Light

LIGHT

By
ERIC RENDEL

Text Copyright
©
2014 Eric Rendel

All Rights Reserved

Table Of
Contents

Author’s Note

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Many of you will be unfamiliar with the use of Hebrew and
Yiddish used by characters in this novel.  For this reason the first use of
such a word or phrase has been annotated with an end note explaining the term. 
In some cases you will encounter authentic Hebrew prayers such as the well
known ‘Shema’.  Where Hebrew has been used as a prayer no translation or
explanation has been given other than an appropriate explanation within the
text of the story.

To assist the reader here is a glossary of any Hebrew or
Yiddish terms used within the novel.

The Dark would be no more.

For over five thousand years it had endured.  Now it would
be banished.  Jacob Cordozo’s life work was over.  He had succeeded.  Just as
God had promised, His true Light was returning to the world from which it had
been denied since that first day of creation.

The Messiah would come.  The long wait was over.  The Urim
and the Tumim had been found and were awaiting his call.

And the thought terrified him.

Here, at the brink of his triumph Jacob Cordozo was
suddenly fearful.  Yes, it was he who had learnt the ritual.  It was he who had
made it possible and it was he who would be destroyed if he were wrong.

What if he had made a mistake?  Had he been blinded by his
own vanity into ignoring some of the other prophecies?  What if it was true
that he was over three hundred years too early?  Would God punish him for his
presumption?

No.  There could be no more delay.  All was as it should
be.  He possessed the Urim and the Tumim, lost since the reign of David, King
of Israel, and they were all he needed.

The ancient prophecy would be fulfilled. 

Uncertainty was the tool of Satan.  Did not the Adversary
try to break our forefather Abraham’s resolve at the Binding of Isaac?  And did
Abraham weaken?

Then neither would he.

Cordozo was ready.

He looked around.  An inauspicious location to herald the
Messianic age.  A cold bleak wine cellar beneath the home of Joseph ibn Sura,
his sponsor.  But where else could he hold the ritual?  He was a known
Sabbataean and shunned by his fellows.  Well, now he would show them the truth
and all would know it.

He looked down at the eleven crystals that adorned the
breastplate that had been made in exact accordance with the instructions
contained in the Book of Shemot.  He had checked every measurement so carefully
against not only the original Biblical text but also the later Rabbinical
interpretation contained in the Talmud.  There was no error.  He was certain of
that.  All that was needed was the final stone and then the ritual could
begin. 

Then, why was he hesitating?

The answer to that was obvious.  They were reaching for
the very forces out of which the Holy One Blessed Be He had fashioned the
world; forces of such power that one single mistake could bring the wrath of
heaven upon them.

What if the ancient prophecy of Abulafia was in error? 
What if it did not contain the entire ritual?

No.  He was allowing his fears to conquer him.  He had to
be strong, resolute.

And Isaac stepped forward.

He was the youngest of the acolytes, a mere youth, but a
brilliant student.  It was his understanding of scripture that had led to the
locating of the stones and it was only right and proper that he should have the
honour of setting the final stone in its mounting of gold.

As if it was made of eggshell the boy reverently held
before him the multi-hued jasper and with infinite care pushed it into its
home.

There was nothing.  No clap of thunder.  No scream from
the Heavens. 

And Cordozo smiled.  They would succeed.  Nothing would
stand in their way.

Isaac looked at him.

‘What is it, Isaac?’

‘What if Abulafia was wrong?’

Cordozo threw back the hood of his robe and shook his head.

‘You of all people should know the answer to that.  If
Abulafia was wrong then our souls are doomed and so are those of our
descendants.  But we have discussed the risks.  I have not erred.  The ritual
will be carried out exactly, according to the words of Abulafia.  We will gain
the Light.  We will bring the Messiah.

‘Now.  Let us make ready.  Go to your place.’

Isaac slowly returned to his position before the flame and
faced the third of their gathering, Joseph ibn Sura in whose home they were. 
It was time to begin.

 Cordozo approached the lectern and, with hands that were
gnarled with age, he reached for the leather bound volume and opened it to the
page that had been marked.

In the Holy Tongue he began to read the words that Abraham
Abulafia had written four hundred years ago whilst deep in an ecstatic trance.

Abulafia; even his name conjured visions of possibilities
to be realised.  Many regarded him as a heretic, that he had betrayed his
religion, but there were those like Cordozo who knew of him as the greatest
mystic who had ever lived.  So many of his works had been destroyed after his
death at the end of the thirteenth century but some writings, such as the
volume from which Cordozo was reading, remained, carefully preserved for use by
future generations.

Now the ritual could be concluded.  Abulafia had provided
the hints and Isaac had interpreted Abulafia’s formula in accordance with the
Holy Scripture. 

As he intoned the words, Jacob Cordozo felt the fulfilment
of his destiny.  It was for this moment that he had been born; he was certain
of it.  He, Jacob Cordozo, was a direct descendant of Aaron, the first High
Priest, and only one born of that line could wear any part of the vestments of
the High Priest and perform the ritual.

The wicks were flickering and the underground room began
to darken.  Something was happening.

Now the two acolytes approached, swinging their censers,
praising Hashem by reciting the Hallel, and the aroma of burnt spice filled the
air.

‘Oh Lord,’ cried the Priest in the ancient Hebrew, ‘If my
unworthy soul has found favour in Thine sight send me, I pray Thee, Thy Holy
Light.  Let me see by its rays thy Torah as did our father, Moshe Rabeinu
[1]
,
and bring us the Moshiach
[2]
as Thou hast promised.’

And, the acolytes recited Amen in unison.

Suddenly, with no trace of a breeze, every single oil lamp
simultaneously extinguished itself and the cellar was plunged into a darkness
so impenetrable as to be absolute.  There was no light anywhere.

Then, from out of the silence came a low murmuring, as if
of souls in torment.

In that moment, Cordozo knew that he had failed.

Like the blasphemer, Korach, they had opened the fiery pit
and they would pass alive into Sheol.

Someone screamed.  It was young Isaac; always the most
nervous of his followers; and Cordozo could think of no words that he could
offer by way of comfort.

The atmosphere was taking on an unnatural chill so
reminiscent of a graveyard, and Cordozo reached out for his two acolytes.  He
had to provide them with the reassurance that he did not feel

‘We must stand firm.’

The ground beneath their feet began to shake.

They tumbled, screaming, into the abyss.

But no.  They were still in that underground cellar.  It
was only his imagination.  Cordozo could see again by the warm, gentle glow
that suffused everything.  A miracle.

Light.

This was it; the Holy Light that the Most High had created
on the First Day of creation.  This was the Holy Light that God had put away
for the righteous; the Light for which Cordozo had been seeking, that would
come with Messiah.  They had succeeded.

Or had they?

It was becoming brighter; so unbearably brighter than any
light could be; so white and pure.  Cordozo closed his eyes against the
brilliance but it was impossible to shut out the Glory that he knew was God. 
He screamed, knowing that it would be his final scream.  No-one could face the
Light of the Divine and live.  Why did he ever think that he would be safe?

As the purging effulgence tore through his soul Cordozo
managed to gasp his last prayer:

‘Shema Yisroel Adonoy Eloheinu Adonoy Echod.’