Page 73 of The Maiden and Her Monster
To stop the aristocrats from holding the debts over his head, Sigmund had offered them property in western Ordobav, available to them only when the current residing Yahad had moved or passed on.
The landlords had interpreted his promise in a way that most pleased them and used the king’s words as permission to forcibly throw out the Yahad currently living in the houses.
Upon hearing this, Nimrah had gone out west, and twisted the landlords’ fingers until they could no longer hold a key to unlock their doors.
Unused to Nimrah’s magic, they had cowered, and spun themselves mad as they screeched to their courtiers to write their objections to the king now that they could not.
Nimrah had appeared back in Valón with a vengeance, demanding answers from Sigmund.
He had pleaded ignorance, saying he knew not what the lords would do.
Unsatisfied, Nimrah had demanded to travel alongside him to make sure the Yahad were not abandoned during his rule.
“A group of Vilém’s university advisors are traveling to Lei tomorrow to begin talks about a university exchange, where ideas could be shared across kingdoms. It was, apparently, a project the Maharal and Vilém had begun in the years I was tied to Mavetéh.”
Nimrah’s voice was sorrowful, but Malka could also see the pride that lingered at the corners of her mouth at the project her master had begun—a seed that would bloom into something beautiful.
“It will bring Valón into a new age,” Malka said, rubbing her thumb along Nimrah’s arm. “A better age.”
“Chaia is coming with me. I think she plans to stay awhile in Lei to get the project on its feet. To honor Vilém.”
Malka smiled, swallowing the lump in her throat. She would have to say goodbye to both of them. But Chaia would return to Valón and visit Eskravé often as they rebuilt.
And Nimrah… She would see Nimrah as often as time would allow. With the curse of Mavetéh lifted, it would now only be two days’ ride through the forest to get between Valón and Eskravé.
And, maybe, if Malka allowed herself to dream, Nimrah could come home to Malka when the Yahad were no longer in need of their golem.
Valón had slowly welcomed Nimrah back. They began to understand her, and the reason for her creation.
She was made to be powerful, as the Maharal intended.
But power was hard to contain. And too much of it could turn anyone monstrous.
The Maharal, before he died, sent a liturgical poem to the post. It hung all around Valón and was sung in the shul Bachta during services.
It told the story of him—the Maharal and his golem; a story of creation and destruction, of the necessity of violence against oppression, and how the golem should be seen as a symbol of hope, not fear.
A symbol of what was possible when the Yahad fought back.
Now, to the Ordobavian Yahad, she was more myth than woman.
Malka dreamed of the story they would tell once Nimrah could return to her.
Stories of the golem of Valón, who swore to protect the Yahad from harm.
Duty done, mission finished, she would retire to the attic of the synagogue, where they would say she rested until the Yahad needed her again.
But Malka would know the truth. She would know the golem didn’t rest in the synagogue attic, but in her arms, in the home Malka would rebuild for them.
Malka leaned in to capture Nimrah’s lips in her own, but Nimrah tilted her head.
“Why won’t you kiss me?”
“It will make it harder to leave you.”
Malka pressed her leg between Nimrah’s thighs, leaning close to her ear to whisper, “What if your Shabhe Queen demands it of you?”
“You know how weak the king is for his wife’s requests.” Nimrah ran her finger along Malka’s lower lip. “Especially when the requests come from such a pretty mouth.”
“Let me press it to every part of you, and we’ll see how weak you can get.”
And Malka did. She kissed her way down Nimrah’s neck, across her collarbone and down her arms, where the letters once rooting them to each other protruded, to the slope of her hips.
She pressed her lips between Nimrah’s thighs, through the thick fabric of her trousers, but it wasn’t enough. She undressed her slowly, as the sun shone on them, and pressed her lips to Nimrah’s slick warmth, where she needed to find no other words to speak her affection.
Malka’s heart clenched as she approached the shektal, the memory of the Paja and their threats embedded deep.
She stared at the crumbled cobblestone, where Václav had amputated Minton’s fingers.
Both of them dead now. The shektal had once been a joyous place, the market a vibrant part of Eskravé’s livelihood. She hoped it could be again, one day.
Chaia waved her over, where a structure rose from the ground, half built but sturdy. It was not too tall, and not too wide, but enough to cover them when the sun relented to the night’s plummy grip.
Malka walked into the structure and pressed her hand to the wood. Vines sprouted from the cracks, and traveled through the planks of their temporary structure, zigzagging to create a shaded reprieve from the elements.
Danya, who had already been inside the structure, dropped to her knees. She ran her hand across one of Hadar’s crumpled paper cuttings and pinned it to the wall next to the others. They blew in the wind, the slits of sun falling through the roof casting a warm glow across the art.
There were many times, still, when self-doubt twisted Malka’s spells into dust, when the tingling in her palms subsided and she wondered if her faith stretched far enough, if she could hold the prayers tightly in her mouth without feeling imposturous.
Being a Yahad could mean so many things.
And with that came strength, but also the fear one’s kind of faith was not correct, in whatever that way might be.
But those moments would pass, and Malka would press her hand to the earth and breathe deep, until the magic filled her lungs, and prayer shaped the words that would bring the world alive.
The Maharal’s words drifted back to her, about Kefesh having the power to breathe life into the earth.
An idea sparked. Carefully, she pressed the palm of her hand to one of Hadar’s paper cuttings.
It was the last paper cutting they had made together before the Paja came, with stars and moons and vines wrapped around the Yahadi block letters of Bayit Ohr.
She said a soft prayer and watched as vibrant colors washed through the faded paper cutting and the tears mended themselves. Malka gasped as the letters and symbols on the paper livened before her.
Danya’s eyes gleamed as she followed the dancing letters of their language. A hand pressed to the small of her back, and Nimrah brushed her lips against the shell of Malka’s ear.
The Ozmins had pillaged a great deal. They had converted the gravestones from Yahadi cemeteries into stairs for their churches and melted down Yahadi gold to sell.
So much was lost, destroyed, or taken. But Malka still had some of Hadar’s paper cuttings, and now they shone in the hut they had built.
It was enough. It would always be enough.
She stared at the art before her, glimmering with Yahadi magic. She decided—this was how she’d hold the memory of her people. The memory of her sister. In the palm of her hand, with the power of her religion’s prayer in her mouth, surrounded by the people she loved most.
When she fell asleep under the stars, she dreamed of ancient letters dancing through the night sky, stringing together a universe where she could speak to the earth, and the earth would speak back.