Page 5 of The Maiden and Her Monster

Only one of Baba’s stories mentioned Kefesh so boldly: the Maharal’s creation of his golem, a voiceless creature crafted from mud and stone and animated with prayer.

The creature, of course, became as unwieldy as Kefesh itself.

It terrorized the Yahadi Quarter and murdered an innocent boy in cold blood.

All the while, the Maharal could do nothing to tame the beast he had created.

A warning to Malka—not even a rabbi was exempt from the dangers of the mysticism.

Yet, every time Malka attended services or sang her people’s ancient prayers, thoughts of Kefesh flittered across her mind, untamable as a bleating sheep adrift from its shepherd.

It frightened her, that the holy prayers she chanted with devotion could also evoke such violence.

It made her want to know more than Baba was ever willing to tell, to make sure she never fell victim to its ensorcellment.

So, when she asked Micah if he had heard anything about Kefesh, she was not surprised when his lips had thinned in response.

Of course not, Malka. It’s forbidden.

There were no stories after that from Micah, and soon the rest of the merchants’ stories ceased the same way Kratzka ?ujana became Mavetéh: slowly, then all at once.

“Maybe it’s on purpose,” Amnon considered.

“What is?”

“That our traders are disparaged and forced to cut back their trips to Valón. Maybe the Ozmins are making it hard for them to afford traveling on purpose by increasing the tithes, so we stop coming to the city altogether. It would make sense since they hate us. I mean, you saw what they did to Minton.”

Malka gritted her teeth. “Yes, I did see.”

“I’m sorry, Malka, I didn’t mean—”

He sounded like Chaia, brazen and ready to make wine from water; to conjure up a connection when there was none.

It made her spiteful. Made her mad with grief again.

A scream pierced the air, cutting off whatever apology Amnon had begun.

They hurried back toward the main road, breathless.

When Malka caught sight of Sid, the bread maker’s daughter, struggling against a tall and jaunty Paja knight, her skin ignited in a cold sweat.

Sid’s cheeks were flushed bright red, and white rings had formed around her wrists where the knight held them firm.

“You have taken as much bread as we have to give, Ctihodny, ” Sid heaved, the knight’s honorific heavy on her tongue. “Please, let me go.”

“Perhaps you can give me something else I want,” he said, leaning close to whisper in her ear. A whisper so dark, it drained the color from her face.

“Pick on someone else, Ctihodny, ” Amnon said, mocking the honorific. “If we could not pay your tithe, it should be no wonder we can’t feed your bottomless appetites.”

The knight dropped his grip on Sid, his attention, and now his ire, directed toward them instead. “What did you say, Medvadi ?”

The slur sliced through Amnon and Malka both. One they were not used to hearing in their Yahadi village. It meant betrayer of God. Though whose God, Malka had never been certain.

Worse yet, it was the same knight who had raised the cleaver to Minton’s hand. He had been emotionless, even as Minton’s blood stippled his cheeks like glimmering rubies. Even as he smeared it across his face with his palm, unbothered.

Malka wanted to bottle Amnon’s words and make him drink them back, to save him a fate like Minton’s.

“Amnon, please,” Malka pleaded, tugging on his arm.

Amnon gritted his jaw, pulling away from her. “I said—”

“He said that if you are hungry,” Malka interrupted, “he has fish to give.” She ignored Amnon’s glare. “He told me he deboned a large trout. You won’t find fresh trout as delicious as the ones his family catches from the river Ja?ni. They are the first to go at every market.”

The knight raised his brow. “If you say the trout is the best, it seems only fair he prepare one for my supper every evening. You can do that, can’t you?”

The infernal taunt lingered in the air.

With Amnon’s puffed chest and surly gaze, Malka thought he would defy the knight again. But much to her relief, he sighed and reluctantly murmured his agreement.

“Good.” The knight brushed the crest on his tunic, stroking the lion from its head to its tail. “And, boy?” He wrapped his fist into Amnon’s tunic. “Don’t ever speak to me like that again.”

He swung his other fist into Amnon’s cheekbone, the force of it hurling Amnon toward the ground. Malka dropped to her knees in an attempt to catch him, and winced as they struck the frozen earth.

“Václav, the priest has summoned us,” another knight said as he approached. “If you’ve had your fill of bullying weak Yahadi men, that is.”

When Václav took his leave, Malka turned her attention back to Amnon, tracing her thumb along his swelling cheekbone. Thankfully, it didn’t look broken. She wanted to curse him, strike him herself for antagonizing the knight. But relief overshadowed her anger.

“Are you alright?” she then asked Sid, who was rubbing at her wrists. Malka couldn’t look away from the bruises flowering on them, similar to the marks banding her own wrists—made not by a knight, but her own father, drunk from a Rayga hunt.

“Yes,” Sid said. “Damn them. They touched all the bread for the Sabbath, their hands caked with mud and who knows what else. We’ll have to throw it all out!”

Amnon stirred in Malka’s arms, grunting as he stood with Malka’s support. “I’m sorry about them,” he said, wincing. “If it’s any help, I could bring my brothers as extra hands. I am not particularly graced with skill in braiding, but I can leave an oven spotless.”

“Thank you, but we will manage.” Sid rubbed at her wrist again. “You’re brave, Amnon.”

Amnon’s lip curled as his face brightened. Malka sighed, knowing those two words flowed through him like wine. He would not regret his brazen actions after that praise.

“Come,” Malka said, grabbing Amnon’s arm. “Let Imma check your injury.”