Preface

She'elot U'Teshuvot
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/32874991.

Rating:
General Audiences
Archive Warning:
No Archive Warnings Apply
Category:
F/M
Fandom:
Spinning Silver - Naomi Novik
Relationship:
Miryem Mandelstam/The Staryk Lord
Character:
Miryem Mandelstam, The Staryk Lord (Spinning Silver)
Additional Tags:
Judaism, just so much judaism, warning for discussions of circumcision, Religious Conversion, Character of Faith, Marriage Negotiations, Interspecies Romance, ish, Cultural Differences
Language:
English
Collections:
Just Married Exchange 2021
Stats:
Published: 2021-07-28 Words: 3,699 Chapters: 1/1

She'elot U'Teshuvot

Summary

The Staryk can't tell the difference between a Jew and a goy, but Miryem knows who she is--and there are some things she needs to clear up before her marriage can proceed.

Notes

Inquisitor_tohru: thank you for giving me an excuse to write the kind of Spinning Silver fic I've always wanted to read. I hope you enjoy it!

Profound thanks to Chestnut_pod for feedback and advice, especially regarding vocabulary.

Content warning for brief, non-graphic discussion of circumcision.

She'elot U'Teshuvot

If I had had the time to think about it before I was whisked away to the Staryk kingdom, I would have thought that my Jewishness would matter less in my new home than my humanness did. After all, the Staryk did not care about the difference between a Jew and a goy--to them, a human was a human and baffling enough. And I had lived my whole life surrounded by those who took every opportunity to remind me that I did not belong. What difference would it make, that now the reason for not belonging was different?

And it was true that the Staryk dismissed everything strange about me as my “human ways,” and had no idea that my peculiarities were not common to everyone who wasn’t made out of ice. In most ways, being the only human in the Staryk kingdom wasn’t that different from being the only Jew in Pavys. The major difference was that I didn’t know all of the rules here yet, all the spots that looked like firm ground but that transformed to quicksand once you put your foot down.

Still, the Staryk were no longer predisposed to hate me, and I sometimes felt that they were easier to understand and anticipate than humans once you learned how they thought--harsh, yes, but more rational in some ways. Or at least their emotions erupted in recognizable patterns, which was more than could be said of most humans.

Some of the haughtier nobles still sneered, and sometimes a child, on encountering me for the first time, would run away from the darkness of my hair, the color of my eyes, the warm hue of my skin. But the rest had decided that I was a sufficient queen if I could accomplish what I had, and they did their best to make me feel at home, something no one in Pavys had ever done.

I was grateful to them for trying, but my gratitude made me grumpy sometimes, after eighteen years of my life trying to avoid obligation at any cost. I had to remind myself that I was the one who had taken on the responsibility of teaching these people that gifts were not always a terrible affront to decency but could, in fact, be beautiful. I believed that, and I’d proved it in the most dramatic of ways--they called me Open Handed here--but it was harder, I was finding, to live it day to day.

Living the mitzvot day by day was a challenge as well. Before Basia’s wedding and everything that came after it, I had just been trying to survive. But now I was no longer in danger and even though I intended to stay only until winter made it possible to return home, I knew that I had to figure out how to live as a Jew in this place. That task would have been so much easier if I had a rabbi to consult.

I’d lived my whole life in a town in which Mama and Papa were the only other Jews, the nearest rabbi hours away in Vysnia, and I hadn’t much felt the lack. When I had questions, Papa and Mama had talked them through with me, patient and understanding. Occasionally, I’d come up with one that stumped them, but Papa would say, “Wait till you visit Vysnia and ask your grandfather.” And he could always provide answers, though perhaps he had to consult the rabbi before giving them to me, I don’t know.

Of course, it stunts something in your soul, when you live alone surrounded by those who take every opportunity to remind you that you’re different. I’m not saying I didn’t miss being around my people. But the lack of a rabbi specifically had never bothered me. I thought of him mostly only when I passed Pavys’s priest--a walking human reminder of my difference. But now I wished I were more learned or had someone to help me work out what to do.

