Bartimaeus: The Golem’s Eye

by Jonathan Stroud

  Everyone in the company had watched the ball’s precipitate flight. Everyone saw it land. Now everyone turned slowly back to the sarcophagus, where something was rising to its feet, stiffly and awkwardly, with a clittering of bones. It stood upright at last, shrouded in darkness, brushing dust from its jacket and tutting away all the while like a persnickety old woman. “Will you look at this mess! Mr. G. would be quite distraught. And the worms have wreaked havoc with his underclothes. There’re holes down there where the sun don’t shine.”

  It bent suddenly and extended an arm, long bone fingers plucking a fallen lantern from the floor beside the sarcophagus. This it held up like a watchman, and by its light, considered each horrified face in turn. The neck vertebrae rasped as the skull behind the mask moved, and the golden death mask flashed dully inside its halo of long white hair.

  “So then.” The voice from behind the mask had no consistent tone. With each syllable it shifted, first high like a child’s, then deep and husky; first male, then female, then growling like a beast. Either the speaker could not decide, or relished the variety. “So then,” it said. “Here you are. Five lonely souls, far underground, with nowhere safe to run to. What, pray, are your names?”

  Kitty, Fred, and Nick were standing motionless, halfway to the metal grille. Mr. Pennyfeather was farther back, shrinking against the wall below the shelf. Anne was closest to the stairs, but sprawling, sobbing soundlessly. Not one of them could bring themselves to reply.

  “Oh, come on.” The golden mask tipped sideways. “I’m trying to be friendly. Which is exceptionally decent of me, I reckon, given I’ve just woken to find a leering lout with an outsize cap rifling through my possessions. Worse still—look at this scuff on the funeral suit! He did that with all his thrashing. Kids today, I ask you. Which reminds me. What year is it? You. The girl. The one who isn’t mewling. Speak up!”

  Kitty’s lips were so dry, she barely got the words out. The golden mask nodded. “I thought it had been a long time. Why? Because of the boredom, you’ll say. Yes, and you’d be right. But also the ache! Ah, the pain of it you wouldn’t believe! It got so’s I couldn’t concentrate, with the agony and the solitude of it, and the noise of the worms gnawing in the dark. It would have driven a lesser fellow mad. But not me. I solved the pain years ago, and the rest I endured. And now, with a bit of light and some company to chat with, I don’t mind telling you, I feel good.” The skeleton clicked a bony finger and jigged from side to side. “Bit stiff—unsurprising, no tendons left—but that’ll pass. All bones present and correct? Check. All possessions too? Ah, no …” The voice grew wistful. “Some little mice have come and spirited them away. Naughty little mice…. Catch them by their tails and pull their whiskers out.”

  Kitty had been slowly inserting a hand into her bag, beneath the cloak and other objects, to locate her Elemental Sphere. She had it now, clasped in a clammy palm. Beside her, she sensed Fred doing likewise, but with less precision; she feared his rustling movements would soon be noticed. She thus spoke more as a distraction than with any real hope.

  “Please, Mr. Gladstone, sir,” she stammered. “We have all your possessions here, and will happily return them to you exactly as they were.”

  With an unpleasant grinding, the skull swiveled 180 degrees on its vertebrae to look behind it. Seeing nothing, it cocked sideways in puzzlement and swiveled back. “To whom are you referring, little girl?” it asked. “To me?”

  “Er—yes. I thought—”

  “Me—Mr. Gladstone? Are you mad, or featherheaded as a dabchick?”

  “Well—“

  “Look at this hand.” Five bone fingers were held up to the light and rotated on a knobbly wrist. “Look at this pelvis. Look at this rib cage.” In each case, the fingers moved rotting cloth aside to provide a glimpse of yellowed bone. “Look at this face.” For an instant, the golden mask was tipped askew, and Kitty caught a glimpse of the skull, with grinning teeth and hollow sockets. “In all honesty, little girl, does Mr. Gladstone look alive to you?”

  “Er—not really.”

  ‘“Not really …’ The answer’s no! No, he doesn’t. Why? you ask. Because he’s dead. A hundred and ten years dead and rotting in his grave. Not really. What kind of an answer is that? You really are clots, little girl, you and your friends. Speaking of which …” It pointed a bony finger down at the bronze plaque on the side of the sarcophagus. “Can’t you read?”

  Dumbly, Kitty shook her head. The skeleton clapped its fingers to its forehead in derision. “Can’t read Sumerian, and she goes ferreting in Gladstone’s grave! So you didn’t see the bit about ‘leaving the Glorious Leader to rest in peace’?”

  “No, we didn’t. We’re very sorry.”

  “Or the bits about ‘perpetual guardian,’or ‘savage vengeance,’or ‘no apologies accepted’?”

  “No, none of that.” Out of the corner of her eye, Kitty saw Fred lower his bag a little, his right hand still hidden within it. He was ready now.

