The Eternal Jew’s Tale, #187, Noah’s tale, 4

In this episode… like an agunah*
* (read on)

The Eternal Jew’s Tale
Twenty Second Era, Part3, 1495 C.E., Constantinople

The plague is creepin’ thru the miry streets of Constantinople in ‘95, and it seems to prefer Jewish souls. Many a sage and holy spirit be washed and dressed by the *holy friends,* to make a new home in the molderous earth, bein’ eulogized by a chorus of tears.
*-* Hebrew: khevrah khadisha, burial society

Now Noah and two of his children go down among the jostlin’ crowds of the dead. And here’s Yacoob cast out again, so Batkol and me, we take him in.

Dour he be as you might expect. To think he once been so tender and sweet, everyone wantin’ to pinch his cheek. Now if he speaks, his words tear into the tenderest part of your gut. But mostly a corpse talks more than him.

Years and plagues roll thru our lives and Yacoob, that boy who was a-feared to be alone, spends more and more time away from home. And more and more, our worries compile. Me, I’m hopin’ he’s found a rav who sees the hidden sparks in his soul and is stokin’ them up to make them glow. But Batkol knows thistle ain’t clover. She frowns, upset, and says to me,

“Gangs and thieves and prostitutes been tastier baits for a crow like him.”

And then one day I go to his room since I hadn’t seen him for almost a week, and there it were, his things all gone. Moved out without sayin’ a word.

Now, I be up to my neck in work. Did I mention? The captain of that Ottoman ship told his commanding officer about my skills in drawing maps. And not long after there’s a clop on my door and the navy is commandeerin’ my butt to develop maps of the eastern seas and the coast of the Yemen and Hindustan.

Well, anyways, I be busy as hell when that Yacoob ups and runs away. I drops everything to walk the streets, searchin’ ruins and abandoned sheds; stickin’ my head in whorehouse and church; walkin’ the whole circle of walls around the city. But not a word, nor even a sign or a faint trace. I puts out word among our folk to look for the boy and let us know. It ain’t a week til the admiral sends some heavies to hunt me down and excort me back to my drawin’ desk. Sometimes it’s hard to love your work.

Maybe five months, maybe six and still no word. That bird has flown. And me and Batkol has begun to dread Yacoob be dead, maybe even killed. Like an agunah*, us bound in grief, unable to mourn, unable to heal. But imperceptible, even merciless, our lives move on. Yacoob is gone.
* in Jewish law a married woman whose husband has disappeared but is not confirmed dead, can’t remarry.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the next episode, time passes and it’s Purim!