The Red Magician

by Lisa Goldstein

  The grains of sand flowed together, thickened, became clay. The clay grew under Vörös’s hands. As he sang he pulled it from the ground, forming it, shaping it, giving it texture, calling it to him. Red rivers grew at his feet, humping out of the ground, flowing into pools. He stood.

  The pools grew slowly. Wet clay touched the hem of Kicsi’s dress and she moved away, toward the edge. Beyond the circle everything looked shapeless and pale. The forest, the paths, the sun wavered as though they were woven into a tapestry hanging in the wind. She walked closer to the white line, trying to see. The dog turned to her and growled low in its throat, rumbling like a distant train. Vörös looked at her and she sat down quickly.

  Vörös raised his hands and began another song, this one fast and full of melody. Air brushed past Kicsi’s cheek, moving toward his hands. The wind grew stronger, quicker, spinning about Vörös, tossing his clothes, his hair. The wind howled like mourners. Vörös stood steadily, his mouth opening and closing in the words of the song, but he could not be heard.

  The clay spun around the whirlwind. Higher and higher it rose, spinning itself out like rope, until it had grown past the tops of the trees. Vörös stopped the wind then, letting his hands fall to his sides, and the clay fell slowly to earth, folding back upon itself in layers. The clay stood still, an unformed shape in the middle of the circle.

  Vörös sang softly, coaxingly, to the clay, like a mother singing to her child. The clay began to shape itself, to flow, to change its outlines. It formed for itself a head, an arm, a leg.

  Suddenly Kicsi saw that all Vörös’s magic was based on illusion. With his song he sought to beguile the clay into thinking it was a man. He sang to it of man-things: of hard work and sleep, of sun and rain, snow and mist, of comfort and pain. Come away, he sang. Be clay no more. Be a man.

  The clay took one slow step toward Vörös. Then it toppled forward slowly, falling with no sound. One of its legs lay twisted under it at an impossible angle.

  Vörös bent over the clay form. He straightened the leg, smoothed out the damage it had suffered in the fall. Then he sat back, staring off at the forest. The protective white line had disappeared and everything outside the circle was as clear as before.

  “What is it?” said Kicsi. “Is it a golem?”

  Vörös looked at her sharply. He seemed surprised that she was still there. “Yes,” he said. His voice was hoarse.

  “I’ve heard stories about golems,” Kicsi said, “Erzsébet’s father tells them. There was a rabbi somewhere in Prague—I forget his name—who made a golem to protect the people. He was alive, but he couldn’t talk. The golem, I mean. Is that what you were trying to do?” She paused, looked at the still clay form. “Why didn’t it work?”

  “It needs more words,” said Vörös.

  “What do you mean?”

  “More words,” Vörös repeated, as if he thought that Kicsi had not heard him.

  “I don’t—I don’t understand.” She looked at him. He was very white; against his pale skin his scar gleamed like a sword. His blue eyes were large and expressionless. “Oh. You’re tired. I’m sorry. I’ll go home now.”

  “Yes,” said Vörös. “Please.”

  “Can I—can I come back tomorrow?”

  Vörös nodded.

  “All right. Good-bye.” She walked away slowly, stopped, and turned around. Vörös had slumped against the golem, his eyes closed. “Good-bye,” she said softly.

  It was late when she finally came home. The family had started supper. “Kicsi,” said Sarah. “There you are. You’ve gotten stains all over your dress. How on earth did you manage that? Where have you been? Erzsébet’s mother told me she’d seen you going to the forest.”

  Kicsi said nothing. She slipped quietly into her place at the table.

  “Maybe she’s got a boyfriend,” said Magda.

  “Don’t be silly,” said Kicsi.

  “Kicsi’s got a boyfriend,” said Ilona. “Kicsi’s got—”

  “Be quiet!” said Kicsi.

  “Yes, please,” said Imre. “Kicsi, have you been to the forest? I’m sure your mother needs you at home. And are you doing your schoolwork?”

