The Times probably should have waited until after the Kavanaugh coverage slowed down, but then there probably would have just been some other big shit storm stirring up because every day is a hell day full of shit storms in the Trump Presidency, ensuring that every shitty thing he does gets buried in the latest shit storms.
I wrote a short vaguely historical vaguely spooky ghost story about Jews and burial rites and I have to justify it existing so here it is.
“Are you the leader of the Jews?”
There was no good that ever came from that question. Rabbi Jacob stood in the doorway, one hand on the knob and the other on the frame, ready to yank it closed at a moment’s notice.
“Well, not all of the Jews.”
The man at the door made a frustrated little grunt. He was clad almost completely in dark grey clothing that seemed to fade into the shadows of the darkened street behind him. The collar of his coat was pulled up so high that it was impossible to make out more than a pair of sharp grey eyes beneath the brim of his hat, and the cloak he wore over the top of it concealed most of his body. There could be any number of guns, knives, or angry mobs hidden under there.
“But the ones in this town, yes? You are their priest, you lead prayers and weddings and so on?” the man said impatiently.
“Rabbi. Yes. I’m the rabbi, that’s correct.” Jacob said, stiffening his posture and assuming the most neutral expression he could manage. Being completely ignorant didn’t exclude someone from being completely dangerous–if anything, that heightened the risk. “What can I do for you?”
“Rabbi,” the man repeated, as if to seal it into his memory properly. One gloved hand squeezed the pommel of his walking stick. “And you preside over the funerals of your people, and perform the rites to send them to the next world?”
“Yyyyyes?” Jacob shifted his weight to his back foot, poised to slam the door in his face. This sounded unpleasantly like an opening for a death threat.
“To any of them, regardless of the sins they carried in life?” An eagerness entered the man’s voice.
“Of course. Though sin as a Jewish concept differs from the Christian…mm. Yes, of course.” The scholars of old might have debated the nature of the evil in men’s souls until the crack of dawn but Jacob had no intention of doing so at half-past midnight with a complete stranger.
The shadowed man took a half step forward and Jacob leaned back to maintain the distance between him. “What about a gentile?” the man pressed. “Would you tend to his corpse too?”
“Huh?”
“There is a man needing to be buried tonight who requires absolution. He is not a Jew, but a Jew’s prayers may be close enough for what is needed.”
“Um. It’s not usually a request I get.” Jacob tried to keep his voice calm and soothing. There was some kind of entrapment lingering in the conversation, he just knew it. That or a giant box of crazy that had managed to dress itself stylishly. Gentiles asking Jews intrusive but urgent questions never turned out well for their target–a day-long case of irritation was the best outcome the target could hope for.
The man’s hands pressed together as he completed the full step forward, making Jacob back up into the doorframe. Desperation was in his tone and Jacob was forced back over the threshold just to stay out of his grip “All I need is someone to accompany me to the cemetery to consecrate the body and pray for its soul. Barely an hour of your time. I cannot pay you with anything but my gratitude, but you will have it eternally.”
“And you came to me?”
The man sighed. Even the top hat seemed to slouch slightly as his body slumped. “I have asked every holy man in the city, Catholic and Protestant alike, and they have refused to come to the cemetery,“ he bemoaned. “The last one told me to visit you. Likely a ploy to make me leave faster, but you are all I have left.”
“What did this man do, that so many people refused him? Who was he?”
The man at the door hesitated. The sharp eyes vanished as his eyelids slid down, and then appeared a few moments later.
“Must you ask?” he said quietly. “Is it not enough that it is a corpse which can do no man harm any longer, and you will lose nothing but a half-night of sleep?”
The inside of Jacob’s head was ringing with warning bells like the frantic clanging of gongs announcing a fire. He swallowed and tried to ignore them.
“You say he wasn’t Jewish?”
“He was not…much of anything. He felt God had no interest in him, and returned a lack of interest in kind. Perhaps if he had been more attentive he wouldn’t lie in a pauper’s grave…or perhaps he would have not changed a whit.” The man’s voice was bitter and the sharp eyes briefly looked away from Jacob, to Jacob’s deep relief.
“Who was this man, to you?” he asked.
“Close. I would prefer to say no more. Please, rabbi. It must be done, and it must be tonight.”
