When I first came to Israel, I was shocked to find that many Gentiles were going to great lengths to convert to Judaism. I had spent much of my adult life trying to hide that aspect of my identity. I could not understand their motives. Dialoguing with these people revealed to me the lie of Western multiculturalism. The glaring truth was that we are not the same. Jews are essentially different from non-Jews in every aspect of our lives. It goes beyond the individual. It is the result of thousands of years of collective unconscious. It encompasses culture, our physicality, and our spiritual selves. Conversion to Judaism is a recent phenomenon, rare and even illegal in every host society Jews have visited. One hundred years ago, it was absurd to want to become Jewish. Why would anyone choose to be loathed and persecuted? While conversion is possible, it is an arduous process.
This story presents that process in a different setting.
It is an excerpt from my yet-to-be-published novel, "The Wannavus."
She was climbing for three days without food, forced to eat snow to slake her thirst and numb her empty stomach. Her clothes were far too light for the mountains, but she continued because she could not go back. She couldn’t build a fire for fear of being followed, caught, and dragged back to her village. Tired, cold, and scared, she had not slept in three days. Determination and desperation kept her legs moving, for she had no hope left to feed her dreams.
She arrived at the town’s wall in the middle of the night and searched in the dark for the entrance. The next morning, a young goatherd leading his herd to pasture found her asleep on the gateway, leaning against the stone lintel. Startled, he ran to the elder. The old man told him to give her a blanket, some bread, water, and goat cheese, to build a small fire and make tea. But the elder forbade the goatherd from speaking with her.
The goatherd did as he was told, leaving the bundle next to the sleeping girl, and arranging sticks under a crude pot full of water and tea leaves, ready to be lit. He led his goats to the lower pasture while singing about a dark-haired angel who lost her wings and fell from the sky. The elder spoke to his cook before leaving for the study hall, putting her in charge of the foundling. He told the beadle to spread the word that she was not to be allowed into the town. Gatekeepers were assigned and instructed not to speak to her.
At noon, the cook prepared vegetable stew in an earthenware pot. When she arrived at the gate, the first stone-faced guard was already in place, and the girl was awake. The gatekeeper watched carefully as the cook slid the food through the opening in the locked gate.
“I have cooked this for you. If you are hungry, I will bring you more,” the cook said.
“I thank you,” the girl said. She struggled with the language of the mountain town. She knew the words, but her accent made it difficult to understand. “This man will not speak to me. Will I be allowed into the town?”
“That has not been told to me,” the cook said. “They told me to feed you and to give you this coat to wear. If you have any food left over from your journey, you must give it to me now. It must be burned. The elder will come to speak to you.”
The cook stayed to watch her put on the heavy coat and eat the stew. The girl did not seem to notice the frayed edges of the sleeves where the blue trim had been removed. The cook looked down at her own heavy wool shirt and its blue fringes. The elder had instructed the cook and the guards that the girl was not permitted to wear the fringes. The cook was a simple woman and had never left the village. She naturally assumed that all clothing fit to be worn had the fringe. She was shocked when the old man told her to take the fringe off before giving the coat to the girl. It seemed somehow unnatural to see someone wear a coat without it. When the girl finished eating, she picked up the pot and sat staring at its design. The design was a crude drawing of hands circling the bowl.
“This design is what you people do to the sky?” the girl asked.
“Of course,” the cook said. “But it is just a design.”
‘Just like the design that should have been on the coat had the elder not told her to remove the blue fringes,’ the cook thought.
“Do you do that to the sky?” the girl asked.
The cook began to feel uncomfortable. It was strange the way this girl, hungry and cold as she was, was intensely interested in a custom that even the smallest child of the village knew about. She was the elder’s cook, which carried some honor. Though it did not necessarily make her knowledgeable or wise, the cook, like many in the village, was kind and trusting, with a good measure of common sense.
Unused to being suspicious or keeping secrets, the cook hesitated before speaking. “I don’t think I should be talking to you about this,” the cook said.
“Oh. Well, thank you for what you have done,” the girl said reluctantly.
“One last thing,” the cook added. “The elder said that you are not to come into the town.”
