(Author: Eugenie Freed, Vol 79, #3, Summer 2023)
Belshazzar the King made a great feast to a thousand of his lords, and drank wine before the thousand.
(The Book of Daniel, 5:1)
FROM THE CHRONICLE OF VASHTI
Belshazzar King of Babylon was in a vinous state of jubilation. His speech slurred, his glittering robe bore stains of spilled wine. Lying back on pillows, at the height of the festivities, he called out to his butler:
“Bring me the vessels from Jerusalem!”
“Vessels from Jerusalem, sire? But we have here jugs and ewers enough for all …”
“O blockhead! Go thou to my chamberlain – the Jerusalem vessels are in his safekeeping.”
The butler scurried away.
With a grunt and a thunderous belch Belshazzar raised his bulk from the couch and propped himself up. Thumping the table beside him, he bellowed “QUIET!!!”
Vashti, eighteen years old and restive in her place amongst the women of the palace, stood up to look at her father. She did not think highly of him even when he was sober – but when he was tipsy, she reflected with irritation, he became a foolish clown.
When the noise abated a little Belshazzar began drawling out his announcement, pausing often to quaff from his wine-cup.
“My lords of Babylon … on this night … we will drink … from vessels that my illush … my illushtrioush father …. the King Nebuchadnezzar … captured in Jerusalem …. from the Judeans he defeated and exiled … many years ago. Thus we honour our own hallowed gods … for with their help we will conquer again!”
Belshazzar choked, retched and drew his hand across his mouth.
“From these sacred cups … we drink … to Marduk the jusht … protector of Babylon …to Nergal, god of war … may he lead us again to victory! And we celebrate the goddesh Ninkasi … who taught us how to make bee-eer and wine!”
The butler led in a host of serving-men carrying dust-covered pitchers of gold and silver seized by Nebuchadnezzar from the temple his army had ravaged in Jerusalem. As they filed past, Vashti discerned that the accumulated filth of decades still clung to these holy vessels.
Over the renewing buzz in the hall Belshazzar bawled: “From tokens of our past triumphs, we drink to our gods – and to the rout of Darius! Drink up, all!”
The King, together with his princes, wives and concubines, gulped down wine mingled with grime from the soiled vessels. Vashti, presented with a gold cup streaked with black dust, shook her head and pushed away the serving-man’s hand.
Like every other person in that hall, Vashti knew that her drunken father was acclaiming a victory not yet won. The kingdom of Babylon, the city, the very palace, were being threatened by the army of Darius, Emperor of Persia. Moreover, the Persian cause had found support within Babylon itself from some of its own disgruntled citizens.
And these gods Belshazzar praised had long troubled his daughter. In her thirteenth year, her beloved tutor Acharya had taken her to the workshop of Saif, a maker of idols. They had watched old Saif, with his workmen and apprentices, fabricating the images worshipped by the people of Babylon.
Acharya, bending his dark curls to Vashti’s ear, had put to her a disturbing question.
“Here, my princess, you see gods being made by the hands of men. See …ˮ – he pointed to a young artisan – “how that craftsman with his chisel shapes Ninkasi, carrying her brewing-bowl on her head. Yet for all his skill, we are left with naught but a block of stone. Tell me, Princess, does that lump of rock, which the people of Babylon revere, possess special powers? And if it does, where do they come from?”
Puzzled, Vashti responded, “Why do you ask such a question of me? How can I know …?”
Acharya’s black eyes shone.
“My teacher brought me to this workshop in my thirteenth year, as I bring you – Daniel, my teacher and my kinsman. He and I were born of the captives of Judea. He did not honour the deities you see being fashioned here, for he affirmed that these gods of silver and gold, of brass, iron, wood and stone – they see not, nor do they hear, or know! Daniel prayed towards Jerusalem, and made supplication only to the One God, the living God steadfast for ever. This question did Daniel put to me, and sent me away to seek the answer for myself. And I say to you, Princess Vashti, this is a matter you must resolve, for your own sake, by your own means.”
That question plagued her still – because on the very next day, Acharya failed to come to her at their lesson-time. When she sent for him, her messenger was told that he had gone away. No one at the palace could tell her why he had left, or where he had gone. Vashti was bereft. Another tutor was duly appointed, but Vashti refused to see him.
