Now they were only a good stone’s throw from the bridge. Occasionally the calls of the watchmen reached their ears, but otherwise all was still. They docked quietly at a rotting, rickety pier and sneaked toward the houses nearest the riverbank.
“The Jewish quarter starts up there,” Gwendolyn whispered, pointing to a couple of small, squat houses with darkened windows. “Follow me!”
Before long, they reached a wall at least three paces high, interrupted at regular intervals by individual buildings. There was no door—even the windows were small, like arrowslits. To Lukas, the whole quarter seemed like a separate town inside Prague.
“They’ve locked the Jews in here?” Paulus asked in disbelief.
Gwendolyn laughed softly, shaking her head. “More the other way around. The Jews are locking everyone else out. They are tired of being accused of terrible things.” She shrugged. “But it’s all just about money.”
Giovanni nodded. “The Christians find they can avoid having to repay their debts by driving their creditors out of the city, or simply killing them. It keeps happening in cities all over Germany.”
“I’m not surprised that Mister Bookworm here knows all about it,” Paulus broke in, turning to give Gwendolyn a distrustful look. “But what about you? What business do you have with them?”
She grinned. “Let’s just say that Jewish people and Welsh people have something in common. Nobody likes us because we’re different. Now, stop running your mouths already and follow me.”
“Well, I can see why nobody would like that big-mouth,” Paulus grunted as he trudged along behind Gwendolyn. “What man would enjoy having a girl order him around?”
They tiptoed through the streets bordering the walled-off Jewish quarter. After a while, they came to a large, locked gate between two buildings.
“Maybe we can climb over this,” Giovanni whispered, cautiously glancing around in all directions. “Or we can try climbing the wall itself.”
Gwendolyn marched up and hammered on the gate with her fist.
“Have you gone mad?” Giovanni hissed. “They’re going to hear us!”
“That’s the idea,” Gwendolyn replied.
And indeed, after a few moments, a small hatch opened in the door. A face appeared on the other side. “Who’s there?” a harsh voice asked. “Jew or goy?”
“Neither,” Gwendolyn replied curtly. “It’s me, your red witch.”
“Gwendolyn!” The voice suddenly turned friendly. “Well, why didn’t you say so? What a nice surprise!”
The door opened, revealing a man in a guard’s uniform, except with a strange yellow ruff at the neck, and only a club instead of a sword. He smiled broadly and wrapped his arms around Gwendolyn. “Haven’t seen you in a long time. How’s your brother?”
“Apparently, our new leader knows these Jews pretty well,” Jerome murmured to Giovanni. “I have to admit, they do seem strange—with their weird customs and words.”
“They could say the same about us Christians,” Giovanni retorted. “We transform wine into the blood of Christ and chew dry Communion bread that we say is the body of our Savior. Even back when I was a novice monk, I didn’t quite understand that.” He grimaced in pain and clutched the makeshift bandage on his arm. “All that matters now is finding Elsa.”
Gwendolyn exchanged a few quiet words with the guard and then turned to address the others. “He says the guards in the Jewish quarter haven’t heard anything about a little girl or a group of men intruding here,” she told them. “But they may have sneaked in somehow. At any rate, we seem to be on the right track. Here in the quarter, there have been rumors about unusual strangers going in and out in secret for several days.”
They suddenly heard footsteps marching in the alley outside the quarter.
“Soldiers!” Gwendolyn hissed. “Hurry, get in here! We’ll be safe in the Jewish quarter for a while, at least.”
The friends hurried through the gate, which shut behind them with a thud.
“Now what?” Lukas asked.
“Now we go to Rabbi Bushevi,” Gwendolyn responded. “If anyone can help us, it’s the rabbi. Come on, you schmucks! That’s Yiddish for ‘slowpoke idiots’!” She waved the boys over.
As they hurried down the road leading into the Jewish quarter, the sound of marching boots on the other side of the wall slowly faded away.
XIX
As they traveled deeper into the Prague Jewish quarter, Lukas noticed how close together the houses were here. The streets were narrower than in the rest of the city—many of the back alleys were only an arm’s length across. To Lukas, it almost seemed like the old, multistoried buildings were leaning forward to peer more closely at the tiny visitors. In the darkness, he could make out a bakery, a smith, and a tavern with strange curlicued lettering on the iron sign above the door.
