by Damien Love
“Okay.” Alex pressed on, stepping carefully. “Once? When I saw him? I didn’t get a good look at his face, but I almost felt like . . . I knew him. Recognized him. And, the girl, the same—”
“You do not know him,” his grandfather interrupted very sharply, then caught himself. He continued in a softer, less certain tone. “Listen, Alex. He’s— We were . . . friends. Once. The best of friends. Close. For years. But then we had a falling- out. I came to realize we had very different reasons for doing what we were doing. You see? Seeking out all these things. I was never looking for power. Just for the story, just for the fun of looking and finding out. Well, so I thought, anyway. But for him, I realized, it was only ever about power. And then power to get more power.”
The old man’s voice was sad, distant. He paused. Outside, the wind whistled wintry, vast. “When I understood that, I went away from him. I stopped. I tried to find my way back. Back to life. But he didn’t stop. Seeking out these old things, lost things, putting them together. Relics, objects, books, words, creatures, plants . . . Like pieces from different jigsaws. And the picture that’s waiting to be revealed is a mess, a new Dark Age, an age without an end. Eternal life, essentially. That’s his true obsession. That’s what he promises the girl and their little circle. Life everlasting. With him in charge, of course. The golem would be a very, very big piece for him to control. Big enough for them to come out into the open and drag the rest of the world into their madness.”
Alex frowned, concentrating hard. “But, you said the golem went crazy. It went insane. So he must know that, too.”
“But that’s the problem with people like this.” The old man sighed. “They go on and on about belief, then ignore the parts of the story that don’t quite fit in with their own plans or desires. It won’t happen to him, that’s what he believes. He’s the one who can control it. He’s quite insane himself by now. And quite brilliant. That’s the saddest part. You’ve seen what he can cook up. Those machines, the way he can control them, send them out, teach others to control them. In terms of technology, what he’s learned is way ahead. Or way behind is a better way to put it. And it’s better to stay there.
“But the golem is of a different order to anything he’s ever gotten close to. Those machines of his, there are secrets and powers at work there, yes, but, really, those are just toys, party tricks. They control them by expending themselves—like, imagine a ball: a ball won’t move unless you throw it or kick it, unless you transfer energy from you into it. See? They use themselves, and it takes effort.
“But this is different. The golem itself is very powerful, but that’s not the half of it. Like I said, the creature is only a conduit to another power, one I can hardly begin to understand. He’s studied this in far greater depth. What powers the golem is a force of life itself, an independent thing. The essential spark that comes from . . . somewhere else. And then goes back there. Or goes somewhere else again. Controlling the golem would be a step toward him accessing that—the life force itself. The golem exists only to serve its master, and given time, he could try and make the creature explain. It would only be a matter of him working out the right questions to ask in the right order. Reverse engineering.
“Then he could bypass the old rituals and create more of them, an army. But that’s not the worst of it. This is power that should not be in anyone’s hands. If it were revealed, it would show humanity everything it believes, everything we thought we had worked out, is wrong. People would lose their minds . . .
“Alex, listen.” Alex flinched as his grandfather grabbed his arm. “If you only hear one thing I’m saying, hear this. The reason I went away from him in the first place was when I realized he was . . . that other people were getting hurt. Killed. Lots. For us . . . for him to keep doing what he was doing. This is who we’re dealing with, Alex. Remember that. A man who has gotten himself very deep into some very bad places, doing some very bad things. And who doesn’t even want to come out anymore. Just go deeper.
“So I set myself to stopping him. I’ve spent a lot of time doing that. Anytime he and the girl try to open some strange door, I try to make sure it stays closed and nothing gets out. Nothing gets through. In a way, I’m still trying to help them—like by getting rid of the tablet now. That ends all that. No more golem. No more name of God. All of this is very old stuff and very mean stuff, Alex. Stuff that takes the life from you. And takes you out of life. It’s voodoo for another, darker time, not for today.
