The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Sixth Annual Collection

TREE OF LIFE, BOOK OF DEATH Grania Davis

The village teemed with death. Located as it was in an armpit of rocky land in the Carpathian foothills, between Poland and the Ukraine, the village shtetl caught endless tidal waves of warring armies. It became a rest stop for angry, golden-haired Slavic soldiers, who tried to unwind by killing Jews and raping dark-haired Jewish women. After many generations the surviving Jews of the village became famous for their golden hair.

Then the Hapsburg empress decreed that Jews were allowed to leave the shtetlach, to settle in safe and prosperous walled towns. The tolerant Hapsburg empress knew of the legendary founding princess of Prague, who brought good fortune to her people by allowing the Jews to settle beneath her ancient castle walls. The goldenhaired Jews of the village welcomed the imperial decree, and praised its wisdom. They packed their meager belongings, pickled the scanty vegetables in their stony gardens, and prepared to depart for better lives in the bustling Slovakian market town of Gidlov.

Only one golden-haired Jewish woman did not pickle and did not pack, for she was in the throes of giving birth. The woman named Schulka lay in the back of the wagon, clutching her belly, which was big as a nobleman’s house. The midwife bustled back and forth between her own packing, and supervising this improvised birthing couch, while Schulka’s sisters hastily gathered her belongings with their own.

The entire village departed as a caravan, traveling the rutted dirt roads together for safety. Just before the horse-drawn wagons lurched to a start, Schulka gave birth in a burst of sweat and blood. The midwife held up two healthy, squalling twin girls, with little rings of golden fuzz crowning their heads, and little birthmarks shaped like tears of blood at the napes of their necks.

Schulka lay back in the wagon with a contented sigh, and said her twin daughters should be named Chava and Eva, and they should live like princesses in the rich walled town. Then Schulka sighed deeply again—and died in a pool of blood.

Schulka’s weeping sisters took charge of the infants, and embroidered their names on their little nightshirts, so they wouldn’t be confused. For it was their loving duty to honor their late sister’s wishes. They fed the twins on goat’s milk and honey, until the wagons stopped at a rustic town for the night. There they found a robust peasant woman whose baby girl had just died of fever, whom they hired as a wet nurse. As night fell, Chava’s and Eva’s tiny lips were contentedly fastened to the ample bosom of a strange, red-haired peasant woman in a strange town.

“Such a twisted dagger of fate,” wept the eldest sister, Tamarka, wiping her plump cheeks on the corner of her babushka scarf. “But thank God, Schulka’s sweet princesses will live.”

But the peasant woman was crazed by the death of her only child, and during the night she heard the voice of the Holy Mother whisper in her grief-maddened mind. The voice said that the soul of her dead baby girl had entered the little body of Eva, who must be saved and baptized in the sacred church. So the red-haired peasant woman, named Maria, hid Eva in a hunter’s hut in the forest during the night.

In the morning; the weeping peasant woman told Tamarka that a one-eyed Gypsy had climbed through the open shutters of her house, and stolen tiny Eva. Maria told how she gave chase, but the wily one-eyed gypsy moved like a cat in the dark and escaped. Tanta Tamarka and the peasant wept in their aprons over the fate of poor Eva. Maria promised to continue searching for the golden-haired infant, with the blood-drop birthmark at the nape of her neck.

Little Chava was placed in the care of a young nursing cousin, Leah, who could handle one more baby, but not two. Then the wagon caravan pulled away from the rustic town, where wildflowers grew from the thatched roofs, and storks nested in the chimneys.

“Fate twists like a dagger in my heart,” kvetched Tamara to Leah, as the wagon jounced onto the rutted dirt road with Chava, the one remaining twin. The grieving women didn’t notice a robust, red-haired peasant slip into the forest to claim Eva as her own.

The village Jews thrived in the town of Gidlov, which was a lively East Slovakian trading post on the road between Poland and the Ukraine. They established their homes and shops on a square at the eastern edge of town, where they built a great synagogue, grand as any church, to thank God for their good fortune. The Great Synagogue of Gidlov had walls and ceiling colorfully painted in delicate filigree, windows of dazzling stained glass, and altarpieces of heavy silver and gold. A jumble of mossy tombstones crowded the rear wall. The temple’s beauty and fame attracted scholars from afar, and even a wandering wunder-rebbe from Muscovy.

Chava also grew and thrived in Gidlov. Her golden hair gleamed as she walked among the crumbling gray buildings, beneath the drizzly gray sky. As a young girl, she showed talent with words and skill with a drawing brush, and she became known as a poet and painter. She said she did not wish to marry, and her family didn’t press the matter—because she had the same delicate build as her poor mother who died in childbirth.

Chava and her father boarded with Tanta Tamarka’s family, and her papa and uncle drove drayage wagons, carrying trading goods to the merchants’ shops. Chava spent her time at her drawing board, and helped her aunt with chores around their bustling courtyard.

Yet always there was the sense of something missing—of someone missing. Chava knew the story of how her twin sister was stolen as an infant by a one-eyed Gypsy. She often frequented Gypsy fairs, hoping to see a delicate, golden-haired girl among the swarthy Rom faces.

