The Golem's Eye

by Jonathan Stroud

  Anyway, it was evidently happily occupied for the present. And this gave me the opportunity to take a closer look at what I was up against. Without a sound, the minotaur minced through the blackness of the hall until it came to a tall sarcophagus that so far remained untouched. It peered around it, toward the base of Ramses’ statue. And frowned in perplexity.

  Most djinn have perfect night sight; it’s one of the countless ways in which we are superior to humans. Darkness has little meaning for us—even on the first plane, which you see, too. But now, though I scrolled through the other planes with the speed of thought, I found I could not penetrate a deep well of blackness centered on the statue’s base. It swelled and shrank around its edges, but remained as inkily inscrutable on the seventh plane as on the first. Whatever was causing Ramses to shake was deep within the darkness, but I could see nothing of it.

  However, I could certainly judge roughly where it would be, and since it was being good enough to remain stationary, it seemed the time had come for a surprise attack. I looked around me for an appropriate missile. In a glass cabinet nearby was an odd black stone, of irregular outline, small enough to lift, but large enough to brain an afrit nicely. It had a lot of scribbling down one flat side, which I didn’t have time to read. It was probably a set of rules for visitors to the museum, since it seemed to be written in two or three languages. Whatever, it would do the job.

  The minotaur carefully and quietly lifted the glass case off the floor and over the top of the rock, setting it down again without a sound. It checked across: the blackness still welled aggressively against Ramses’feet, but the statue remained immobile. Good.

  With a bend and a lift, the rock was in the minotaur’s brawny arms, and I was heading back across the gallery, looking for a suitable vantage point. A smallish pharaoh met my eye. I didn’t recognize him: he can’t have been one of the more memorable ones. Even his statue had a slightly apologetic expression. But he was sitting high up on a carved throne on top of a dais, and his lap looked big enough for a minotaur to stand on.

  Still holding the rock, I hopped up, first onto the dais, then onto the throne, then onto the pharaoh’s lap. I squinted over his shoulder; perfect—I was a stone’s throw away from the pulsating blackness now, high up enough to get just the right trajectory. I tensed my goat legs, flexed my biceps, gave a snort for luck, and tossed the stone up and over, as if from a siege catapult.

  For a single second, maybe two, its inscribed surface flashed in the light from the windows, then it plummeted down in front of Ramses’face, down to the base of the statue and into the center of the black smog.

  Smack! A crack of stone on stone, rock on rock. Small black pieces flew out of the smog in all directions, pinging off the masonry and cracking glass.

  Well, I’d hit something, and it was hard.

  The black cloud boiled as if in sudden rage. Briefly, it drew back; I caught a glimpse of something very large and solid at its heart, thrashing a giant arm about in mindless fury. Then the cloud closed up again and swelled outward, lapping against the nearest statues as if blindly seeking the perpetrator of the crime.

  In point of fact, the heroic minotaur had made itself scarce: I was crouching down as low as possible in the pharaoh’s lap, peeping out through a crack in the marble. Even my horns had drooped a little so as not to be exposed. I watched the darkness move now, as whatever was inside it began its hunt: it shifted decisively away from Ramses’base, welling back and forth against nearby statues. A series of heavy impacts sounded: the noise of hidden footfalls.

  While it is true to say that my hopes for my first attack hadn’t been sky-high, given that my adversary was capable of smashing through solid walls, I was a little disappointed that the stone hadn’t made more of an impact. But it had given me a tiny glimpse of the creature within, and since—if I couldn’t destroy it—one of my charges was to get information on the marauder, this was something worth following up. A small stone had made a small dent in the darkness…. This being so, what would a large stone do?

  The billowing cloud was moving off to investigate a suspicious group of statues on the opposite side of the hall. With unlikely stealth, the minotaur descended from the pharaoh’s lap and proceeded, in a series of little darting movements between hiding places, across the gallery to where a large sandstone torso of another pharaoh stood beside the wall.10

  The torso was high—about fifteen feet tall. I squeezed into the shadows behind it, on my way plucking a small burial pot off a nearby stand. Once suitably concealed, I stuck out a hairy arm and tossed the pot to the ground ten feet or so away. It broke with a satisfyingly crisp crack.

