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

. .
    — . . . An omen?
    — No, Shlomo. A cut-crystal decanter.
    — Don’t be silly. Why would anybody do that around here?
    Avram didn’t have an answer. The only conceivable reason would be to ruin him, yet ever since he’d bought his horses, the village had shown him nothing but deference. He went home. He interrogated his family. He demanded to know if they’d moved anything without his permission. He wouldn’t say what was gone. Nevertheless, he made them search the house and bring him all they found.
    The place was loaded with treasures, fashioned of gold and lapis, silk and tortoiseshell. Avram had forgotten how much he had. But each time his wife or children came to him, he shook his head. It got late. In two hours, guests would arrive for the banquet. Tamar reminded her father that she and her sisters had to dress and braid one another’s hair. He nodded. They went away, all but Riva.
    — Have you gone to Dalet the thief, Papa?
    — I spoke to Shlomo.
    — But if a thief wears his cloak . . .
    — Don’t be foolish. Poor Dalet takes my worthless batter spoon . . .
    — It’s in the larder.
    — Why didn’t you bring it to me before?
    — If it’s worthless, why would you care?
    Avram saw that his spoon was where his daughter said, which was odd: By his reckoning, the spoon had been gone for ages, not worth its customary two-penny ransom. Avram was a modern man—as his wealth well proved—and knew that an object couldn’t simultaneously be in Dalet’s possession and in his own hands. He went to investigate.
     
    Dalet was at home in his shack. He hadn’t left since he awoke, too entranced by the decanter even to let his eyes wander. He sat and watched desire churn inside, quickening in morning torment, lengthening into afternoon longing. He learned the language of want. He knew that Avram was coming even before the baker left his own house.
    He opened the door as Avram approached. They met on the road. Deprived of the chance to ambush Dalet, Avram decided to trick him. He took two pennies from his purse and dropped them in the thief’s hand.
    — I’m here to take back my batter spoon.
    — You already have it.
    — Isn’t it your job to filch it?
    — Not anymore. My job is to steal people’s needs.
    Avram didn’t understand what the village thief meant. But he knew perfectly well, as Dalet invited him inside, that the decanter on the table was the one he’d bought for his banquet. He said so. Dalet agreed. Avram grew large with rage: How could the thief pilfer it? Dalet reiterated what he’d been told by the town elders.
    Avram couldn’t argue with them, for they were shortly to be his guests. So he took a seat and reached again inside his purse. He hadn’t any more coppers. He withdrew a fat gulden, and set it on the table between them.
    The gold glowed pure greed, but what match was that for the blaze of Avram’s desperation? One gulden was the same as another: Their glimmer was shared. Dalet could barely even see the coin in the decanter’s glare. He declined the offer.
    Avram added another gulden, and then several more. At last he emptied his purse. But it was like casting stars into sunlight. Poor Avram, his reckoning was all wrong: In matters of desire, no quantity is greater than one.
    — How much do you want, Dalet? Is my gold not enough? Do you want my silk? My lapis? My daughter Tamar? I’ll go get her. She won’t complain. My banquet will be your wedding.
    Dalet had often seen Tamar in the marketplace. She was built tall and stiff like a post, fenced in her own crossed arms.
    Though he didn’t wear his invisibility cloak in the daytime, she’d never acknowledged him, and, while he was accustomed to being overlooked, he had trouble imagining how he’d fulfill his marital duties without her participation, whether a woman could conceive children without even noticing that she had a husband. Then Dalet’s thoughts returned to little Riva. He recalled how she’d smiled at