Suddenly, with a rush like a great wind, the candle-flames in the candelabrum hanging from the ceiling of Belshazzar’s crowded hall shot up to create a dazzling arc of light, high up on the plastered wall. Within the arc a human hand appeared, moving rapidly from right to left, the forefinger tracing out black characters on the partition.
In a moment the hand was gone, and the candles died into pinpoints of light. But the writing remained. Everyone could see it, but no-one in the packed hall could read it. Vashti stared in amazement at the inscription, and turned in bewilderment towards her father.
Belshazzar King of Babylon was now being racked by imaginings so fearful that – in the words of the chronicle – “the joints of his loins were loosed, and his knees smote one against another”.
He cried, “Bring unto me the Chaldean astrologers and soothsayers! Whosoever shall read this writing, and show me the interpretation thereof, shall be clothed in scarlet … and have a chain of gold about his neck … and shall be the third ruler in the kingdom …”
Clairvoyants and mystics filed into the hall. They studied the inscription and argued fiercely with one another – but none could interpret it.
Roused by the commotion, the old Queen, Belshazzar’s mother, shuffled into the hall, leaning on a stick. Seeing the arcane writing, and the distress of her son, the Queen cast aside her black widow’s veil and flourished her stick at the words on the wall, crying:
“O King: let not thy thoughts trouble thee! For there is in thy kingdom a man called Daniel. He was born of the captives whom King Nebuchadnezzar thy father brought out of Jewry. There lives in this man the spirit of the holy gods; thy father found in him light and understanding, and excellent wisdom. Let this seer be called, for he lives yet in the city of Babylon; he will surely interpret this writing.”
No one in the crowded hall dared to leave. They waited in silence.
At last Daniel appeared, surrounded by soldiers. Tall and gaunt, he stood ghost-like in the midst of the hall. His long white hair streamed over his black robe, his eyes burned in his head like twin flames.
Tremulously, the King addressed Daniel: “If thou canst read this writing … thou shalt be clothed with scarlet …” – but Daniel cut the King short.
“Let thy gifts be to thyself,” he rasped, “and give thy rewards to another.”
He glowered at the assembly.
“Yet will I read the writing unto the King, and make known to him the interpretation.”
His voice creaked at first, as though from disuse, but within moments it resounded through the hall.
“O thou King, the most high God gave thy father a kingdom, and majesty, and glory; but his heart was lifted up, and his spirit hardened in pride. He was deposed from his kingly throne, and his glory taken away … His heart became like the beasts, and his dwelling was with the wild asses.”
The older guests in the hall murmured uneasily amongst themselves, for they recalled the descent into madness and bestiality of Belshazzar’s father, King Nebuchadnezzar. The King at last had lain naked in the dew of the wilderness, his hair and beard matted like the feathers of a bedraggled eagle, his nails grown out and curved like the bird’s claws.
Daniel’s voice rose hoarsely again:
“And thou his son, O Belshazzar, hast not humbled thy heart, though thou knewest all this, but hast lifted up thyself against the Lord of heaven. Thou and thy lords, thy wives and thy concubines, have drunk from the sacred vessels of his holy house in Jerusalem.”
“And thou hast praised gods of silver and gold, of brass, iron, wood and stone, which neither see, nor hear, nor know,” the harsh voice persisted, “and the God in whose hand thy breath is, hast thou not glorified.”
“Then was the hand thou hast seen sent from him, and this writing was written.”
In a voice that now boomed like thunder, Daniel read out the inscription,
“MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN!”
His glance shot towards Belshazzar as the syllables re-echoed about the great hall.
“These words are for thee, O King!” he cried.
“MENE – ‘numbered’ – God hath numbered the days of thy kingdom, and brought it to an end.”
“MENE … NE … NE …NE …” droned eerily above the heads of the crowd.
“TEKEL – ‘weighed’ –thou art weighed in the balance and found wanting!”
“TEKEL …EL …EL …” eddied like a storm invading Belshazzar’s citadel.
“PHARSIN – ‘divided’ –thy kingdom is divided, and given to the Medes and Persians.”
PHAR…SIN … SIN… SIN …SIN” whirled around inside the hall as though wind-blown desert sands were scouring the inner walls of the palace.
Burying his head in his hands, Belshazzar sank down on the couch where he had lately been carousing.
From the darkness outside the voices of men, and the clanging of opposing weapons, swept into the hall.
