Saving Elijah

of the trees encircled us in a dazzling cocoon of light. We sat in silence for a while.
    "Are you Jewish, Dinah?" he asked.
    "I used to joke that my family growing up was 'unformed Reform.'"
    The rabbi smiled. "Well, we're formed Reform. You never thought of joining?"
    "My husband is Catholic. That made it difficult. Not that Sam is so religious, either. He used to call himself 'Catholic by Chore,' in the days when we used to joke about our mixed marriage."
    "Used to?"
    I looked down at my haunted hands. "Nothing seems too funny anymore." I took a couple of breaths. "Can I tell you about the dream I had last night, Rabbi?"
    He nodded.
    I told him about the dream where the undertaker calls, oddly compassionate.
    "I see," the rabbi said. "You lost a child."
    "No, my son Elijah lived, after all. He's my sweet, extraordinary boy. He'll be six next month."
    "I don't understand. Why do you have such dreams?"
    I folded my hands on my lap, trying to still them. "That is a very complicated and painful story. Very painful."
    Rabbi Jacob Leiberman looked intently into my face for a moment, then said, "Tell me what you came to tell me, Dinah. Maybe telling me will help."
    "No one can help, Rabbi. I'm not even sure why I came."
    "I could listen. Maybe that will be of some help.
    I stood up, moved toward the perimeter of our illuminated cocoon, at the edge of the clearing. I needed to stand away from him to say what I had to say. "There is no help for the doomed," I said.
    He raised an eyebrow.
    I looked away. I expected to see the demon standing next to one of the surrounding trees. I saw only a tiny sparrow, poking in the grass.
    "Do you believe in ghosts, Rabbi?" I asked him. "And demons?"
    He startled, then nodded slowly. "Yes, there are ghosts and demons. According to the book of Zohar, demons are linked to the Sitra Aha, which exists in perfect balance to the Sefirot. Do you know what that is?"
    "I've read about some of this." I had, during my exorcism attempts.
    He explained that the Zohar was the basic book of Kabbalah, the Jewish book of mystical revelation. The ten Sefirot are the ten emanations of God, who is called Bin Sof, That Which Is Without Limit. By good works, and by prayer and meditation on the ten holy Sefirot, we could bring about God's divine grace in the world. He gave me some examples of the ten: Keter, God's will to create; Binah, God's understanding; Hesed, or loving-kindness, God's limitless flow of goodness.
    "Where do demons fit in?" I asked, still keeping my distance, standing by the trees.
    "Well, if you think about it logically, demons would be linked with the opposite processes, would they not? If God creates, evil destroys. If God loves, evil hates. If God is kind, evil is unkind. Do you see?"
    "What about the death of innocents? Natural death, I mean. Is that from God or evil?"
    "Well. You do get right to the big ones, don't you?" He smiled. "A certain rabbi, Nahum of Gimzo, used to say, 'This too is for the best.' No matter what happened, he would say it. Meaning even the death of innocents comes from God."
    "Meaning God must have a reason for taking that innocent life?"
    "It could mean that. Meaning we may not understand God's reasoning. Divine providence is just that. We call it bashert"
    I nodded. "Can you tell me more about demons?"
    "There are different types. A dybbuk supposedly enters a human being and—"
    "Enters?"
    "Possesses."
    "Have you ever seen this happen?"
    "I, myself? No." He seemed stunned.
    "Why would it happen?"
    "Some people say the spirits of evil men live on after death. They have different names. Some are called mazzikim." He stood up now and came over to me, as I said this word through my lips. "Mazzikim." I whispered it softly, letting the "z" sound slide off my tongue. I couldn't help it. I was tearing up again.
    "Tell me." The rabbi offered me a handkerchief, put his hand on my shoulder. "I'd really like to hear."
    "I've told a lot of it before. The outcome wasn't good."
    "Perhaps you told it to the wrong person."
    "How do you know if someone's the right person?"
    "Well, I don't think you always do. Speaking of deep pain to another human being is surely an act of faith, that what you say will be received compassionately."
    As a psychologist, of course I knew this.
    "The average person doesn't want to hear of pain," he said. "Can't bear it, would do anything to avoid it. Until it happens to him, or her, and avoidance is impossible. And then we wonder why there are so