The girl hung her head, her matted hair covering her face as she nodded.
The elder arrived late in the afternoon before evening prayers. He found her leaning on the gatepost, staring down into the valley. When she turned and smiled at him, he saw that her skin was dry and cracked from exposure. He also saw how the young men of the village would find her exotic looks attractive. His sharp eyes saw the purple remains of a bruise near her left eye and other signs of abuse and neglect.
His title was ‘elder,’ and though he was not the oldest man in the town, he was the cleverest. When people asked, he would say that the position was his because no one else wanted it. He was an expert in the intricacies of folklore and sky painting, but the villagers also consulted with him about practical matters: planting, shepherding, domestic tranquility, raising children, and business.
He asked her name. She looked down, her greasy hair hiding her eyes.
“They call me Asha,” she said, naming one of the female gods from the pagan pantheon.
“You must not use that name here,” the elder said. “You may not even say it to anyone here. From now on, you must use the name Malune, in the old language, which means half moon. Tonight, you must stay outside the gate. We will decide tomorrow whether you are allowed to learn what is required to stay in the city. Before we let you in, you will have to understand the true speech.”
“I already speak…” she said, looking up, fire in her eyes.
“You must speak it much better,” he said angrily. “And speaking it is not the same as understanding. True speech has meanings within meanings. Did they teach you numbers and math in the lowlands?”
The fire in her eyes went out, and she looked down, shaking her head, her greasy hair swaying.
“Work will be found for you outside the city, and you will be cared for,” the elder said. “Wood will be brought for a fire, and a bedroll will also be brought. Do not tell any townspeople of your life in the valley.”
“What is your name?” she asked. “I can’t ask for you if I don’t know your name.”
The old man looked at her again. He had read many books of wisdom, but his real passion was in reading people, and this girl was a challenge. Among his own people, he was wise, but few of her kind came to the city. Horrible stories about his people were part of their folklore. His ancestors had chosen the remote mountaintop to avoid persecution. The priests of the valley had created a web of lies, demonizing his people and the truths they guarded. It was a rare villager who saw through the lies and sought the teachings his people guarded.
She looked up again in defiance. She had been through much suffering, passing through the fear and shame of leaving her people. Her eyes burned with a desire to complete what she had begun, to find the secrets that his people had guarded for generations. She had left her life behind, with nothing to go back to. This gave her a desperate strength that worried him. He knew that she posed a danger to the town. Names in true speech carried power, and he would not be giving her his name until he could trust her not to misuse it.
“You do not need to ask for me,” he said. “If I am not here, then you do not need me.”
He turned and walked away. She watched him through the iron gate as he hobbled down the narrow street between the low houses. The stones of the road were smooth from generations of use. The houses were built low against the bitter mountain winds with heavy thatched roofs. The doors were made of heavy planks, but each door was carved with marks that echoed the signs they made in the sky. She had come so far to find the source of the light that lit the night sky. She didn’t understand how such a plain town could create such beauty. There was nothing special about the mountain town, but signs of the light ceremony were all over. She had left her home in search of the source of the beautiful lights in the sky. She didn’t understand them, but she was drawn to them, and something deep inside her almost understood. She was sure they had a more profound message.
As a child, she had imagined the source of the light to be a golden palace floating in the clouds. But as she grew older, she overheard her townspeople telling horrible stories about the mountain people. One story claimed the lights were from bonfires they used to roast children taken hostage from the valley people. They were described as having horns and hooves for feet. Anytime something went missing, the valley people blamed the mountain people. If a mountain shepherd wandered too close to the valley town, he would be caught and killed.
Despite all this, she finally decided to come to the mountain. When her parents discovered her plans, they chased her out of the house. The neighbors overheard and joined in, beating her as she ran away. Thus her journey began, in shame and pain.
And after all this, the mountain town had locked its gate to her. She was too tired to cry the tears she so desperately needed to shed. She leaned back against the wall, soaking in the warmth of the thin mountain sun. She stared down at the valley and thought how easy it would be to leave, to float down the mountain slope and return home and beg forgiveness.
