Beth Yerah, or the House of the Moon, lay at the extreme southwest tip of the lake, near a marshy place where the waters of Galilee flowed into the river Jordan. Andrew had heard his father speak of it more than once. In those early days, Jacob had said, long before Joshua and Israel had entered the land, Beth Yerah had been a shrine dedicated to the worship of the moon god, Sin. Andrew wondered what kind of god Sin might be. He imagined that Sin trekked over the dark, rocky landscape, staff in hand, with the light of the thumbnail moon glinting on the darkened face of the lake. Maybe Sin can help my father, Andrew thought.

The night was deep and far spent by the time he reached a ridge from which he could see the town of Philoteria lying in the distance across the river. Much closer, down in a reedy hollow at his feet, stood the black shape of a huge boulder. Andrew stopped and leaned on his walking staff, staring down at the dark mass, wondering what he should do next. Suddenly a hand touched his shoulder. He jumped.

“You found it!” whispered a voice at his ear.

“Stephen!” gasped Andrew, falling against his friend and grabbing his arm. “You nearly scared me to death!”

Stephen laughed. “Sorry. I followed you. Couldn’t let you come alone.” He shrugged. “Not while your mother was watching, anyhow. I promised her that if I couldn’t stop you, I’d at least keep an eye on you.” He grinned in the moony darkness.

Andrew pointed to the dark shape in the hollow. “The Place of the Stone?”

Stephen nodded. “The one and only. They live there, from what I’m told. Around on the other side of the rock.”

“Live there?” Andrew gasped.

“Yes.” With a sweep of his arm, Stephen indicated the downward path. “Shall we?”

“Why not?” gulped Andrew. He shook himself, gripped his staff tightly, and stepped down the slope, determined to do whatever was needed to find help for his father.

It was slow going. Together they slogged and squelched their way through the muck, pushing tall reeds aside and slipping on slimy stones. Once Andrew had to stop to retrieve a sandal that got stuck in the mud. But before long they had rounded the shoulder of the huge rock and stood facing a large hole that gaped like an open mouth in its western face. Great, thought Andrew. Just what I need. Another cave.

He stood hesitating in the wet gravel outside the cave’s entrance. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he looked down into the hole. Everything about it was black. The smoke stains around its edges, the empty spaces inside, even the feelings it stirred inside him as he stood in front of it were black. What now? Andrew didn’t know how to speak to a conjurer. Should he cry out or strike the rocky doorway with his walking stick or repeat some kind of spell? Or turn and flee?

Then he heard voices. “Somebody’s in there!” he whispered.

“Of course somebody’s in there!” said Stephen. “Isn’t that why we came?” Raising his voice, the Greek called out, “Hello? Anybody home?”

Andrew gaped at his greeting. Stephen shrugged.

More sounds. Someone was coming. A dark shape appeared in the doorway.

“Who is it? Who, who indeed?” croaked a thin, dry voice. The voice was as dry and crackling as the dead reeds surrounding the entrance to the cave.

Stephen gave Andrew a nudge. “Speak up!” he said.

Andrew cleared his throat and stepped forward. “I’ve . . . uh . . . come to see the conjurers. Are you one of them?”

“One of two! One of three! One of four! One of many!” crackled the dry voice. “Who wants to know? Who wants to know?”

“Andrew. Son of Jacob the boatwright.”

A light flickered and flared. In the glow of a handheld clay lamp, a face appeared —an old woman’s face, yellow, long, furrowed, and skull-like, with a narrow, pointed chin and barely any nose at all. It was surrounded by stray tufts of gray hair and set deep within the shadowy folds of a woolen cloak.

“Step in,” said the woman, ushering them into a dank chamber that looked as if it had been hewn out of the rock. Like the Haunts of the Dead, thought Andrew, shivering. The place was strewn with bleached bones, broken pottery, cold ashes, and row upon row of sealed stone jars. Andrew wondered how the bones had gotten there. Were they animal bones? Human? A chill crawled up his back, and he quickly looked away.

“Who is it, Anath?” said another voice —this one sleepy and deep-toned —from the inner recesses of the cave.