“This is like a little village,” he said, astonished.
Gwendolyn nodded. “The Jews formed ghettos like this across Germany after they were driven out of their homeland.”
“What was that funny yellow neck ruff that the guard had on?” Lukas asked her.
“That marks him as Jewish,” Gwendolyn explained. “The rabbi can explain all of that far better than I can—he could be a great help to us.” She sighed. “We probably should have come to him for advice much sooner.”
Lukas wanted to ask Gwendolyn how she knew the rabbi and the Jewish quarter guards so well, but she had already hurried on ahead. He had this aching feeling that she no longer took him seriously after his failed attempt at magically opening the door.
At least I didn’t make quite as much of a fool of myself fighting the Red Archers, he thought.
They came to a fairly large square, containing only a single building with a high, sharply slanted roof. The guard stopped and gestured to the entrance. “The honorable rabbi is in the synagogue, praying,” he whispered. “He’s worried about our community. Strange, unsettling things have been happening around here.” He hesitated. “But it’s probably best if he tells you about them himself.”
Lukas knitted his brow.
Unsettling things . . .
He suspected that these things had something to do with their mission.
Respectfully, the friends stepped inside the synagogue. It was built entirely of stone, with wooden chairs along the walls. Numerous bronze candelabras bathed the room in ceremonious light. Hanging on the back wall was a thick, gold-embroidered velvet curtain with a six-pointed star on it.
For the most part, the synagogue reminded Lukas of the churches he’d seen, except instead of an altar, it had a raised podium in the center. An old bearded man in a black rabbinical frock was standing at the podium, hunched over a large book. His torso rocked back and forth slightly as he murmured a prayer under his breath. Twisted locks of gray hair hung down from beneath the small cap on his head.
Gwendolyn made a throat-clearing sound, and the old man paused, looking up. He seemed annoyed at first, but then a smile spread across his face. “Gwendolyn!” he exclaimed in delight. His voice was soft and musical, with an unusual accent. “What a mazel! So glad to see you.” Still smiling, he turned to the others. “Aha, I see you’ve brought a few nice goyim with you.”
“Venerable rabbi,” Lukas said with a bow. “We’re looking for my younger sister, and we think she may have gone into hiding in your quarter. She’s in great danger. And so is your quarter . . . the whole city, in fact!” He hesitated, unsure how much to tell the rabbi. Gwendolyn gave him an encouraging nod, so in the end, he recounted everything—the search for the Imperial Regalia, and especially the story of Elsa and the Grimorium Nocturnum. “That book is making my sister evil,” Lukas concluded. “It’s awakening dark powers within her. We need to stop her.”
Rabbi Bushevi, who had been listening attentively, tilted his head back and forth, causing the twisted locks on either side of his head to sway. “Some books are sent by God; others carry the seed of evil within them,” he said gently. “When we
humans are too weak, the evil seed sprouts within us.” He closed the enormous tome on the lectern and walked toward Lukas with measured steps. “And you believe your sister is here because the imperial sword is hidden somewhere in this quarter?”
Lukas nodded. “Zoltan, our commander, said it was. We don’t know more than that, unfortunately. The last two Imperial Regalia objects were protected by magic and magical beings. I’m afraid the sword probably will be as well.”
“Magic and magical beings, hm . . .” The rabbi’s expression turned contemplative, and after a few moments, he hit his forehead. “Almighty God, is it possible?”
“What do you mean?” Gwendolyn asked, but Rabbi Bushevi had already hurried on ahead.
“Follow me,” he ordered brusquely with an impatient beckoning motion. “We mustn’t waste any time.”
They hurried into a nearby room, from which a narrow staircase spiraled to the upper floor. The steps creaked and groaned under the elderly man’s weight as he led them up, holding a single candle to light the way. “I never would have thought that it would be goyim I brought up here,” he murmured. “But in such dark times, the old rules don’t apply, I suppose. May the community forgive me.”