It was dark in the closet – blacker even than in the bedchamber. Vashti, crouching inside, scarcely dared to breathe. The elbow of her handmaiden Gul pressed into her side. There had been nowhere else to hide. In the silence following the tumult that had driven them here, Vashti wondered – were she and Gul the only living beings remaining inside the palace? Unreal – like the disembodied hand she had seen, with her own eyes, writing indecipherable words on the wall.
Where were their guards? They must have bolted. Medes and Persians were pouring unhindered into the palace gardens.
She whispered to Gul: “We can’t stay here!”
She opened the closet door a chink. Perhaps the rebels had not yet broken into the blank brick outer walls of the palace’s main building. Vashti peered through one of the small square apertures in the wall. She could see no movement in the moonlit courtyard, but shouts were coming from somewhere close by.
“We must find my father!”
She began feeling her way through the dark passages of the deserted palace, Gul close behind her. They moved forward cautiously, Vashti tracing with her hand the wall-sculptures of marching soldiers in domed helmets. The entry to a hidden staircase masqueraded as the wooden door of a store-cupboard by the kitchen. Up the winding stairs in the dark, making for another closet that opened into her father’s sleeping-chamber. Usually this secret entrance was well guarded – but not on this night.
Vashti snatched up a burning lamp, and moved towards the curtained bed-recess. She took a deep breath and lifted the drape.
A strangely putrid smell emerged. Vashti leaned over the end of the bed, holding the lamp high.
And then she dropped it, pushing her fists into her face, suppressing a scream.
Belshazzar, King of Babylon, lay naked on his back on the bed, his throat slit. His life-blood dripped down to the floor, staining the splendid bedclothes.
A horde burst into the bed-chamber. Too late, Vashti tried to dash back to the closet. A throng of insurgents, followed by Persian soldiers carrying torches, filled the royal apartment. She and Gul were seized by many hands and bound tightly with hempen ropes. Vashti sank her teeth into the arm of a would-be captor, and was promptly gagged with a soldier’s sash.
The armour of a Persian officer flashed in the torchlight.
“Where’s the princess, Belshazzar’s daughter?”
“Must be this one here – little Chaldean bitch, fighting and biting!”
“Bring her, the Emperor wants to see her.”
Still in her pleated linen gown, which was now filthy, Vashti, trussed like a fowl for the spit, was carried out of the palace and dropped into a horse-drawn cart. Gul, bound likewise, was tossed in beside her. They were taken on a nightmare journey through the moonlight to the war-tent of the Emperor Darius.
The large tent was full of light. The white-bearded Emperor, seated in his throne-like chair, appeared as in a blaze of glory. Two soldiers lifted Vashti upright for the Emperor’s view.
Darius looked searchingly at this slender eighteen-year old girl, her ankles bound together, her arms restrained, her mouth covered with a binding. Dishevelled and terrified, in a torn and soiled garment, her large dark eyes still blazed defiance. The Emperor surveyed her, stroking his beard.
“Untie her.”
The two soldiers eased Vashti’s hand and foot ties.
“And the mouth!”
“Sire, she bites!”
The Emperor chuckled.
“She will not bite me.”
He addressed Vashti in the Akkadian tongue.
“You are the princess Vashti, Belshazzar’s child?”
It was the kindness in the Emperor’s voice, speaking her own language that broke her. Vashti raised her hands to her face. She could not answer him.
“No one will hurt you, child,” said the Emperor Darius.
He spoke again in Persian.
“This is the daughter of Belshazzar, King of Babylon, his only child.”
He held up his right hand.
“I vow before all here present that I will be merciful. I will not hold this fair young noblewoman as a captive, but will give her as a bride to my son Xerxes, he who is known as Ahasuerus.”
He pointed at the Persian officer.
“I charge thee, Pourang, to convey her safely, with her servant, to my palace at Shushan. The princess Vashti is to be treated as befits her royal lineage.”
King Ahasuerus … showed the riches of his glorious kingdom and the honour of his excellent majesty … [he] made a feast unto all the people that were present in Shushan the palace …
The Book of Esther, 1:2,4, 5.
In the courtyard of the King’s palace garden, the chronicle records, hangings of blue, green and white billowed in the wind among couches of gold and silver. Divans were placed upon a pavement of red, blue, white and black marble, for the comfort of the King’s guests. Wine flowed in abundance, in vessels of gold.
In the harem, Vashti the Queen presided over a banquet to which all the women of the royal house had been invited.
After seven days of feasting, when the heart of the King was merry with wine, he commanded the chamberlains serving the royal presence:
“Bring Vashti the Queen before me, wearing the crown royal, to show her beauty to the people and the princes!”
