol Yodla himself. But I left them all and came to you, through rain and snow.”

  “You came to see your daughter.”

  “To see my daughter? She is not my daughter now, I am not her mother. If I saw her devoured by wolves, I would not lift a finger to help her.”

  “What would you do if I were to kill her?”

  “You could cut her throat and I would kiss your hands. I would lick the blood off the knife.”

  “Don’t you ever have pity for anyone?”

  “I have no pity.”

  “You are a liar from your head to the tips of your toes. A word of truth has not yet left your swinish mouth,” Cybula said.

  “Ah, my sweet, how gently you speak to me. No one has spoken to me as you. Not even Ben Dosa.”

  “You wanted him, too?”

  “Very much so. But he refused me all the time. When he tried to teach me to read and to write and he bent over me, I used to think to myself, I wonder how he is with a woman.”

  For a while no one spoke. Then Cybula asked, “Why did you come here?”

  “I told you. To die.”

  “Is this the truth?”

  “Without you it made no sense. I enjoyed other men as long as I could go from them to you, lie in your arms, hear you speak, kiss your feet. But when you were not there, I wanted no one. Yagoda has attached herself to you like a leech, and you let her hang from your neck and suck your blood. And yet you ran away from me. Why?”

  “Because she is truthful, while you lie.”

  “My love for you is not a lie.”

  “I love her, while you I despise.”

  “Your words sting. How can you hate one who loves you so much? You yourself also lie. Do you believe in the hollows of the earth?”

  “No.”

  “What becomes of us when we die?”

  “Ashes and dust.”

  “Out of ashes a rose may grow.”

  “Out of your ashes nothing will grow but thorns.”

  “As long as something grows. I am tired, Cybula, very tired. Do you really want to die?”

  “Yes, Kora.”

  “Will you kill me first?”

  “If you don’t run away.”

  “I won’t run away, my sweet. I have had enough of everything, except you. When will you kill me?”

  “In as many days as you have fingers on one hand.”

  “Five days?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what will you do with your leech, my daughter?”

  “Crush her.”

  “She is carrying your child in her womb. You planned to bring forth a new generation through her.”

  “Nothing will come of it.”

  Cybula and Kora lay down and soon they fell asleep. Before dawn Cybula awoke, he was not sure why. By the glow of the coals he saw Yagoda standing, a bloody ax in her hand. “Yagoda, what are you doing?”

  “I have killed my matka,” she answered.

  Cybula said nothing. Then he asked, “Why, Yagoda?”

  And Yagoda answered, “It was what she wanted herself.”

  That morning Cybula and Yagoda climbed up one of the high mountains. The sun was shining and the air was warm. Husband and wife were wrapped in fur skins and wearing shoes on their feet. Cybula was holding Yagoda by the hand, having told her where he would lead her. Now they walked together, neither quickly nor slowly. When they reached the summit, a yawning chasm stretched far below. They stood on the rim of the rocky ledge and looked down. There in the depths a narrow river flowed, white with froth. Cybula said, “Soon we will join your mother.”

  “Where is she?” Yagoda asked.

  And Cybula answered, “In the hands of the gods.”

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