I have made three catastrophic mistakes in my life. They all happened after Passover in 67 B.C. within the same hour
Years ago, I owned a bakery with my husband. We baked breads and some sweets for the children who came by with their parents every morning. That morning I had decided to start baking early, get ahead of the day. Where's the harm in that?
My first mistake was giving a loaf of bread to a young man with more skin than meat on his arms. I could never refuse big, teary eyes back then. He'd only asked for the bits of stale or burnt bread nobody wanted. At the time I considered it a great act of charity to give him a whole loaf. It wasn't until many years later I regretted it.
I let him stay inside by the ovens and eat his bread. Minutes later some men came by, dressed in everyday garb, asking if I had seen a boy with a serpent tattoo on the inside of his wrist.
"I haven't seen anyone this morning," I lied; my second mistake. They accepted my answer and left without further questions. The young man cam out, still chewing noisily. On his wrist was a black serpent tattoo twisted into what would become the modern symbol for infinite.
"There are people looking for you," I said.
"You didn't tell them where I was?"
"No." I wish I had. "Why are they looking for you?"
The young man grinned and held up his wrist. The tattoo that had looked so simple from a distance had more details the closer I looked. Individual blue and green scales shimmered against the black ink with the slightest movement of flesh. To tiny fangs dripped a purple liquid onto its twisted body.
"They want this, but I won't give it to them."
"Why not? What is that?"
"They are not right for this gift."
"What gift?"
"This gift," the boy said touching the head of the serpent which seemed to move under his touch.
"Uh huh," I said with a step backward. "And what is this gift?"
"It is for people who help me. Like you."
"Me? What?" The young touched my hand. His fingers were cool and dry against my skin which flared hot and red. My pulse pounded in my head, making my ears swell up with blood and my throat constrict. I wanted to pull my hand away, but I was stuck. I was anchored to the world by his touch, but something tried to pull me away from my body into the great gaping space beyond my little bakery.
When it stopped, I had a tattoo identical to his.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"I am Aksar. I am giving you this gift for your kindness, Khali."
"My name isn't-"
"As long as I live, you will not die." Aksar slipped past me and disappeared into the street where the morning crowd already grew thick. I shouldn't have let him go, but by that point I was certain I was dreaming. Any moment I would wake up in my bed beside my husband with our three children in the next room, go to my bakery and not let any boys with serpent tattoos inside ever again.
Letting him go was my third mistake.
My husband noticed my new tattoo as soon as he arrived.
"What is this?" he asked taking my arm and touching the iridescent serpent. I told him about Aksar. Neither of us knew what to think. We had never been superstitious or believed in magic, but this went beyond any explanation we could come up with. We went to priests, wise men, spiritual healers but none, if they believed us, could explain what had happened. My husband never left me. It would have been so easy for him to call me cursed and have me put to death, but he didn't.
