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

of blinding him. Desire burned in everything, sometimes less, sometimes more, kindled by the beholder. But while children could perceive that flame plainly, adults felt it only indirectly, as the heat of envy, unless—
    Haltingly, Dalet followed the hallway in the direction that the girl had gone, sensing a dim light ahead of him. As he approached, he whispered Riva’s name. No response. His hand touched the leg of a table, where she’d set out her rings for him. He left them. He continued to wander, exploring the constellation of desire.
    The following room revealed more. Dalet discerned rows of dishes, ranks of silverware. He counted a dozen blown-glass goblets, each rim aglow like a small halo. Yet nothing dazzled like what he sensed below. He stretched out his hand, found that he had to open a cabinet, where something precious had been concealed behind piles of linen.
    Smaller than he’d imagined, but burning more fiercely than he’d have believed: a decanter cut from a single rock crystal. Did it hold hellfire? Dalet checked that the stopper was tight, and, embracing his lot in life, made his escape.
    Outside, the decanter shone like a lantern, illuminating his way. Moths came to him, washing their dank wings in the light, wishing to awaken as butterflies. Dalet rested in the town square to give them time, though he reckoned that the chances of metamorphosis were slim. More moths gathered. There must have been a hundred by the time Shlomo the watchman made his hourly round. Old Shlomo loathed moths, for he’d heard that they carried omens from dusk to dawn. He swatted and shouted until all were gone. Then he walked on, leaving Dalet by himself again, unnoticed in the decanter’s spectral glow.
     
    By sunrise, everyone in the baker’s household was awake: his wife, his two sons, and all but his youngest daughter. Avram sent his eldest girl, twenty-four-year-old Tamar, to wake her.
    — Don’t you know what day it is, Riva?
    — Tell me later. I don’t care.
    — Tonight is Papa’s banquet. We have to prepare. Where are your rings, Riva?
    — I left them on a table somewhere. I told you, I don’t care.
    Tamar left her to tell their father of Riva’s latest mischief. She found Avram kneeling on the floor, digging linen out of a cabinet, cursing each rag as if it were a demon. His wife stood behind him, gathering up the fabric, refolding each piece. Tamar wanted to know what was wrong, but her mother just shrugged and put her to work on a heap of napkins.
    Avram reached the back of the cabinet. Nothing there. He tore out the shelving. He stood up and lifted the thing. He shook it, and hurled it out the door.
    What was the matter? his whole family asked him, and how could he answer? The crystal decanter had been his secret, cut at the utmost expense in a foreign country for this banquet. A secret that would surprise everybody: His neighbors would fordalet ever be put in their place, a feat for which his wife and children would eternally admire—and, yes, envy—him. He shook his head, and sought out Shlomo the watchman.
    Shlomo slept during the day in an underground hut. Over the years, night had seeped into his eyes, where it had pooled until all he had were two black pupils. He couldn’t see in daylight, naturally, but after dark he often compensated by perceiving more than was actually there. Avram stomped on his hatch until Shlomo awoke and let him crawl under. The baker made sure no one else was there. He lowered his voice. He asked whether the watchman had seen anything suspect the previous evening.
    — As a matter of fact, I did.
    — I knew it.
    — The moths were out.
    — What?
    — Hundreds of them.
    — Moths?
    — Moths carry omens, Avram. They carry omens from dusk to dawn.
    — I don’t care about that. It’s not what I’m talking about.
    — You’ve never seen moths like these.
    — What I want to know is if you saw a person, a human being, breaking into my house, or getting away carrying .