Enchantress: A Novel of Rav Hisda's Daughter (41 page)

My stomach tightened, for I had a bad feeling I already knew the case. “You said
charasheta
were involved?”

“He complained that his defect wasn’t natural, that a couple of
kashafot
had bound him.” Rava carefully avoided meeting my gaze. “He couldn’t identify them since they were veiled, but one was wearing purple and the other red. He wanted the court to find them and reverse the curse.”

“What did you say?” I concentrated on pouring more soup without spilling any.

“I informed him that the way he became bound was not our concern. We could, however, test him to confirm that he was able to emit seed under other circumstances, in which case he would not have to pay his wife’s
ketuba
when he divorced her.”

“How can the court test him for that?” I was flooded with relief, and with curiosity.

“Rav Yosef’s method was to take hot barley bread and place it on the man’s bare anus, after which any normal man will emit seed.” Rava recited this incredible procedure with the same aplomb as if he were explaining to Sama why people washed their hands after using the privy.

“What?” I sputtered, my face flaming. Under what possible circumstances had someone devised and tested this bizarre assessment?

“Abaye protested that most men are not so pious that the court must resort to such extreme measures to test them,” he continued. “He suggested we show a man some colorful women’s undergarments instead.”

“Do you think that would work?” I asked doubtfully.

Rava shook his head. “I believe most men are not so debauched that merely the sight of women’s underclothes will cause them to emit seed either.”

“So how does the court test him?”

“As Rav Yosef described,” he replied. “However, after we informed the man of this procedure, he confessed that several harlots had not cured him. Then he agreed to divorce his wife without the court’s interference.”

“Do you suppose Rav Nachman will ask Yalta to find the
charasheta
involved?” This was the closest I could come to asking if anyone would discover our participation.

“Certainly not. She does not meddle in his business and he does not meddle in hers.”

Reassured, I sat back and downed my soup.

Rava stifled a yawn, then stood up and stretched. “I expect Rav Nachman will keep us up late tonight discussing the Exodus from Egypt. I’m going to take a nap.”

 • • • 

Compared to my family’s Seders in Sura, Rav Nachman’s was a small, subdued gathering, men on one side and women on the other. I only perked up when he gestured to our sons to begin reciting Ma Nishtana, the piece of Mishna that begins, “Why is this night different. . . .” I beamed with pride as Sama stood up and chanted it, followed by the other four questions from Mishna about why we ate matzah,
maror
, and roasted meat, and why we dipped our greens twice.

When Sama sat down, Nachman turned to his slave Daru and asked, “A slave whose master set him free and gave him silver and gold, what should he say?”

“He should thank him and praise him,” Daru promptly replied, so promptly that he and Nachman must have repeated this exchange every year.

But I judged it cruel for Nachman to tease Daru by asking about a master freeing his slave and rewarding him when he, Nachman, had no intention of doing so. Rava’s expression, which had been beaming when Sama finished, hardened ever so slightly, and I knew he agreed with me.

All this time I kept covertly glancing at Donag. Yalta’s daughter looked familiar, yet I couldn’t place where I’d seen her before. Once the meal was served, I asked her, “Have you spent much time in Sura or Pumbedita?”

“I’ve never been to either city,” she replied. “I dislike traveling so much that the only time I leave home is when I come here for Pesach.”

Strangely, though I felt certain I’d seen her somewhere, I knew I hadn’t heard her voice before.

In low tones Yalta addressed her daughter. “It is your husband who keeps you homebound. Before you were captured, you used to travel.”

Donag winced. “You are wrong. It is precisely because I was captured that I no longer travel. In this my husband and I are in agreement.”

Yalta might feel slighted that her daughter only visited once a year, but I sympathized with Donag. Thankfully, Yalta turned her attention to her daughter-in-law, Mar Zutra’s wife. I was grateful for being excluded. Now I could concentrate on Rava and his colleagues as they debated various aspects of the seder.

Rav Safra pointed out that in the Mishna telling us to serve matzah,
maror
, and
haroset
at the seder, the Sages say that eating
haroset
is not a mitzvah though Rabbi Elazar declares that it is. “So what is the reasoning of those who say
haroset
is a mitzvah?” Safra asked.