One drizzly spring day, just as the apple trees were forming fruit against the gray sky, a Gypsy circus came to Gidlov from the steppelands of the Huns. The Rom set up their tents and their booths in a meadow outside the town walls. Everyone in Gidlov was excited by the Gypsy circus. Gentiles and Jews flocked to hear the wild music and to watch the lithe sword jugglers. The townfolk wandered among Gypsy booths selling fur hats and leather boots, embroidered felt capes and amber beads, icons and housewares and spicy hot goulash.

Chava took her sketchbook to the Gypsy fair, for she loved to draw the Oriental Rom faces, so exotic, like tales from Egypt and India. She stopped to sketch an old fortune-teller, with a clip-tailed white monkey perched on one shoulder. The fortune-teller peered at his amber divination beads. He became aware of her presence, and turned to gaze at her. Then Chava saw that he had only one dark eye, and she gave a little cry.

The one-eyed Gypsy beckoned her to come closer. “Don’t be afraid,” he said with a gap-toothed smile. “I am only an old gray fool without an eye, and my wise companion is only an old white monkey without a tail. We can’t harm you . . . but we can tell what will ease the empty place in your heart.”

“You and your people have already harmed me—you created the empty place in my heart,” said Chava.

“Me harm . . . what harm . . . never harm . . . ?” burbled the old Gypsy. “Such foolish talk. Come closer now; come closer. My fleas promise not to jump on you . . . though you never can trust Gypsy fleas. Come gaze at the amber beads ... it costs only a smile . . . and see what can be seen.” The old man scratched at the fleas on his burly chest.

Where is my twin?” Chava demanded. “A one-eyed Gypsy stole her when we were just newborn babes.”

And you think it was me? laughed the Gypsy, his one black eye flashing. “Me looking after a squalling, soggy baby? No, thanks; I have enough trouble looking after my mischievous monkey ... and my famished fleas.” He scratched beneath his chin, and his monkey did the same. “I apologize for the unworthy Rom who did such a terrible deed. Between you and me, did he demand a big ransom?”

“There was never any demand for ransom,” said Chava.

You think we steal babies for love or charity?” scoffed the old Gypsy, scratching inside an ear while his monkey did likewise. “Why would he steal her, if not for ransom? It’s hard to sell such a tiny babe, still needing to suck and too young to work. My wily Rom mind smells rotten goulash. Come, look with me at the amber beads.” The white monkey reached out its little hand and beckoned Chava to come closer.

She knelt down on the felt blanket, facing the old Gypsy and his divination beads. The fortune-teller gazed intently into the clear amber, and stroked the beads with his grimy fingers, as if coaxing them to reveal their secrets. Then he closed his single eye.

“Ah,” he said. “Aha!”

“What?” cried Chava.

“The fleas,” he said. “They’re chewing my groin! Also, I see a red-haired peasant woman carrying a baby into the forest. Who was she? How was she involved?” The clip-tailed white monkey anxiously scratched its groin.

“She was the wet nurse my aunt hired ... the night my mother died ... the night my sister was taken.”

“Ah, aha! They’re nibbling in my ears!” The monkey scratched frantically in its ears. The old Gypsy opened his jet-black eye and gazed again at the beads. “That’s it! Your sister is still alive. The thieving wet nurse knows where to find her. And you must move quickly, my princess—because your sister is in great danger!” The white monkey chittered and bounced up and down with alarm.

Tanta Tamarka grew hysterical, and Papa raged when Chava told them the Gypsy’s words. “A dagger twists in my heart! A beautiful young woman like you mustn’t wander alone to such places—or you’ll disappear, too,” kvetched Tamarka, as she mixed the herring with sour cream and boiled potatoes in the steamy kitchen, and set the bowl on the wooden table.

Chava helped her aunt slice the rye bread and poppy-seed strudel, and herded her younger cousins to the table. She didn’t reply, for there was nothing to say. Papa poured himself a glass of hot tea. “You should stay at home and help your aunt in the kitchen,” he grumbled. “This isn’t the Grand Hotel.”

Chava nodded silently, and the family talk shifted to other problems, especially the infected foot of their strongest drayage horse. The horses were their livelihood— and far more important than any wandering daughter.

But Chava’s mind continued to wander all that night and the next day, to the Carpata Mountains where her baby sister was stolen. Was her twin really in great danger—and how could puny Chava find and help her?

Then she recalled the mushroom pickers, the groups of young folks who went up in the Carpatas after the spring snowmelt to gather mushrooms in the forest. They always had a good time, singing loud and jolly songs, and they returned looking tan and fit, with baskets of mushrooms to sell in the market. Surely her family would let her pick mushrooms this summer. It would be good for her health, and she could earn a few coins, and she could slip away to mountain villages to search for her missing sister.

Tanta Tamarka and Papa agreed that the mountain air would do her good, so Chava went to speak to the mushroom merchant. As she walked along the gray cobbled streets, beneath the gray sky, she nearly collided with someone dressed all in black. It was the Muscovy wunder-rebbe, lost in his mystical dreams. Chava apologized demurely.

“Your secret surrounds you like a cloud, and prevents you from seeing clearly,” kvetched the wunder-rebbe.

“What secret?”

“How should I know? It's a secret, isn’t it? If you want to tell me, then I’ll know what secret. ”

Chava laughed at his illogic. “If I tell you, then it won’t be a secret.”