  “Of course,” said Kicsi, thinking about that day’s assignment that she had not done yet.

  “I don’t want you out neglecting your studies,” said Sarah. “Your father practically risked his life—we all did—so that you children could go to that school.”

  “I know,” said Kicsi.

  “And I don’t like you going to that forest,” said Sarah. “There are—things—in that forest. It isn’t safe. Your great-uncle saw his dead wife’s ghost there once. And there are animals there, too. Wolves.”

  “I’m very careful,” said Kicsi. “And I leave when it starts getting dark. You don’t have to worry.”

  “All right,” said Sarah. “But I don’t like it. I wish you’d find someplace else to go. And tomorrow, I want you right here after school, so I can see you doing your schoolwork. Then you can go off to the forest.”

  “But—but I can’t—”

  “Why? What else do you have to do?”

  I can’t tell you, Kicsi thought. I want to tell you about Vörös, and the clay, and the dog, but you won’t believe me. Or you’ll forbid me to go. And it might get back to the rabbi that Vörös hasn’t left yet, and he might be—might be—No, I can’t tell anyone.

  “Nothing,” she said aloud. “I’ll be here. You’ll see.”

  She hurried through her schoolwork the next day and ran straight to the forest after she was done, but still she was late getting there. Evening was near, and the day was growing cold. Vörös and the dog had already started marking out the circle. She sat a small distance away, behind a rock, out of sight of any prying eyes from the village.

  Suddenly the dog stopped. He pointed his head toward the forest. His ears lay flat and he growled, showing his teeth. Vörös looked around and Kicsi, after a while, did the same. There, picking his way slowly through the trail that led from the forest, making no sound, was the rabbi.

  He came to the hill and stopped, leaning on his cane. Then he began to walk again. He climbed the hill with difficulty and stopped every so often, but still he came on. He made no sound as he walked over the leaves and sand and rocks, and Kicsi shivered. Vörös did not move.

  “Good day to you, traveler,” said the rabbi. He thrust his cane through the protective circle and the white line snapped apart with the sound of sparks crackling. The cane was still raised as he walked across the circle and sat down on a small rock. Then he balanced his cane against his knees, lifted his hat, and adjusted the skullcap beneath it, never once looking away from Vörös.

  “Good day,” said Vörös calmly, still standing. He looked around at the dog, who stood motionless, and at Kicsi, still well hidden behind the rock.

  “I suppose it can be argued,” said the rabbi, “whether this hill is indeed part of the town. During the Sabbath, when one is not supposed to travel farther than the limits of the town, it is true that no one comes here. And if this hill is not part of the town then I suppose you are safe, for I said that I would kill you if I ever saw you in the town again.”

  “I suppose so,” said Vörös.

  “Still,” said the rabbi, “it may be that you will go into the town again—to get food, supplies, whatever you need. And if you do—if you bother us again—I will be waiting.”

  “Yes,” said Vörös.

  “Don’t be so calm!” said the rabbi. “Do you suppose that I want to kill you? I wish I had never seen you. Every day I watch my daughter, to see if all is well with her, and every day I give thanks to God that she is healthy and happy. But if she dies, if she dies, you are responsible for her death just as surely as if you killed her, because yours were the words of evil omen spoken at the wedding. I don’t want to kill you. I just want you to leave us alone. I want you to go back to your home, if you have a home, or to wherever it is you came from. You have caused enough tr
ouble in this town.”

  “I have things that I must do here.”

  “Well, then, you have been warned. I have warned you what will happen if you continue to meddle in the affairs of this town.”

  “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “No?” The rabbi’s bushy eyebrows moved closer together. “Well, then. We shall see. I suppose you think that your knowledge of sorcery is greater than mine. It is true that you removed the curse that I set on Imre’s household, but that was only a very minor piece of spell-work. I was not expecting someone like you to happen along.”

  “I go where I must.”