Dragging his gold signet ring from his right hand, the King passed the ring as a token of his authority to the chamberlain Abagtha.
“Go!” he roared.
The chamberlains bowed and stepped backwards. Through the vast halls of the palace of Shushan they hurried, to the harem. There, the Ethiopian guards raised their scimitars to bar the entrance.
Zinaw, their captain, a tall, powerful man with broad, high cheekbones and chiselled features, confronted the intruders.
“None may enter here except at the King’s behest!”
Abagtha held up the King’s signet ring.
“What is your mission?”
“The King has commanded us,” Abagtha announced, “to bring Vashti the Queen to him, wearing the crown royal, that he may show her beauty to the people and the princes.”
The captain’s eyes narrowed.
“Never before has my Queen been summoned in this way.”
“At this time,” said Abagtha, “the King bids her appear thus.”
After a moment of reflection, Zinaw said:
“I will take you and your message into the harem, but your companions will remain here, under guard.”
The other chamberlains squatted awkwardly on the floor-tiles, while the guards moved in closer.
Zinaw unlocked a small door within the gilded entrance arch. Abagtha stumbled in, followed by another guard.
A mist of fragrance emanated from scented lamps and ornate wall-hangings. Abagtha inhaled the heady perfume. He heard murmuring voices and high-pitched laughter, but saw nobody. He was taken into a small bare room, furnished only with low wooden stools.
“Give me the ring.”
Zinaw left the room.
The notes of a chang harp, the rhythmic drumming of a santur, the trilling of sweet treble voices, filled Abagtha’s ears as the mingled scents of the women’s quarters ascended to his nostrils. His eyes were closing. Despite his unease, he felt an expectant movement under his robe as he imagined the fabled beauty of Queen Vashti, her lovely guests and their attendants.
Suddenly all was quiet. He heard Zinaw’s deep tones and then, after a long pause, the answering voice of a woman – but he could not make out what words they exchanged. The music and singing resumed.
Zinaw returned, impassive. He dropped the symbol of the King’s authority into Abagtha’s slack hand.
“Take this back to the King. Queen Vashti will not come.”
Abagtha’s mouth fell open.
“The Queen will not come?”
“No.”
“But …”Abagtha gasped, “the King has sent for her! As his queen … as his wife … she is obliged to do his bidding! She cannot refuse!”
Zinaw shrugged.
“She has refused.”
In the heavy-scented ambience of the harem, Abagtha had a vision of disaster hovering like a huge black-winged kite, about to swoop on its prey. He stammered:
“But … surely … I must hear this from the Queen herself!”
Zinaw’s lips set in a straight line.
A moment later Abagtha lay sprawled on the floor-tiles outside the harem.
Vashti the Queen was weary of feasting. This seven-day celebration … of what? Of her husband’s wealth and power? She was weary of that too. It was this kind of arrogance that had brought about the death of her father Belshazzar.
The music of voices and instruments washed over her unheard as she threw herself back amongst the pillows.
Of course Ahasuerus had been drunk when he gave that command – but how dare he, drunk or sober? Ordering her, the Queen of Persia, to parade like a prize mare up for sale in the market-place!
Ahasuerus would be incensed by her refusal, and when he sobered up he would not forget it. He had always regarded her as rebellious, more opinionated than a woman should be. That was Acharya’s legacy – her tutor had taught her to speak up, and to speak the truth.
Vashti knew that her husband was inclined to issue outrageous directives, to become a foolish clown, when he was full of wine. But the commands of King Ahasuerus, Xerxes the all-powerful, would be obeyed, no matter how absurd they were. Her disobedience would have consequences.
At this moment Queen Vashti was too angry to care.
Abagtha staggered out of the throne-room of King Ahasuerus, grateful to be alive. One hand covered his bleeding face, the other clasped his throbbing jaw.
The feast was over. In his wrath the King had commanded that the palace be voided instantly. An army of exhausted servants began mopping spilt wine, sweeping away crusts and bones, and scooping up puddles where guests had spewed.
Meanwhile, the chronicle relates, the King, rage blazing in his breast, called together his councillors, and summoned the princes of Persia and Medea. So mightily did the King’s head ache that he ordered the council-room to be darkened. In the gloom, he demanded hoarsely of the assembly:
“What shall we do unto the queen Vashti according to law, because she hath not performed the commandment of her husband, King Ahasuerus, delivered by the chamberlains?”