Seminary did not prepare me for this, Jacob thought, and then thought again. There is absolutely something in the Talmud about this and I’ve just forgotten it, because I’m an idiot and I’m half asleep and there is a goy on my doorstep asking me to go out to the cemetery with him at midnight to bury a man whose name he won’t tell me.
“Look, I’ll need someone to help dig the grave.”
“Of course.”
“And a coffin. A plain pine box. And I’ll need to get my supplies from the–”
“But you’ll do it?” said the man excitedly, standing up even taller. “And do it tonight, before the cock crows?”
Jacob held up his hands to keep the man from getting even further into his personal space. “Fine. Yes. Give me half an hour and a lazy rooster.”
The cloak almost seem to inflate as the man gasped for joy. He grabbed Jacob’s hands and shook both with enthusiasm, sending Jacob stumbling. “Thank God for you, my good rabbit! Whatever God there is, thank God for you!”
The man ran off into the shadowed streets and was out of sight almost immediately.
Jacob’s hands slowly fell back to his side as he mumbled, “Rabbi,” to the darkness.
My wife is going to kill me if whatever’s at the cemetery doesn’t.
“An aguara, also known as vixen, vulpess, and fox demon, is a type of monster that can take the form of a woman or a fox. It does not reproduce sexually, but kidnaps elven girls when they are young and then transform them into other vulpesses using some kind of magic.”
Archfey DMs: One of your adventures is at a masquerade. Has character voices and multiple-paragraph backstory for every NPC you meet. Rewards XP for flattery.
Dragon DMs: One of your party is going to die, absolutely. No character voices, only yelling. Loot is very, very good.
Goblin DMs: Going to throw gold coins at you when unsure what else to do. Encounters are twelve ¼ CR enemies. Most likely to have a NPC named after dicks.
Lich DMs: You thought were done with that storyline but not so fast. Don’t touch that, it’s probably cursed. Dry sense of humor.
Mimic DMs: Amazing voice range and skill. Dungeons feature multiple dead-ends. Plot of campaign stolen wholesale from stories they like.
Vampire DMs: Is going to use your backstory and make you regret it. Will let you seduce the villains. Ravenloft campaign.
Things That People Have Said To Me Since I Started Working In A Yarn Shop
“i need more of the rowan felted tweed, i’m making some first-world-war balaclavas and i’ve run out”
“i’m making my husband an x-files themed jumper for christmas and i can’t find a good colour for the spaceship”
“do you have any wool/acrylic blends on sale, i’m making hats for the seamen’s mission to give to sailors and i know they say to use acrylics because they’re cheap but it gets awfully cold at sea and i worry”
“i need some black wool for gloves, but it has to be flame-proof because i’m making them for the beltane fire-jugglers”
“could you see if you have another copy of this pattern for a baby shawl, i’ve knitted it in different colours for all of my six children and twelve grandchildren but it’s started to fall apart a bit"
[from a blond, six-foot surfer dude] “yeah, do you have any really light needles, i’m going backpacking around argentina and i want to do some socks while i’m on the coach but there isn’t much room in my rucksack”
“which of these colours do you think would be best for a knitted corgi”
“do you have any patterns for dog hats”
like honestly you don’t even understand how happy this makes me, like half the time these women are really self-deprecating about it - “oh this is probably a really silly question”, “you’re going to think this is really weird but -” - and i’m just like no!! this is amazing!!! yes, we do have patterns for dog hats!!! please tell me all about why you’re knitting a dog hat!!!!
and i mean, some of the stuff they make is unbelievable. there’s one lady who knits wedding-ring shawls, these enormous lace shawls they do on shetland that’re about six feet across and made out of yarn that’s basically thread, which you can pull through a wedding ring because they’re so fine. and there’s another lady who knits dolls about three inches tall and she’s like eighty and she’s done maybe two thousand of them and i found this out yesterday when she came in for a pattern for an entire knitted nativity scene, including the animals and the star. and there’s all the ladies who knit clothes to donate to the refugees and tiny, tiny clothes for premature or stillborn babies at the maternity unit and hats for the seamen’s mission and jumpers for the homeless, and all the ladies making this incredible stuff for their friends or their relatives or just because they feel like it, and it’s just, they’re my favourite, every single one of these people is my favourite
Some more notable wool shop tales:
- “I need all of the different skin tones you’ve got. I’m knitting titties for charity, you see.”