“No, but maybe you’ll be able to see more clearly.” His eyes gleamed with a mad and holy warmth.

Chava impulsively decided to tell him—about the one-eyed Gypsy’s words, and her plan to seek mushrooms in the Carpata Mountains—and to search for her lost twin, Eva.

“You are like two halves of a broken heart. If you don’t find her, who will?” mused the scholar, twisting a chestnut-colored earlock beneath his stiff black hat. “But if she is truly in great danger, then you will be in great danger, too. Oy, little one, such a difficult secret. . . what to do?” He gazed at her with his wild and holy eyes, the color of a deep lake in a storm. Then he gestured to Chava to follow him to the Great Synagogue.

The interior of the synagogue always thrilled Chava. Whenever she sat in the women’s section during holidays, her mind strayed from the prayers to the rich hues of the filigree on the arched ceilings, the glittering chandeliers of Bohemian crystal, the marble columns, glowing stained-glass windows, and red-velvet hangings worked with gold. If only she’d been born sooner . . . and a man . . . she could have been an artist painting her soul into the walls of the holy temple.

Chava thought the wunder-rebbe would guide her to the gilded altar to say a prayer for her safety. Instead, he led her up a flight of narrow wooden stairs that led to the dusty attic, lit only by two narrow grimy windows. In the dim light, Chava saw that the wunder-rebbe’s skin had a golden glow. Though he was shrouded in a long black woolen coat and a black felt hat, his powerful hands and gentle, bearded face were illuminated with warm golden light.

In one corner of the dingy attic was a mound of powdery gray earth beside an urn of scummy water. The wunder-rebbe poured the water onto the earth and kneaded it into a mound of clay. As he worked, sweat poured profusely from his brow and scented the air with honey. He chanted an eerie and discordant melody. Chava watched and listened silently as the simple clay figure of a sturdy boy took form.

When the figurine was complete, the wunder-rebbe set it upright on the floor and traced the Hebrew letters for Chava and Eva on its brow. “This is the younger brother that your mother would have borne if she had lived. His name is Asher. He is known for great strength and for loyalty to his beloved sisters. He will go with you to seek mushrooms and your missing twin.”

But he is made only of fragile clay,” said Chava, feeling a sudden flash of fear as the attic filled with vibrant warmth.

We are all made of fragile clay,” thundered the wunder-rebbe. His holy madman’s eyes glinted with wild light.

Then the wunder-rebbe filled his lungs so his chest expanded like the trunk of a massive tree. He blasted air in the face of the clay boy, who turned ruddy like an overheated horseshoe. The wunder-rebbe’s skin blazed with a golden glow, and the scent of boiling honey filled the attic. He clasped the shoulders of the clay boy with his gentle hands, alive with golden fire, and he blew into the boy’s face three times. Each time the clay flesh gained—and retained—more color.

At last the clay had the tone of human flesh, yet the boy was still a simple figurine. Chava held her breath with terror and awe. How could she believe—or not believe—what she saw and felt? The wunder-rebbe chanted strange words in a strange melody while kneading the boy’s flesh with his long, pulsing hands. His mad and holy eyes flashed golden lightning.

Suddenly the wunder-rebbe shouted in a voice like thunder, “Awake, Asher. Awake!”

And a sturdy lad stood in the attic, yawning and smiling winsomely. Hebrew letters formed pale scars on his forehead.

“Awake, Asher,” whispered the wunder-rebbe gently.

“Oh Rabbi, was I asleep?” smiled the boy, rubbing the soft down on his cheeks. “I must have dozed off at my studies.”

“It’s time to wake up, Asher,” repeated the rabbi, pulling playfully at the boy’s golden forelock that curled beneath his cap. “Go with your sister Chava into the mountains to pick mushrooms. And you must stay with her and protect her from all harm.”

“No harm will come to my sister,” said Asher slowly, as if reciting a memorized prayer.

“Good boy,” said the wunder-rebbe. He sighed deeply, and his skin returned to its normal pallor. “Oy, it’s getting late. Let’s climb down from this stuffy attic. Asher can stay with me tonight. Go speak to the mushroom merchant, Chava, and leave for the mountains at once—and next time be careful whom you bump into on the street.”

The mountains were shrouded with mists, and wildflowers formed bright mosaics in rocky clearings in the forests. Chava wished she had time for her drawing board, as she and Asher joined the frolicking band of mushroom pickers along narrow and obscure pathways. They followed the muddy routes of mountain streams, to hidden glens where fairy rings of mushrooms grew. Then they fanned out to fill their baskets.

Asher was a warm and lively lad. He made friends with everyone before the first day was done. All were drawn to the sturdy and playful boy with the winsome smile. Soon he was leading mischievous games with the other boys, while his quiet and delicate sister trailed behind, wishing for her pen.

They camped like Gypsies each night, in the forest, or on the outskirts of rustic wooden villages; where smoke rose like sighs from the chimneys, and soft lamplight gleamed from windows not yet shuttered for the night. Here their leader could buy fresh milk and rye bread, cheese, and other provisions. At each village, Chava wandered like a shadow at dusk along rutted alleys, stopping at carved wooden gates to ask wistfully if anyone knew of her lost twin. No one had seen or heard of Eva.