Memucan, highest of rank among the lords of Persia, proclaimed:
“Vashti the queen hath not done wrong to the King only, but also to all the princes, and to all the people in the provinces of the King Ahasuerus.”
“For this deed of the Queen shall quickly fly abroad unto the women…” – Memucan shook his head – “so that they shall despise their husbands, when it shall be reported: ‘The King Ahasuerus commanded Vashti the Queen to be brought in before him, but she came not!’”
He paused, allowing the enormity of Vashti’s crime to sink in. The councillors, many of whom had eyes as bloodshot as those of the King, murmured agreement.
“So also shall the ladies of Persia and Medea, which have heard of the Queen’s action, say this day unto all the King’s princes, their husbands. We would have anarchy in the home!”
Memucan turned to the King, hunched miserably upon his throne.
“If it please the King,” he intoned, “let him make a decree. Let it be written among the laws of the Persians and the Medes, that may not be altered, that Vashti shall come no more before King Ahasuerus. Let the King give her royal status unto one more deserving. For we have fair young virgins aplenty who would comprehend the King’s command!”
Memucan clasped his hands together.
“And when the king’s decree shall be published throughout his great empire, all wives shall honour their husbands, whether they be the greatest or the meanest of men. In his own home, each man shall reign supreme!”
King Ahasuerus nodded his aching head, and the heads of the princes and councillors before him bobbed in dutiful response. The King’s voice was gruff:
“Memucan’s advice shall prevail. In every province of my empire, from India even unto Ethiopia, every man shall bear rule in his own house. I have spoken!”
He glared at his councillors as though daring them to challenge him.
“I will send a letter into every province, in all the languages of my empire, confirming this.”
The King passed a hand over his forehead. His voice wavered.
“Within three days this letter must go out. Memucan is to dictate it. Let the scribes translate it, and let the messengers prepare to depart.”
With that the King slid awkwardly off his throne to the floor. Servants carried him away to his bed.
The King spent the next three days in seclusion.
By the time he sent again for the wise men, Vashti too had considered her situation. Her anger had swelled. She thought what she would say to the King’s spokesperson – for she knew Ahasuerus would not confront her himself. For all the vastness of his empire, his wife knew that he dared not meet with her face to face at this moment.
“He sends for me – sends his chamberlain to summon me – as though I were a mare in his stable! He would flaunt me before his princes like a trophy from the battlefield! No, no-no-no, I am not his chattel!”
A second deputation arrived at the palace harem: Memucan and six of his fellow-councillors.
Like the unfortunate Abagtha, Memucan brandished the King’s signet ring; but his delegation was escorted by soldiers and led by Zethar, head of the palace guard.
Zinaw challenged the councillors.
“What is your mission from the King?”
Zethar spoke: “The King commands me to escort Lord Memucan into the Queen’s presence. He bears a message for her from the King.”
Zinaw had heard the rumours flying about the palace.
“I will accompany Lord Memucan,” he said.
“I will go with him,” Zethar said firmly. “That was the King’s order.”
“The King has charged me with protecting the Queen. I will accompany both of you.”
Memucan and Zethar were taken to the bare room where the hapless Abagtha had dreamed – briefly – of admiring Vashti’s beauty. This time there was no music in the air.
Vashti sat at her dressing-table, before a mirror of polished metal, while a handmaid combed out her long black hair. Gul, seated close by, was speaking earnestly to her mistress in their Akkadian tongue. She paused when Zynaw entered.
“Lord Memucan brings a message from the King.”
“Ah, Memucan. The old lick-spittle can wait.”
Vashti’s hair was painstakingly braided by a young handmaid. Gul, using an ivory wand dipped in powdered kohl, outlined the eyes and brows of the Queen, and painted her lips with the juice of crushed mulberries. Arrayed in a gauzy robe of indigo blue, gold-painted leather sandals on her feet, the Queen stood up and turned about, shedding a delicate perfume as she admired her own image twirling in the looking-glass. No trace was visible of her inner turmoil.
“That toady Memucan – I know well what he has to say. Let him in.”
Memucan had endured hours of discomfort under the hostile eyes of the Ethiopian guards before he and Zethar were hustled into a reception-room.
Vashti’s seat had been so placed that she looked down upon her visitors. She signalled to Zinaw and Gul not to leave.