  “Well, what can you expect, then? Ignorance reaps its own reward, which in this case is an unpleasant death. The first lot apologized profusely, too. You should have seen them get down on their knees and bawl for mercy. That’s them over there.” It jerked a bony thumb in the direction of the false wall. “They were eager beavers, sure enough. Came within weeks. One was Mr. G.'s private secretary, if I recall, a very loyal specimen; he’d managed to make a duplicate key and stave off the Pestilence somehow. I hid them away, just to be tidy, and if you’re good I’ll do the same with you. Wait right there.”

  The skeleton hitched one stiff trouser leg over the side of the sarcophagus. Kitty and Fred caught each other’s eye. As one, they drew the Elemental Spheres from their knapsacks and hurled them at the skeleton. It raised a resentful hand; something invisible blocked the spheres’ flight; they fell heavily to the floor, where, instead of exploding, they seemed to implode with damp, pathetic squeals, leaving nothing but small black stains upon the flagstones.

  “I really can’t have a mess being made here,” the skeleton said reprovingly. “In Mr. Gladstone’s day, guests were more considerate.”

  From his own bag, Mr. Pennyfeather drew forth a silver disc; leaning on his stick, he threw it at the skeleton from the side. It sliced into the forearm of the dusty suit and stuck fast. The voice emanating from behind the golden mask let out a shrill yell. “My essence! I felt that. Silver is something I really can’t abide. See how you like being willfully assaulted, old timer.” A bright green bolt erupted from the mask and lanced across into Mr. Pennyfeather’s chest, driving him back hard against the wall. He crumpled to the floor. The skeleton gave a grunt of satisfaction and turned back to the others. “That’ll learn him,” it said.

  But Fred was moving again, retrieving from secreted spots about his person one silver disc after another and throwing them in the same blink of an eye. The skeleton ducked the first, leaped over the second and had a lock of hair shaved off by the third. It had extricated itself from the sarcophagus now, and seemed to have rediscovered its power of movement; with every bound and step, it grew more sprightly, until its outline almost seemed to blur. “This is fun!” it cried, as it dodged and twirled. “I really am most obliged to you fellows!”

  Fred’s supply of missiles seemed inexhaustible; he kept up a constant rain, while Nick, Anne, and Kitty steadily retreated toward the stairs. All at once another green bolt stabbed out and struck Fred across the legs, sending him crashing to the ground. In another moment, he was back on his feet, a little unsteady, brows furrowed with pain, but very much alive.

  The skeleton paused in surprise. “Well, now,” it said. “Natural resilience. Deflects magic. Haven’t seen that since Prague.” It tapped its gold mouth with a bony finger. “What am I going to do, I wonder? Let me think…. Aha!” With a bound it was back at the sarcophagus and rummaging inside. “Out of the way, Stanley; I need to get … yes! I thought so.” Its hand reappeared, holding the ceremonial sword. “No magic involved
here. Just a length of sturdy Empire steel. Think you can deflect this, Mr. Spotty? We’ll see.” It flourished the sword above its head and stalked forward.

  Fred stood his ground. He drew his flick-knife from his jacket, opened it with a snick.

  Kitty was at the metal grille, hovering in doubt at the foot of the stairs. Nick and Anne had already disappeared above; she could hear their frantic ascent. She looked over toward Mr. Pennyfeather, whose own resilience had stood him in good stead. He was shuffling on his hands and knees toward her. Ignoring her instincts, which screamed at her to turn tail and run, she darted back into the vault, grasped Mr. Pennyfeather around his shoulders and, exerting all her strength, dragged him toward the stairs.

  Out of sight behind her, she heard Fred give a snarl of fury. There was a whooshing sound, followed by a soft impact.

  Kitty pulled Mr. Pennyfeather onward with a strength she didn’t know she had.

  Through the grille and up the first few steps. She had Mr. Pennyfeather on his feet now; in one hand he still grasped his stick; the other clenched Kitty’s jacket. His breathing was rapid, shallow, painful. He could not talk. Neither had a lantern now; they went in utter darkness. Kitty supported herself on the staff from the tomb. It fumbled on each step.

  A voice came calling, somewhere behind and below them. “Yoo-hoo! Is anybody up there? Little mice a-scuffling in the wainscot. How many mice? One mice … two. Oh dear, and one of them lame.”

  Kitty’s face was swathed in cobwebs. Mr. Pennyfeather’s breathing was now a gasping whine.

  “Won’t you come down to me?” the voice implored. “I’m lonely Neither of your friends want to talk anymore.”

  She felt Mr. Pennyfeather’s face close to her ear. “I—I—have to rest.”

  “No. Keep going.”

  “I can’t.”

  “If you won’t come down, then … I’ll have to come up!”

  Deep down in the earth, the metal grille creaked.

  “Come on.”

  Another step. And another. She couldn’t remember how many there were; in any case, she had lost count. Surely they were almost there. But Mr. Pennyfeather was slowing; he held her back like a dead weight.

  “Please,” she whispered. “One last try.”

  But he had stopped altogether now; she sensed him crouched upon the stairs beside her, gasping for each breath. Vainly she tugged at his arm, vainly she beseeched him to respond.

  “I’m sorry, Kitty …”

  She gave up, leaned back against the curving stones, drew her knife from her belt, and waited.