They came to the synagogue attic, which was packed with boxes, parchment rolls, and tattered books. The rabbi used his candle to light a seven-armed candelabra. Spiderwebs the size of pillows hung from the rafters, and several mice squeaked in some far-off corner, likely frightened by their sudden arrival. The disorder was unimaginable—it was clear that nobody had tidied up in there for ages.
“Ah, why are we up here, Rabbi?” Giovanni asked. “You do know that we’re running out of time?” He gripped his injured arm and coughed at the cloud of dust that he had kicked up with his boots.
Rabbi Bushevi made his way over to a larger chest and opened it. “This is why.”
Curious, Lukas peered inside. The chest was empty apart from a few crumbs of dirt and scraps of paper. “I don’t understand.”
The rabbi set the candelabra on the floor and gestured for the friends to sit down on the smaller boxes nearby. “I’d like to tell you all an old story,” he said quietly. “Then you’ll understand.” He cleared his throat. “Half a century ago, a famous rabbi lived here in the quarter. He was the most learned man of his day, and was even granted frequent audience with the Kaiser. His name was Judah Löw. He had mastered the art of kabbalah—mystical incantations and prayers that you goyim like to mistake for magic.”
The friends scooted closer, as the candlelight cast huge, dancing shadows across the roof overhead.
“In those days, the Christians accused us of terrible things and attacked our quarter. Rabbi Löw decided to create a golem—a magical guard made of clay—to protect us.”
“I’ve heard of those,” Giovanni breathed. “Golems are monsters made of earth that obey their master alone.”
“Clever boy, you’d make a good rabbi someday,” Rabbi Bushevi said with a tired smile, but then his expression immediately turned serious again. “The golem helped us protect our quarter, but after a few years, we no longer needed it. The Kaiser himself had forbidden anyone to bring false accusations against us, under penalty of death, so Rabbi Löw brought the golem up here, to the roof of the synagogue. He reversed the spell, and the creature collapsed into a pile of clay.” Bushevi gestured to the chest. “Rabbi Löw put the clay in here and covered it with old prayer shawls and parchment rolls, so that no one else could awaken it for evil purposes.”
“But there’s nothing in here,” Jerome said, confused.
Giovanni gulped. “There’s no clay in the chest because someone else has reawakened the monster.”
Rabbi Bushevi nodded somberly. “I’m afraid that wherever the imperial sword is hidden, it is guarded by the golem.”
A gust of wind whistled through the windows and blew several of the candles out, leaving them in near-total darkness.
Lukas shivered. If Elsa really was somewhere in the Jewish quarter, looking for the sword with Zoltan and the other Black Musketeers, they would find themselves facing a powerful opponent. He needed to get to his sister as quickly as possible.
“So how long has this pile of dirt been walking around out there, then?” Paulus asked.
Rabbi Bushevi shook his head. “The guards in the quarter reported seeing a man running away from the synagogue a few days ago. Since that day, people have occasionally heard stamping, and there’s talk of large shadows on the street at night. But nobody has actually seen the golem yet.”
“Because he’s guarding the sword,” Lukas said thoughtfully. “But where?” He raked a hand through his hair. “We have to act quickly. If Elsa fights this golem, the ghetto will end up leveled. I’m sure of it, especially after hearing what she did to the guards on the bridge.”
“At least then we’ll know where she is,” Paulus replied grimly.
Gwendolyn sighed. “There are hundreds of houses here, thousands of potential hiding places. It’s quite a shame that Zoltan didn’t tell you more than that the sword is hidden somewhere in the Jewish quarter.”
“Well, that’s not totally true,” Jerome piped up. “Zoltan said we were going directly into the lion’s den.”
Giovanni rolled his eyes at Jerome. “That’s just an expression you use when you’re going somewhere dangerous . . .” He broke off, and a grin spread across his face. “Wait a moment. Maybe you’re not all that stupid.”
“That’s what I keep telling you!” Jerome exclaimed. “But seriously, why do you say that?”
“What was the name of the creator of the golem again?” Giovanni asked, turning to Rabbi Bushevi.
“Rabbi Judah . . .” Bushevi began, but Lukas cut him off.
“Löw!” he exclaimed, suddenly catching on as well. “Löwe, German for ‘lion.’ Judah Löw, Judah the Lion. He’s the lion!”
