In any case, it came to pass one year, that I suffered a tremendous blow. I lost a great fortune, through the foolishness of my wife - unintentional on her part to be sure - but an inutterable misfortune. I had not managed my family well. I see that now.

And so, in great humiliation, I set off to see the rabbi, my only real friend in the village, to talk the thing over so to speak.

“Rabbi...” I began, but he bustled around with a bottle, two glasses, a plate of biscuits and a rush of words of his own. I fell quiet as he poured and arranged and proffered, and poked the little fire in the grate and sighed and raised a glass.

“L’Chaim,” he said, “What a story I have to tell you.”

“But Rabbi...”

“In a minute, Ben-Ami, begging your pardon” he interrupted. (He always called me Ben-Ami though it was not my name.) “I had a dream, you see... much too complicated for me and I need your help in interpreting its meaning.”

“There was once a King in a great country who had no heirs. As he grew older, he began to think of such things as succession and dynasty, so he called upon his advisors.

“Here it begins,” he said: “There was once a King in a great country who had no heirs. As he grew older, he began to think of such things as succession and dynasty, so he called upon his advisors. “I have seven Knights,” he said, “who govern the seven counties in my Kingdom. And I have seven magical apricots hidden in a casket, presented to me by a wizard on the day of my birth. Gather my Knights for a banquet and we shall place one apricot in a silver dish at each place, and from this we will know who from among them to choose as the heir to my throne.”

So the courtiers summoned the Knights and the Knights summoned their attendants and the attendants gave notice to the Ladies and the Ladies gathered the servants and the servants made ready the children and the clothes and the great carriagefuls of paraphernalia one takes to the Palace when summoned by the King. Six of the Knights and their households came thus, but the seventh, Cassiel, rode alone. He carried little with him, you see, having gone out for the day on affairs of his own, and when summoned, thought of nothing save to get to the King in great haste. And so was Cassiel, breathless and dusty, three days before the others, brought into the great hall where the King sat alone.

The King surveyed the Knight shrewdly. “Well, Cassiel, he said, is this the attire in which you pay respects to your King?
“It is Sire, if it is all one has when summoned.”

“Humph,” said the King, and then, “Have you brought no gift to show honor?”

“Only myself Sire,” said Cassiel steadily.

The King raised a brow. “And what makes you think, Sir Impudence, that such a self is a gift?”

“You yourself made me a Knight, Sire. I can only refer you to your reason for doing so. It is your judgement of value that I offer in offering myself.”

The King was quiet a moment.

“Then give me that which I valued enough to make you a nobleman.

Tell me, Casiel, who shall be my heir?”

Just then, Sir Cassiel looked at the long empty table and the beautiful luminous fruit. “With respect to your Majesty, are those the legendary apricots presented upon your birth?”

“Indeed they are,” replied the King.

“What are their properties, Sire?” asked the Knight.

“And are we each to have one?” Sir Cassiel questioned.

“Mayhap,” replied the King. “But who shall rule my Kingdom?”

 he repeated, this time brooking no evasion.

“He who needs it not,” replied the Knight, then bowed and took his leave.

When the Knights were finally assembled the King explained to the seven what he had explained to the one, and called for ideas. The Knights, each eyeing the golden orb before him, were loath to be the first to proffer suggestion. But at last they poured forth like wine at a banquet: “Let each Knight give his fruit to the one chosen by all;” “No! Let each consume his own;” “Each should save his apricot for his own great crisis;” “Let us make a pottage and feed our firstborn sons.” And so on.

Just then, Sir Cassiel looked at the long empty table and the beautiful luminous fruit. “With respect to your Majesty, are those the legendary apricots presented upon your birth?”

“I claim them all, Sire,” said he. “I will have the apricots to do with as I will.”

A great roar of protest rose up from the table like a fire - such boldness - such greed - audacity -  dishonour - injustice and insult were among the words that rose in a blaze to the ceiling and to the ears of the King.

“Silence!!” the King shouted. And then when  all were subdued, “Done!”

He said. “You may have them. Guards, gather them up.”

Great was the consternation in the room, when Cassiel strode away with the silver plates. He soon returned with only a cloth-covered plate and announced, “I have fed the apricots to our ladies.”

“To the ladies?” the Knights all shrieked in dismay. “You wasted our apricots on the ladies?”

The Knights, each eyeing the golden orb before him, were loath to be the first to proffer suggestion. But at last they poured forth like wine at a banquet: “Let each Knight give his fruit to the one chosen by all;”

“Here is your future orchard, Sire,” continued Cassiel, removing the cloth from the plate on which the Knights all gasped to see nothing but seven apricot pits. “Where seven will become seven thousand and seven million, that each man woman and child in the Kingdom shall be nourished with health and wisdom and this, your Land shall be the greatest on earth;  where every man will be the equal of his brothers and every woman too.”

And what Cassiel had said and done came to pass.

 The rabbi sighed. “Can you help me make sense of it?”

“Well, but Rabbi,” I said a little taken aback. “Why did only Cassiel step forward? What does it all mean? That if we do not nurture our wives, children, we do not deserve... And why...?” Suddenly I poured out question after question in anguish, until I stopped red-faced and looked at my rabbi, to whom I had never addressed a question of any importance in all the years that we had known one another. He did not answer but kindly bid me goodnight.

I was halfway down the street when I suddenly thought of something—and swiftly turned to my friend still standing in his doorway. “Rabbi! What was the name of the King?”

“Israel—” He addressed me by my true name for once, “Go home.”

Binyamina Soloveichik is an author, editor, visual media writer, producer, and university instructor.