Eifelheim

Gottfried handed Dietrich an alb of white linen. Do

“No,” he told Hans. “Of course not. But the Jews have been enemies for generations.”

Hans turned from the window to face him in the human ma

Gottfried turned once more to the table, he said, “Father, you have worn white vestments of late. Should I lay those out?”

“Yes. Yes.” Dietrich turned from Hans, his thoughts in turmoil. “St. Ephraem is a doctor of the church, and so: white, which is the sum of all colors and signifies joy and purity of soul.”

“As if such ritual mattered,” said Brother Joachim from the doorway. He stepped into the room. “You have acquired two sacristans, I see. Do they know their tasks well? Do they know with which fingers to touch and hold the holy armor so that you may gird yourself to battle the devil and lead the people victorious to the eternal Fatherland?”

“The sarcasm is heavy-handed, brother,” Dietrich told him. “A lighter touch is needed for the best effect. Men crave ceremonies. It is our nature.”

“It was to change our nature that Jesus came among us. Di Flora’s Everlasting Gospel eliminates all need for signs and riddles. ‘When that which is perfect is come, forms and traditions and laws will have fulfilled their purpose and will be done away with.’ No, we must travel deep within ourselves.”

Dietrich turned to the two Krenken. “All that over whether linen be white or green! By the holy saints, Joachim, such minutiae obsess you more than they do me.”

“About such things, we know nothing,” Hans said. “But he has right over the inward-curling directions. To find our heavenly home, we must travel in directions not of height or length or breadth, and through a time not of duration.”

“We could always walk,” said Gottfried, flapping his soft lips, but Hans clicked his horny lips and his companion cut his laughter short. “We have been cut off from home,” he said, “and from our companions. Let us not be cut off from each other.”

The next day, Dietrich came upon a man in close study of the church walls. Seizing him by the surcoat, he discovered it was the Jew servant. “What make you here?” he demanded. “Why were you sent?”

But the Jew cried out, “No tell master I come. No tell, please!”

The distress was so palpable that Dietrich judged it genuine. “Why?”

“Because… Is unlawful for us to walk near house of… of tilfah.”

“Truly? So, does it not defile you?”

The servant cringed. “Honored one, I base-born rascal, not so pure and holy as master. What can defile me?”

And was that irony that Dietrich heard in that voice? He nearly smiled. “Explain yourself.”

“I hear of them, carvings, from hof servants and think I come see. We forbid to make images, but I am loving beauty.”

“By His wounds, I believe you speak the truth.” Dietrich straightened and released his grip on the man’s sleeve. “How are you called?”

The man doffed his cap. “Tarkhan Hazer ben Bek.”

“A large name for such a small man.” Tarkhan wore a long, tasseled scapular beneath his rough coat, and his thick braids were unlike the delicate curls his master affected. “You are not Spanish.”

“My people from east, from borderlands of Letts. Perhaps you know Kiev?”

Dietrich shook his head. “Is it far, this Kiev of yours?”

Tarkhan gri

Dietrich found himself amused. “I would invite you to my table, and learn of this Golden Empire; but I fear you would pollute yourself.”

Tarkhan crossed his hands over his breast. “Mighty ones, like master, so pure even small things are polluting them. Now he think golden-eye demon watching him and he draw seal of Solomon around rooms. But me, what matter? Beside, good ma

The mention of golden-eyed demons held Dietrich momentarily speechless. Had the Krenken gone to the lower woods to peek at this exotic stranger? “I… I think I may have some porridge, and a little ale. I ca

“Is because my accent has no place. In Kiev, are Jews and Rus, Poles and Letts, Turks and Tatars. Is wonder I understand myself!” He followed Dietrich into the parsonage.

Joachim had just placed two bowls of porridge on the table. He stared, and Tarkhan favored him with a cautious smile. “You preacher I hear of.”

“I am no friend to Jews,” Joachim replied.

Tarkhan spread his hands in mock astonishment. Joachim said no more, but fetched a third bowl and some bread from the kitchen. These he placed on the table, just out of Tarkhan’s reach. “No wonder,” the Jew murmured to Dietrich as he gathered his food, “you sometimes burn them.”

“Beware of too much cleverness,” Dietrich whispered in return.

Each prayed grace after his own fashion. Tarkhan said over the clack of wooden spoons on wooden bowls, “Hof servants say you man of learning, much travel, and study nature.”

“I was a scholar at Paris. Buridan was my master. But of this Kiev, I know nothing.”

“Kiev, merchant city. Many come and go, and this wonders me when I boy. I taking service with ben Schlomo because he travel, so I seeing many place.” He spread his hands. “So, I know he forbids ‘Maimonism’? He say council of rabbis declaring forty years ago scientia not proper to Jews. Talmud only should be study. I should know this? I ask, where in Talmud this written, and he tell me only pure may study Talmud — which I am not. Oy!” He raised his eyes to heaven in silent entreaty — or rebuke.

Joachim grunted. “Your master is right about the vanity of worldly knowledge, but wrong about which book should be studied.”

The Jew took another spoon of porridge. “Everywhere I go, I hear this thing. In Muslim lands, too, but there, only Koran fit for study.”

“The Muslims were wonderful scholars once,” Dietrich said. “And I have heard of your Maimonides — as great a scholar as our Thomas and the Saracen Averröes.”

“Master is calling Maimonists worse heretics than Samaritans. ‘Destroy, burn and root them out,’ he say. Is popular idea, I am thinking, for all folk. Muslims, too.” Tarkhan shrugged. “Oy!

Everyone else persecute Jews. Why not other Jews? Maimon himself was flee Cordoba because Ispanish rabbis persecute him. Until Master say this,” he added, “I never hear of him. So I was follow teacher I never hear?”

Dietrich chuckled. “For a Jew, you are a man of wit.”

Tarkhan’s grin vanished. “Yes. ‘For a Jew.’ But I find it so in all land. Some men wise, some fools; some wicked, some good. Some all of that, some times. I say Christian can be save in his religion, as Jew can in his, or Muslim in his.” He paused. “Master is never telling you this, but we escape Regensburg because guilds take arms and fight Jew-killers. There gave in that city, two-hundred and seven and thirty righteous gentiles.”

“May God bless those men,” said Dietrich.

“Omayn.”

“Now,” Dietrich said, as he carried the bowls to the sideboard, “let us sit by the hearth, and hear of this Golden Empire.”

The Jew planted himself upon a stool while Dietrich stirred the logs to encourage the flames. Outside, wind rushed and the afternoon windows darkened with the clouds.

“This tale from old time,” Tarkhan said, “so how much true? But is good tale, so no matter. In old times, in north of Persia, live ‘Mountain Jews,’ Simeon tribe, put there by Asshurrim. But many laws forgot until King Joseph find Talmud again. They know Elijah and Amos, Micah and Nahum, but now come flatland Jews from Babylon tell of new prophets: Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekial. Then pagan Turks come over to One God. Together we create Golden Empire. Our merchants go I’Stamboul, Baghdad, even Cathay.”