  “Hmmm?” said the rabbi. He raised his eyebrows and looked at Vörös with clear, expressionless gray eyes. “Perhaps there are other forces at work here. I was not expecting that. Perhaps you work for the devil? Hmmm?”

  “You know that isn’t true.”

  “No. Well. You’re just a troublemaker, as I first suspected. Perhaps you think you can win against me because you broke my spell of darkness at the wedding. Again, that was a very minor thing. I was testing your power.”

  “I knew you were,” said Vörös. “Though you have never thanked me for making the cup whole again.”

  “Did you do that? No. I know you didn’t do that. I don’t know why, but you want to destroy us—my family, my daughter. Someone got another cup for us.”

  “Very well then. Think what you please about me. But you know that no one left the courtyard.”

  “No,” said the rabbi. He was almost speaking to himself. “You want to destroy us. I don’t know why. I don’t know who sent you. But I must destroy you first.” He looked up at Vörös and spoke louder. “Ah, but you have one advantage. You know my name, traveler, and I do not know yours.”

  “I am called Vörös.”

  The rabbi laughed. “You know better than that! You have survived many years, sorcerer—and I sense that you are old, older than you look—and so you must at least know the importance of names. With the proper names one can control all the angels of heaven and the demons of hell. It is said that the prophet Elijah knew seventeen of the names of the demoness Lilith, the child-stealer, and so kept her away from houses with newborns.”

  Vörös said nothing.

  “So, then, what is your name?” the rabbi went on. “There should be some way to discover it. Let’s see. You say your name is Vörös, and Vörös means red. Red is adom in Hebrew. Our father Adam was so called because he was made from the red earth—earth much like this.” He spread his hand over the red clay. “So perhaps you are Adam? But no, it says in the first book of the Torah that Adam, though he lived a long life, finally died, like all men. So you cannot be Adam. But we shall see. I will discover your true name sooner or later. I do not like to be at a disadvantage.”

  Vörös smiled. “Perhaps you will,” he said.

  “Perhaps!” said the rabbi. “You underestimate me, traveler. You say you are not frightened of me. Then yield up your true name to me now. It should be nothing for one such as you, who has no fear.”

  “I am not a fool,” said Vörös, still smiling.

  “No,” said the rabbi. “I thought not. I do believe I could destroy you if I knew your true name.”

  “I don’t want it to come to that between us,” said Vörös.

  “No? Good. Then stay out of my village and away from my people. And one other thing. I hear from the villagers that you have been spending your time with Imre’s youngest daughter.”

  The rabbi looked around the hill, taking in everything with his wide gray eyes. Kicsi hunched further behind the rock.

  “Kicsi?” said Vörös.

  “Yes, that’s the one. I don’t want you to see her again. You’re a bad influence on her. I don’t want her exposed to the black sorcery, especially at so young an age.”

  Vörös smiled. “I am not a black sorcerer.”

  “So you say. Keep away from her. I am not the only one concerned about her. Her father, too, is worried.”

  “He has nothing to worry about.”

  “I hope you are right,” said the rabbi. “I must go now. And again I warn you. If I find you in the village again, I will kill you.”

  “Good day,” said Vörös.

  The rabbi stood and walked slowly down the hillside. The dog, who had stood motionless during the exchange between Vörös and the rabbi, began to twitch as though released from a spell. He watched the rabbi as he faded into the evening. Then he whined, and looked at Vörös.

  “It’s all right,” said Vörös. “He has not said anything I did not know.”

  “Vörös!” said Kicsi. She ran out from behind the rock and hugged him, holding on to him tightly. “Vörös, he is going to kill you! And what will he do to me, if he finds me here with you? Is he going to kill me too? I’m frightened, Vörös, I’m so frightened.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Vörös soothingly. “I’ve told you not to worry. He won’t harm you.”

  “Why is he so angry with you? You didn’t—you didn’t do what he says, did you? Curse his daughter?”

  “No. No, he is angry with me because I see something he does not see, or has seen and forgotten.”

