The Kabbalist
Authors: Yoram Katz
The Kabbalist
A Novel
by
Yoram Katz
…
..
.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and events
portrayed in this book are either the products of the author’s imagination or
used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
or actual events is purely coincidental
.
Copyright © 2013 Yoram Katz
All rights reserved
ISBN-10: 1484946448
Printed copy:
https://www.createspace.com/4279961
1.
The Monk – January
16
th
, 2006 (Monday)
3.
Yaakov Ben Shlomo –
Acre, May 18
th
, 1291
4.
Pascal de Charney -
Normandy, April 19
th
, 1798
5.
Philippe de Charney
- Acre, May 18
th
, 1291
6.
Pulsa Denura -
Jerusalem, January 5
th
, 2010 (Tuesday)
7.
On the Galley - May
18
th
, 1291
8.
Yossi Luria – Haifa,
Israel, January 19
th
, 2010 (Tuesday)
9.
North of Acre – May
18
th
, 1291
10.
The de Charney
Letters, 1799
11.
Pierre de Severy -
Acre, May 18
th
, 1291
12.
Aryeh Luria - Haifa,
January 21st, 2010 (Thursday)
13.
The Templar Fort -
Acre, May 22
nd
, 1291
14.
Jeanne de Charney -
Haifa, January 24
th
, 2010 (Sunday)
15.
The Lurias - Haifa,
January 26
th
, 2010 (Tuesday)
16.
The Next Phase -
Haifa, January 28
th
, 2010 (Thursday)
17.
The de Charney Letter
Revisited
18.
Gaston de
Chateau-Renault – Cairo, June 28
th
,
1799
19.
Roland de Charney –
France, August 1799
20.
Yuval Eldad –
University of Haifa, January 31
st
, 2010 (Sunday)
21.
Stella Maris – Haifa,
January 16
th
, 2006 (Monday)
22.
Haifa Police – January
17
th
, 2006 (Tuesday)
23.
Ben Shemen Woods,
January 17
th
, 2006 (Tuesday)
24.
Brother Pedro – Stella
Maris, Haifa, January 18
th
, 2006 (Wednesday)
25.
Ze’ev Srur – Downtown
Haifa, January 18
th
, 2006 (Wednesday)
26.
Yuval Eldad –
University of Haifa, January 18
th
, 2006 (Wednesday)
27.
Chief Superintendent
Ehud Arnon – Haifa, January 19
th
, 2006 (Thursday)
28.
New Findings –
February 3
rd
, 2010 (Wednesday)
29.
Stella Maris –
February 8
th
, 2010 (Monday)
30.
Lorenzo Molinari –
Ben-Gurion Airport, February 9
th
, 2010 (Tuesday)
31.
Rendezvous in Haifa, February
10
th
, 2010 (Wednesday)
32.
Yeshayahu Orlev –
Jerusalem, February 14
th
, 2010 (Sunday)
35.
Jonathan Bennet –
Jerusalem, February 16
th
, 2010 (Tuesday)
37.
Rachel Porat - Haifa,
February 18
th
, 2010 (Thursday)
38.
Yeshayahu Orlev –
Jerusalem, February 21
st
, 2010 (Sunday)
39.
Death in Jerusalem –
February 23
rd
, 2010 (Tuesday)
40.
An Old Friend -
Jerusalem, February 25
th
, 2010 (Thursday)
41.
Orlev’s Hypothesis -
March 2
nd
, 2010 (Tuesday)
42.
Lorenzo Molinari –
Ben-Gurion Airport, February 23
rd
, 2010 (Tuesday)
43.
Rendezvous in
Jerusalem, March 3
rd
, 2010 (Wednesday)
44.
Farewell – Ben-Gurion
Airport, March 5
th
, 2010 (Friday)
The Monk – January 16th, 2006 (Monday)
I
t was late. A lone
monk, clad in a brown habit from head to toe, was making his way down the
stairs, cautiously clinging to the railing. Having reached the end of the
stairway, he opened the heavy library door, entered and flipped a switch,
flooding the spacious hall with light.
The library walls were
densely covered with book laden shelves. A rectangular timber table stood at
its center, surrounded by wooden benches.
The man pulled back his
cowl and unveiled a wrinkled face with a high forehead that sent deep inlets
into an otherwise full shock of white hair. He blinked to adjust his vision to
the light, advanced toward the end of the hall and stopped by one of the book shelves.
