The Darkening Dream (3 page)

Daybreak would arrive soon enough, and further sleep seemed futile. She began her morning prayers, standing straight in the center of the room, feet close together, bobbing gently at the waist.

Dressed in her house clothes, Sarah pressed her hand against the cigar-shaped silver
mezuzah
on her doorframe, then kissed her fingers. Superstitious habit, but touching the prayer box brightened her mood. She went downstairs to Papa’s study — time to relent after giving him the cold shoulder all yesterday.

She took a moment to gather herself while glancing out the rear-facing window. In the yard, the familiar bushy shape of the sycamore soared at least fifty feet into the air. She’d read somewhere that the root systems of trees are as big or bigger than their branches above ground. If this were true, the growth probably extended underneath the house. And the tree in her nightmare had been a sycamore—

The faintest echo of the horn tickled her consciousness.

She yawned to clear her head and forced herself through the door.

Joseph Engelmann sat behind his desk, surrounded by papers and books. Thick ringlets of curly brown hair snaked downward from his small black cap until they blended into his beard.

“
Tateh ist es ich.
” Sarah said in Papa’s native Yiddish.

Her presence didn’t seem to register immediately. He must be teaching today — he wore a brown wool suit, a starchy white shirt, and the burgundy bow-tie with white polka-dots she’d given him on his fortieth birthday. The tie looked good on him, adding a little color and drawing attention away from a belly straining to free itself from his vest.

Eventually her voice penetrated. He looked up at her through his bifocal glasses, shoved an empty plate into a drawer, and brushed crumbs from Mama’s pastries off his beard.

“You’ve forgiven me, I take it?”

Sarah, not ready to jump directly into the awkward space hanging between them, switched topic and language.

“I had a nightmare,” she said in Hebrew. “If God,
Hashem,
tries to tell you something, wouldn’t He send signs, or dreams?”

Papa could never resist a theological question.

“So the Torah tells us, but from a more modern perspective, ‘Every dream will reveal itself as a psychological structure, full of significance.’ ”

She sighed. Papa had made her read Freud’s
Interpretation of Dreams
last summer — in German — and she remembered it well enough.

“But the good doctor also likened a nosebleed to a woman’s monthly cycle.”

That earned her a smile.

“You rather the Lord sent an angel to make His point?” Papa said.

“Would the angel appear as a pretty young boy with wings?” she asked in Greek. She expected points for pairing the word
angelos
to his Hebrew
mal’akh
, both connoting messenger.

“Undoubtedly any angel, even a pretty one, would be smitten by my lovely daughter. However, God, is of
Atziluth
, of the highest world, and we are anchored in
Asiyah
the lowest.”

“Now, what would you say if
I
stuck Hebrew words in a Greek sentence?”

“Enough. Mama tells me you’re going riding today,” he said in Latin. “With Anne and Sam?”

She felt much better. Talking, even so artificially, had returned them to stable footing.

“The twins and I have a picnic planned.” Sarah settled back into English. “Mama was kind enough to relieve me from laundry duty.” Thank God. She hated chapped hands.

“You deserve at least a little time with your friends. I monopolize far too much of it.”

“I don’t mind, I like to study,” Sarah said. Plus she’d eat a wool jacket before letting anyone else get a better grade.

Papa nodded. “I’m sorry you were unnerved the other night, and I won’t force anything on you, but marriage is a
mitzvah
.”

“Can’t we just let events unfold?” she said.

“I didn’t just pluck any young man off the street, you know. Rabbi Hoffmann and I have been friends for sixteen years and his son is the second brightest young scholar in New England.”

Sarah made a study of her slippers.

She entered her mother’s seat of power — the kitchen — wearing taupe riding pants and a ruffled white blouse with a high collar.

“Sarah, sit down and have some breakfast before you go, and if I thought it was going to make any difference, I’d mention it’s inappropriate to be out in public wearing trousers.”

Rebecca Engelmann was a plump, pretty woman with soft curves and merry eyes — nothing sharp about her except on occasion her tongue.

“Mama, everyone goes riding and cycling in pants these days. This is the twentieth century, remember?” Sarah helped herself to a roll and some pickled herring.

“Well, take a hat at least. Everyone isn’t the only daughter of the Rabbi Josef ben Jacov ben Yitzhak.”

“He really isn’t a rabbi anymore,” Sarah said. “We can call him Herr Professor Doctor Engelmann instead.”

“Very amusing,” her mother said. “But watch what you say outside this house. Your father treats you too much like a son, letting you think what you want, say what you want, study the
Zohar
even. You may be a brilliant scholar, but the effect on your manners is another matter entirely.”

“It’s pretty obvious why — since he started teaching me after…” Sarah caught the words before they left her mouth, but her mother still flinched.

