With difficulty, Yehuda Leib piloted the pram over the rough, uneven ground to the other side of the doorway.

And all of a sudden, everything became clear.

“Splendid,” said Mammon.

From this side, the door could be seen to lead into a wide, warm study hall, in which old dead men bent to the careful scrutiny of thick books by candlelight—candlelight that spilled out into the rocky sanctum through the back of the doorway.

“What is it?” said Bluma.

“This,” said Mammon, “is the Yeshiva of Dantalion.”

And, having hopped lightly down from his pram, he led the way through the door.

Chapter Thirteen: Three Questions

Yehuda Leib had never visited a proper yeshiva before, but he had seen the men of Tupik learning in the little study house back home many times.

Immediately he knew that something was wrong.

“Why is it so quiet?” he said.

Bluma stopped to listen. It was true—far and away the loudest sounds were the creaking of the long wooden benches, the turning of pages. There were masses and masses of men here, elders and whitebeards crowded shoulder to shoulder—but none of them ever looked up to pose a question to his neighbor, to verify an interpretation, even to start an argument.

“Look,” said Bluma. “They study alone.”

“How else could it be?” said Mammon.

“Where we come from,” said Bluma, “men study together—in partnerships.”

Mammon gave a little chuckle. “Not here.”

“Why not?” said Yehuda Leib.

“The only reason a dead man comes to study the Dantalion,” said Mammon, “is because he is searching for secrets. And one does not master secrets by telling them.”

“But how can they be sure,” said Bluma, “that they correctly understand what they read?”

“They can’t,” said Mammon with a smile. “Isn’t it splendid?”

It did not seem splendid to Bluma at all.

It seemed very sad and very lonely.

The chamber extended farther than the eye could see in either direction, crowded with readers at long wooden tables. Rising high up into obscurity on every wall were cases and cases crammed with ancient books: parchment and paper and vellum and bark—even clay and stone. Unbound manuscripts, brittle scrolls, jotted scraps filled every inch of empty space. Some books were missing their covers, and some of their spines had broken.

Bluma swallowed hard, trying to imagine how long it would take to lay your hand on a specific book here. A hundred years? Two hundred?

“But how can anyone possibly find the secret they’re looking for in all this mess?” said Bluma.

“Oh,” said Mammon. “There are no secrets here. In this room, only the supracommentaries are kept—the books about the books about the rumors of what Dantalion has said.”

One of the readers nearby was muttering, moving his lips as he read, and Yehuda Leib slowed his pace to overhear.