“A boy. A man. A man and a boy,” answered Anath, squinting at Andrew and Stephen through the smoke. She set her lamp on a ledge of rock and unceremoniously seated herself on the floor. “Company! Customers! Come out, Enkidu! Come out!”

A man, elderly but straight and tall, stepped into the light. He, too, was cloaked in gray. His hair was thick and white. Around his neck hung a long gold chain from which dangled countless silver pendants and amulets —star shapes, crescent moons, spearlike sunbeams, serpents, grinning demons. Unlike the old crone, the man had a full, round face. He almost looked kindly. He yawned, glanced absently from Andrew to Stephen, and then from Stephen to Anath.

“What is it?” he said. “A man needs his sleep.”

“No time for sleep!” scoffed the old woman, picking up a small bone and twirling it between her fingers. “They are wanting something from old Anath and Enkidu, I think. Yes?”

Andrew gulped and nodded. He tried to speak, but his tongue felt like a wad of wool. His knees began to buckle. Supporting himself on his staff, he leaned forward and opened his mouth. “My father . . . he’s gone crazy,” he heard himself say in a voice nearly as thin and dry as Anath’s own. “It’s because of the spirits or the gods or something. He’s living in the tombs, the Haunts of the Dead.”

“The Haunts of the Dead!” whispered Enkidu. His forehead lifted into a series of wrinkles. He stuck out his lips and whistled. Anath grinned and nodded.

“Yes,” said Andrew, taking courage. “The Haunts of the Dead. He runs around naked and beats people up. He started a fire in our village. He held a hot coal in his bare hand!”

The two conjurers turned and stared at one another. Then in unison they pronounced a single name: “Chashmagoz!”

“Can you help him?” pleaded Andrew. “Can you make him better? Can Sin, the god of the moon, do anything for him?”

Anath and Enkidu smiled. “It all depends,” said the hag. “Have you brought keseph?”

“Keseph?” Andrew darted a confused glance at Stephen. “Money? But I don’t have —”

By way of response, Stephen reached inside his cloak, pulled a small bag of coins from his belt, and tossed it to the floor. It landed with a chink in front of the two magicians. “I had a feeling we’d need it,” he said.

Old Enkidu beamed. His baubles jangled, and his rich white hair gleamed in the lamplight as he leaned forward, picked up the purse, and tucked it safely inside his robe. Then, with a sudden change of expression, he folded his hands, closed his heavy-lidded eyes, and frowned gravely. “Plainly a case of fire demons,” he said.

“Fire demons?” echoed Andrew.

“Plainly?” said Stephen dryly.

“Most certainly,” said Anath, bobbing her head up and down so vigorously that the whole of her bony frame shook with it.

“Chashmagoz, chief of the demons, demands appeasement,” continued the old man.

“Yes, indeed,” agreed the hag. “Sacrifice.”

Sacrifice? Andrew squirmed uneasily.

“But we will subdue him by the power of Sin, god of the moon,” the man added.

“Subdue him, yes! But only at great cost!” The hag’s face shone with greed.

“That part I can believe,” muttered Stephen.

“Then you can help us?” Andrew asked hopefully.

“Can —and will —yes, indeed,” croaked Anath.

“Tomorrow,” affirmed Enkidu, opening his eyes. “We will meet you tomorrow at the Haunts of the Dead. At moonrise.”

“Moonrise,” repeated the old crone. She smacked her lips and wagged her narrow chin from side to side within the folds of her robe. Then her toothless grin faded, and she scowled. “Now go!” she said, pointing a bony finger at the door.

With that, Stephen grabbed Andrew by the arm and almost dragged him from the cave. In a moment the two of them were standing once again on the mushy gravel outside the entrance. The sliver of moon had passed the peak and was bending its course toward the west. The darkness of the marsh and the heights above lay before them. Andrew leaned on Stephen and breathed a sigh of relief.

“My feelings exactly,” said the Greek.

“Tomorrow night, then?” said Andrew, giving his friend a tentative look.

“Yes,” said Stephen. “Tomorrow at moonrise we shall see just how much power Sin really has.”