“Not for you,” the old man added quietly, more to himself, letting go of his arm.
Alex sat near hypnotized. “But don’t you want . . . don’t you believe . . . ?”
“I believe,” his grandfather cut him off, “in nice biscuits and strong cheddar and good wine. I believe in making a few good friends and watching old films. I believe in fish and chips and snow and salt. Sugar and coffee and tea and books. I believe in good design. Music, good songs. Not the stuff you listen to. I believe in the rain in your hair and the sun on your face. I believe your mother is lovely and that Carl isn’t so bad, and that they will both be pleased to see you back home in one piece in time to open your Christmas presents. I believe in the wind in the trees on quiet afternoons. Shadows and colors. I believe in lots of things, Alex. Millions. A lifetime’s worth, and more. And most of all, I believe that eternity can look after itself. Because it has no interest in looking after us.”
He sounded angry. The flashlight clicked on. Alex blinked, dazzled in the sudden glare, feeling exposed.
“Course, now, it doesn’t really matter what I believe. Or don’t.” His grandfather’s voice came out of the blinding white light, his face gradually resolving before Alex’s eyes. He didn’t look angry.
“You’ll be able to work out what you believe perfectly well by yourself,” he went on. “I have no doubt about that. To be honest, I don’t care much what anybody believes anymore, just so long as they don’t try to tell me about it. You said it best yourself not long ago: all of this is nonsense. But no matter what either of us thinks about anything, we’re in the middle of it here, and whatever’s going to happen will happen. Then it’s only up to us to choose how to react. You know: act accordingly.”
The old man smiled and patted Alex on the shoulder: “Clear as mud?”
Settling back, he rummaged in his coat, producing a small paper bag of black-and-white-striped candies wrapped in clear plastic. They glowed brightly as he directed the light onto them.
“Humbug?”
Alex distractedly lifted one of the proffered peppermints to his mouth, then, as his grandfather shook the bag at him, dropped a few more into his pocket. He sat sucking for a second, the solid sweetness the only thing he could hang on to.
Exhausted from trying to follow him through the strangeness of everything he had said, he felt like the old man had told him a lot, yet hadn’t told him anything. And still he had failed to quite ask the one question he had wanted to ask above all. He couldn’t tell whether it was because he lacked the energy, or the courage. Or because his grandfather had somehow steered him away from asking, like a conjuror misdirecting his eye. He decided to try along a different tack.
“Grandad?” he mumbled, rolling the word out around the candy.
“Hmmm? What else now?”
“How old are you?”
The old man turned sharply.
“That’s a rather rude question, young man.” He regarded Alex suspiciously, narrowing his eyes behind the mask. “Why do you ask?”
Alex opened his mouth, but no words came. He felt seized by a feeling new yet familiar: a distant, chill, electric shiver bubbling in his veins. Eyes wide in the light, he turned to his grandfather.
“Mmmm. I know,” the old man said. “Pretty good humbugs.”
“Turn the light off.”
“Eh?”
“Now. They’re coming.”
His gr
andfather stared questioningly at him. He clicked the switch. A cosmos of black fell on them again.
“Did you hear something?” the old man hissed urgently.
“No. I can . . . feel it. The robot. The tablet. It’s close.”
“Are you—” His grandfather broke off. “Shhhh.”
They heard a dull thunk outside, below. And then another, not quite so dull, nor quite so far below.
XXI.
SEVEN TIMES AROUND
THE ATTIC DOOR rattled. Then silence.
Alex strained to hear.
Slow, heavy clanging on the iron rungs.
A sudden slam as something pounded the door.
Another crashing blow. The sound of thick old wood splintering.
“Barbarians,” his grandfather muttered.
A third smash and the door burst open. Framed in the archway, Alex could see the silhouette of a life-sizer’s hat, head, and shoulders. The hazy light in the street beyond had a silvery quality. Rain had turned to snow, huge flakes whirling down fast. With much clunking, the shadowy machine disappeared awkwardly downward, out of sight.
