Apprentice (30 page)

I held back, transfixed by the linen-shrouded burden in Ukva's arms. This was my doing, and so I was unworthy to lament among the official mourners. Tears streamed down my face, but I remained silent even as we entered the cemetery and passed by the many other burials proceeding around us. As much as I wanted to hide my face against Grandfather's chest, I forced myself to watch as Ukva knelt down and gently placed Nanai's small body in its shallow grave. Then, as we took turns filling in the hole, I heard men's heavy sobs in the distance.

I turned to look, and there, just on the other side of the low stone wall, stood Father and Rami. Rami's chin lay on his chest as he wept, but Father, silhouetted against the gray sky, held his arms up in the air. His hands were open, beseeching the Heavens. I had never seen Father cry, and before I knew it, I was clambering over the stones. I threw my arms around him and together, accompanied by the souls of those recently buried too young, we bewailed our loss toward the uncaring clouds.

When it came time for the evening meal, I didn't feel well. My head ached and my belly hurt too. Shayla made me drink a dose of some evil-smelling medicine and sent me to bed. I woke in the morning, moaning with stomach cramps.

Zahra was there in an instant, her hand on my forehead. “At least you have no fever,” she said with relief.

I groaned and clutched my belly as another cramp seized me.

“Do you need to use the chamber pot?” she asked anxiously.

“I don't feel like I have diarrhea,” I replied. “But I would like to relieve myself.”

I emptied my bladder and bowels into the pot, then wiped myself with a round stone. I peered down to see if I needed to wipe again and gasped. “The pestilence is attacking me.” I stood up and thrust the stone at Zahra. “Look at the blood.”

But Zahra was staring at my bed linens and grinning. “You're not ill,” she declared a moment before embracing me. “You're
dashtana
. You've become a woman.”

I followed her gaze, and my bloodstained bedding corroborated her words. Blood was also trickling down my legs. I winced as another cramp seized me. “Is it always going to hurt like this?”

Zahra handed me a linen rag to stanch the flow. “Only for the first few months. You shouldn't feel pain once you're married.” She smiled and added, “I have more good news. Your sister is expecting another child.”

Overwhelmed with emotions, I fell silent as Zahra prepared my
sinar
, the special apron stuffed with worn linen that would catch my menstrual flow and prevent it from staining my clothes. Rami told me that Pushbi had reinstated Ukva as her heir, which I surmised was because she'd learned that Achti was pregnant again. Suddenly I recognized a sound I hadn't heard in far too many months. I rushed to the window and opened the shutters.

Father's prayers had been heard. It was raining.

It was still raining when I bled again the following month, and I chafed at my confinement. My first flow had been exciting. Mother beamed and explained that from now on I should carefully note the phase of the moon when my bleeding started. My sisters-in-laws smiled and told me about when they'd first become
dashtana
. I wore my
sinar
proudly and was careful to change the rags regularly. I made a point of not washing Rami's hands and feet, and of avoiding Father's lectures. I stayed indoors to weave silk ribbons with Pazi and Tazi, and listened attentively when they discussed husbands and babies.

The month after that I was bored. There was no Mishna study with Father and his students while I bled, nor could I inscribe amulets or
kasa d'charasha
. Not that I needed to. The pestilence was waning, and Rahel avoided installations when it rained.

I had resigned myself to a few more days of weaving ribbons, when I heard a commotion at the front door. Along with everyone else upstairs, I raced to the landing. A litter stood empty in the courtyard, and coming up the stairs, supported by Mother and Shayla, was my sister, Achti. Her eyes were closed and her face was as pale as milk.

They laid her gently on my bed, and Shayla said fiercely, “Do not leave her alone for an instant.”

I closed my eyes to concentrate on reciting psalms, especially the antidemonic Ninety-first. “Adonai, my refuge and fortress…. He will save you…you need not fear the terror by night, the arrow that flies by day, the plague that stalks the darkness, the scourge that ravages at noon…no harm shall befall you, no pestilence touch your house, for He will order His angels to guard you.”

Pazi and Tazi brought their small looms, and said amen when I completed each verse. Just as I did when inscribing amulets, I envisioned encircling angels shielding my sister from the demons named in the psalm: Fahad, terror; Hez, arrow; Dever, plague; Ketev, scourge; and Nega, pestilence.

We didn't find out what was wrong with Achti until Beloria, joining us with her basket-making supplies, whispered, “She miscarried yesterday—another girl.”

Poor Achti, first Nanai and now this. What could she possibly have done to provoke the Evil Eye so harshly?

All that day women in my family crept in, stayed for a while, and crept out again. The pitter-patter of raindrops on the roof mingled with our murmured prayers. Achti's maidservant tenderly changed the bloody linens and fed her bowls of nourishing meat broth.

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 meant 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.”