Enchantress: A Novel of Rav Hisda's Daughter (30 page)

“How so?” Surely a man didn’t write a
get
unless he intended to divorce his wife with the document.

“One husband sent a
get
to his wife by messenger. However, she was busy weaving and told him to return later,” Rava said. “When the husband heard this, he blessed the Holy One ‘who is good and does good.’ Because the husband was so pleased that the
get
had not been delivered, I voided it.”

“That was generous of you.” It would be better if men weren’t so capricious.

“But Abaye ruled the
get
valid, saying that if it were delivered to her later, the wife would be divorced.” Rava scowled. “The others sided with him.”

“And the next case?” I didn’t want to disagree with Rava, who was already upset, but if the husband truly was pleased to remain married, he should have made that clear by voiding the
get
himself.

“A certain man would not support his wife properly so Rav Yehuda compelled him to give her a
get
. But no sooner was it written than the man canceled it. So Rav Yehuda forced him again, and the man canceled it again. Finally Rav Yehuda compelled him to give it and told the witnesses to stuff up their ears and sign it.” Rava sounded impressed. “Abaye gave me a look daring me to challenge Rav Yehuda with my opinion about intent, but I remained silent.”

I had to agree with Abaye. If a man’s intent was paramount, rabbis could never force a recalcitrant husband to divorce his wife no matter how he mistreated her.

When I said as much to Rava, he frowned and replied, “It is a shame that we must rule for everyone based on the behavior of a few despicable men.”

 • • • 

All summer I looked forward to observing the autumn holidays with my family in Sura. Especially with my son Chama, who was growing up before my eyes and looking more like his father each time I saw him.

But first we had to stop in Machoza so I could go over accounts with Efra, our crooked-nosed steward. Rava spent his time conferring with his business partner, Gidel. All went well until the day Rava returned in such a foul mood that I was afraid of what had happened.

“We were at the dock inspecting new boats when who should disembark but Bar Hedaya.” Rava was so irate he could barely speak.

“Ha-Elohim!” Why was my husband angry? He’d spent years looking for the dream interpreter who’d given him such terrible predictions, and now he’d found him. “What did you tell him?”

“I paid for a dream interpretation and said I’d dreamt that Abaye’s house fell down and the dust of it covered me, to which he replied that Abaye would die and his
beit din
would come to me.” Rava scowled in disgust. “Then I told him that my own house had fallen and everyone came to take away a brick, and he said my teachings would be disseminated throughout the world. Finally, when I said that in my dream I read the Hallel Psalms, about Egypt, he replied that miracles would happen to me.”

“Was it the part about Abaye’s death that upset you?” I asked. Otherwise Bar Hedaya’s predictions sounded wonderful.

“It wasn’t that. When Bar Hedaya boarded another boat, I joined him. But he was afraid to accompany a man for whom a miracle would happen, so he got off at the next stop. He was in such a hurry to escape me that he dropped his dream interpreter’s book.”

“So you picked it up?”

“I did, and I saw written, ‘All dreams follow the mouth.’”

I wasn’t sure I’d understood him. “You mean it is his power of speech that predicts what will happen?”

“Yes.” Rava clenched his hands in fury. “His dreadful auguries came to pass only because he said they would.”

“What a cruel man.” My dear husband would have been spared so much suffering if only Bar Hedaya had remained silent.

“I ran after him and called out, ‘Wretch! It all depended on your words, and you gave me so much pain! Still, I forgive you everything except what you predicted about me seeing the daughter of Rav Hisda die.’ Then I cursed him, asking that it be Heaven’s will that he be delivered up to a government who would have no mercy on him.”

I put my hand on his arm. “You didn’t need to curse him on my account. I don’t want to live longer than you.”

Rava had no regrets. “The man knows his interpretations will occur as he says, so he shouldn’t disclose the bad ones.”

 • • • 

Rava’s bad humor worsened when we arrived at Father’s and learned that Rav Hamnuna, with whom he studied the secret Torah, was seriously ill, too ill to study with Rava at all. My mood was no better, for Tachlifa brought bad news from Sepphoris. Yochani had fallen and broken her leg.

I prayed fervently that Yochani would recover, and Rav Hamnuna as well. But I was not surprised to hear the plaintive cries of the shofar on the afternoon before Shabbat—not the blast warning people to finish their work before sunset brought on the Day of Rest, but the wailing call that heralded a scholar’s death.

Before the shofar had blown twice, Rava was putting on his shoes and cloak. “I’ll go get the news.”

I expected that he would spend the night and all of Shabbat with Rav Hamnuna’s body, so I was surprised to see him back before the evening meal. His face was so ashen that Father and my brothers rushed to his side.

“It wasn’t Rav Hamnuna. They blew the shofar for Rabbah bar Huna.”

“But we saw him yesterday at court,” my brother Nachman declared. “He seemed perfectly healthy.”

“He was walking back from the souk when a palm branch fell on him.” Rava shook his head in disbelief. “He died within hours.”

“Will there be time to bury him before Shabbat?” Nachman asked.

“It wouldn’t matter if there was.” Father’s voice quivered with grief. “Rabbah bar Huna wanted to be buried in Eretz Israel, near his father.”

We all looked at Tachlifa, who would be leaving for the West when Sukkot was over.

Accepting the inevitable, he shrugged. “I suppose his estate will pay for a fast caravan across the desert.”

“I will go inform his family,” Rava said. “I also want to be the one to share the news with Rav Hamnuna and then stay to console him.”

Rava didn’t return on First Day, and my fears were confirmed when the mourning shofar sounded again at dawn. Despite their priestly status, Father and Nachman prepared to attend the funeral. Though they wouldn’t enter the graveyard, they could stand outside the walls and honor their colleague’s memory.