“But wouldn’t that rabbi have died by now?” Paulus asked.
Bushevi nodded. “Buried at the Jewish cemetery. Judah Löw has a grave of honor there, a sort of stone burial tent, as rabbis are entitled to.” Now he stopped as well. “Do you think that’s . . .”
“The lion’s den.” Lukas nodded. “The imperial sword is at the Jewish cemetery, in the rabbi’s grave.”
Anxious excitement overcame them all; the friends talked wildly over each other as the wind rattled the attic windows outside.
“And you little goyim plan to stop the golem?” Rabbi Bushevi asked.
“Of course,” Lukas replied. “But daggers and rapiers probably won’t be enough to defeat it.”
“No, they won’t.” The rabbi smiled. “It will have to be destroyed the same way it was created.”
“Which is how?” Gwendolyn asked.
“Bringing the golem to life requires a great many mystical incantations,” Rabbi Bushevi explained. “But the most important thing is a note that the golem’s master places inside its mouth. The note has a powerful word on it. Only when that note has been removed will the golem turn to clay again.”
“Let me make sure I understand this correctly.” Paulus looked skeptical. “You want us to reach into its mouth and fish out a scrap of paper? Is that it?”
“In essence, yes.”
Jerome grinned. “I don’t suppose we can just ask it nicely to open its mouth?”
Rabbi Bushevi shrugged. “I can’t say I know. The only person I know of who has ever created a golem and destroyed it again was Rabbi Löw, and he’s been dead for many years.”
“I suppose we’ll just have to try, then,” Giovanni said. He was about to stand up, but then quickly doubled over, cringing in pain.
“What’s wrong with him?” The rabbi regarded Giovanni with a worried expression. “Is he sick?”
“He took a bad arrow hit on the arm,” Lukas replied. “He needs to see a doctor, but I’m afraid we don’t have time for that.” He’d already considered trying to heal Giovanni magically, but ever since his failed attempt to cast a door-opening spell b
ack at the tavern, Lukas was convinced again that he couldn’t do magic after all. He hoped desperately that they wouldn’t need magic to fight the golem. He preferred good, honest fencing a hundred times more.
“Let me see, child.” Rabbi Bushevi beckoned to Giovanni, who winced as he got up and walked over. The old rabbi rolled up his shirtsleeves and eyed the boy’s injury, which was wrapped in a tattered strip of cloth as a makeshift bandage. Although not especially deep, the wound had a strange dark rim around it, as though the flesh had been singed. Giovanni was pale, and gritted his teeth as the rabbi took his arm.
“That looks bad,” he said, dabbing at the coagulated blood. “Very bad. Quite possible that the arrow was poisoned.”
“It’ll . . . be . . . all right . . . ,” Giovanni managed to get out from between his clenched teeth.
Bushevi furrowed his brow as though wrestling with a decision. “You’re right, he really should go to a doctor,” he said at last. “But time is short.” He went over to a chest and withdrew a large cloth of some sort, which he tore into long strips. “A holy tallit,” he said reverently. “Hopefully God will forgive me for using it as a bandage. But if what you’ve told me is true, this is far more important.” Bushevi plucked a few tiny bits from an old papyrus roll, leaving only a single letter on each scrap. Then he gathered the scraps up in his hand, blew on them, and murmured a long prayer in Hebrew.
“What is he doing there?” Paulus asked quietly. “Has he lost his mind?”
Rabbi Bushevi raised his head and winked at the boys. “Don’t worry, I’m not crazy. In the Jewish kabbalah, we believe that every letter and every number has divine power. I’m giving your friend a strong word to take with him. The word is gevurah.” He sprinkled the bits of paper onto Giovanni’s arm and wrapped them up carefully with the strips of cloth.
“Gevurah stands for strength, power, and victory,” the rabbi explained as he worked. “It will help the wound heal faster, and it will give you strength and courage in your fight against the golem.” His expression darkened. “You will need that protection, especially on this ominous night. Mars is completely in Leo, so hatred and warfare are in the air. And the dybbukim, the evil ghosts of the dead, wander the cemetery.”
Sword of Power (The Black Musketeers Book 2) Page 16