Now I leaned forward eagerly. Not only did the Sages in the Mishna disagree on whether
haroset
was a mitzvah, but those who said it was couldn’t agree on why. Rabbi Levi explained that
haroset
commemorates the apple trees under which the Israelite women secretly gave birth so the Egyptians wouldn’t find their babies, while Rabbi Yohanan said it recalls the clay the Israelites used to erect Pharaoh’s edifices.

I smiled proudly when Rava resolved the dispute. “Abaye holds that
haroset
must be made tart with apples and thick with spices,” he said. “Tart to recall the apple trees and thick to recall the clay.”

I shared a Baraita I’d learned from Yochani that supported her uncle Yohanan. “Our Sages teach in accordance with Rabbi Yohanan that spices are a remembrance of the straw and the
haroset
is a remembrance of the clay.” When I was finished, everyone looked at me in astonishment except Rava, whose eyes shone with delight, and Yalta, who smiled in smug satisfaction.

When I looked from Rava to Yalta, I saw Donag’s face in profile, her nose a slightly smaller version of Nachman’s. Suddenly I realized where I had seen her. Donag had been the
charasheta
on the boat when I first went to study with Em, the one who had used magic to make the wind blow.

“Is it possible you were on a ship to Pumbedita ten years ago?” I asked her. When she denied it, I gave up and returned my attention to my food.

When slaves removed our empty plates, Yalta moved her cushion closer to mine and whispered, “Why do you think you saw Donag near Pumbedita?”

I was trapped. Unless I lied to Yalta, my reply would disclose my ability to detect magic. “I saw someone who resembled her greatly and thought it must be Donag because I sensed her casting a spell.”

Yalta jerked to attention. “What spell?”

I recounted the scene on the boat but said nothing about seeing the woman again when I installed my first
kasa d’charasha
for Homa’s nephew.

Yalta was more interested in my ability to detect magic than the mysterious sorceress who looked like her daughter. “Have there been other occasions?” she asked.

“Yes,” was all I said. I had no intention of sharing every instance with her.

“Interesting.” Yalta looked hungry to know the details, but she was wise enough to see that the seder table was not the place to discuss such things.

The men were still clucking back and forth about Pesach rituals like chickens bickering over grain when the women left for their beds. It was only later that the question occurred to me. What if the
charasheta
I’d seen in Pumbedita was Donag’s sister, Zafnat?

 • • • 

The next morning I woke to the sound of Rava weeping. I put my arms around him and asked, “What’s wrong?” Had something happened at the seder to distress him?

“Rav Oshaiya is dead.” Before I could offer my sympathy, he continued: “A letter came for me at court and I put it in my purse to read later. I only got the chance now.”

“I’m so sorry. I know how much he meant to you.”

“Nachman hasn’t been able to find anyone in Machoza who knows Maaseh Bereshit or Maaseh Merkava.” Rava clenched his hands in despair. “I can’t give up these studies. I’m not even forty yet.”

“I’m grateful I had the chance to see him again when we ate his calf that last Shabbat,” I said, hoping to offer some comfort.

“It wasn’t his calf. I created it.” He sniffed back tears. “That was why he wanted me to come that day. He no longer had the power to do it and he needed to be sure that I could.”

At first I was too awed to speak. My husband had created a calf—not an illusion but a real calf—and I had eaten some of it. “Are you going to continue his custom?”

“Me? Create a calf every week?” He paused, and I knew he was considering it. “I don’t think so, certainly not every week. Yet I don’t want my master’s knowledge to be lost, so perhaps I’ll do it on special occasions . . . in his memory.” He began crying again.

I held him tight and let him weep on my shoulder. Maybe it was time for him to find a student.

 • • • 

It was the night before Rosh Hashana. The evening air was warm, but I shivered with a mixture of fear and anticipation. Rava had left the torch at the cemetery entrance, and it was merely a point of light in the distance now. We cautiously made our way between the graves, our path lit only by stars on this moonless night. We had seen no one since leaving Father’s villa, and I was relieved there would be no witnesses.