Alex sensed his grandfather tensing.
From below, there came another sound he recognized: a metallic, juddering creak. A new silhouette appeared. The tall man, landing atop the ladder having leapt straight from the ground. Alex shrank back, then, helplessly drawn, leaned forward, fascinated by the figure.
He pulled his long frame through the doorway, then crouched, reaching back down. Feet were sounding on the ladder. Light flared around him. He turned and straightened, like a thing unfolding itself. An old-fashioned oil lamp blazed in his hands, sending shadows scurrying.
Alex shrank back. The dusty shelves before him held hundreds of torn and damaged old books and scrolls, but there were enough small gaps that he could just about see through. He only hoped they couldn’t see through from the other side.
The man stood motionless, holding up the lamp, regarding the attic with careful suspicion. He seemed almost to be sniffing the air. Barely daring to breathe, Alex was conscious only of his heart thumping, the feeling it had swollen into his throat.
The man turned back to the doorway. Leaning out into the flurrying night, he rapped his cane briskly on the top rung.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
As he turned and came striding deeper into the room, the ladder echoed with more feet. The girl.
His daughter.
His . . . sister?
Little Beckman followed. All three wore long black coats that reached their ankles.
Beckman knelt in the doorway, grappling with a large bag handed up from below. As he heaved it in, Alex felt the eerie, shivering sensation inside him quicken. A small commotion sailed up from the street. Von Sudenfeld’s voice, protesting loudly—“I demand”—abruptly muffled.
The tall man hung his head and sighed. He strode back to the doorway, handing Beckman the lantern as he passed.
“Let him up,” he called down.
While more feet came clattering, Beckman and the girl removed their coats, revealing long white gowns beneath. The costumes had large, monkish hoods they tugged over their heads.
Von Sudenfeld’s round face appeared in the doorway. Before he could climb in, the tall man stepped forward and placed one shiny black boot on his shoulder, pushing him slightly back down. In the lamplight, the complex assembly of metal straps and springs glinted around his heels.
“You do not say one word. You do not move from where I put you.”
“Yes, yes, I—”
The tall man pressed down.
“One more word.”
Von Sudenfeld opened his mouth to respond, then stopped. Frowning, he nodded.
“So.” The tall man turned and strode back, tossing his coat in a pile with the others. His gown was immaculate, very white in the lamplight. Removing his hat, he threw it casually onto his coat and ran a hand through his hair, thick black shot through with delicate silver strands, swept back from a high forehead.
Staring at his face, Alex felt the recognition tighten in his bones. His grandfather’s words echoed desolately in his mind. People were getting hurt. Killed. Lots.
The man’s features disappeared as he pulled the cowl of his robe over his head. He turned back to von Sudenfeld, still hovering in the doorway, and pointed to one side with his cane.
“There.”
He turned back, pausing to pat the little girl’s hooded head. Beckman held the lamp high.
“Now, then,” the tall man said, and led the three of them forward.
Old pages rustled like dry leaves on the floor as they approached the mound at the end of the attic. The tall man lifted one hand. Beckman and the girl stopped as he took the last steps alone. When he reached the moldering paper pile, he raised his cane, pushed it gently deep inside. Withdrawing it, he selected a lower spot and probed again. This time, it struck something with a hollow knock.
He took a deep breath, let it out.
“And so.”
He leaned forward, began brushing paper away.
Alex pulled his eyes from him with difficulty, turned to his grandfather. The lamplight streaming through the bookshelves played in bars across the old man’s masked face.
Alex mouthed words without speaking: What—do—we—do?
His grandfather shook his head and mouthed back: Wait.
The tall man had started to uncover something. A large box of plain grayish wood gradually emerged, around nine feet long by four feet wide by four feet high. Moving to one end, he nodded to Beckman, who handed the girl the lamp and took up position at the other.