The necklace helped, of course, letting me know always when sunset was approaching in the human world. It would have been impossible without that, but though it took some time to train myself to look to the small necklace instead of up to the sky, I adjusted quickly. I felt fairly certain about the substitutes I made with large honey-touched crackers and the strange, pale wine I said kiddush over. A brief discussion with Flek helped me figure out what was kosher and what wasn’t, and it was simple enough to tell my servants not to serve me the latter. Of course, it was lonely, celebrating Shabbat by myself. I missed the candlelight, the warmth of Papa’s hands, Mama’s voice curling around mine as we sang. But I managed.

And as the summer wore on back in Lithvas, I began to grow more at home in my husband’s kingdom. I still longed for my family and the house in the woods with the white tree beside it. I wanted Papa’s smiles and Mama’s teasing, Wanda’s warmth beside me as we completed chores, the security of Sergey’s strength and Stepon’s sweetness. I wanted kneydlekh and tzimmes and holishkes and the coziness of Mama’s quilts as I snuggled into bed at night. Even though I didn’t need them, because I no longer felt the cold, I wanted the glow of candlelight and the warmth of a fire. Sometimes, I yearned for the lazy insect-drone haze of a summer afternoon so much that it ached.

There were so many things to miss, even as I grew to love many things about my new home. Its beauty had been so alien to my eyes at first that I couldn’t find comfort in it, but that came with familiarity. My room, which had seemed cold and hard-edged, was softened with tapestries in the palest of colors, woven from a textile made from an unfamiliar plant that grew by the creeks. I had commissioned clothes that suited me--they arrived the purest white, but the brush of my fingers turned them to gold, and wherever I went, my husband’s people turned to see the golden glow I brought with me.

Someone down in the kitchen started sending up new dishes, light and cool but with a flavor that snuck up on you, instead of the straightforward tastes I was used to back home. Some of them were delicious from the first bite; others required giving my tongue some time to adjust; a few I never could develop a taste for. After a few weeks of culinary adventures, I went downstairs to the kitchens and made friends with the chef. (She flushed a delicate blue when I gave her the name Avigayil.)

It became easy to find my way through the mountain; trails and corridors became familiar to my feet. I heard Staryk music for the first time, produced with unfamiliar woodwinds, cool-voiced horns, and strange stringed instruments--at first, it sounded to me like the shriek of a winter wind, but after a while, I began to hear the subtle beauty of it. Sometimes, everyone gathered in the glade of trees at the heart of the mountain and listened to storytellers read their long poems of epic deeds.

One day, Rebekah curled up beside me as I told her a story my grandmother had told me as a child, and I realized that when I went back home, there would be things I would miss here. Of course, I had known I would miss Rebekah and Flek and Tsop and Shofer and the others I was getting to know, but now, I saw that there would be so much more to miss--the work I did, the unexpected delight of discovering Staryk humor, the view from my chamber over the whole kingdom, the tastes and sounds of this winter world.

I could no longer deny that, though winter’s kingdom would never be home in the way my parents’ home was, it could be a home, if I wanted to stay. Perhaps I might have considered returning to the diamond mountain: frequent visits to see my friends and go over the bookkeeping and enjoy all the little luxuries I had discovered. But, there was my husband.

I could not make those frequent visits without his permission, and I did not think he would grant it, if I had no intention of being his wife. I acted as his queen, of course, but far as my people were concerned, I was not married, and could not be, unless certain conditions were met. And I was not certain that, even if my husband were willing, those conditions could be met.

It was these conditions that gnawed at my mind and made me wish for a rabbi. Though, if I’d had access to one, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to voice all of my questions. I wasn’t usually missish about the subject of circumcision--I’d been to my fair share of britot in Vysnia--but those were babies. It was different with a grown man, and the thought of talking about my husband’s eyver with that sweet-faced old man who visited my grandfather’s house was a little mortifying. What would I even say? “My husband may or may not be shaped like a human man. He also doesn’t bleed. Let us discuss the possible difficulties of milah l'shem giur”?

Every time I thought through it all, I would get irritated with myself, because what was the point of wondering about things that would not happen? I could not imagine my proud husband submitting to what he would no doubt consider a barbaric human tradition. (That was comforting, in a way--it was the humanness of it that would bother him, not the Jewishness.)