Then one evening, in a shabby village where pigs and chickens poked for garbage in the muddy lanes, Chava approached a group of women who gossiped around a well with a long wooden handle. As she drew near, a buxom peasant woman whose red hair was streaked with gray crossed herself and began to scream shrilly.

“My God! Holy Mother! Why did you come here, child. Did you fly back like a ghost to torment your poor auntie for her sins? Holy God! Don’t you know they’ll hunt you if you escape—and me, too. He will destroy you if he finds you’re gone. They’ll be waking soon. Hurry back quickly, my child!”

Chava realized she’d found the lying peasant woman, Maria—who now mistook her for Eva. “I came to see you, Auntie,” she said, moving toward the woman, who crossed herself again and drew back against the stone rim of the well.

“You mustn’t! You know you can’t escape! It was wrong to sell you to him, my child. I know it was wrong, and I suffer the fires of Hell every day,” she wept. “But what was I to do, child? You were too weak to work in the fields, like my own darling daughter who flies with the angels. And no one wanted such a weakling as a servant. Then they saw you. He saw you, and said you looked like a fragile porcelain figurine. I had no other choice. He offered me a good price and promised to treat you like a lady. But that’s not why I sold you. You were never really mine, and I know that now. I love you, child, but I wasn’t never meant to keep you. He is cold and cruel. Hurry back before your master wakes!”

“I can’t do that, Auntie, because I’m not Eva. I’m her twin sister, Chava.”

“Holy Mother of God!” shrieked the woman, crossing herself vehemently. “How did you find me?”

“You found me,” said Chava. “I was picking mushrooms in the forest with my brother when I came upon you.”

“Your brother?” asked Maria in a calmer voice. “Then your poor father remarried? He was so upset the day your sainted mother died.”

“Then was the story of the thieving one-eyed Gypsy a lie?” asked Chava.

“A lie? No, no, not a lie. Thank God, he returned her to a hut in the forest the next day,” said the peasant woman, twisting her apron nervously with her big red hands.

“Then why didn’t you send for my father?” demanded Chava.

“I ... I forgot the name of the town where you were going. Your aunt wrote it on a paper . . . but I can’t read.” She made a feeble attempt at a gap-toothed smile.

“Your priests can read,” said Chava.

“Yes, but I got fond of her. I cared for her like my own, I did, though she was a sickly child. And I never asked for a penny from anyone until she was grown.”

“You tore us apart!” cried Chava. “Does she know about me? Does she know who she is?”

“She thinks she’s a foundling, the runt of my litter,” said Maria, wiping her eyes and nose with her apron. “I even had her baptized in the holy church to save her soul.”

Now it was Chava’s turn to weep. Eva was eternally lost to her as a sister. Yet surely the wunder-rebbe could undo what had been done—if they could find her.

“You must tell me where my sister is,” demanded Chava. “For I heard that she’s in great danger. Tell me at once, and tell me truly—no lies or tales. Where is Eva?”

“You’ll cause her more harm by bothering them,” wept the woman. “She’s in no great danger if you leave her be. But if he catches you snooping around, he’ll snare you both like butterflies in a glass.”

“Who are they? Why are they so beastly cruel? . . . Who is he?”

“I can't rightly say for sure. They are strange, child. Not like regular folks. They pay for everything with gold, and keep to themselves. You never see them at holy days or fairs. Sometimes they appear at dusk, like you, looking to buy honey or fruit. They never eat meat, far as I know. Their skin is cold and pale as moonlight, their hair is colorless as flax, and their eyes are icy blue. They use lots of fancy words, and their accent is strange. They never smile, like their faces would crack. Their master, Lord Gringore, is very strict. At first we thought they were some kind of Protestants, but now I don’t know. ”

“And you sold poor Eva to these fanatics? Where do they live?”

“Better than working her to death in the potato fields. They have a dreary village at the far end of the road . . . atop the highest ridge, always covered with clouds. The sun never shines up there, and the wind howls like a wolf pack. You can’t grow nothing there, only twisted trees. Why would anyone live in such a lonely place?”

“Maybe they want to be left alone.”

“We leave them well alone, and you’d better do likewise, child. If you value Eva’s life—and your own.”

Asher was curled up with the other boys, like a litter of drowsy pups, when Chava returned to the mushroom pickers’ camp. She gazed warmly at his sleeping face, nestled in golden curls. She’d grown fond of the rascal in the short time they’d been together, as if he really were her brother. How would he react to their quest?

After their breakfast of porridge and milk, she drew him aside. “Asher,” she said, “we must leave the camp today and go up into the mountains.”

“But why?” he asked with a merry smile.

“My little sister was stolen—long before you were born—and now she’s in great danger. We must find Eva quickly.”

“But I want to stay with my friends,” said Asher. “We play such crazy games. And the new mushrooms must be packed for shipping to the towns. . . . They spoil so fast. I’m the strongest boy in the camp, and I promised to help.”

“Wake up Asher!” said Chava sharply. “You must protect your sisters from harm.”

“My sisters must not be harmed,” said Asher slowly, as if reciting a memorized prayer. He rubbed the twin pale scars on his forehead.

It was a slow and laborious climb up the rutted roadway to the high ridge of the Carpatas, and the meager provisions they’d taken from the mushroom camp were quickly exhausted. They reached the end of the narrow road at dusk. Swirling mists obscured their sight, and winds howled like wolves.

