and
kissing the earth.

"What is the frozen sea?" asks Busie.

"You don't know what the frozen sea is? It is a sea whose waters are
thick as liver and salt as brine. No ships can ride on it. When people
fall into it, they can never get out again."

Busie looks at me with big eyes.

"Why should you go there?"

"Am I going, little fool? I fly over it like an eagle. In a few minutes
I shall be over the dry land and at the twelve mountains that spit fire.
At the twelfth hill, at the very top, I shall come down and walk seven
miles, until I come to a thick forest. I shall go in and out of the
trees, until I come to a little stream. I shall swim across the water,
and count seven times seven. A little old man with a long beard appears
before me, and says to me: 'What is your request?' I answer: 'Bring me
the queen's daughter.'"

"What queen's daughter?" asks Busie. And I imagine she is frightened.

"The queen's daughter is the princess who was snatched away from under
the wedding canopy and bewitched, and put into a palace of crystal seven
years ago."

"What has that to do with you?"

"What do you mean by asking what it has to do with me? I must go and set
her free."

"You must set her free?"

"Who else?"

"You need not fly so far. Take my advice, you need not."

* * *

Busie takes hold of my hand, and I feel her little white hand is cold. I
look into her eyes, and I see in them the reflection of the red gold sun
that is bidding farewell to the day--the first, bright, warm Passover
day. The day dies by degrees. The sun goes out like a candle. The noises
of the day are hushed. There is hardly a living soul in the street. In
the little windows shine the lights of the festival candles that have
just been lit. A curious, a holy stillness wraps us round, Busie and
myself. We feel that our lives are fast merging in the solemn stillness
of the festive evening.

"Shemak! Shemak!"

* * *

My mother calls me for the third time to go with my father to the
synagogue. Do I not know myself that I must go to prayers? I will sit
here another minute--one minute, no more. Busie hears my mother calling
me. She tears her hand from mine, gets up, and drives me off.

"Shemak, you are called--you. Go, go! It is time. Go, go!"

I get up to go. The day is dead. The sun is extinguished. Its gold beams
have turned to blood. A little wind blows--a soft, cold wind. Busie
tells me to go. I throw a last glance at her. She is not