![]() He was very old and very tall, with broad shoulders and a long gray beard. Despite his fear, the Memory Healer could not help but be amazed: in all his life, living as he did on the edge of the desert, he had never seen so much green. Under the big archway they went, through the outer courtyard until they passed through another, smaller wall and came into a lush garden. There, rising up above the bustling marketplace, were high stone walls adorned with crimson banners, glistening with morning dew. The soldiers took him to the center of the city. This made the Memory Healer very afraid for he was operating with no papers or permits. The Memory Healer looked up to greet them, but when he saw their bronze breastplates and long spears, his face went white. One day, two men pushed open the door of the Memory Healer’s little shop. They would give him a bag of silver coins and he would take the memory-seed-sized or acorn-sized-and put it in a box in his cellar, where it could not bother anyone anymore.įor this reason, he was called the Memory Healer. One by one they would come through his door, and he would sit them in his chair and, making careful incisions in their skull, remove a little piece of something from inside: sometimes the size of a sunflower seed, sometimes the size of an acorn. He ran a shop in a dirty alleyway, out of sight, and whenever someone had something they wished to forget, they would come to him: mothers whose children had died, spurned lovers with broken hearts, soldiers haunted by the war. ![]() Many years ago, in the city of Holem, which is across the yawning Taw, there was a man with a very peculiar skill: he could remove memories. Then he will laugh, and he will tell you this story. When the traditional prayer has passed through his lips, he will raise his head and look toward the west where that great desert the Taw swallows men alive, and a breeze will go through the silver wisps of his hair. It will clang against the bottom, and at the sound the old man will bow his head low and say the begadkephat in humble thanks. He will smile and say, “A tale for five qibbuts?”Īnd you, being intrigued, will drop the little coin in the cup. You will make your way over, and he will raise his head before you have said a word. When you see him, you will find yourself drawn to him. His white eyes will watch the crowds, as if he alone can see into their souls. ![]() ![]() He will be fanning himself in the heat of the day, a tin cup perched on his knee. If you are ever walking in the streets of Seghol, past the bazaar on Daghesh Street where they sell shrunken heads in baskets and tell your fortune in exchange for copper coins, you may spot an old blind man sitting in the mouth of an alley. ![]()
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