Free The Book of the Unknown: Tales of the Thirty-six by Jonathon Keats

around him, he should swiftly have become rich. But Dalet lacked ambition. Only when he had to, would he take the shoemaker’s leather apron, and then he’d wait patiently for days before anyone would notice that it was gone. The village elders were worried about his behavior, concerned for the natural order. They summoned him to the town square.
    — Why do you neglect your work, Dalet? Your father didn’t teach you its value?
    — I stole something last week. I took Avram the baker’s batter spoon.
    — Again?
    — Why not?
    — Avram has more batter spoons than he can remember. He buys so many, carved from mahogany and cherry, that he can’t be bothered to bake a batch of bread. All he does is spend money. One day he orders a pair of boots, the next day it’s a set of horses, while the batter sits in a vat and rots.
    — I should steal a better spoon, then?
    —One day you’ll want to marry, Dalet. You’ll have to provide for a family. You won’t be able to survive on batter spoons alone.
    —I’ve also stolen Dov the shoemaker’s leather apron.
    —Dov’s too busy chasing after Zev the carpenter about building a new home even to cobble Avram’s new boots for him. Why should he care if you take his smock? Listen, Dalet. Like any tradesman, a thief has to keep up with the times. You’ve got to steal what people need. Otherwise someone else might. And a village with more than one thief is more cursed than a country with two kings.
    •   •   •
     
    When Dalet got home that evening, he took the baker’s batter spoon from behind the stove. The spoon was over a century old, so often stolen by his family, over so many generations, that it was practically an heirloom. He knew its contour better than the shape of his own crooked face. It was beautiful to him like a woman. A living thing. A companion. Yet on that night, as darkness deepened around him, he saw that he was all alone.
    He put on his father’s black cloak. Tradition held that the garment made him invisible to honest people, though he’d never told a lie and yet could plainly see himself. Still, Dalet was not one to question tradition, and he’d nothing else to keep him warm. He grasped the spoon and shut his door.
    Dalet lived in a decrepit shack outside the town. The walk to the baker’s house took ten minutes under a full moon, and at least half an hour on a night as black as this. He passed the stables, followed by the town square, where Shlomo the watchman strolled past without a greeting. Guided by the light cast from Shlomo’s lantern, Dalet entered Avram’s home through the unlocked front door.
    The family was asleep, all except the youngest daughter. Comely little Riva wore a slip of white lace, and several rings on slender adolescent fingers. She emerged from the larder, nibbling on a crust. Though drenched in honey, the bread was crummy, inevitably stale since the village imported baked goods from the city. She glanced at Dalet’s invisible cloak, and then his crooked face. Setting down the candle that she carried, she met his luminous eyes.
    — What are you doing here?
    — I’m returning your father’s spoon.
    — Why? No one wants it.
    — I know. I’m supposed to steal stuff that people care about.
    — People care about stars. If you wish on them, they twinkle.
    — I can’t filch stars. I’m afraid of heights.
    — How about jewels? Everyone wants those. It’s why they sparkle.
    — Do you mean you can actually see what people desire?
    — Don’t you know, Dalet? Look around you.
    Tossing the old spoon into the larder behind some bags of grain, she blew out the candle. Even in the darkness, Dalet saw her smile. He trembled, yet before he could extend a hand, she’d shuffled down a corridor. As her footsteps drifted off, the room faded black.
    Standing in the dark, Dalet reckoned: Stars twinkled and jewels sparkled and when a girl was wed, when her groom met her at the altar, she had to hide behind a veil for fear