“Sister, that is a very strange village that lies ahead,” said Asher quietly.

“Strange, indeed,” agreed Chava, shivering in the cold wind.

Along the roadway leading up to the village were gnarled dead trees whose branches were cut at odd angles. And these branches were sharpened into pointed stakes. Sharpened tree stakes were set around the rim of the village like a weird wall. Chava shivered again, and this time it wasn’t only the cold.

The houses were built of wooden shingles, with thatched roofs and delicately carved wooden porches, much like any other mountain village. But unlike other villages at dusk, there was no bustle of peasants gossiping at their gates, drawing water from the well, and settling in for the night. No children or dogs played in the alleys, and no smoke rose from the chimneys despite the cold wind.

“I think it’s deserted,” said Asher. “No one lives here anymore.”

“I think you’re wrong,” said Chava as they wandered the narrow lanes. “Look at the cracks at the edges of the shutters. You can see candlelight flicker in some of the rooms.”

The alley opened onto a narrow square, with a rustic, wood-shingled church topped with graceful onion domes. Chava and Asher held hands and stared. In the churchyard, where the cemetery should have been, was a tangle of sharpened tree stakes.

“This place scares me,” said Asher, slowly rubbing the scars on his forehead.

“What do you want?” asked a woman’s voice behind them.

Asher and Chava turned and gasped. The young woman was like a mirror image of Chava, with the same delicate features and golden hair.

“Oh Eva! Sister, we’ve found you! Thank God. You must come away with us at once.”

“What do you want here?” repeated the woman coldly.

“We want you!” cried Chava. “Are you blind? Can't you see that we’re two peas in a pod? You are my twin, stolen at birth, and this is our brother. We came to take you home.”

“This is my home,” said the woman.

“No, no. You were sold here as a servant, by the peasant woman who kept you from your true family. You are confused, Eva.”

“How do you know my name?” asked the woman.

“Because I’m your twin!” cried Chava. “Look, if you don’t believe me. Look at the birthmark on my neck, just like yours.” Chava drew aside her wind-tangled hair and revealed the blood-drop birthmark at the nape of her neck.

Eva scowled and felt behind her own neck. “It means nothing,” she said. “Many women have yellow hair and marks on their skin. I don’t know you, and I don’t want to know you. Please go away. We don’t want strangers here.”

“Are you mad, Eva?” said Asher. “Look closely at your twin’s face. It’s like looking in a mirror.”

“We allow no such vanities as mirrors here,” she said.

“Come with us, Eva,” pleaded Asher. “We play lots of fun games and eat lots of good food. We pick mushrooms in the forest and . . . well, I can’t remember much before then.”

“Eva! Send them away and come inside now,” called a deep male voice from a big house near the churchyard of sharpened tree stakes.

“You must leave at once,” said Eva. And she turned and swiftly slipped inside the house.

They followed her onto the carved wooden porch and rapped on the door. It opened a crack, and dim candlelight revealed a tall and gaunt man, with hair and skin so pale that he seemed to shimmer.

“What do you want? We don’t welcome strangers here,” said the man in a hollow, rumbling voice.

“Eva is my twin. I came to see her.”

“You have seen her,” he rumbled. “She does not recall any twin.”

“We were separated at birth, and. ...”

“Oh, come in, then; come in,” said the man. He gazed at them with ice-blue eyes and opened the door a bit wider. “You are persistent in your childish delusion. You think my kitchen wench is your lost sister because she vaguely resembles you. Meanwhile, it’s getting late, and you have no place to spend the night. If you two innocents are eaten by wolves, every peasant in the mountains will be after my head. So come in, then. Get warm, and have some supper and some sleep, and you’ll soon see that Eva hardly resembles you at all.”

“But she does . . . ,” began Asher. Chava hushed him.

They wiped their boots and entered the parlor, which was elegantly furnished in white-and-gold antiques, quite unexpected in such an isolated place. A prismatic crystal chandelier cast glinting light on the lavish gilded furnishings, and on the tall man’s hair and skin, which were almost transparently pale.

“I am Lord Gringore,” he rumbled. “I have retired from the complex life of the royal court to live simply in this mountain retreat. You may share my rustic home tonight, children, and be on your way at dawn.”

“I want to talk to Eva,” insisted Chava.

“Very well,” said Lord Gringore with a resigned sigh. “Eva, dear, please give our young guests some supper, and keep them amused while I read in my study. We eat simply here, but healthfully. ”

Eva brought bowls of curds, honey and wild berries, and brown bread and sweet butter to the table. Asher dug in like a boy who hasn’t eaten in weeks, while Chava and Eva gazed at each other.

“You truly don’t recognize me?” asked Chava.

“I never saw you before. Why should I recognize you?” asked Eva stiffly.

“But surely you see the resemblance between us . . . and the birthmark. ...”

“I am very common. Many frail women look like me. I feel nothing special toward you. ... I feel nothing.”

“Are you happy here? Does he treat you well?” asked Chava.

“Lord Gringore is . . . unusual,” said Eva slowly. “I am content to be in his presence.”

“Awake, Eva!” said Asher. He glanced up from his bowl with eyes blazing soft fire. “Gringore has you bewitched, doesn’t he?”

