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    Necromancy of the Demon Maiden:A Gothic Tale of Podolia
    Necromancy of the Demon Maiden:A Gothic Tale of Podolia
    Necromancy of the Demon Maiden:A Gothic Tale of Podolia
    Ebook100 pages1 hour

    Necromancy of the Demon Maiden:A Gothic Tale of Podolia

    By Barak Bassman

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    About this ebook

    In the late 17th-century, in Turkish-occupied southern Poland, a kabbalist faces vicious persecution from his fellow Jews because of his secret adherence to the teachings and practices of the disgraced false messiah, Sabbatai Zevi. Forced to take refuge with a dreamy and unstable Polish count in a nearby castle, the Jewish mystic is soon forced to summon a demon maiden to fulfill the aristocrat’s yearnings for a woman with whom to live out his fantasies of walking amongst the goddesses and queens of the ancient world. But the noble lord and his reluctant necromancer quickly lose control of the demon bride–with horrific and bloody consequences.

    Blending themes from heretical and messianic strains of Jewish mysticism and Gothic fiction of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, Necromancy of the Demon Maiden: A Gothic Tale of Podolia is a meditation upon the temptations of fantasy and magic and the longing to find vestiges of divine goodness scattered and trapped in places of darkness.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBarak Bassman
    Release dateJun 11, 2019
    ISBN9781948046732
    Necromancy of the Demon Maiden:A Gothic Tale of Podolia
    Author

    Barak Bassman

    Barak A. Bassman received a B.A. in Classics from Grinnell College and a law degree from the New York University School of Law. He practices law in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and lives in the Philadelphia suburbs with his wife and two children. He is the author of Elegy of the Minotaur and Repentance: A Tale of Demons in Old Jewish Poland.

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      Book preview

      Necromancy of the Demon Maiden:A Gothic Tale of Podolia - Barak Bassman

      NECROMANCY OF THE DEMON MAIDEN

      A Gothic Tale of Podolia

      by

      BARAK BASSMAN

      This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

      NECROMANCY OF THE DEMON MAIDEN: A Gothic Tale of Podolia

      This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

      Copyright © 2019 Barak A. Bassman. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the author and publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

      The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

      Cover designed by Telemachus Press, LLC

      Cover art:

      Copyright © iStockPhoto_182789833_duncan1890

      Published by Telemachus Press, LLC at Smashwords

      http://www.telemachuspress.com

      ISBN: 978-1-948046-73-2 (eBook)

      ISBN: 978-1-948046-74-9 (Paperback)

      ISBN: 978-1-948046-75-6 (Hardback)

      Library of Congress Location Number: 2019907234

      FICTION /Folklore

      Version 2019.06.11

      Table of Contents

      I. Among the Ruins

      II. The Old Sabbatean’s Tale

      III. The Old Necromancer’s Tale

      IV. When A Wife Learns Troubling News

      V. Enchanted Nights in the Pagan Gardens

      VI. How the Sorcerer Was Truly Saved

      Other Books by Barak Bassman

      About the Author

      NECROMANCY OF THE DEMON MAIDEN

      A Gothic Tale of Podolia

      I. Among the Ruins

      Reb Nathan Cardozo remembered the castle grounds being so much more grand than they now appeared. As the carriage approached the estate of Count P____—the young Count, he reminded himself, not the long dead lord he had once known so well—he saw that the gates, formerly so tall and imposing, were rusted and tilting uncomfortably sideways. An obviously drunk peasant waddled up to open the entrance for the esteemed guest, although the horses could have easily knocked over the flimsy, swaying structure.

      Past the gates he beheld more ruin; the once perfectly kept garden paths were overrun with brown weeds and the bulging wide saucers of wild yellow and red mushrooms. There, past the old apple orchard, was a pond, but the swans were gone. Still, the charm of the garden had never been the plants or the animals, which were merely the decorative edges framing the splendid pavilions, grottoes, frescoes, and temples of love strewn about the landscape.

      While at first Nathan could not find the elegant structures he still recalled so well, eventually his eyes landed on a broken wall lying on the ground, with a faded fresco depicting the Judgment of Paris. Discord’s golden apple still shone brightly in her bony, elongated fingers, but the head of one of the goddesses had been chipped away. The sight of the damaged painting sunk among the weeds filled him with a deep sadness.

      Once inside the castle itself, he was unnerved by the quiet, as if there were no servants anymore bustling about their chores. And there were signs of neglect wherever he looked: Chairs and tables were missing legs, window panes were streaked with black stains and winding cracks, and the heavy dust in the air tickled and tormented his old lungs until he fell over in a violent coughing fit. After the steward finally appeared and had helped him back up, Nathan went upstairs to his room where he washed and ate a light dairy meal he had packed of bread, cheese, and butter.

      It was early in the afternoon. Nathan looked out the window. Through the streaks of grime, he made out, in the distance, a temple of love in the gardens, still standing on its circular base with its thin marble columns intact. Yet the elegant garden temple filled him with dread; this was the place where terrible crimes had been committed and where he had once strayed so far from the path of the righteous.

      Tired from the long journey, Nathan drifted off to sleep in the grayish afternoon light that weakly penetrated the room. When the castle steward shook him awake again, the sun was already setting in the sky. The steward explained that His Excellency, Count P____, wished to greet his guest in the library. Please follow me, the steward instructed. He silently obeyed.

      In contrast to the rest of the estate, the library had maintained the splendor he recalled from decades past. On two walls were tightly packed bookshelves reaching to the high ceiling. There were even the Hebrew tomes he had loaned to the old, departed Count, who had once had the ambition, never carried through, to learn the Holy Tongue. He smiled as he recalled how kind the old Count had been to him, an outcast in Podolia’s Jewish community. Those were the years of Turkish rule in the province, before its return to the Commonwealth of Poland-Lithuania. But the old Count had not cared much about politics—no, his yearnings had been for things hidden and exalted and forbidden.

      Another wall contained an immense bay window with a screen door built into it that opened directly into the castle gardens. The panes here were clear and intact. Indeed, they appeared quite new. The gentle pink of the twilight drifted easily into the room through such fine, well-kept windows.

      The wall opposite the windows was hung with portraits of the noble lords and ladies who had reigned in this castle. He spied the old Count and Countess, looking dignified, if perhaps a bit uncomfortable and bored. They had both died so young, he recalled.

      You must be Mr. Nathan Cardozo. Please sit down in one of the chairs, be at your ease. Would you like some brandy? Please, take some. It will liven up your old bones.

      Nathan turned around to see an expensively dressed, commanding young man walking toward him, offering a tumbler of liquor. This must be the young Count, he thought.

      Come sit, I am sure you had a long journey, rest your limbs.

      Nathan sat himself down in one of the plush upholstered chairs in the middle of the room and took the brandy. The young Count sat opposite him.

      Pan, many thanks for your kind hospitality. I drink to your good health and long life, may the Holy One, Blessed be He, shower you with blessings.

      And Nathan drained his cup.

      The young Count slouched back in his chair and stared intensely at Nathan, as if he were searching for something buried between the folds and wrinkles in the old man’s face. His façade of cheerfulness faded away, and his countenance took on a worried cast. The young Count stood up and walked to the window,

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