That night was blacker than any she could remember from the valley. The light from the small fire flickered in the wind, and thick clouds hung low over the mountain, hiding the stars. She knew that tonight there would be no moon. This was according to her plan. She had pushed hard to arrive on time for the ceremony. At midnight, she heard a horn blow in the middle of the town. It blew a steady rhythm, blasts interspersed with lengthy pauses. Another horn joined in, blowing the same rhythm. Yet another horn joined in. More horns joined in from every corner of the village. They continued to blow for a long while. She watched through the gate as the people of the town left their houses in silence, each with an oil lamp in his hand. They were all wearing white cloaks with hoods, and she could see that the sleeves bore decorative trim ending in blue fringe.
She looked down grimly at the plain, frayed sleeves of her borrowed coat.
From the center of town came a glow she could see over the roofs of the houses. Slowly, it grew stronger, becoming a solid beam that cast a circle of light onto the low clouds. She watched in fascination. This was what brought her to this village. She had watched the lights from her home hundreds of times, but seeing them this close was amazing. The horns continued to blow out a rhythm, joined by a drum; the heavy beat felt deep in her chest.
The light flickered and swayed in time with the horns’ rhythm, jumping from side to side. The image of hands, magnified hundreds of times, began to interlock on the face of the clouds. She could hear voices, singing in a language she could not understand, but knew that it was what the mountain people called true speech.
She sat alone in the dark, looking up at the lights dancing on the clouds. She did not feel the tears that dropped from her face, freezing as they touched the stones at her feet. The music stopped after several hours, and the hands moved away from the light. After the ceremony, the people walked home, laughing and singing, the delicious smell of food coming from the houses.
She continued her vigil. The light was still there, shining up at the cloudy heavens, creating an artificial moon, less beautiful but more intense than its natural counterpart. It eventually faded before dawn, but not before she drifted off to sleep, dreaming of a night sky filled with hundreds of dancing moons.
The next morning, the cook came with her breakfast. Before she was finished eating, the elder returned.
“Malune, did you see the ceremony last night?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “It was beautiful. I have seen it from my village, but it is even more beautiful up close.”
The elder noted the enthusiasm in her voice. “I am glad that you enjoyed the ceremony, but you will not be allowed to enter the village today. The gate has not been opened for quite some time. It has rusted shut. A special oil must be prepared to open it. The oil requires one week to prepare and at least two weeks to apply properly. The gate is quite ancient and precious. It requires special care.”
“Is there no other way to enter the city?” she asked.
“There is another gate for shepherds and those who work in the fields,” he said. “But those who wish to stay in the town and take part in the ceremony must enter through this gate. It is a custom that has deep roots and an even deeper meaning. You can come in through the other gate, but then you will only be permitted to stay for six days.”
“Will the gate be opened before the next ceremony?”
“That is no concern of mine,” the elder said. “The gate will open when it is time for it to open. My only concern is that the tradition be adhered to. This includes opening the gate properly.”
“But you said...”
“I remember exactly what I said, but many things must be considered,” the elder said sharply. “We don’t know who you are or where you come from.”
“I told you these things,” she said.
“You told me words,” the elder said, noting the pain on her face. “I want to know what is really behind those words. I don’t know who or what you are. A pretty girl runs away from home. She is probably a thief or a woman of too many evenings spent in the wrong beds.”
These last words stung her into silence. She drew her arms around herself for warmth.
“You will stay here for three more weeks, and then you will be allowed into the village,” he said. “You will stay here and work for one cycle. When the next ceremony of the new moon comes, you will stay outside the gates for one week. After that, I will give you my decision.”
He turned and went back into the village. The gatekeeper stared silently at Malune, wondering if what the old man had said was true. She sat on her cast-off bedroll and stared down into the valley. An eagle soared slowly down from the mountain, hiding in the clouds as they flew across the sky.
If you like this story and want me to continue writing, please encourage your friends to subscribe.
If you would like to order my books, they are available on Amazon:
The Master of Return and the Eleventh Light
(Non-Fiction) The Return of the Red Heifers
If you want to help support my writing, subscribe with a donation, or support me through PayPal: adamberkowitz@yahoo.com
You can check out my videos on YouTube
Check out my website (I spent a lot of money on it so …)