  Instantly, as if it had been waiting for just such a sound, the cloud of darkness shifted position and began flowing rapidly in the direction of the noise. Eager footfalls sounded; questing tentacles of blackness extended out, whipping against the statues that they passed. The cloud drew close to the smashed pot; it paused there, billowing uncertainly.

  It was in position. By this time, the minotaur had clambered halfway up the sandstone torso, braced its back against the wall behind, and was pushing at the statue with all the might of its cloven hooves. The torso began to shift immediately, rocking back and forth, and making a slight scraping sound as it did so.11 The cloud of blackness caught the noise; it darted in my direction.

  Not fast enough. With one final heave, the torso’s center of balance shifted irrevocably; down it came, whistling through the dark hall, slap-bang into the cloud.

  The force of the impact blew the cloud into a million ragged wisps; they shot out in all directions.

  I jumped clear, landing nimbly to the side. I turned eagerly, scanning the scene.

  The torso was not flat against the ground. It had cracked across the middle; its top end was several feet off the floor, as if it were resting on something large.

  I walked toward it carefully. From my angle I couldn’t get a view of what was lying comatose beneath. Still, it looked as if I’d been successful. In a few moments I could head off, signal the boy, and get ready for my dismissal.

  I drew close and bent down to look beneath the statue.

  A giant hand shot out, faster than thought, grabbed me by one hairy leg. It was blue-gray, possessed of three fingers and a thumb, hard and cold as buried stone. Veins ran through it as through marble, but they pulsed with life. Its grip crushed my essence like a vise. The minotaur bellowed with pain. I needed to change, to withdraw my essence from the fist, but my head was spinning—I could not concentrate long enough to do so. A terrible coldness extended outward, wrapped itself around me like a blanket. I felt my fires dwindling, my energy leaching out of me like blood dripping from a wound.

  The minotaur swayed, collapsed like an empty puppet upon the floor. The chilly solitude of death was all about me.

  Then, unexpectedly, the stone wrist flexed, the grip was loosed; the minotaur’s body was hurled high into the air, in an ungainly arc, to be dashed hard against the nearby wall. My consciousness flickered; I fell, crashing tail over horns to the floor below.

  I lay there for a moment, dazed, uncomprehending. I heard scraping sounds, as of a sandstone torso being shifted, and did nothing. I felt the floor shake, as if that torso was being summarily dropped to one side, and did nothing. I heard first one, then another, firm concussion, as of great stone feet righting themselves, and still did nothing. But all the while the hideous burning chill of the great hand’s touch was slowly lessening, and my fires were being restoked. And now, as the great stone feet moved purposefully toward me and I sensed something fixing me with a cold intent, enough energy returned for action.

  I opened my eyes, saw a shadow looming.

  With a tortured effort of will, the minotaur became the cat once more; the cat leaped high into the air, out of the path of the descending foot, which drove deep down into the fabric of the floor. The cat landed a short way off, hackles raised, tail flared like a toilet brush; with a yowl it leaped again.


  As it leaped, it looked to the side and caught a view of its adversary full on.

  The black wisps were re-forming about it already, gathering like mercury globules into the creature’s permanent concealing shroud. But enough remained free for me to see it there, its outline exposed in the moonlight, following my progression with a swift turn of its head.

  At first glance, it was as if one of the statues in the hall had come to life: a vast figure, roughly humanoid in shape, standing three meters tall. Two arms, two legs, a hulking torso, a relatively small, smooth head sitting atop it all.

  It existed only on the first plane; on the others, darkness was utter and absolute.

  The cat landed on the scaly head of Sobek, the crocodile god, and perched there for a moment, hissing defiance. Everything about the figure radiated an alien otherness; I felt my energy being sapped simply by seeing it.