Though, I admit that the first time I thought of the ketubah, I had to laugh--he would be enthusiastic about that, at least. Probably the Staryk had some sort of verbal marriage contract of their own, and if they didn’t, I could easily imagine them adopting the tradition when they heard about it. I amused myself sometimes, considering what sort of outlandish addendums my husband would insist upon, and the knowledge that he would have to sign with his own name was tantalizing.

At first, I thought of these things only in the way I might consider what lands I would like to see if I were to travel the world, or what laws I would change in Lithvas, if I were the tsarina there instead of Irina. A silly game of ‘what if’ that kept me occupied as I fell asleep at night. Soon, I would leave winter’s kingdom, and none of these considerations would matter.

As summer burned on back in Lithvas, though, I had admit to myself that when I left I would miss my husband as well. This knowledge wriggled under my skin, an irritation I could not escape, no matter how hard I tried. I had hated him so much, felt nothing but rage and resentment when I looked at him, and it seemed weak to change my mind now. He had, after all, taken me away from everything I loved without my consent. It shouldn’t make a difference that I now understood why he had done it--that, had I been in his place, I would have done the same thing to save my people.

Now that I understood his circumstances and the way the Staryk thought, I could no longer ignore that, in fact, my husband was a man of honor who would do anything to protect what was his. I could respect that, and I wanted to leave it there. Respect I could live with and was glad of. But everything became so much worse when I realized that I was beginning to like him.

We spent a great deal more time together now, much of it at my own initiation. There were the first few days after the battle, as I watched him heal the wounded and dig graves for the fallen with his own hands; the weeks after, as the mountain was rebuilt and he labored beside those wearing the roughest, darkest grey, working just as hard as they did. But once those necessary tasks were completed, I found myself still seeking his company.

If he had been capable of being flustered, I might have described him as such the first time I asked to attend his court. But I was glad I did, because it set something in my heart at ease to see the way he listened to the smallest complaints his people brought before him. I was relieved that his judgments seemed just--at least, once I had the subtleties of the law explained to me by a long-faced judge I gave the name Moishe--and that he did not show favoritism towards those who wore more white than grey or had gold rings on their fingers.

I ate my meals with my bondswomen and bondsman, and I began to ask my husband to join us more and more often. Dinner had gone from the loneliest, most homesick part of my day to a delight, a time when I could hear stories from Shofer that his father had told him, catch glimpses of Tsop’s sharp humor, watch Flek with the daughter she loved so much. Rebekah brought a brightness to the table, a joy that made the meal seem like one shared by a family. There was no candlelight, but there might as well have been.

When my husband first joined us, that easy rapport froze into something stilted, with a silent Rebekah staring up at him with awed eyes while the others stole nervous glances at him. It was clear that none of them had ever thought they would share a meal with their king. At first, he was just as stiff as they were, about as warm in manner as a marble statue in a winter garden, but each time he joined us, conversation became easier. After a few months, the rest of us were back to our easy ways, and though he never unbent as much as everyone else around the table, I could see that he began to enjoy himself, though I could not imagine him admitting it.

And I teased him. The first few times I did, Flek looked terrified, Shofer horrified, and Tsop as though she expected me to be struck down by lightning. But though he sneered in response, there was no anger in him, and slowly the others began to relax, even when I said things that none of them would have dreamed of voicing.

I did see his anger now and then, for there were times when we disagreed, and neither of us ever learned the trick of doing that without fighting. I flared up at him, he lashed out at me--only ever with his words--and sometimes I yelled at him to leave or he stormed out, slamming the door behind him. I would huff and go to bed with rage roiling in me, but the next day it would be as if we had never fought at all, and we would find some compromise. At first, the servants trembled, but after a time, they grew so accustomed to it that they carried on with their work as though their king and queen were not glaring and hurling words sharp as icicles at each other.

But even the fighting made me admire him more, for he never lied to me or treated me unfairly. The disagreements we had were the kind that all reasonable people had; ours were simply louder than most. I discovered that, frequently, when we made each other angriest, it was because one of us was making an incorrect assumption about the other’s thinking. We stumbled over these cultural differences often, and sometimes it took a great many impatient words to explain ourselves to each other. But I was gratified that he thought me worth explaining to; he no longer considered me foolish, for all I was frequently ignorant of Staryk ways. I could see that it was not just the gold in my fingers that he respected, but the workings of my mind, once he understood them.