“Now.”
They lifted the enormous casket with surprising ease, as if it were empty, and carried it into the center of the attic. Setting it carefully down, the tall man reached through an invisible slit in his gown into a pocket beneath and produced a small, circular object. He beckoned for the girl to lift the lamp higher. Fully transfixed, Alex could see he held something that looked like an old watch. A single needle on the dial caught the light as it danced around. A compass.
The tall man set it down on the casket, watching closely. When the needle had stopped quivering, he lifted his end of the box again, shifting it slightly, aligning it exactly in the direction of the pointer. He stood regarding the arrangement a few seconds more, then, satisfied, deftly returned the compass to his pocket.
He bent to the casket, placing one cheek to the rough wood, stretching out long arms as if embracing it. His pale hands ran caressingly over the surface. Straightening, he gestured to Beckman, who produced a small claw hammer from his bag. Taking it, the man leaned over one precise spot. There came a small, horrible squeaking as he began wrenching a nail from the lid.
Beckman moved to stand at his side. He held a glass jar. When the nail popped free, the tall man dropped it carefully into the receptacle, then bent to the next nail. Then the next. Then the next again. Alex stopped counting after thirty.
No one spoke. The wind moaned mournfully. Nails squealed in protest as they were pulled from the wood.
Finally, he had them all out. Beckman screwed the lid on his jar and stowed it away with the hammer in his bag, then went to stand at his end of the coffin, placing his hands on either side of the lid. In the depths of his hood, Alex could see the bright yellow scarf the little man wore. The knot at his throat bobbed up and down. Beckman was swallowing rapidly.
The tall man gave a nod. They lifted off the lid.
A small cloud of dust rose from the casket, tiny particles glittering in the lamplight. Alex stretched his neck, but from the angle he was sitting he couldn’t see inside. He didn’t risk moving.
The tall man and Beckman stood the lid almost tenderly against the wall at the gable end. Rejoining the girl, all three retreated several paces.
The tall ma
n bent to his daughter, murmured in her ear. Handing him the lamp, she stepped forward alone, taking position at the foot of the casket on the right-hand side. Her hood moved as she nodded to herself. Then she stepped forward, beginning to softly chant words that were meaningless to Alex, speaking in a high, trilling monotone.
She walked slowly, taking deliberate, carefully measured paces as she went around the coffin, singing out her steady stream of sounds. As she walked, she lifted her arms. The robe’s sleeves fell back. Her arms were bare. With a shudder, Alex saw that both were entirely covered with scars and scratches, a mass of wounds running from wrists to elbows.
She completed one full circle, kept going. Her words hung in the air, seemed to link up in a chain of sound behind her, strange, intertwining sets of syllables. After a while, the chanting had a weird, lulling effect. Twice she went around the casket. Three times. Five.
Upon completion of her seventh circuit, she stopped, stepped back.
Silence settled on the attic again. The three hooded figures stood still. In the shadows by the door, Alex saw von Sudenfeld lift a hand to his mouth and bite down on it. The silence seemed to grow deeper.
The interior of the coffin suddenly started to glow, pouring out a fiery red light that emitted no heat. Strange, quiet flames licked six feet into the air.
The tall man motioned with his hand. Beckman walked to the foot of the silently flaming box, stood on the left side. His hooded face was in shadow. Fire danced in his glasses lenses. He began walking and chanting, circling seven times left to right.
When he stopped and stepped back, the red light changed. A small sound suddenly broke in on the silence, like a distant downpour of heavy rain. The flames turned blue, then gray, then disappeared. Gouts of pale yellowish steam billowed from the box.
The tall man strode into the clouds to stand on the right-hand side.
As he began his first circuit, the girl crouched to the bag. She produced the white cardboard box, took the smaller, older toy box from inside. Then the robot itself. Reaching inside her hood, she pulled out a tiny silver key, worn on a purple ribbon around her neck.