  It stepped toward me with surprising speed. For an instant, its face—such as it was—was caught in the light from the window, and that was where the comparison with the ancient statues fell down. Those statues were exquisitely carved, without exception; that was what the Egyptians were really good at, along with organized religion and civil engineering. But aside from its scale, the most obvious thing about the creature was how crude it was, how artificial. The skin surface was covered in irregularities: with lumps, cracks, and flat areas, as if it had only roughly been patted into shape. It had no ears, no hair. Where you’d expect its eyes to be, it had two round holes that looked as if they’d simply been punched in its surface with the blunt end of a giant pencil. It had no nose, and only a great slash of a mouth, which hung slightly open in the stupid, voracious manner of a shark’s. And in the center of its forehead was an oval shape that I knew I’d seen before, not very long ago.

  This oval was fairly small, fashioned out of the same dark blue-gray substance as the rest of the figure, but was as intricate as the face and body were crude. It was an open eye, without lids or lashes, but complete with crosshatched iris and round pupil. And in the center of that pupil, just before the cloak of blackness swathed it from my view, I caught the flash of a dark intelligence, watching me.

  The blackness made a lunge; the cat gave a bound. Behind me, I heard Sobek splintering. I landed on the floor then shot toward the nearest door. It was time to go; I had discovered what I needed. I did not flatter myself I could do anything more here.

  A missile of some kind shot over my head, collided with the door, breaking it in. The cat plunged through. Jarring footsteps came behind.

  I was in a small, dark room hung with fragile ethnic drapes and tapestries. A tall window at the end promised a way out. The cat ran toward it, whiskers back, ears flat against its head, claws scrabbling on the floor. It jumped, then jerked to the side at the last minute with a very uncatlike curse. It had seen the glowing white lines of a high-strength nexus beyond the window. The magicians had arrived. They’d sealed us in.

  The cat wheeled around, seeking another exit. Finding none.

  Bloody magicians.

  A boiling cloud of darkness filled the doorway.

  The cat hunched down defensively, pressing itself against the floor. Behind it, rain drummed against the windowpanes.

  For a moment neither cat nor darkness moved. Then something small and white erupted from the cloud, shooting across the room: the crocodile head of Sobek, ripped from its shoulders. The cat sprang aside. The head crashed through the window, fizzing as it struck the nexus. Hot rain drove in through the hole, steaming from its contact with the barrier; with it came a sudden draught. The tapestries and sheets of fabric on the walls fluttered outward.

  Footsteps. An approaching darkness that swelled to fill the room.

  The cat slunk back into a corner, pressing itself as small as it would go. Any moment now, that eye would see me….

  Another gust of rain: the edges of the tapestries flicked up. An idea formed.

  Not a very good one, but I wasn’t fussy right then.

  The cat leaped at the nearest hanging fabric, a fragile piece, possibly from America, showing squareish humans amid a sea of stylized corn. It scrabbled its way to the top, where careful cords attached it to the wall. A flash of claw—the fabric was free. Instantly, the wind caught it; it blew outward into the room, colliding with something in the midst of the black cloud.

  The cat was already on the next tapestry, slashing it loose. Then the next. In a moment, half a dozen sheets of fabric had been whipped into the center of the room, where they danced palely like ghosts amid the wind and driving rain.

  The creature in the cloud had ripped the first sheet away, but now another was blown upon it. From all sides, fragments of material dipped and spun, confusing the creature, obscuring its view. I sensed the great arms flailing, the giant legs blundering back and forth within the confines of the room.

  While it was thus occupied, I aimed to creep elsewhere.

  This was easier said than done, as the black cloud now seemed to fill the room, and I didn’t want to bump into the death-bringing body within it. So I went cautiously, hugging the walls.

  I’d made it about halfway to the door when the creature, evidently reaching a peak of frustration, lost all sense of perspective. There was a sudden pounding of feet and a great blow struck against the left-hand wall. Plaster dropped from above and a cloud of dust and debris fell into the room to join the general whirl of wind, rain, and antique fabrics.

  On the second blow, the wall collapsed, and with it the entire ceiling.

  For a split second, the cat was motionless, eyes wide, then it curled into a protective ball.

  An instant later, a dozen tons of stone, brick, cement, steel, and assorted masonry crashed down directly upon me, burying the room.