“Whatever am I going to do with her?” Mama said. “She has such a tongue on her, learning things no woman has a right to know.”

“It wasn’t me who took that fruit from the tree,” Sarah said. “I’d have given the serpent a smack on his scaly little
tuchus
.”

Her mother tried to hide her smile. “What sort of scholar will want to marry a girl with such a smart mouth? At least when you end up alone, you’ll have your books to entertain you.”

“Fine with me,” Sarah said.

“That public school has spoiled what your father didn’t,” Mama said.

“So why’d you send me there?” Sarah asked.

“They refused you at
yeshiva
because of your lip.”

That stung! But then her mother’s straight face broke into a grin.

“Seriously, Mama!” Sarah said. “Why?”

“Seriously, Sarah! You’ll have to ask your father.”

Sarah didn’t think she would, at least not yet.

After finishing her fish, she crossed the room and wrapped her arms around her mother’s softness.

“Sorry, and thanks for letting me go today. I owe you double the chapped hands next week,” she said.

Mama hugged her back. “Just help me pack lunch for the three of you.”

Sam waited on the brick sidewalk with his bay gelding behind him while he adjusted the saddle on what must be the new filly. Anne was some distance off, trotting her chestnut mare back and forth along the quiet street. Sarah still wasn’t used to Sam’s recent transformation. The lanky boy she’d known forever was now a man over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and reddish-blond stubble.

“Good morning, Mr. Williams,” she said. “What’s the new filly’s name?” She put down her pack and approached the roan slowly, one hand extended toward its muzzle.

“Morning, Miss Engelmann.” Sam drew the words out to mock Sarah’s formality, then grinned. “She’s Peach Melba, or just Mel if you like.”

The filly did have the coloring of a white summer peach, a dappled reddish-pink layer of fur underneath pale white. Her spotted nostrils flared gently at Sarah’s touch, but she seemed docile enough when stroked on the velvety soft nose.

“I like her; she’s beautiful,” Sarah said, looking up.

“When I saw her at the fair, I thought of you.”

Papa’s comments about marriage ricocheted back into her mind. How was attraction supposed to feel? She’d never given the whole business much thought, which was odd, given her penchant for overthinking. Sam was clearly not “the second brightest young scholar in New England,” but he was sweet — and handsome. For a second, she allowed herself to imagine being kissed. But the phantom kisser in her mind didn’t look like Sam. Or anybody else she knew.

“Anyway,” he added, “we wouldn’t have much of a ride if you didn’t have a horse.”

“Papa thinks they’re too much bother,” she said. “But he’s been leering at those brochures from the Ford Motor Company. Oil, steel, and belching smoke are more to his liking than manure.”

Anne stopped prancing and maneuvered her horse to join them.

“Sam, get that pack on the horses. Nothing fun’s going to happen here on the street five minutes from our house.”

Sam snapped to attention, “Yes, ma’am!”

Since Salem’s 48,000 or so souls were mostly packed inside a dense urban core, it didn’t take Sarah and her friends long to leave the houses and factories and reach the surrounding rural neighborhoods.

“I was riding this way the other week,” Sam said, “and I noticed a big meadow with a pond and southern exposure — perfect for a picnic.”

He led them past a low farmer’s wall and across a grassy stretch to an unpaved lane. An eight-foot hedge blocked out most of the view to the left. As they rode by, the morning quiet was shattered by a loud crack followed almost immediately by a metal ping. A small flock of geese took noisily to wing from behind the hedge and climbed diagonally into the sky.

Mel gave out a whinny as Sarah came to a sudden stop behind Sam’s horse.

“Rifle shot,” Sam said. Sarah caught the faint scent of gunpowder.

Anne smirked. “And I thought breakfast just wasn’t agreeing with you.”

Sam threw his sister a dirty look. He held out one palm toward the two girls, leaned forward to whisper something to his horse, then slid off. He really did have a way with animals. Sarah spoke six languages, but Horse wasn’t one of them.

Twenty feet in front of them, the hedge was interrupted by a little gate. Sam crept to this opening, peered in, and called out.

“Hello there, sorry to—” Another shot rang out. “Disturb you. Didn’t mean to mess up your shot, sir.”

Anne grabbed the reins of Sam’s horse as she passed.

Sarah saw through the gate into a large space overgrown with grasses. Striding toward them was a young man, compact and wiry, with fair skin, dark curly hair, and just the hint of a goatee. He was dressed in peculiar baggy black trousers tucked into knee-high boots, and a loose white linen blouse with an old-fashioned embroidered vest. Slung over his shoulder was a long rifle on a thick leather strap. He looked vaguely familiar.