  Kicsi stepped away from him. “Can I come back tomorrow?”

  Vörös laughed. “I thought you were frightened.”

  “I—I am. But I want to see what will happen. Can I come back?”

  “How do you know that anything will happen?”

  “Oh.” She paused. “I don’t—I guess I don’t really know. Will the rabbi be back?”

  “I think so.”

  “Can I watch?”

  “All right,” said Vörös. “But stay behind the rock again, exactly as you did today. That was a very wise thing you did, when you did not move from the rock.”

  She smiled at his praise. “I was too frightened to move,” she said.

  He laughed. “All right then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Kicsi looked around her. In the twilight the golem was no more than another stone. “Why didn’t he see the golem?”

  “The protection on the circle still extended that far,” said Vörös. “There was a spell on him so that he was unable to see it. But I think,” he said, looking toward the setting sun, “that I shall let him see it tomorrow. It will not hurt to let him know what I have in mind.”

  “I’d better go now,” said Kicsi. “It’s very late.”

  “Yes,” said Vörös. “Good-bye.” He called after her as she ran down the hillside. “And good luck!”

  The rabbi arrived the next day, shortly after Kicsi had taken her place behind the rock. Vörös had not put up the protective circle, and so the rabbi found him bent over the still clay form.

  “Ah,” said the rabbi, seating himself on a rock. “So you are making a golem.”

  Vörös said nothing.

  “It is interesting that you should attempt that,” said the rabbi. “It has not been done successfully since 1580, as far as I know. Yet you think you will succeed, of course, or you would not have gone to the trouble. May I ask what you are making him for?”

  Vörös looked up. He was very pale; even his eyes seemed to have lost color. Kicsi thought, shocked, that he looked as though he had not slept all night. Perhaps he had given the golem more words, as he said he would. “To protect the village,” he said.

  “I protect the village, not you,” the rabbi said emphatically. “Do you think the people here do not know that? I am their teacher, their adviser, their”—he looked to the golem again, and his voice, though lowered, carried to where Kicsi sat concealed by the rock—“magician. We do not need you here among us to create trouble. I am afraid you see monsters where none exist.”

  “I see a man in my dreams,” said Vörös. “I see him often. A man with no teeth.”

  The rabbi looked up, startled.

  “Ah,” said Vörös, “you see him too.”

  “So what if I do? They are dreams, nothing more.”

  “No, rab
bi,” Vörös said. “They are not just dreams. You know what they are. Please, tell the people they are not safe here. They listen to you, not to me.”

  “They listen to me,” the rabbi said. “They listen because I have never advised them wrongly. What will they say if I suddenly tell them to leave their homes, their synagogue, their village—all on the strength of a dream?”

  Vörös looked at him. Light broke against his eyes and he looked as though he were seeing some terror. “Rabbi,” he said levelly, “they will thank you.”

  The rabbi shrugged. “I have lived here longer than you,” he said. “I know my people, and you do not.” He bent over and peered at the golem.

  “I see you have nothing written on the golem’s forehead,” the rabbi said. “I know that you understand the importance of names. I am curious. Tell me. There are many schools of thought concerning the word that should be written on the forehead of a golem. Which word will you choose?”

  “I do only as I have been taught,” said Vörös.

  “Ah! And who taught you? That would be an interesting thing to learn. There are those who teach that the Holy Name of God should be written on the golem’s forehead to bring him to life and that to take away the gift of life one must erase the Name.” The rabbi paused. Vörös said nothing. “And then there are those who believe that the word emes, truth, should be the word written on the forehead, and that to take away life one must erase the first letter, the aleph, so that the word on his forehead is now the word for death.

  “Ah, so you will not speak,” said the rabbi. “Very well then. I shall be back tomorrow to see the progress you have made. Sholom aleichem.”

  The rabbi stood and began to walk down the hill. Vörös spoke softly to the golem, swaying back and forth, his words falling like rain falling on bare ground. The rabbi turned back, puzzled.