That night, which is that of the new moon, and so that of the month known as Av — the only moon not mentioned in the Torah, it’s related, a moon too dark to mention, we might, the darkest, as if so old or forbidden as to be no moon whether new or not, its absence tonight too sad and best forgotten or never lived through, the moon of destruction, the moonlessness of the dead — above Him appears another vision, a visitation of sorts…this mensch who seems like the grandfather He’d never had, never knew, maybe great, or greatgreat: his payos rustling in the slightest of winds, he’s bearded but without the moustache. Are you oppressed, my fellow? he asks Him.
Brother, might you be hungry, or a pregnant sister — ach, you need maybe a pillow, or are you good with the grass?
Hab rachmones, He can’t just sleep out here all night without a moon, says the mensch’s true grandson with the name of a prophet, which one who remembers: nicht nicht…a bad omen, bodes ill. And so through such an unpropitious pitch, a copse of trees is mightily felled from the edge of a lane, they’re chopped to size then their logs are planed, their boards becoming fitted and nailed. At dawn, their strapping kinder raise up a barn around Him; their womenfolk having spent the eve further antedating themselves, while at the same time updating the past, what with their knitting of yarmulkes and hermetically holidaythemed scherenschnitte, doing their laundry so as to be prepared for the approach of the ninth of the month, hanging their white mourning garb out on the fences to gather the darkness, then in their kitchens preparing a meal for the eventual wake of their arrival, busy with their stews and goulashes while cuckooing gossip to one another, which translates to prayers; a syncretism this eclectic mix of writs and superstitions, traditions and rituals, incantations of spells the recipe, a meltingpot blackbottomed, full of misgivings’ blue brew: prophecy’s invoked, stars are observed in their own light, alone: how in the zodiac, it’s lately Leo, traditionally the time to snip hairs to be pressed under pillow; then, how Virgo the virgin comes next, hens to be lifted to count their eggs out from under them and then, from that number, interpret, extrapolate. Go on. Plates are shattered, their remains are stirred in the fire.
How to rouse Him?
Maybe I should kiss Him on the mouth with the tongue of a turtledove? says a girl not yet of age.
What about me? says her rumspringa sister, a year older though already a mother herself.
His presence an omen distressing, how could it be anything but what with Av’s erev upon them. Almanac tells only of frost, perpetual, ferhuddling. After their work through to dawn, they pray away the rest of the morning then at afternoon hit hard a schnitz, beginning brunch without Him still sleeping, as if unable Himself to be raised without nails: they dig into their shoofly pies sided with greens, their breads spread thumbthick with apple butter, accompanied by bottboi and chowchow, pickled eggs to nosh, bushels of beets. Hardcider flows freely, without a mind to their P.ints & Q.uarts. Then, finished with their leftovers then with afternoon prayers, the daven of mincha, their meeting begins, if in a tumult of grievance gotten unrepentantly drunk, plowed with paranoia: pews are tossed around, scuffled across the floor, broken, beards are swallowed, moustaches sucked in annoyance: what portends this passedout mensch? our charge, our barnyard starred? He’s a spy, Meek Zeke shrieks, from the government, Intelligence, here to keep tabs or chits, checkup; or, He’s come to convert us, to lead us back into the corrupted fold, a wandering proselytizer if a touch sleepy, or sheepish…gevalt — a missionary inleagued only with death!
They referendum to port Him out of their barn newly risen (to be repurposed in repentance to an almshouse, if not to be razed), to cart Him unconscious still over to Paradise…by way of Bird-in-Hand, if you follow, then Intercourse, let them decide what to do — arriving there a day or so later and in terrible weather, to tax shelter under the gables of the former Trinity Reform, now a synagogue, the hochshul’s what they say, its hex replaced with the Decalogue; they sprawl Ben out on the lawn. A freshly accredited rabbi sits on the stoop — he looks just like them, introduces himself as Rav Nissen King, asks them if they’d consider contributing to the reduction of a mortgage. Forget it, they cart Him back, then into Lancaster proper, get orders from the community to wait for a responsa from York, city of the white rose, the light of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, or l’PA: searching for what, remedy, guidance, a party to assume their burden, their charge and its charity’s care. Tzedakah this mitzvah. This whose is He. Not one of us, meaning stranger. They store Him granaried, in disused silos and troughs, and in cowsheds again erected overnight, so as not to profane the sanctity of their own haylofts and homes.
On the eve of the first Shabbos of Av, Ben wakes to a sliver of moonlight, shining in through the grain of the slats. He gets up amid the small space, finds a rusting, whirlwindreaping scythe propped lazily in a recess, against the woodenwall sunk in straw, makes to hack His way through the lock, slices it down to splinters, rips a gash of door in the door in a single sharp sweep: there’s darkness without, still’s quiet, a night. Free and about to quit the cow-shed, make an escape, He hears a lowing the sound of a shadow within, a low and susurrant moo, full of loneliness, sympathetic grief. What else but the cow, the Joysey, the heifer red and as huge as its sound: red the shade of its odium, it’s never been yoked. Insistent on following Him from town to nowhere as these reformed Amish of greater York, they make their rounds to plead help; curiously, it wouldn’t milk unless it’d been allowed to follow, and no one intended to grieve it, foolish to even tempt at its vex: God forbid it should die or be rendered otherwise impure before it goes for undreamt gelt at Philadelphia market or auction, hope, to that mensch from the Temple up north made an offer, in the big city, who trusts them, who’d afford not to these days…that deal means future, survival — a refurbished kindergarten, just think of it, the new mikveh, the lease of a new cemetery, too, and a bier bought to own; and so they’d tied the cow off to the cart, led it on, never letting it tow, not even thinking, such defilement, shtum.