  17

  The small man gave an apologetic smile. “We have removed most of the rubble, madam,” he said, “and have so far found nothing.”

  Jessica Whitwell’s voice was cold and calm. “Nothing, Shubit? You realize what you are telling me is quite impossible. I think someone is shirking.”

  “I humbly believe that not to be so, madam.” He certainly seemed humble enough right then, standing with his bandy legs slightly bent, his head bowed, his cap scrunched tightly in his hands. Only the fact that he was standing in the center of a pentacle revealed his demonic nature. That and his left foot—a black bear’s tufted paw poking out from his trousers—which from oversight or caprice he had neglected to transform.

  Nathaniel regarded the djinni balefully and tapped his fingers together in what he hoped was a brooding and quizzical manner. He was sitting in a high-backed easy chair of studded green leather, one of several arranged around the pentacle in an elegant circle. He had deliberately adopted the same pose as Ms. Whitwell—straight-backed, legs crossed, elbows resting on the arms of the chair—in an attempt to replicate her air of powerful resolve. He had an uncomfortable feeling it did not begin to disguise his terror. He kept his voice as level as he could. “You must search every cranny of the ruins,” he said. “My demon must be there.”

  The small man cast him a single look with his bright green eyes, but otherwise ignored him. Jessica WhitweH spoke: “Your demon might well have been destroyed, John,” she said.

  “I think I would have felt its loss, madam,” he said politely.

  “Or it might have escaped its bonds.” The rumbling voice of Henry Duvall rose from a black chair opposite Nathaniel. The Police Chief filled every inch of it; his fingers tapped impatiently on the arms. The black eyes glinted. “With over-ambitious apprentices, such things have been known to happen.”

  Nathaniel knew better than to rise to the challenge. He remained silent.

  Ms. Whitwell addressed her servant once more. “My apprentice is right, Shubit,” she said. “You must scan the debris again. Do so, at all speed.”

  “Madam, I shall.” He bowed his head, vanished.

  There was a moment’s silence in the room. Nathaniel kept his face calm, but
his mind was awhirl with emotion. His career and perhaps his life were in the balance, and Bartimaeus could not be found. He had staked everything on his servant, and judging by the expressions of the others in the room, they believed he was about to lose. He glanced around, witnessing the hungry satisfaction in Duvall’s eyes, the flinty displeasure in his master’s and, from the depths of a leather armchair, the furtive hope in Mr. Tallow’s. The head of Internal Affairs had spent much of the night distancing himself from the whole surveillance enterprise, and pouring criticism down upon Nathaniel’s head. In truth, Nathaniel could not blame him. First Pinn’s, then the National Gallery, now (and worst of all) the British Museum. Internal Affairs was in desperate straits, and the ambitious police chief was preparing to make his move. No sooner had the extent of the damage to the museum become clear than Mr. Duvall had insisted on being present in the cleanup operation. He had watched everything with ill-concealed triumph.

  “Well …” Mr. Duvall clapped his hands upon his knees and prepared to rise. “I think I have wasted enough time, Jessica. In summary, following the efforts of Internal Affairs, we have a ruined wing of the British Museum and a hundred artifacts lost within it. We have a trail of destruction across the ground floor, several priceless statues destroyed or broken, and the Rosetta stone pulverized to dust. We have no perpetrator of this crime and no prospect of finding one. The Resistance is as free as a bird. And Mr. Mandrake has lost his demon. Not a wildly impressive tally, but one I must communicate to the Prime Minister nevertheless.”

  “Please remain seated, Henry.” Ms. Whitwell’s voice was so venomous that Nathaniel felt his skin crawl. Even the police chief seemed transfixed by it: after a moment’s hesitation, he relaxed back into the chair. “The exploration is not yet finished,” she went on. “We shall wait a few minutes more.”

  Mr. Duvall snapped his fingers. A human servant glided forward from the shadows of the chamber, carrying a silver tray with wine upon it. Mr. Duvall took a glass, swilled the wine around it musingly. There was a long silence.