He pulled out a few heavy volumes and placed them upon the table, exposing a
metal safe behind them. Putting on a pair of glasses, he started turning the
small dial mounted on the safe door. After a while, the dial clicked and the
door opened.
Very carefully, he removed
from the safe a thick notebook and a dozen or so rectangular objects, and laid
them gently upon the table. He then returned the volumes to their original
position on the shelf, concealing the safe behind them once more. He lit a
small reading lamp, went back to the entrance and switched the main lights off.
The hall was almost dark
now, illuminated solely by the reading lamp on the table. With heavy steps, he
moved back on the thick carpet, stopped by a wooden bench beside the table and
closed his eyes.
This was his favorite
place, and this was his preferred hour. He was now finally free from his daily
chores to investigate, meditate and absorb himself in the profound. His lips
moved silently in prayer, thanking the Lord for bringing him here, to this
place, so close to the fountainhead.
Outside, thunder
rolled. The monk shuddered, crossed himself and then sat with some difficulty
on the hard bench. He pulled out a fountain pen and laid it on the table,
leaned forward and opened his notebook. He proceeded to arrange the rectangular
objects upon the table in two separate groups. These turned out to be written
parchment pages sandwiched inside thin glass casings.
The old man gazed at
the pages arrayed on the table for a long time, still finding it hard to
believe the miracle that was lying there on the table before him. Once again,
he realized in wonder that he was one of the few people in the world, if not
the only one, to have access to it and to understand its significance.
He took a deep breath
and progressed to study the pages, going from one group to the other, patiently
comparing the texts and occasionally scribbling notes. Despite his excitement,
he felt a bit frustrated. Although he had long ago accepted the fact that he
would never be able to share this knowledge with anyone, it was still a
dispiriting thought for a scholar.
A full hour went by.
The old man was still immersed in his work. So immersed was he, that he did not
notice the stranger who walked across the room, with the heavy carpet
swallowing the sound of his steps. When he finally perceived movement and
turned his head, the stranger was already standing right behind him. Adrenaline
rushed into his bloodstream, causing his heart to palpitate wildly. He tried to
stand up and turn around, but did not quite make it.
The last thing he saw
was a masked face and then something heavy came crashing down against his
skull. His field of vision blurred and started to shrink rapidly, until it was
reduced to a bright and shining dot of light.
Then, the light went out
and everything was blank.
Shimon – Galilee, 149 AD
T
wo lean figures
crawled out of a cave. The first, a young man in his twenties, supported an
older man as they fought to rise and stand on their feet. Both were dressed in
rags, pale and almost unbelievably thin. For a long while, they just stood there,
between the carob tree and the fig tree that concealed the entrance to the
cave, blinking to adjust their eyes to the blinding daylight and shivering in
the morning chill. Suddenly, the older man started swaying on his feet like a
drunkard. The young man put his arm across the other’s shoulders to stabilize him,
but the older man’s legs were quivering like stalks of straw in the wind.
“Let us sit down for a
while, father,” said the young man tenderly. He cautiously guided his father to
a nearby flat slab of rock and helped him get seated. He removed a small
leather pack, which was strapped to his shoulder, and took a seat next to the
old man. They sat together in silence.
The solar sphere
appeared above a near mountaintop, sending a blinding flash into their faces.
The two men closed their eyes and enjoyed the warmth. When they opened their
eyes again, they noticed the magnificent view surrounding them. Green hills
rolled around, covered in oak and terebinth trees, among which violet pink
patches of blooming cistus occasionally shone through. The earth, green with
grass, was spotted with pink, red and yellow wild flowers. Bushes in purple,
white and yellow were in bloom all about them, their perfume filling the air.
In the distance, they could see the silvery green of olive trees and in the
horizon rose green mountaintops, illuminated by the morning sun.
The young man was first
to break the silence. “Have you ever seen a lovelier sight, father?”
His father looked at
him. “We are blessed to have been granted this privilege, Elazar, my son.”
“Is this paradise?”
The old man gave a rare
smile. “No, my son, yet this is a day of genesis, of birth and creation for us,
and I indeed feel much like Adam.”
They fell silent again.
Silence, it seemed, came natural to them.
“Why are you looking at
me this way, father?” asked Elazar after some time. Another long spell of silence
followed.
