Servant of the Bones

The zaddik was still holding his peace, letting the young man reveal himself more and more.

"Rivka asked you why you didn't destroy it," said Gregory patiently, slowly, "and you said that that was not an easy thing to do. You said it was like the old scrolls, this thing. It could not be destroyed irreverently. You spoke again of something written, a document. Do you remember this, Grandfather? Or do I dream?"

The old man's eyes were cold. "You heard this at my knee?" he muttered. "Why do you ask me of this now?"

Suddenly the old man raised his hand and made a fist and brought the fist down on the desk. Nothing moved, save the dust.

Gregory didn't blink.

"Why do you come here on the day of your daughter's funeral," the old man raged, "and ask me about this old tale! This tale, this secret or treasure, as you call it, that you heard when you were my eloi, my shining one, my chosen pupil, my pride! Why do you come speaking of this thing now!"

The old man was trembling dangerously.

Gregory calculated silently, then took a deep breath.

"Rebbe, the check will buy so many things," said Gregory.

"Answer my question! Money we have. We are rich here. We were rich when we left Poland. We were rich when we left Israel. Answer my question. Why do you ask about this thing now?"

I could see no wealth in this room but I believed him.

I knew his kind. He lived only to study Torah and to keep the law, and to pray, and to advise those who came to him daily, those who believed he could see into souls and make miracles, those for whom he was the instrument of God. Wealth would make no change in the life of such a man whatsoever, except that he might study day and night as he chose.

I felt my pulse, very strong. I felt the air in me. My strength had been steadily increasing since the words had been spoken. The bones had to be here. Yes, he had them, and somehow he had called me up. He had laid hands on them, or read the words, or spoken the prayer ... it had to be this old man, but how was such a thing accomplished and why had I not simply destroyed him out of hand?

Out of memory, like a comet came a face I knew and loved. Hundreds of years were bridged in a moment.

This was the face of Samuel, of whom I've told you. Samuel of Strasbourg. This was the Master who had sold me for his children as I had once sold myself perhaps for the children of God. In my memory I saw the casket.

Where was it now?

The memory was bitter, a fragment; I wouldn't have it. Accusations would distract me and nothing about this past, even with Samuel, could ever, ever be changed.

I stood in this warm room in Brooklyn, with another old scholar surrounded by dusty books, spells, charms, incantations, and I hated him. I despised him. He was far more virtuous, however, than Samuel had ever been, especially in the last moments when Samuel had told me to go my way to hell.

I hated this Rebbe almost as much as his grandson hated him. And the grandson?

What was he to me, this smooth-tongued Gregory Belkin with his worldwide church? But if he had killed Esther-

I held fast. I let the temper and the pain melt in me; I asked of myself, be alive only, and be quiet.

This young one, groomed as well as a prince, waited in patience in the same manner for the temper of the zaddik to cool.

"Why ask me these things now?" the old man demanded. I thought of the girl, the tender girl, her head turned on the stretcher. How kind and awestruck had been her little whisper. Servant of the Bones.

The old man suddenly lost control of his anger. He gave Gregory no time to answer. He went on with his raving questions.

"What drives you, Gregory?" he asked in English. His tone was intimate suddenly, as if he really wanted to know. He rose from his chair and stood facing his grandson.

"You put a question to me," he said. "Let me put a question to you. What is it in the wide world that you would have? You are rich beyond imagining, so rich that you make our wealth a drop in the sea, yet you make a church to deceive thousands, you fashion laws which are no laws at all. You sell books and television programs that say nothing. You would be Mohammed or Christ! And then you kill your daughter. Yes, you did it. I see into you. I know you killed her. You sent those men. Her blood was on the very same weapon which killed them. Did you do away with them as well? Was it your followers who used those assassins and then dispatched them? What is your dream, Gregory, to bring down on all of us such evil and shame that the Messiah cannot stay away a moment longer! You would take away his choice!"

I smiled. It was a beautiful speech. Remembering nothing of Zurvan then, or anyone wise or eloquent, I nevertheless warmed to this speech, and to the conviction with which it had been made. I liked the old man just a little better.

Gregory adopted the softened attitude of sadness but remained silent. Let the old man rave.

"You think I don't know you did this?" said the Rebbe. He let himself slip back down into the chair. He had to. He was tired in his rage. "I know. I know you and have known you as no one else from the day you were born. Nathan, your own twin, doesn't know you. Nathan prays for you, Gregory!"

"But you don't, do you, Grandfather? You said your prayers already for me, didn't you?"

"Yes, I said Kaddish when you left this house, and if I had only a sign from Heaven, I would bring an end to your life and your Temple of the Mind and your lies and your schemes with my own hands."

Would you, now?

"That's an easy claim to make, Grandfather," said Gregory unperturbed. "Anyone can do things when he has a sign from Heaven! I teach my followers to love in a world where there are no signs from Heaven!"

"You teach your followers to give you money. You teach your followers to sell your books. You raise your voice again to me and you'll leave my house without your answers. Your brother knows nothing of what you speak-this old childhood memory of yours. He wasn't there. My memory of that day is very clear. There is no one alive now who knows."

Gregory raised his hand. Peace, forbearance.

I was enthralled and tormented. I waited for the next word.

"Grandfather, only tell me then what it means, 'the Servant of the Bones.' Am I such filth that to answer me is to desecrate yourself?"

The old man trembled. His shoulders narrowed and drew up under his black collarless coat. He shuddered and in the light his knuckles were pink and sore to look at. The light spilled down on his white beard and on the mustache which covered his upper lip, and on the translucent lids of his eyes as he shook his head and rocked back and forth as if he were praying.