Hammer of Witches by Shana Mlawski Read Free Book Online Page B

loves. But that was before the Inquisition, and before the Malleus Maleficarum.” Uncle Diego took a deep breath and shook his head. “Al-Katib and his wife were among the first to be captured.”
    There was that term again, that “Malleus Maleficarum.” But something about what Diego said bothered me even more. “That doesn’t make sense, Uncle. Al-Katib couldn’t have beencaptured. He was seen at Granada last year.”
    “I said ‘captured,’ not ‘killed,’ Baltasar. And he was not killed, though sadly his wife was.” Diego paused and said, “Do you remember that story I told you when you were a boy? The one about the hameh and three Arabian brothers? Al-Katib told me that story the day I met him in Constantinople. He said it was a story about men from his family who lived centuries ago, and it was passed down to him through a thousand generations. Al-Katib told me the story was about the evils of revenge, about how hatred can turn you into a monster. But the night the Inquisition killed his wife, he showed up at our door with blood splattered over his clothes and a black bird with yellow eyes sitting on his shoulder. And that night, Amir wore a look so desperate and hateful that I feared he had turned into a hameh himself.
    “He said to me, ‘I must go, old friend. I don’t know when I will return here again.’ He thrust something into my arms and said, ‘I leave this in your care, my brother.’ Before I could ask him what had happened or where he was going, he dashed off like a madman.” My uncle’s meaningful stare pierced right through me. “Dashed off, leaving a child in my arms.”
    By that time in my life, I’d heard enough fairy tales to know what a sentence like that meant. Until then, though, I’d never known what it felt like to be part of such a story. The end of my uncle’s tale was so obvious, so inevitable, and yet I could hardly believe the words. I said — or maybe I didn’t, I don’t know —“Amir al-Katib is my father ?”
    My uncle clasped his hands firmly on his lap. “Yes, Baltasar. You are his son.”
    I couldn’t believe it. My gaze scrolled across the priest’s parchment once more. Amir al-Katib . . . last seen in Palos, Spain at the home of Baltasar Infante . . . believed to be his only living relation . . .
    “But you told me my parents were Abram and Marina Infante!”
    “Your mother was named Marina,” Diego explained. “And as for ‘Abram,’ well, that was my idea of a joke. After Serena and I married, she invited Amir over for Shabbat dinner every Friday night. He joined us so many times that after a while we started to call him ‘the honorary Jew.’ And your father would laugh and say, ‘Yes, call me Abram.’”
    As Diego chuckled at the memory, I lowered my head into my hands. “None of this makes any sense, Uncle.”
    “Why not?”
    Why not? I opened my mouth a few times trying to sputter out an answer. Why not? “For one thing, he’s a Moor!”
    My uncle removed the spectacles from his nose and cleaned the lenses with the bottom of his gown. “Yes. He is a Moor. And so are you. That is something you will have to make peace with for yourself, in time.
    “But there is more you do not know. When your father left you that night, he left to wage war on Spain, on all of Christendom. And though I do not agree with his decision, I understand it. Al-Katib had spent his whole life fighting for thesafety of Europe, and now Europe was coming after him and his family. They took his wife from him, his dearest love. And I knew they’d be after us next. We would have to hide, all of us.
    “Your aunt and I were Jews back then. And we still are, though we’d never say so aloud. Your aunt and I were known as David and Sara Mizrahi once, but to avoid the Inquisition and Malleus Maleficarum, we became Catholics and were baptized under new names. Diego and Serena because they are sturdy Spanish names, and Infante because with new names and new