“You have grown so
much, my son… I wish your mother were here to see you… when we descended into
this dark pit, you were not yet
Bar Mitzvah
[i]
…
and now you are a man amongst men…”
The young man did not
answer; the memories of another life, abruptly cut off thirteen years before,
were too vague in his mind. “Don’t we need to fear the Romans anymore?” he
inquired.
A spasm of rage crossed
the older man’s face. “May the names and memory of the destroyers of the Temple
and the murderers of Rabbi Akiva be blotted out forever. They are still the
masters of the land, my son.”
“So why are we leaving
the cave, father?”
“It has been a long
time. The dog they call Caesar has by now breathed his last foul breath.”
“And what of the death
sentence against you?”
“The sentence is
annulled with the death of that vermin, Hadrian. They will not bother us now,
son. Don’t worry.”
“And how do you know
about Caesar’s death, father? We have been recluses, out of touch with the
world for thirteen years now.”
His father did not
answer.
After thirteen years of
living together, isolated from the rest of the world, Elazar knew his father as
much as a man could know another, but he also learned to accept the fact that
he would never be able to understand him fully. At least once a day, his father
would retreat into himself, close his eyes and cease communicating for hours on
end. Upon emerging from his trance, he would mumble words the boy could not
comprehend. Most of the time, his father would burrow into his ’books’ or
write. The ‘books’ and some writing material were the only items they brought
with them to the cave when they fled Yavne in haste, after his father had
decided it was no longer safe there.
Within a few years,
young Elazar became well-rehearsed in the art of writing. In time, his father
learned to appreciate his skills and allowed Elazar to put in writing the
content of some of the strange and wonderful ideas they were discussing during
those long years.
Apart from carob fruits,
figs and the water from the spring which flowed inside the cave, writing
materials were perhaps the only other commodity that was always in supply. In
spite of the risk involved, the father would leave the cave every so often to
bring groceries, candles and writing materials from the nearby village of
Peqi'in, returning after a few hours. The locals, who considered him a saint,
provided for his needs and never asked for payment, satisfied with the
blessings and talismans he would sometimes grant them. Upon his return, the
father used to bring some bread or cooked food for his son and occasionally even
meat or cheese, while he was content to live on carob fruits and figs. It was
not only the art of writing that the son had acquired; his father also let him in
on his visions and revelations, and with the passing years, the two became a closely-knit
team, sharing their own unique language and insights of the wonderful abstract
worlds they were discovering together. And yet, Elazar knew there were things
his father would not share with him.
Elazar pulled out of
his pack a small clay jar of spring water and some dry carob fruits, which he
proceeded to share with his father. They ate in silence and drank from the jar.
The sun rose high in
the sky and noon was approaching, with the two still sitting on the rock.
“Where shall we go from
here, Father?”
* * *
A small caravan of three
men, leading ten heavily laden donkeys, was strolling along. It was past noon,
when the first rider identified two figures stepping out of the mountainside
into the dirt path. He raised his hand and the convoy came abruptly to a halt.
The three men on their donkeys huddled closely together and conversed
hurriedly. They then dismounted, gathered their donkeys into a tight group and
drew small daggers from their robes.
The father and son
approached them. When the merchants saw them at close hand and understood that
these two famished shadows of men presented no threat, their suspicion gave way
to relief. A bearded fellow, apparently the leader, burst into thundering
laughter and signaled to his friends to put away their daggers.
“Shalom,” said Elazar.
“Peace be upon you.”
“Peace be upon you, my
friend,” replied the bearded man. “Please forgive the unfriendly welcome. We
have encountered bandits on this route before, and that may have interfered
with our good manners.” He removed a water skin from the closest donkey and
handed it to Elazar, who promptly passed it on to his father. The two men drank
thirstily one after the other, while the merchants looked at them with obvious
curiosity. “It looks as though you have been through hard times,” observed one
of them. “Can we help you in any way?”
The father looked at
him gratefully. “You are a righteous man, sir; all of you are righteous men.
Old Hillel taught us
‘Love thy neighbor as thyself’
and you indeed have
in you the capacity to give. Blessings be upon you all. Where are you heading,
my friends?”
“We are on our way to
the village of Meron,” answered the leader.
“Can we join you?”
The bearded man smiled.
“Of course you can,” he extended his hand in friendship. “My name is Abba and
these are my friends Hizkiyya and Yissa, and you are…?”
The father grasped the
extended hand with both his bony hands. “This is my son, Elazar, and I am
Shimon. Shimon Bar Yochai.”