Eva seemed startled. Chava looked at Asher and nodded. The lad was right. Eva spoke and moved like someone in a trance.

The room was comfortable, with feather beds and down pillows, and Chava realized she was exhausted. She hadn’t slept well since leaving home, and she sank into slumber like a pebble in a pond. She rose to consciousness again with a strange sound ... of weeping. Chava sat up and saw that Asher was also awake.

“It sounds like Eva,” he whispered.

They slipped quietly from the room and saw that a crystal lamp was still burning in Lord Gringore’s study. “You mindless doll!” they heard him snarl.

“Please, Lord. I meant nothing by it!” wept Eva.

Chava and Asher crept to either side of the doorway and peered inside. Lord Gringore stood tall and arrogant in a white satin dressing robe that reflected the sheen of his skin. Eva stood before him in a white velvet nightgown, with her head meekly bowed.

Gringore grasped Eva’s narrow wrist tightly in his long white fingers. “You encouraged them, you fool; I heard you.” His pale eyes flashed cold blue fire.

“I tried not to, Lord. Truly I tried.”

Eva’s long sleeve slipped back, and Chava saw that her sister’s arm was stained with livid bruises.

“Try harder, or know my rage,” Gringore rumbled. His free hand grabbed a thick coil of golden hair and twisted Eva’s head sideways. Her breath fluttered like a trapped bird.

Asher put his fingertips to the scars on his forehead, as if deep in thought. Then his face hardened with resolve. “No one will harm my sister!” he shouted, striding forcefully into the room.

“Be gone, little boy,” scowled Lord Gringore.

“Only if Eva comes with us.”

“Do you want to go with these ragged mushroom pickers, Eva?” he sneered.

“Oh no, my lord, I want to be with you.”

“But he hurts you, Eva,” said Asher, looking puzzled.

“He never means to. . . . He is very kind.”

“You heard the wench,” said Gringore. “Now be gone and leave us alone.” He grabbed Asher’s sturdy shoulder and pushed him toward the door.

“Eva is bewitched!” said Asher, and he shoved Lord Gringore’s narrow shoulder with his powerful arm.

Gringore laughed in a resonant tone. “You are made of flimsy stuff, lad; you shouldn’t play too rough.” His long white hand formed a fist and cracked Asher’s jaw—which crumbled slowly at the blow like a broken earthenware jar.

Chava screamed with rage . . . and sorrow . . . and fear.

Asher didn’t cry out or bleed, and seemed to feel no pain. He stood in a shocked daze, holding the jagged wound where his jaw had been, and staring at the scattered clay shards on the oriental rug.

“No harm will come to my sisters,” he stammered, and pummeled wildly at Lord Gringore with his own fists.

“Still haven’t learned, lad,” said Gringore, dodging the blows skillfully. He aimed his hand like a shimmering hammer at Asher’s left shoulder—which shattered at the impact and crashed to the floor.

“Stop, Asher; please stop. He’ll kill you!” wept Chava.

Asher stood very still with his arms hanging limply at his sides. The edge of his right jaw and a big chunk of his left shoulder lay scattered on the carpet in jagged shards of clay. His good right hand stroked the scars on his forehead. Tears welled in his eyes and streamed down his ruddy cheeks. “Awake, Asher. No harm must come to your sisters,” he whispered in a voice now slurred by his shattered jaw.

“Asher!” sobbed Chava. “Go back to Gidlov. Find the wunder-rebbe. Only he can heal you.”

Asher nodded slowly, then turned abruptly and fled.

Chava darted after him, then stopped. Should she follow her injured brother, or stay with Eva? Lord Gringore made the decision for her by locking the door with a firm click.

The book-lined room was silent except for the hissing crystal lamp and Chava’s sobs.

Lord Gringore’s chuckle was a hollow tone in his throat, like an old bell. The lamplight blazed on his gleaming hair and skin. His pale blue eyes flashed frozen light as they fixed on Chava. “At last,” he said, “the lovely twins are reunited.”

Chava decided to watch and wait. She would appear to join Eva in Lord Gringore’s service, while she observed him and his dreadful power over her sister. Gringore grew cool and indifferent toward her, as though it didn’t matter if she departed or stayed.

The day of the full moon, Eva was in a frenzied bustle in the kitchen. “They are gathering here tonight,” she fretted to Chava as she nervously sliced newly ripe apples and strained soured milk curds, which she mixed with honey. Chava calmly helped her slice and strain, much as she helped Tanta Tamarka in the kitchen. Eva tensely tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear, and Chava wondered why this simple meal caused her twin such dread.

At moonrise the twelve guests arrived from the few occupied houses in the village of sharpened tree stakes. Chava quickly saw that they were unlike any guests ever seen in her aunt’s parlor. They seemed to be cut from the same brittle mold as Lord Gringore: tall and arrogant and pale, with translucent skin and hair, and glassy blue eyes. The six ladies sparkled like windblown snowflakes in robes of glinting white silk, with beads of cut crystal flashing at their necks and wrists. The six men moved stiffly, in flowing white felt capes.

The long table was set simply for thirteen, with a white lace cloth, glowing silver spoons, and cut crystal goblets and bowls that glistened beneath the crystal chandelier. Lord Gringore stood at the head, and the men and women rigidly faced each other from opposite sides. As they took their seats with silent grace, Chava thought they seemed like a brightly lit pageant of lifeless puppets.