- “What do you think would be best for a onezie for my dog?”
- “So I’m making a giant jellyfish to scare my flatmate…”
- “Which shade of purple would look best for a rhino?”
And yet, the silliest question I’ve ever heard was 5 years ago when I first wandered into what would one day become my place of work and, baffled by the sheer volume of choice available, blurted out to the shop assistant: “Which colour do I pick?????”
After realizing my fodder is waaaaaay more element-diverse than my actual permanent dragons. Oh, well, mom will love them.
(Lowkey considering making a FR sideblog. I’m guessing most of my followers either don’t care about my FR drawings, or only care about my FR drawings. But I kinda like having all my stuff in one place, plus if I start to discriminate I end up posting nothing. What do you guys think..?)
1920 c. Just before the emergence of Art Deco, here is a last gasp of Art Nouveau design in this bracelet by Luis Masriera. It’s made of gold, colored glass, diamonds and cameo. From Art Deco, FB.
aaaaa ‘colored glass’ doesn’t even come CLOSE, my friend. This is not like leadlighting. That is plique-a-jour (light-of-day) enamelling, on a curve, with multiple colors, in tiny ‘cells’ made out of gold wire no thicker than your fingernail (which in and of themselves would have been a stone cold bitch to make aaa they are so tiny and those joints are so perfect HOW DID HE DO THAT).
Every. single. cell, has to be ‘hand-filled’ with wet enamel, which has a texture very much like watercolor paint, allowed to set, refilled until the surface tension holds, and then fired in a kiln at a very precise temperature and time, which is different for each color. And then the enamel shrinks back to the edges of the cell so you have to let it cool, refill, and then fire again. I’ve had to refill a single cell as many as four times to get color fill.
Blues and greens are the easiest, so you do them first. You take the kiln to a slightly higher temperature, have a few more seconds of leeway before they go horribly discolored on you. Oh, and this is using a modern kiln with a precise, digital temperature controller, not whatever this dude had back in the 1920s which would have involved a lot of guesswork and standing by the kiln counting under his breath because enamel fires in SECONDS.
Guess which colors are the hardest? That’s right, REDS. The colors this stunning bracelet is full of. I LOATHE working with reds. Ten seconds too long, five degrees too hot, and they’re ugly, black-flecked disasters that have to be dissolved out with acid, not incidentally trashing the other colours you’d spent forever on too. Yay.
And when you’ve finally finished, having spend probably hundreds of hours getting all those tiny cells fired and filled? Time to sit down with a bowl of water and a hard grinding stone and grind every single one of them flat, my friend, because the enamel when properly filled actually domes up slightly. Yes, this part is still best done by hand, even today.
Don’t forget to repolish your gold, making sure to get out all the scratches left by your glass-polishing stone, and set all those diamonds and the cameo!
What’s that, you say? One of your glass cells fractured because you used a tiny bit too much pressure setting a diamond?
Dear me. Time to UN-set all those stones and go back to the kiln again. Have a lovely time!
‘Colored glass’, indeed. Hmph.
Bless you for the explanation, taking this from beautiful to absolutely phenomenal.
Emperors that come out of the Sea are the worst ones to deal with. Usually when they first manage to fight the currents and crawl out of the water their bodies are bloated; held together only by softened skin. This is the easiest time to attack, they’re slow, barely moving. Most clans are wise enough to aim for the head; damage the brain and crush the bones.
Sometimes though, they miss one. Clean-up crews walk past a large dune. The seagulls won’t land there. After a long while, they dry out enough the skin becomes too taught. The mound shrinks, and the shore grows red as a skeletal, shambling mass bursts forth in agony. Exposed bones splinter, hide hangs off what’s left of tissue, long-gone eyes glow with magic.
The beaches are haunted they say. Something slithers through the sand. Partial skeletons lay untouched, shards of bone blending in with driftwood. Be wary of what looks like wind-dunes, they say. Digging in the troths will often reveal things you don’t want to see. The tip of a tail, a shattered ribcage. What’s left of forearms.
A skull. Covered in tatters. Wheezing. Alive. Hungry for what it can’t have.
