Page 24 of The Maiden and Her Monster

That night, Malka curled into herself on the snow-covered ground, shivering as wetness seeped through her cloak.

They didn’t dare light a fire, for fear they’d attract more unwanted attention.

Malka dreaded what other mythic creatures lurked in these woods.

The lack of light made it impossibly cold, and she shivered against the frozen ground as she attempted sleep.

“I can hear your teeth chattering from here,” Nimrah remarked, voice barely above a whisper.

She sat propped against a tree a few feet away from them, hand curled around the sword’s hilt.

The only light around them a lantern at Nimrah’s side.

She had agreed to keep watch while Malka and Amnon rested.

“Are you not freezing?”

“No,” Nimrah admitted. “The benefit of being half stone.”

Malka watched in the dim light of the lantern as Nimrah traced the hilt of her sword with her thumb.

Half stone, yes, but half flesh, as well. Fidgeting now, as a human would when on edge. She had been wrong to compare Nimrah to the Tannin. They were much different beasts.

She thought of the water dragon. How one misplaced step could’ve wiped away all the progress they had made.

“The Tannin,” Malka started, gnawing nervously on her lip. “It was only ever supposed to be a myth.”

Nimrah shrugged. “There are many real things we make into myths. And many myths we make real.”

Could Kefesh do that? Create monsters from myths? Maybe the Tannin had always been real, waiting for its time to emerge from the Leirit river and warn Ordobav of its doom.

No. It couldn’t be. It had to be another way Kefesh cursed. Another way it ruined.

“You speak like my grandfather. He always talked in riddles.” She wasn’t sure what made her say it, only that Nimrah’s words had evoked in her a pang of grief for him. For his stories and how he had made her feel bigger than the world.

A smile brushed Nimrah’s lips before disappearing again. So slight, Malka could barely perceive it in the dim halo of light across her face. “They aren’t my words. They’re the Maharal’s.”

Yet with thoughts of Baba always came his warnings—his staunch belief in right and wrong, which had guided her all her life.

“My grandfather warned me how corrupt Kefesh could be, just as his grandfather had warned him. If he could see what this forest has become, I’m sure he’d bow his head in disgrace. ”

“I’m not surprised.”

Malka scrunched her brow. “What do you mean by that?”

“I see why he would warn you away from Kefesh. You are strongly committed to your faith, and dedicated to your beliefs in ways most men could only dream of. It is always hungry men who gorge themselves, never content ones.”

“I don’t want to know everything,” she responded. “I am not like Tzvidi.”

Nimrah paused the movement of her thumb. “I never said that.”

You are strongly committed to your faith, and dedicated to your beliefs in ways most men could only dream of. “Are you saying my beliefs are strong like the Maharal’s?”

“You are nothing like him or his beliefs,” Nimrah said vehemently. “He’s leagues more than anything you can ever be.”

“He’s a cautionary tale,” Malka countered, cheeks heating. “After all, he created you, and look what you have done.”

Nimrah barked out an exasperated laugh. “You don’t know anything about me or the Maharal.”

“I do—”

“All you know are stories. ”

“Are stories not retellings of the truth? Do we not pass stories down generations to keep history alive?”

“Versions of history,” Nimrah corrected. “Changed through the eyes of each teller.”

Malka shrugged, aware too late Nimrah could not see her movement in the dark. “I have heard no stories of your versions of history.”

“Then let me tell you one.”

Malka stilled. “I—what?”

Nimrah was quiet for a while. “Is it so hard to believe I am capable of telling a story?”

Why would I want to hear a story from you? It was what she should’ve said. But she was curious, and tasted that sweetness on the back of her tongue again at the promise of a new story. She did not have to believe it, she reminded herself. But she could hear it.

“Tell it,” Malka said, shocking herself with the softness of her voice. She blamed her drowsiness, taking away all the bite from her tongue.

Nimrah began.