Her beauty in that opulent setting was spectacular. Even Memucan, dried-out cynic though he was, was affected.
“So, my lord, what news bring you today?”
“Ah – ahem – my duty to your Majesty. I bring a message from the King, your husband.”
“Indeed, my lord, how kind of you to remind me that I am the King’s wife!”
Memucan cleared his throat.
“My lady, the King charges me … er …to inform you …um … that in view of your … er … ref … refusal to come before his Majesty … when he summoned you at the late feast … he has decreed … um …” – Memucan forced the words out – “that you should come no more before him.”
He exhaled heavily.
“The King commands your Grace to leave the palace of Shushan.”
Vashti lifted her chin.
“Lord Memucan, here is my answer.”
“Tell the King I have already decided that I will leave. You may add, that I have no desire to appear before him, ever again.”
Memucan’s eyebrows twitched. Secretly a little disappointed at the matter-of-fact tone of Vashti’s voice (surely a few tears and some hysterical expostulation would have been more appropriate?), he babbled on.
“Of course, my lady, his Majesty acknowledges your elevated rank. Camels and mules will be provided for your departure, along with your personal servants and possessions. His Majesty is …munificent, as ever! But … he requires … that you leave his kingdom … harrumpff- umff! … within three days.”
Vashti raised one hand to her elaborate coiffure, and looked down at the sumptuous carpet beneath her gold-shod feet. She lifted her chin again.
“Dear Lord Memucan, kindly inform the King that I will leave – with my servants and my furnishings – when I am ready to depart.”
“Harrumpff! I hope …there will be … no undue delay …?”
“Do I not make myself clear? I will leave when I am ready.”
There was an awkward pause, while Memucan racked his brains for a safe approach to his next subject. Vashti would need to be watched; there might be support for the deposed Babylonian royalty in their former home. Who would she seek out? And where?
“Where, may I ask, does your ladyship wish to go?”
But Vashti had already turned away and was speaking to Gul in their Akkadian language.
Memucan bowed himself out.
Acharya’s black curls were greying, but his dark eyes still shone in their depths. At sunset he had taken leave of his pupils in the Judean village. Only the youngest, his niece Rasha, remained. Rasha was captivated by the topic they had been discussing that day: the writing of letters.
“So uncle … when something is written, with a stylus in clay – when the clay hardens – it stays so forever?”
“Yes, Rasha. Spoken messages can become confused – the messenger may leave out a word or two, or pronounce words wrongly, changing their meaning. But a letter, if the characters are carefully cut in the clay with your stylus, can convey the matter exactly.”
Rasha looked thoughtful.
“Will you teach me to write, please, uncle? Writing is a useful skill.”
“It is. I will gladly teach you.”
Shouts and hoof-beats were approaching. Rasha pointed down the single street of the village.
“See there – camels … mules … horses …”
“Indeed, a whole caravan … why would such a company come to our little village? They must be on their way to Jerusalem … perhaps they stop only for the night.”
But the leading camel strode to the doorstep of Acharya’s modest home and knelt down. On its saddle gold thread sparkled through a fine covering of dust. The rider, a tall man, dismounted and unwound his white headscarf, revealing a dark-skinned face with broad, high cheekbones.
“Peace be with you, sir. We seek the house of Acharya.”
“Peace be unto you, stranger. I am Acharya and this is my house..”
“Queen Vashti seeks you.”
Acharya sat down heavily on the nearest stool.
“Vashti? King Belshazzar’s daughter?”
Zinaw nodded.
“She who wedded … the son of the Emperor Darius – and became Queen of Persia?”
“She did indeed. But now she seeks you out in Judea, the home of your family.”
Another camel was padding towards the first, its saddle-cover twinkling with dust-covered jewels and gold thread. As the beast knelt down, a woman’s voice emerged from the wrappings its rider was unwinding about her head.
“Acharya! You left without warning!”
Acharya shook his head in disbelief.
“My Princess, at that time I could not stay, nor could I then reveal why I had to leave ….”
“But you left me with … a question of great moment!”
“I know. That question you had to answer for yourself.”
Vashti’s face broke into a smile of pure delight.
“And I have! That is why I am here.”
Dr Eugenie Freed (Isserow), a long-standing contributor to Jewish Affairs, has been a Research Fellow in the Dept. of English at the University of the Witwatersrand, where she taught for many years. She has published a book on William Blake and continues to publish scholarly articles on a variety of literary topics.