Lord Gringore silently gestured to Chava to pour mead in the goblets; and silently, she obeyed. Eva meekly served the apples, curds, and honey from a heavy crystal tureen. Lord Gringore raised his glass in a curt salute, and the weird banquet began. Chava waited for conversation, prayer, laughter . . . any sign of life, but she waited in vain. There was no sound except the chiming of silver against crystal.

They ate and drank very little, as if they rarely felt hunger. Then they stopped with frozen smiles, and listened expectantly. Lord Gringore tapped his goblet with his spoon, which sang out a deep, clear tone. The others tapped their goblets in turn, so an eerie melody rang out from the silver-and crystal carillon. Chava listened and wondered at this unearthly gathering. Who were these strange beings, and where did they come from? Were they humankind, or shadowy creatures of moonlight and mist? The uncanny chiming faded away. Then, with silent grace, they rose in unison from the long table, bowed somberly, and floated away in the pale moonlight.

The twins swiftly cleared the table, then Lord Gringore ordered Eva into the kitchen. She fled with a look of great relief, like a creature freed from slaughter. Gringore beckoned Chava to the seat beside him. “Sit with me for a moment, child. The moon is setting, and I am weary and filled with angst,” he rumbled.

“Your friends were very odd,” said Chava. “They ate almost nothing and spoke not one word.”

“Many kinds of ancient beings dwell in the shadows of these mountains,” said Gringore with a timeless sigh. “And not all thrive in warmth and sunlight like you and your timid twin.”

“Are you not humankind?” asked Chava.

“No more or less humankind than your sweet brother.”

Chava fell silent, for there were many strange things that she would never understand.

Lord Gringore's long fingers, cool and pale as moonlight, reached out to take her hand. “Your blood has the warmth of sunlight . . . warmth that can renew me,” he murmured. Chava drew back in revulsion and fear. Then she felt his luminous gaze pull her closer . . . closer to his brittle touch. His icy fingertips hungrily stroked her cheek.

“So soft, child. Yes, I need your warmth to revive me as the moon wanes,” he whispered. He stared irresistibly into her eyes with cold and consuming fire, and his caressing fingers strayed to the blood-drop birthmark at the nape of her neck. His breath quickened.

“Please, my lord,” she began, trembling. But even Chava no longer knew whether she begged him to stop—or begged for his unearthly touch.

There was a loud, banging crash—and Asher burst into the room. Beside him was the one-eyed Gypsy and his clip-tailed white monkey, who gazed at them with wise and benevolent eyes. Gringore’s spell was broken, and Chava leaped up to embrace her brother. Eva scurried in from the kitchen to observe the commotion.

“Who are you?” demanded Lord Gringore. His angry face was taut as a drum.

“I am a simple man of the steppeland Rom people,” said the Gypsy with a flourishing bow. “I met this lad in the forest, and we made a good match. You see, he is strong and loyal, but lacks a shoulder and a jaw. I am wily, but lack an eye, and my clever monkey lacks a tail—so among us we are complete and whole. Asher said we’d find his sisters here, and I see two lovely ladies waiting to greet us, like two identical dill pickles in a barrel.”

“Get out!” roared Gringore. His eyes raged liked beasts.

“Oh, but my feet are tired, and my fleas need a rest,” said the Gypsy with a sly smile, twirling his mustaches. He stood with his burly back blocking the door, caught Chava’s eye, and glanced at Eva. Chava positioned herself so she could block any sudden move by her sister. Asher and Lord Gringore faced each other in the center of the room.

'You’re not too bright, lad,” said Gringore. “You’ve returned for another lesson.”

“I’ll remain until my sisters are free,” said Asher. His speech was slurred by his broken jaw and his left arm was limp beneath his shattered shoulder.

Gringore snarled like an animal torn from its prey, then abruptly lashed out with his lightning fist. Asher’s eyes clouded with pain as his left ear smashed to the floor.

Chava and Eva moved closer and fearfully clasped hands. How long could Asher withstand such cruel blows?

This time, Asher didn’t stop to weep in confused grief. Instead, he drew in his breath until his broad chest was round as a barrel. Then he blasted air at Lord Gringore’s face. At the same time, he deftly aimed a mighty kick at Gringore’s vicious right arm—which burst into bloodless fragments of glittering crystal that shattered to the floor.

They all stared in shock, and the monkey hooted. Asher glanced at Chava with the remnant of a proud, boyish grin.

Eva screamed in terror and fell to the ground to gather the bits of broken crystal that had been Lord Gringore’s arm. Chava pulled Eva to her feet and held her tightly.

Gringore gazed at his splintered arm with a mild ennui. “You see, child, many kinds of beings live in these mountains. Some are made of flesh and some of dust,” he said wearily to Chava. “My people are as old as the crystal rocks themselves.”

Gringore and Asher began to circle each other warily, like two torn stags whose final strength was summoned for this deadly battle. Then, in a whirl of motion too swift for Chava to see, they collided in an explosive blur. There were horrible sounds of cracking crystal and bursting pottery. Sharp fragments of glistening glass and gritty clay flew around the room. The white monkey stared with wise old eyes and chittered with excitement.

