The jinniyeh watched the land grow green, watched the sheep fatten. And one morning—very slowly, floating on the thinnest of breezes—she ventured out from the shadow of the cave.
At the light’s first touch, she nearly cried out in happiness. How bright the world was, how wide the sky! Let the demons come, she’d defeat them all!—Come to me, demons! she cried. Come and fight! But still they didn’t appear—and she realized she no longer expected them to.
She ventured into the heart of the valley, and approached one of the tower-tombs: a tall column of rough stone bricks, its tumbled roof open to the clouds. She mustered her courage and flew inside, up past the scattered remnants of coffered ceilings and mosaics in blue and white. A face loomed from the shadows, and she nearly shrieked—but it was only a carving, its features worn away by the elements. She drifted from chamber to chamber, examining the sarcophagi and their shattered likenesses. What purpose, she wondered, did it serve to surround the bones of the dead with stones that were themselves destined to crumble?
She left the tomb and flew on, following the trail of fallen columns, until she was at the heart of the ruins, floating above a three-arched gate. Now, surely, the spirits would notice her!
But no—there were only stones. That was all. She’d been frightened of stones.
She could hear human voices now, could smell cooking-fires and camel dung. She followed these to an enormous stone citadel, only half in ruins. From above, the citadel was a maze of courtyards and covered walkways, storerooms and tents—all rife with humans of every age, all bent to their tasks like bees in a hive. And yet how little separated them from the skeletons in the tower-tomb! That man beyond the citadel gates, driving his sheep through the scrub: How many more years would he live? Thirty? Forty at most? Could he truly be said to be alive at all?
Let us see, she thought.
In the next moment, the shepherd’s flock was startled by something unseen. They bleated in fear and bolted, scattering in every direction. Cursing, the man chased them up and down the edge of the city, calling and coaxing them.
Suddenly the man felt a tug at his headdress. He clamped a hand to his head—but there came another tug, this time at the hem of his robe. He whirled around, staff raised, but saw only the empty desert. An iron amulet hung about his neck; he grabbed it and pointed it toward his unseen attacker. “Iron, O unlucky one!” he shouted.
A strange shimmer before him—and a naked young woman appeared out of thin air. Reaching out, she ripped the iron amulet from his neck and flung it away. In the next moment she was gone.
The flock scattered again as the shepherd turned and fled.
Smiling, the jinniyeh watched him go. Perhaps there’d never been terrors in Palmyra; perhaps Sulayman the Enslaver hadn’t ruled here at all. Why should it matter, in the end? The stories would keep her kin away; and the truth was that there were no monsters here, save for herself.
—Be quiet, child, she whispered, or the banished jinniyeh will find you, and grab you with her iron fingers.
* * *
The Teachers College admissions secretary was a limp, colorless woman, save for her ruddy nose, to which she applied a handkerchief every few moments. “I must apologize,” she said, “I’m always ill this time of year. Now, how may I help you, Miss Levy?”
The woman on the other side of her desk had been studying the photographs on the wall nearby. Each one was essentially the same: a group of young men or women standing in rows upon a set of marble steps, all of them dressed in robes and mortarboards. The woman turned back to the secretary, hesitated for a moment, then said, “It’s Mrs. Levy, if you please.”
Surprised, the secretary darted her eyes at the woman’s hands.
“My husband passed away a number of years ago.”
“Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry, my dear.” She peered at the woman; surely she was only in her twenties? “Forgive me, but you must have been quite young.”
“Yes, we both were,” Mrs. Levy said. “He died soon after we were married. He was a social worker.”
The secretary pictured a Lower East Side garret, the woman tending dolefully to her consumptive bridegroom. “I simply cannot imagine. You have my sympathies.”
“Thank you,” the woman said quietly.
“Well,” the secretary said, suddenly unsure how to proceed, “why don’t you tell me why you’re here.”
“I’m very interested in your Domestic Sciences program.”
The secretary nodded. “I can give you a copy of our Admissions Bulletin—”
“I have one already.” The woman removed from her purse a fat envelope, bearing the Teachers College seal. “I’ve studied it quite thoroughly. It says that all applicants must have completed their secondary education—but it also states that exceptions are occasionally made, on an individual basis.” She opened the bulletin to the relevant page, complete with underlining.
The secretary sighed to herself. “My dear, before we can reach that point we must look over your curriculum vitae, and assess whether your experience—”
Swiftly the woman pulled a sheet of paper from her purse, and laid it between them on the desk.
“Oh.” The paper appeared to be a neatly typed c.v. for one Chava Levy, resident of Eldridge Street. Born outside the Prussian town of Konin, no formal schooling of any kind—it was a wonder she could read the bulletin—and currently employed at an Allen Street bakery called Radzin’s. Head of hiring and training, it said. “Does this mean you taught the other bakers?” she asked, pointing.
The woman nodded. “The new hires, specifically. The bakery expanded a few years ago, and my employer put me in charge.”
“How did you go about it?” It was too much to hope that she’d followed a pedagogical process, of course . . .
“At first I taught them recipe by recipe, the same way I’d
