For Hope Is Always Born

Published by Liquorice Fish Books, an imprint of Cinnamon Press

www.cinnamonpress.com

The right of Jan Fortune to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act, 1988. © 2019 Jan Fortune. ISBN 978-1-78864-098-5

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A CIP record for this book can be obtained from the British Library.

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Disclaimer

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

To Casilda, for becoming a different story.

To Tamsyn & Finn, who know the power of love and hope.

And to Adam, always.

When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender dreams — this may be madness. … — and maddest of all: to see life as it is, and not as it should be.

…

For hope is always born at the same time as love.

― Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote

Dramatis Personae

Whilst this is not an exhaustive list of characters it highlights those who reappear or have particular significance throughout the Casilda Trilogy.

From This is the End of the Story

Catherine McManus b.1961

known as Cassie, she is later called Kitty by her husband and finally adopts her full name, Catherine. Her friend, Miriam, believes her to be the reincarnation of St Casilda.

Miriam Jacobs b.1961

Catherine’s best friend who believes that she and Cassie have lived several lives together, most significantly as St Casilda and Ben Haddaj.

Casilda (11th century)

Moorish princess of Toledo who became a Christian saint, healer and hermit (historical figure though highly mythologised).

Ben Haddaj (11th century)

A putative Muslim prince of Zaragoza who may have returned to his ancestral religion of Judaism (quasi-historical though largely legend).

Judith Jacobs b.1929

Miriam Jacobs’ mother.

Sarah Jacobs b.1956

Miriam Jacob’s sister.

The Hamsa

The talisman pendant, a hand of Miriam has travelled through centuries. It appears in this book in 1990 in Toledo, given to Catherine in odd circumstances.

From A Remedy for All Things

Selene Solweig Virág b.1927

like Catherine, possibly an incarnation of St Casilda.

Sándor Virág b.1902

Selene’s father.

Marie Virág née Spire b.1903

Selene’s mother, aunt to Judith Jacobs.

Hélène Spire b.1905

Judith Jacobs’ mother, aunt to Selene.

Attila József 1905-1937

Hungarian poet who committed suicide on December 3, 1937 (historical figure. The outline of his life, character & poetry is historically researched, but the events he is involved in within the novel are fictionalised, including being a possible incarnation of Ben Haddaj).

Miriam Virág b.1955

Selene’s daughter, who Selene believes is fathered by Attila József, despite the poet having died in 1937.

Simon Garrett b. 1963

Catherine’s partner, possibly an incarnation of Ben Haddaj.

The Hamsa

The talisman pendant, a hand of Miriam has travelled through centuries. It appears in this book in 1924, given to Marie Spire (who becomes Marie Virág) on her 21st birthday during a family trip to Toledo.

From For Hope is Always Born

Miriam McManus b.1994

Catherine and Simon’s daughter, possibly an incarnation of St Casilda (so present-day Miriam may be the ‘historical’ Casilda).

Casilda Feartes b.1988

Selene’s granddaughter and Miriam Virág’s daughter, possibly an incarnation of Ben Haddaj (so present-day Casilda may be the ‘quasi-historical Ben Haddaj).

Simon Garrett b. 1963

Catherine’s partner & Miriam McManus’ father, possibly an incarnation of Ben Haddaj.

Miriam Virág b.1955

Selene’s daughter & Casilda Feartes’ mother.

Casilda (11th century)

Moorish princess of Toledo who became a Christian saint, healer and hermit (historical figure though highly mythologised) and in this book the central character of Miriam McManus’ novella, Crossing Over.

Nathan Garrett b. 1958

Simon’s brother and Miriam McManus’ uncle.

Eliška Baroch b.1960

Simon’s colleague in Prague who marries his brother, Nathan & is Miriam McManus’ aunt.

Rafael Faertes b.1952

Miriam Virág’s partner and Casilda Faertes’ father, who she does not meet.

Isak Löwenthal b.1956

Miriam Virág’s later partner and Casilda Faertes’ stepfather.

Saoirse Jacobs Ó Murcháin b.1988

Sarah Jacobs’ daughter and Miriam Jacob’s niece. Also Casilda Faertes’ third cousin.

Beatriz

A mountain lion and companion to St Casilda.

The Hamsa

The talisman pendant, a hand of Miriam has travelled through centuries. It appears in this book in the early 11th century in a cave near Briviesca.

PART I

SOFTLY

October 5 2017

In the pre-dawn darkness, Casilda watches the woman approach, pale skin, fair hair spilling around her face, a smile that suggests she is lost in thought. Watching the woman, Casilda feels a jolt, energy deep in her gut. The woman walks past Taberna El Botero, past her, towards the cathedral.

Casilda, she whispers, not knowing why she is saying her name aloud to a passing stranger. I’m your Ben Haddaj, the line runs in her head. I will save you at last, my enchanted girl.

Walking past the cathedral in a loose white dress flecked with embroidery, palest blue like the halo around the sun, the woman reminds her of the girls who come each year for confirmation at Corpus Christi, the whole city decked in flowers. This woman is not much taller, just as slight. She moves further away, turns a corner towards the Museo De La España Mágica. Casilda turns away to continue towards the Sinagoga de Santa Maria Blanca.

Her steps are slower, muscles quiver as she breathes, but the air continues to warm and the street looks the same: the swordmakers on the corner, the window full of damascene. She shakes herself, continues on her path.

This is the beginning and end of the story, she says to herself, turning into the Synagogue.