There was something thrilling in that. I had sharpened my mind and my will like a knife, and I had used them to protect my family, but my parents had feared this sharpening would harden my heart. My husband had no such fear: it was my sharpness he admired most about me. I had not known that I wanted the pricklier sides of my personality to be appreciated, but I saw that I had been hungry for that. I could not stop the nagging worry: would a human man treasure those sharp parts of me? Would I be able to live side by side all my life with a man who had never walked through the cold heart of winter as I had? Would his human features ever be as beautiful to my eyes as the impossible facets of my Staryk lord’s face?

I thought, sometimes, of finding a husband when I returned to Lithvas. The matchmaker in Vysnia would pick someone suitable; or perhaps my grandfather already had someone in mind. I had been so jealous once of my cousin Basia, married to a man who had grown up just as she had, who saw the world in the same way. But now, in my most honest moments late at night, I wondered whether I would ever be content with a merchant or a tailor or even a scholar. Perhaps I had found the only husband who would ever truly suit me.

I knew that if I told him that I wanted to stay with him for good, that I wanted to be his wife in truth, he would acquiesce. He never went back on a bargain. But I also knew I could never bring myself to truly marry him if he weren’t willing to follow the ways of my people in addition to his own, and I did not believe there was a chance of that.

It was true that he had no objection to my continuing to follow halakha. But that wasn’t enough, especially if there were to be children. I had known all my life I would marry beneath a chuppah, visit the mikveh monthly, light the Shabbat candles, and listen to my husband say the blessings. I wanted that, all the rituals and mitzvot that my people had kept alive for more than a thousand years. I could make substitutions, add all kinds of new customs to my life, learn new ways in addition to the old. But without the ways of Israel, I would never be satisfied. I would never be myself.

I have always thought of myself as a practical person--ruthlessly so, when need be. But fancies swirled in my mind of just how perfect it would be if this husband, who suited me so well, would also love the ways of my people. I tried to shove these thoughts aside, lock them away in the lockbox at the back of my mind, but they persisted. I would think, “If only I had a rabbi to answer my questions, then I would be able to stop thinking about them,” and then I told myself again and again, “You do not need a rabbi.”

But when winter finally came to Lithvas and my new people escorted us along the silver road back to my parents’ house, my husband said he would venture to marry me according to my family’s laws, and I saw I would need a rabbi after all.

 

 

 

The day after my grandparents arrived from Vysnia with their rabbi, another carriage pulled up at my parents’ house: the rest of the beit din had arrived. When I saw the two other rabbis, I spun to stare at my mother in amazement. I had not even thought to ask for this. She just smiled at me, shrugged and said, “I had a suspicion. Better to have them here for no purpose than not, and wish they were.”

So, all my questions were answered, in the end. The three rabbis instructed my husband about halakha and about his duties; they were delighted that his own questions were penetrating and insightful. My cheeks blazed scarlet, but I held my head high like the queen I was as I explained the difficulties of brit milah to them. They discussed this point for six hours before they produced an agreement: ichor would suffice for blood. My husband was in bed for three days after the visit from the mohel, whose knife (only silver would do) he had endured as stoically as I had known he would. This early in winter, the waters of the pool by the nearby spring had not yet iced over, so my husband could complete t’vilah, and I chose a name for him to use among my people, and it was a king’s name.

The three rabbis and Moishe and his clerk labored a long time over my ketubah, staying up late into the night three nights in a row to argue this or that point. I have never seen Moishe enjoy himself so much, though probably no other human would have recognized that he did, and I think the other rabbis enjoyed it too. A copy was made in the Staryk language, as well as in Aramaic, and both were beautiful, inked in silver and gold.

On the day of my wedding, the cloth of my chuppah had been transformed to cloth of gold by my magic, and it shone like the sun against the blue of the sky. Another cloth of gold lay under our feet over the white of the snow, because that is the Staryk way. The rabbi recited our blessings and Moishe recited the Staryk ones, and the wine we drank out of the Staryk goblets-- the one with the stag and the dented one with the hind--came from my grandfather’s wine cellar.

Afterword

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