At last there was silence. Pieces of pulverized crystal and clay, and scraps of torn cloth, were thrown around the room. Some of the larger bits still retained the form of an eye or a nose or a hand, but they were lifeless. Asher and Lord Gringore were gone.

Chava and Eva both knelt weeping on the floor to gather the shards. Chava carefully piled on the oriental rug the clay fragments that had been the laughing and mischievous lad named Asher.

Eva began to collect the cold crystal remnants of Lord Gringore, then she paused and glanced shyly at Chava, like someone just waking from sleep. She pulled up her sleeve to reveal the bruises on her arm. “He hurt me,” she said slowly. “And he would have hurt you, too. He wasn’t humankind, you know. He and his people are cruel creatures that were born of mountain crystal and sired by moonlight. When the moon wanes, they lose their strength and must drain the vitality of someone warm. He enchanted me and drank my essence like wine, and he would have done the same to you.”

“Yes, I know, sister,” said Chava.

“. . . Sister,” said Eva softly, as though she’d just heard the word for the first time. “Yes, I see that now, like an image in the mirror. And the mark on your neck ... is just like mine. Oh . . . Sister!” She fell weeping and laughing into Chava’s arms.

The one-eyed Gypsy snuffled and wiped a tear from his grimy cheek as he and his monkey scratched wistfully at their fleas.

“We have a brother, too,” said Chava. “We must gather every clay bit and take him home with us—to be healed.”

“I will help you . . . Sister,” said Eva. Her face glowed with wonder at her newfound free will. “I will travel with you to our home, for I have never had a home. And perhaps Lord Gringore’s secret hoard of gold would also be helpful.”

“Gold?” said the Gypsy. “Did you say gold?” He strutted and cavorted with his hooting monkey. “Gold is heavy stuff. Such delicate ladies mustn’t burden themselves. Allow your humble Rom servant to carry the gold through the treacherous mountain pathways.” He winked and leered broadly, and the monkey chittered.

“You shall carry a third of the gold where you will, and I’ll carry the rest,” said Eva with newly discovered strength. “Chava will carry Asher’s remains in a silken shroud.”

“Will the other crystal-folk try to follow us?” asked Chava fearfully as they left the house.

“I think not,” said Eva. “For the moon is setting, and now they are at rest.”

“May they rest in their unholy peace,” said the one-eyed Gypsy fortune-teller, fingering his amber beads. The white monkey gazed at the dark village with wise compassionate eyes.

Thus they slipped quietly from the village of sharpened tree stakes, on the high Carpathian ridge, in the waning moonlight.

Though it was shabby and gray, the town of Gidlov had never looked more beautiful to Chava. The one-eyed Gypsy had accompanied them safely to the meadow at the edge of town, where he and Chava first met. Then, with a flourishing bow and a jaunty scratch at his fleas, the Gypsy vanished, with his white monkey and portion of gold, into the river valley mists.

Chava and Eva stood alone on a rise overlooking the town, with Asher’s remains in a silken pouch. “I never saw so many houses,” said Eva. Her pallid face showed some healthy color after their trek through the wooded slopes. “Perhaps we can use some of the gold to get a little cottage. For your ... our family doesn’t know me yet, and I’m not familiar with their ways. We could all live in a sunny cottage surrounded by flower gardens, where Asher could play his games. And you could teach me to use a drawing brush, for I always wanted to learn. What do you think . . . Sister?”

“I think that’s a splendid idea,” said Chava. “But first we must take our brother to the wunder-rebbe to be healed.”

“Such a grand building!” cried Eva when they reached the Great Synagogue. “Is it a church? But where is the cross?”

“You have much to learn about your people,” said Chava.

They found the wunder-rebbe absorbed in his prayers, swaying back and forth with earlocks aflutter, as if rocked by divine winds. Chava didn’t want to disturb him, but her mission couldn’t wait.

“Rabbi! I freed my sister—but Asher was destroyed.”

The wunder-rebbe paused in his chanting, chestnut earlocks still quivering, and opened his eyes peacefully. He looked from one twin to the other, and a smile lit his gentle eyes like sunlight on a holy lake. “Such a joy to see two halves united and whole again,” he said.

“I found a sister and lost a brother. Asher must also become whole again,” cried Chava opening the silken pouch to reveal the shattered clay shards.

“Oy. Such a sweet boy . . . such a beating. Such a twisted dagger of fate. Come with me upstairs,” said the rabbi.

They followed him from the dazzling temple of gilt and filigree, up the narrow stairs to the dark and dusty attic. There the rabbi poured Asher’s remains onto the pile of dusty clay on the floor.

“You should understand, Chavale, little one, that the Tree of Life creates the pages of the Book of Death. They are one and the same,” said the wunder-rebbe.

“Yes, but Asher must live and laugh again,” wept Chava, longing for her brother's frolicking games and winsome smile.

“Did he ever really live in this world?” asked the rabbi. He placed his gentle hands on Asher's remains, and his skin glowed golden again. The scent of warm honey filled the room. He chanted in a voice so sweet that Chava sensed angels pausing in flight to listen.

She felt sorrowful yet soothed.

“Sleep now, Asher. Return to peaceful dust,” murmured the wunder-rebbe. “You have done well, lad, and now you may rest.”

Golden light filled the room, and the universe opened. Then Asher crumbled into the lifeless clay dust from which he had been born.