That is, no living human witnesses. I had no doubt that an uncountable number of
ruchim
and
mazikim
were observing us.

We stopped when we saw Mother’s grave, the only recent one in the vicinity. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure the spirits could hear it. Rava had warned me to stay back when he cast the spell to summon her, but if successful, he would gesture me to come closer. I had no choice but to agree, yet I hadn’t realized how terrified I would feel when we separated. The hair on my arms rose as the recent dead stirred, this one night of the year when the curtain between this world and the next was thinnest.

Rava was now a black shape silhouetted against the dark background, and I squinted to see what he was doing. His hands were moving, but I couldn’t tell if they were beckoning me or not. Was it the wind or did I hear his low voice murmuring? Then, just barely at first but growing stronger, I had the distinct feeling that someone was approaching. I looked around wildly but saw nothing different. Yet I was certain we were no longer alone.

Rava’s voice changed from the mumbling he used with incantations to the tone of normal conversation, if conversing with a spirit could be called normal. I took a few steps toward him and watched carefully until I was sure he was signaling me. Then, my heart racing, I joined him.

Rava had cautioned me that there would be nothing to see, only a disembodied voice. But I saw Mother, not as she had looked on her deathbed but decades younger, the way I remembered her from my childhood. Only she was dressed in white and wore no jewelry at all. She wasn’t corporeal, more like a reflection from a dusty mirror, but I could see her and she was smiling.

“During the year after death it is easiest to return, but even so, I cannot stay long.” I heard her words in my head, not through my ears, more like an echo than a real voice.

“We will not detain you,” Rava said, evidently hearing her as I did. “Can you help us remove or counter the curse of Eli?”

“My daughter’s spell will be successful at averting the curse from further generations, and Abaye should have a normal life span, but to save Bibi you must negotiate directly with Samael.” She made it sound as simple as bribing the magi to stay away at Hanukah.

“But how? We cannot summon the Angel of Death,” I cried in dismay. Not that I was eager to summon him even if I could.

“You must find a time when he is already there and be prepared to offer someone else’s years in exchange.”

“We cannot do that,” Rava declared. “Bibi’s blood is no redder than another man’s.”

I realized we had another option. “Will he accept Yehudit’s lost years? Or Rami’s?”

Rava looked at me in admiration. Mother smiled and replied, “You will have to ask him.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

Her reflection began to waver. “I have done what you asked and must soon return. Is there something else you want to know?”

“Rav Nachman says he can find a magus for me to study with,” Rava said. “Should I do this?”

“Yes, it will benefit you both.”

“How long must I wait until Yalta starts teaching me magic? She hasn’t shown me anything except binding spells.”

“Be patient, Daughter. Things will be different by next year.”

“May we summon you again then?” Rava asked.

Mother smiled as she faded away. “Higher priorities will prevent you from coming to Sura.”

“Wait,” I called, but it was too late. I didn’t realize we’d have so little time. I hadn’t told her how much I missed her or asked how to deal with Joseph. Neither Rava nor I had asked about Solomon’s ring.

Overwhelmed at our accomplishment, yet filled with regret at things unsaid, I gazed into the distance, toward where the cemetery gate should be. And saw no light. I turned this way and that, but still no light.

“Of all the bad luck,” Rava said in disgust. “Our torch has gone out.”

The dark seemed to close in on us. I held tight to Rava’s arm and tried not to stumble over the roots that seemed to reach up to trip me. I had no idea if we were going in the right direction. “Are we lost?” I finally asked him, when it seemed that we should have reached the entrance some time ago.

“We are not lost,” he replied irritably. “It will just take us longer than if we had a torch.”

“Eek!” I let out a small scream when I walked into a cobweb. Tugging off the spider silk, I’d had enough. I turned in the direction I thought the entrance lay, and recited the incantation Mother had taught me to kindle fire.

I let my breath out when the torch burst into flames a short distance away. We walked back in silence, but whenever I looked at Rava, his expression was one of wonder.

Once back in our room, his fingers gently tracing the curve of my bare shoulders, he whispered, “I hope you can show me how you did that spell.”