Except there wasn’t going to be a funeral—that is, not one at the cemetery.

“Hamnuna also wanted to be buried in Eretz Israel,” Rava told us when he returned. Then while I was washing his feet, he said softly, “He asked that I accompany his body.”

I could hear the reluctance in his voice. “Would you like me to come with you?” I asked, eager to see Yochani. I smiled inwardly, thinking of how she would enjoy the children. But I also wanted to see Salaman again.

Rava’s expression changed so rapidly to one of surprised relief that I couldn’t help feeling flattered. And so it was decided.

 • • • 

As our camels swiftly covered the distance between Sura and the start of the southern Silk Road, the odor of the aromatic herbs packed around the rabbis’ corpses brought back poignant memories of my first trip across the Arabian Desert almost fifteen years before. I couldn’t help but marvel at how fate had changed my life in the interim.

Back then, I was a new widow nursing a baby who would never know her father, and my hatred for Abba bar Joseph, whom I blamed for my husband’s demise, knew no bounds. Now, amazingly, while I was also nursing a baby, his father was that same Abba bar Joseph, who rode the camel in front of mine, along with our two older sons. And my love for all four of them knew no bounds.

At first Joseph and Sama were frightened of the swarthy and fierce-looking Saracens who were both our guards and guides, but one of them soon won the boys over by vying with Tachlifa to tell the most fantastical stories of desert life. Eventually my sons lost their fear of the Saracens, but the camels continued to terrify them, and in truth I never trusted the vile creatures myself.

Still, we crossed almost the entire desert without incident, which I attributed to the protection we received from Heaven while fulfilling the mitzvah of carrying scholars to be buried in Eretz Israel. So my initial reaction when the wind picked up was gratitude for the relief it provided from the heat. Even when small whirlwinds appeared and disappeared with increasing frequency, I was unconcerned, since I could see the distant hills that signaled the end of our journey. Except they weren’t hills.

Before us loomed an enormous sandstorm.

Rava and I watched anxiously as it drew closer, until he abruptly approached me. “We must cast the spell we used at Pesach.”

I gulped and was about to protest that we needed Father too, especially as this sandstorm was so much bigger. But Rava’s tone brooked no argument. Besides, what was there to say? If we did nothing, we and our sons could be in mortal danger.

“I’ll recite the incantation first and you follow, like last time.” He reached out and squeezed my hand. “Let’s hope this is the miracle Bar Hedaya predicted for me.”

EIGHTEEN

I
nodded and gave thanks that, having found no time to use the bed since Shabbat, Rava and I were
tahor
. After telling Tachlifa and our nursemaids to guard the boys, I followed Rava to where the camels were tethered, providing a small windbreak. Rava closed his eyes, faced the enormous wall of sand, and began to speak. He was not so demanding as before, invoking the angels who controlled the wind as though he were addressing a subordinate whose commander was Rava’s friend.

The swirling sand cleared a little, and I had the impression that Rava’s words were being considered. Unfortunately I could now plainly see the rolling wall of sand so high it would soon blot out the sun. I wanted to run in terror to protect my children, but I somehow summoned the strength to calm my mind sufficiently to cast the spell.

As I’d done before, I ardently requested the angels to let us continue our mitzvah journey and allow these pious servants of the Almighty to be buried in His holy land. I was so frightened I was shaking, but I got the words out the best I could.

There seemed to be a lull, during which Rava and I turned to look at each other questioningly. Then I sensed a change in the air, and though no words were used, I received an angelic message that while the storm could not be stopped, neither would it impede us. It was like sweet music of lutes and harps inside my head. Rava’s eyes grew wide with awe, and I knew he’d heard it too. Together we sank to our knees and prayed the Psalms of Hallel.

When the music disappeared and we rose, the Saracens were standing a respectful distance away. The leader slowly approached Rava and then waited for him to speak first.

“We can go,” Rava declared, and I marveled at the strength in his voice. “The storm will stay at a distance.”

Only Tachlifa had the courage to speak to us normally. “I knew Rava was studying Maaseh Bereshit,” he whispered to me, “but I didn’t realize he had acquired such power.”

I was tempted to tell my brother about my part in the magic, but I wasn’t sure I wanted my powers widely known. In the end I said nothing, having decided it was better for people to underestimate me than stand in awe of me.

 • • • 

The wind continued to blow, but now it was at our backs instead of in our faces. Earlier the Saracens had ignored Rava, consulting instead with Tachlifa. From now, they would serve Rava first at meals and he would receive the choicest piece of meat. If anything, they ignored me more assiduously than before.

The wall of sand continued to blot out the rising sun, but it remained in the east. The camels, desperate to escape the danger they sensed, sped across the remaining desert with the result that much sooner than expected I was breathing the aroma of forested hills instead of dust.

The first wadi we came to was running with water, so we took time to wash while the camels drank their fill. The next two nights it rained, and our guides said we would need to avoid wadis now, staying on higher ground and roads where there were bridges. We passed over several bridges without incident, but then a bizarre thing happened when we came to a particularly narrow crossing.

Instead of continuing in single file, the camels transporting the coffins came to a halt and refused to budge.

One of the Saracens turned to Rava. “Why are they acting so strangely?”

I had no idea how he knew this, but Rava replied, “The deceased scholars each want to honor the other by letting his camel proceed first.”

“It seems to me that Rabbah bar Huna, a sage who is also the son of a sage, should take precedence,” the man suggested.

So they led the camels across in that order, and all seemed well until the camel carrying Rav Hamnuna’s coffin suddenly kicked the Saracen in the mouth and knocked out two of his teeth. The man wasn’t otherwise injured, and indeed uttered a string of obscenities so coarse even Tachlifa blushed. I attributed the incident to camels’ generally surly nature.