“Many legends are old, but some are new. New as the painted buildings in Valón’s Yahadi Quarter.

Or new as the strong wagons which do not sag as they carry goods between shektal markets.

No, it does not matter the age of a legend, for a legend becomes a legend when a story is told and not forgotten.

That is what Anya said as she spread her legs and screamed and pushed, giving birth to a perfect baby boy.

All parents think their child is special, but Anya knew right away something was different about her boy, whose cries enchanted even the most curmudgeonly nurse.

“‘You will be a legend,’ she said to him, letting his hand encircle her thumb. ‘I do not know much but I know that.’”

Nimrah’s voice was not her own, but the same melodious voice storytellers used to enrapture their audience. The same voice Baba had used years ago.

“So, the boy grew,” Nimrah continued, “the weight of his destiny upon him like a snug doublet.

Many boys would tug at the tight neckline, sweat beading on their neck.

To be a legend is to carry the weight of your story.

This is impossible for many. But not this boy, who worked his muscles until he could capably hold the weight of it.

“One day, his rabbi asked him after prayer service, ‘You are special, for you came out of the womb already knowing Yohev’s true name. The name They do not tell many Yahad at all. They have blessed you and the life you will lead. Does it ever feel too much for such a small boy?’

“The boy shook his head. ‘I hold it comfortably.’

“That is what he always said, you see, when people asked if his destiny felt too great. He held it comfortably, the way parents ease into the love of their child, or children ease into loving their family animals.

“As the boy grew into a man, his answer did not change. However, the question did. Instead of asking if his destiny felt too great, people now asked when he would fulfill his destiny, for time passes quickly for mortals. And despite being blessed, this boy-now-man was only that—a mortal.

“(This part is contested. Some say he was not mortal at all, or he was mortal how the ancients were—destined to stay alive for as long as they needed to fulfill their destiny, even if that meant hundreds and hundreds of years.

When I tell this story, however, I choose to say he was mortal. He would like it to be told that way.)

“The truth was, it took the man until his middle age to see his true purpose.

In the dead of night, the city began to wake to the clacking of horse heels and violent screams. Yahadi men were torn from their houses and accused of killing Ozmini boys, who began to die off in droves.

Most likely these boys had died of the outbreak of an infection brought to Valón by the northeastern traders in the Orzegali mountains, but it did not matter.

Logic never did. Instead, they told stories of Yahad who sucked the blood from these boys and used it for their holy bread.

That is why, they claim, so many of the boys had facial deformities—from the touch of Yahadi lips.

“The chosen man knew what he must do. One night he stole away under the twilight cover of the stars bent close to the Leirit river—the largest part before it clogged into streams. Guided by all of his studies and all of his beliefs, he looked toward the sky, toward the trees, toward the ground, and toward himself—all the places where he knew Yohev lived.

“‘This is why I know Your name,’ he said to Yohev, and began to dig into the riverbed, not stopping until his fingernails were embedded with dirt and blood from jagged, tiny rocks. He collected all the stones he could find, and kissed each one, before stacking them into a human shape. He did not let anyone see what happened next—not even the storytellers who passed on the tale—for what he did was sacred. Sacred, not secret, let me clarify. He did not share his methods because they were only for his eyes. He did not share it like one does not flippantly say Yohev’s true name.

Sacred things are not supposed to be spoken. They are supposed to be lived.

“And so, from stone and mud, he created what many would call a monster. And that’s what the monster would come to think of itself as, sometimes.

But as it was created, the murdering of Yahadi men ceased, for the Ozmini knights began to fear the creature’s aptitude.

They only knew how to stick their metal into flesh and bone, not mud and stone.

So, they left the Yahad alone, and soon the accusations became murmurs.

“When the chosen man was done with his creation, he appeared to have aged many decades, for that is what happens when a man performs a miracle. It is the way of Yohev’s world.

But he did not miss the years he lost. For him, it was not a sacrifice.

