And then, months having passed, a scroll was received from the emissaries, declaring: “We hereby proclaim with joy: with the aid of the Lord we have found in Poland a boy, a wondrous lad, in virtue clad, with wisdom blest, head and shoulders above all the rest; pious, modest, pedigreed; model of virtue and good deed; paragon and worthy son, wreathed in blessings from the sages, who bless this match with all their hearts and wages.” And so forth.
The grandee, Sire Ahiezer, seeing his designs were prospering, thought it only fitting that the above-mentioned bridegroom hold forth at a great academy in Jerusalem, that scholars might stream from the ends of the earth to hear the law from his lips. What did he do? He convened all manner of craftsmen, built a great mansion, adorned it inside and out — painted it and gilded it and furnished it with several cartloads of precious texts, no jot of godly wisdom lacking among them. And he designated a hall for prayer, adorned it with all manner of adornment, and called on the scribes to prepare the scrolls of the law, and on the gold- and silversmiths to design the ornaments of the scrolls — and all of this in order that the prayers of the sage might be neighbor to his studies, so that he might truthfully say, “Here is my God, and I will praise Him.” The grandee, wishing to consummate his work of glorifying the sanctuary, set his heart on an ark for the scrolls — an ark such as the eye of man had never seen.
He began to ask after a proper craftsman. Among the journeymen he came on one said to be versed in the subtlest of crafts, one Ben Uri by name — a man both modest and diffident, a mere craftsman as met the eye were it not for the spark that flashed from his glance and was reflected in the work of his hand. Ahiezer took note, and placed the work of the ark in his hand.
2
Sire Ahiezer took Ben Uri and lodged him by the garden at the bottom of his house. Ben Uri brought his tools and readied himself for the task. Immediately, another spirit possessed him. His hands wrought the ark; his lips uttered song all the day.
Dinah, lovely child of Ahiezer, stood by her window, gazing into the trees, and heard. Dreaming, she was drawn to the singer as though — God save us! — a spell had been cast. So she went down, she and her handmaidens with her went down, to examine the work of the man. She peered into the ark, she stirred his paints, examined his carvings, and picked up his tools. All the time Ben Uri worked, singing as he worked, working even as he sang. Dinah heard his song and did not know her heart. And he, even as he wrought, all the time aimed his song at her heart, to wrap it in his rapture, so that she might stand there forever, never depart.
But as Ben Uri pursued his work, he cleaved more and more to it, until both eyes and heart passed into the ark; no part of him was free of it. Memory of Dinah fled him; it was as though she did not exist. Not many days passed before he stopped singing altogether; his voice rang out no more. Ben Uri stood by the ark all day, carving figures on the ark and breathing the soul of life into them. Lions mounted upon it, a mane of gold on each of the pair, their mouths brimming with song, uttering the glories of the Lord. On the hangings that draped the doors of the ark, eagles poised above, their wings spread, to leap toward the sacred beasts above. At the sound of the golden bells when the ark was opened, they would soar in their places, flap their wings, and wrap the universe in song. Already the worthies of Jerusalem awaited the day the ark would be borne up to the house of the Lord the hand of the grandee had builded, when the scrolls of the law, crowned with silver and lapped in gold and decked out in all the jewels of sanctity, would find their place within this ark.
Rapt, Ben Uri wrought, possessed by a joy he had never known before. In no kingdom, in no province, in the course of no labor had he exulted as he exulted here, in the place where the Shekhinah was revealed and then reviled, in the multitude of our transgressions. Not many days passed before his labors were ended. Ben Uri looked at the work of his hands and was astonished how the ark stood firm while he himself was like an empty vessel. His soul was sad and he broke out in tears.
Ben Uri went out to seek the air among the trees in the garden, to restore his spirits a little. The sun set in the west; the face of the heavens crimsoned. Ben Uri went down to the far corners of the garden, he laid himself down, and he slept. At just that moment Dinah left her chamber. Her robe clung to her flesh; fear was on her countenance. It was many days since she had heard Ben Uri’s voice, since she had looked on the man. She went to his chamber to look at the ark. She came, but did not find him there. Dinah stood in Ben Uri’s chamber, and the ark of God stood at the open window, where Ben Uri had worked. She stood near the ark and examined it. The evil one came and poured a potion of vengeance into her heart. He pointed at the ark and said, “It is not for nought that Ben Uri takes no thought of you; it is the ark that separates you twain.” At that moment Dinah lifted her arms and smote the ark. The ark teetered and fell through the open window.
The ark fell, but no part of it was broken, no corner of it was blemished. It lay there among the trees in the garden below. Roses and lilies nodded over it, like mourners at the ark of the dead. Night drew a mantle of black silk over the ark. The moon came out of the clouds and, weaving its silvery web, traced a Star of David on the shroud.
3
On her couch in the night Dinah lies and her heart wakes. Her sin weighs heavily upon her: who could bear her burden of guilt? Dinah buries her head in her pallet, oppressed by sorrow, by shame. How can she look to Heaven, how call to it for grace? Dinah springs from her couch and lights the taper in her room. In the mirror opposite, light flares out in her eyes. It had been her mother’s glass but held no trace of her mother’s glance. Were Dinah to look into it now, it is only her own countenance she would see — the countenance of a sinner. “Mother, Mother!” her heart cries out. But there is no answer. Dinah rose and crossed to the window; she rested her chin on her hands and looked out. Jerusalem is cradled in mountains. The wind swept down and entered her chamber, extinguishing the light, as in a sickroom where some invalid sleeps. It played around her hair and through her ears, whispering sweet melodies, like the songs Ben Uri had sung. Where, oh where, is he now?
Among the trees in the garden he sleeps, like a lyre whose strings are rent, whose melodies have forsaken it. And the ark lies prone, in the garden. The Guardian of Night unfurls his pinions of darkness, and the lions and eagles in the ark nestle under his wings. An unspotted moon slips out of the clouds; another moon rises to meet her in the waters of the pond. They stand, face to face, like a pair of Sabbath candles. To what might the ark have been compared at that moment? To a woman who extends her palms in prayer, while her breasts — the Tables of the Covenant — are lifted with her heart, beseeching her Father in heaven: “Master of the Universe, this soul which Thou hast breathed into him Thou hast taken from him, so that now he is cast before Thee, like a body without its soul, and Dinah, this unspotted soul, has gone forth naked into exile. God! Till when shall the souls that dwell in Thy kingdom suffer the death of this life, in bereavement, and the service of Thy habitation sound out in suffering and dread?”