For the Sabbath Day

On a narrow meandering path that makes its way through the fields, sometimes disappearing among the trees and tangled bushes, a packed and overflowing wagon stumbles along, softly moaning in a still, small, voice. A skinny horse, with a sparse tail and the smooth, shining face of a human being, lifts its hooves, lurching up and down as it thrusts out its tongue and seems to jump in place. With every jump, the ragged, unoiled wheels cry out in reproach, the wagon groaning in response as it shudders and knocks on the ground. This wagon belongs to Sendril, the peddler. In it he transports all sorts of practical items to the villagers as well as to markets in the neighboring towns. As for him, he squeezes himself onto the edge of the wagon, his legs limply dangling down.

It is the rainy season near the end of Tishrei. The nights are long; the days short. The world’s winds blow with abandon, snow and rain wildly mix together. And because of the chaos, the sky changes from minute to minute. At times, it displays an angry face, darkening every soul, and at times, a laughing countenance that comforts all creatures. Sendril often went without food, eating mostly eggs during that week, eating hard boiled eggs, soft boiled eggs – eggs in many forms. The horse and wagon get stuck in a puddle and Sendril works to free them, pushing and pulling, shouting with all his might, becoming filthy and mud-covered. (Even a small nation,...