It was an honor. For he created something that protected his people and would protect them long after he was gone. ”

Malka imagined the Maharal carving his command into Nimrah’s forehead. Emet. Truth. It made sense of how the Maharal’s other commands worked. All he had to do was take a knife to Nimrah’s body and write his desires on her skin.

“How did it feel to be created?” Malka asked.

Nimrah was silent for a moment, save for the rustle of her cloak as she readjusted herself against the tree.

When she did speak, it was soft, relenting.

“That’s not part of the story, village girl.

I only meant to share that perhaps it is more damaging to fear Kefesh than to learn how to command it. ”

But Malka knew that was not completely true.

Nimrah did not have to tell her story or make it personal.

There were many fables made for morals. Nimrah had chosen her own.

This affected Nimrah—that much was obvious by the way she told the story, emotion deepening her voice.

Malka knew the kind of torment only family could create.

When Malka fell asleep, she dreamed of Abba carving orders into her skin with his dagger until he left her to bleed out.

It could only have been a few hours since Nimrah had whispered her creation story—how the Maharal had used Kefesh to create and command her. Life, from nothing.

Kefesh .

The magic that had saved Malka. The magic that landed her here in the first place.

Dawn crusted the sky, though it was still nearly dark through the dense crown of the trees. Nimrah had fallen asleep against the trunk, face scowling despite the peace of sleep.

Malka’s mind drifted to Imma. The days since their last embrace felt like a lifetime. But each hour, each minute Malka stayed alive gave her hope.

Quietly, she stole Nimrah’s dwindling lantern and began to walk.

She arrived at a waral tree several paces from their camp.

The fruit was a dulled blue—a less potent variety, Nimrah had said.

Many had fallen; some were crushed, the ground charred from acidity.

But others were still intact, only bruised like the apples Malka had seen the merchant transform.

Baba had instilled in her great fear, but she never could forget what she saw.

Never could forget the word the merchant drew into the apple, so clear in the holy language she had been taught: ???? . Chodesh . Renew.

And he commanded it to be true.

Malka hovered her finger above the dirt, tracing the letters she had seen before, as if she were the disgruntled vendor and the waral fruit the apple.

She closed her eyes. Breathed. Opened them again.

Of course, nothing had happened. She didn’t want anything to happen. She didn’t trace the words into the fruit, did not make them real. She did not speak the prayer to will the command into existence.

Malka didn’t know how to pray that way—for power, for control. She never had. She wouldn’t start now.

Still, she closed her eyes again, breathing deep the moment of quiet, alone with the prayers she did know. A prayer of peace, of righteousness, for Amnon’s bravery taking this tumultuous magic in his hands to save Imma. Prayers that comforted her in the bitter cold and howling woods.

When she opened them again, her gaze caught on a glint of light. The waral fruit shimmered. Thinking it was a trick of the lantern, Malka cast her hand over the flame, descending a shadow over the fruit. Still, it glimmered, the brown-yellow of the bruise diminished.

Malka startled to her feet, kicking over the lantern.

The light went out, leaving her enveloped in the night.

She heaved, stepping back from the fruit like she had done the Tannin, heart pounding and limbs shaking, worried about what the creature could do.

She backed away until the glimmering fruit was nothing but a speck in the darkness.

Her fingers buzzed where she had traced the word in the air, like the pins and needles from sleeping. She slapped her hands on her thighs, desperate to be rid of the sensation.

The waral fruit was playing tricks on her.

But somewhere deep, a shift occurred. A sensation wholly new to her, heart buzzing and head spinning. A satiation that required no meal. She didn’t like how it felt. She wanted to feel it again.

When Tzvidi attempted to light a candle using Kefesh, he set the library ablaze.

Malka did not want to be Tzvidi. She had done nothing. Nothing.

She lay on the ground once more and drew her knees up to her chest, heart pounding.

She was not Tzvidi.

She was not.