With a rush, it all came flooding back: the Treasure House, Mammon, the march of the Army of the Dead, the cold forest that had become a graveyard.

And like a blazing comet that flew out of the darkness to land warm and flickering in his pocket:

His father.

His poor, awful father.

That was the miracle he needed.

“How much farther?” snapped the ancient demon in Yehuda Leib’s hands.

“Not much,” said Yehuda Leib. He had no idea where he was going, but still it felt like telling the truth. “Not much at all.”

—

On the night preceding the wedding of his final granddaughter, the Rebbe of Zubinsk retired early. The parents of the groom had insisted upon issuing a completely open invitation to the wedding—a spiritually hazardous proposition, to be sure, but, all in all, slightly less hazardous than the prospect of revoking such an invitation once it had been issued. The result of this was that Zubinsk was full to bursting tonight—of guests, of Hasidim, of spirits and beings of all sorts—and the Rebbe was deeply overwhelmed.

Imagine yourself seated in a crowded train station at the very center of the waiting area. All around you, a hundred conversations are taking place in a hundred different languages. Bells clang. Whistles scream. Outside, arrivals grind into the station as departures rumble and chug themselves into full heads of steam.

Now imagine that you are a sublimely talented musician. Each of these sounds in each of its constituent parts—the rhythm of the engines, the pitch of the squealing wheels, the timbre of the voice of each of the waiting passengers, not to mention its words and intonation—each of these is perfectly clear, perfectly distinguishable, and entirely inescapable to you.

This is much how the Rebbe felt. Every soul that ventured into his orbit, even as far as the farmland surrounding the town, called out to him clearly as if to say, Help me, help me.

It was a cacophony. And it was exhausting.

And so the Rebbe retired early, immediately following evening prayers. He had taken great care to disguise the fact, but he had not managed to sleep in the three years since his wife’s passing. At first, this had presented him with quite a challenge—sapping his energy, stealing his focus. The Rebbe soon discerned, however, that his fatigue came not from sleeplessness, but rather from fighting against it. Now, once the darkness fell, the Rebbe would retire to his private chamber, don his kittel, a long white robe worn for holy occasions, and, enclosing himself beneath the cowl of his prayer shawl, sit and meditate.

If he could not manage to sleep, at least he might leave his body behind for a time.

When he had still been a young Hasid himself, it had taken him quite a long time to quiet his mind and loosen his spirit. Now he was practiced, skilled.