I was born into a myth of Moorish Iberia, a fragmentary story of a Muslim princess who became a saint and her unrequited lover who disappeared from history and legend while returning to the faith of his Jewish ancestors.

Saint Casilda died a thousand years ago. In some of the stories she was over a hundred years old, in others she was still young. She was cured of an unnatural flow of blood, but perhaps only for a little time.

Twenty-three years ago, my mother, who might have been Casilda in another life, gave birth to me in a flow of blood —

In the Synagogue, Casilda Faertes sets up instruments in the central aisle. There are no tourists yet and the space is cool, the rows of piers and arcades throw faint shadows and the pinecone details around the horseshoe arches look real. She gazes up, towards the central clam-shell-topped arch, the walls whiter than white, and closes her eyes against the sudden stab of pain in her left temple, rubs away the scent of oranges, notices that behind the pungency there is the faintest tang of roses.

She watches the woman’s blood circle down the shower drain, tang of iron on the tongue. It’s a cold night, she says to her, the same woman she passed earlier near the taberna, who steps onto the cool cobalt tiles of the tiny bathroom, wet, shaking, but no longer bleeding. She wraps the thin body in a white towel, covers the towel with a white woollen shawl.

Get under the blankets. I’ll make you some mint tea.

The woman removes a little hand of Miriam that hangs on a silk cord around her neck and places it on the bedside table of dark wood inlaid with mother of pearl before lying down.

She watches the woman drift into sleep, mint tea cooling on the table.

Casilda?

Casilda shakes herself, blinks into Miguel’s face. He stands over her, frowning.

Are you okay?

She shakes herself. Sorry, yes, I’m fine. I thought for a moment I had a migraine looming, but it’s lifted.

She has an image of the woman she saw this morning. Did she see her or imagine her? Hardly anyone is on the street at 6.30 in the morning, in October, before sunrise. She can still smell roses, far off, but sweet.

Miguel smiles. I love performing here, he says.

Me too. Not that Quereb’s made any progress with Braulio Rodríguez Plaza.

Too much money involved, Miguel says, nodding. Plaza isn’t going to give a Synagogue back to Jews when it’s such an earner as a museum for the Catholic cChurch.

They can keep the money. Having the name back would be a gesture in the right direction.

Ibn Shushan Synagogue, formerly known as Santa Maria la Blanca.

Yes. I suppose at least we’ve got the festival. Half a millennium went by without any being celebrated here.

Hmm, Sukkot in Toledo, a natty little two day affair to replace a religious festival of a week, largely concentrating on food and drink to bring in the tourists. We’re just colluding with the spectacle, aren’t we? Quaint music to accompany voyeurs gawping at a culture relegated to a relic.

You sound like my mother, Casilda says. I play music because I love it. I sing because I have to. And if the audience think I’m a quaint little zoo-piece, that’s their loss. I’m keeping something alive and moving tradition into the present.

Touché and well put, Miguel says, grinning.

Speaking of playing music, what time are the others arriving?

Miguel glances at his watch. Zach should be here soon. Bechor won’t be out of bed yet. Wind instruments take all the pneuma out of you, you know, especially when there are women wanting to check out how versatile those lips are.

Casilda laughs. Fair point. Well, Zach can try out the acoustics. I’m in awe of his playing. But Bechor better not be too late, we only have until opening time.

Mm, he’s really something, Miguel agrees. And having a finger-picking wonder playing with us can’t do any harm, eh? Zach makes me want to visit New York.

Did I hear my name? Zach enters with an entourage of assistants carrying an array of cases. Laouto, cittern, archilaud, viol, guitar, he intones, as though reciting a litany. No Bechor yet? I thought I was late. He turns around, taking in the building. Gotta, love this place, he says.

Yes, Casilda agrees. Mudéjar architecture. Built under Castilian Christians by Islamic architects for a Jewish congregation. How often is that going to happen? And you are late, she adds, smiling, but you still beat Bechor to it. This is his idea of torture, being up before the sun.

Not true, Bechor argues, arms full of slim cases concealing wooden flute, clarinet, kaval and bansuri.

Miguel helps Bechor deposit the instruments safely and they shake hands, throw arms around one another, each slapping the other’s back before Bechor turns to do the same to Zach.

Enough with the camaraderie, Casilda quips. Let’s rehearse.

Love this nyckelharpa, Zach comments as they arrange themselves. Baltic, isn’t it?

It is. My mother had a lover who played one. A Swedish musician and writer. He taught me while he was living with us.

You’re still in touch?

Yes. So is my mother, though as friends now. He’s an extraordinary artist.

And while I’m asking nosy questions, I keep wondering about your name … it’s not …

Jewish? No. Santa Casilda of Toledo. The Muslim princess of this city. She travelled north to a holy well to be cured of a continual flow of blood as a young woman, an adolescent probably. And converted to Christianity.

Your mother is Christian?

No, Jewish, but not Spanish. She was born in Hungary, but grew up in Nice. My mother was fascinated by the story of Santa Casilda. She heard it when she first came to Spain in the ’70s. Casilda’s the patron of Toledo and my mother lived here for a while. The story stuck with her and she ran into it again later. Santa Casilda died in a sanctuary outside Briviesca, near where my mother settled in Burgos.

And your father? Faertes doesn’t sound Hungarian.

I never met him, but he gave me the surname, or rather my mother thought it would be easier for me to have a Spanish surname. Apparently he was from one of those families