  A rustle of cloth. A rattling in the dark. Kitty raised her knife.

  Silence.

  And then, with a sudden rushing and a single brief and gasping cry, Mr. Pennyfeather was pulled into the darkness. One moment he was there, the next moment he was gone, and something heavy was being dragged away from her and down the steps, bump, bump, bump.

  Kitty was frozen to the spot for perhaps five seconds; then she was careering up the steps, through veils of drifting cobwebs as if they did not exist, knocking repeatedly into the wall, tripping on the uneven stairs; spying at last a rectangle of gray light ahead, falling out into the airy dimness of the nave, where streetlights glittered against the windows and the statues of the magicians gazed down implacably at her hopelessness and distress.

  She fled away across the transept, narrowly avoiding several pedestals and actually colliding with a row of wooden chairs; the sound of their brattling collapse boomed back and forth across the enormous space. Passing one great pillar, then another, she slowed and, with the entrance to the tomb now a good way behind her, gave herself up to breathless weeping.

  Only then did she realize she might have turned the key in the lock.

  “Kitty.” A small voice in the shadows. Kitty’s heart pounded against her chest; with the knife outstretched before her, she backed away.

  “Kitty, it’s me.” A thin beam of light from the pencil torch. Anne’s face, pale, gray-eyed. She cowered behind a high, wooden lectern.

  “We’ve got to get out.” Kitty’s voice was cracking. “Which way’s the door?”

  “Where’s Fred? And Mr. Pennyfeather?”

  “Which way’s the door, Annie? Can you remember?”

  “No. That is, I think that way, maybe. It’s so difficult in the dark. But—”

  “Come on, then. Turn off the torch for now.”

  She went on at a jog, Anne stumbling after her. In the first moments of her panic, Kitty had simply run unthinkingly, with no sense of direction. It had been the foul blackness below ground that had done it—numbing her brain, stopping her from thinking clearly. But now, dark and musty though it still was, the air was at least fresh—it was helping her master her surroundings, orient her position. A line of pale windows shone high above: they were back in the nave again, on the opposite side to the cloisters door. She halted, allowing Anne to catch up with her.

  “It’s just across here,” she hissed. “Tread carefully.”

  “Where’s—?”

  “Don’t ask.” She stole forward a few more steps. “What about Nick?”

  “He’s gone. I didn’t see …”

  Kitty swore under her breath. “Never mind.”

  “Kitty—I dropped my bag.”

  “Well, that doesn’t matter now, does it? We’ve lost everything.” Even as she said it, she suddenly became aware that she was still holding the magician’s staff in her left hand. It surprised her somewhat; throughout the desperate flight, she had not been at all aware of it. The rucksack, with the cloak and other valuables, had been lost somewhere on the stairs.

  “What was that?”

  They stopped dead, in the center of the nave’s black space.

  “I didn’t hear—”

  “Something scuttling. Did you—?”

  “No … No, I didn’t. Keep going.”

  A few steps more; they sensed a column rising high in front of them. Kitty turned to Anne. “Past the pillar, we’ll need the torch to pinpoint the door. I don’t know how far we’ve come.”

  “All right.” At that moment, a skittering rush sounded directly behind them. Both squealed and lurched in opposite directions. Kitty fell half against the pillar, lost her balance and collapsed to the floor. Her knife was jarred out of her grasp. As quickly as she could she got to her feet and turned around.

  Darkness; somewhere a faint scraping. The pencil torch was lying on the ground, spilling a miserly beam of light against the column. Anne was nowhere to be seen.

  Slowly, slowly, Kitty backed away behind the pillar.

  The door to the cloisters was somewhere close, she was sure of it, but exactly where she could not tell. Still holding the staff, she slipped forward, hand outstretched, feeling her way blindly toward the south wall of the nave.

  To her surprise and almost unsupportable relief, her fingers touched coarse wood and the cold breath of true fresh air fell upon her face. The door was hanging open, a little; she scrabbled at it desperately to shove it aside, squeeze through.

  It was just then that she heard the familiar noise; somewhere behind her in the nave. The tap-tap-tapping of a lame man’s stick.

  Kitty dared not breathe; she remained frozen where she was, half in and half out of the abbey door.

  Tap, tap, tap. The faintest of whisperings. “Kitty … help me …”

  It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. She made to step out into the cloisters; paused.

  “Kitty … please …” The voice was weak, the footsteps faltering.

  She closed her eyes tight; took a long, deep breath; slipped back inside.

  Someone was shuffling along in the middle of the nave, tapping hesitantly with the stick. It was too dark to make the figure out; it seemed confused, directionless, wandering this way and that, coughing feebly and calling out her name. Kitty watched it from behind a column, jerking back whenever it appeared to turn toward her. From what she could see, it was the right shape, the right size
for him; it moved in the right way The voice sounded familiar, too, but despite all this, her heart misgave her. The thing was trying to trap her, surely. Yet she couldn’t just turn and run, and never know for certain that she hadn’t left Mr. Pennyfeather there, alone and still alive.

  What she needed was the torch.

  The meager beam of light was still shining redundantly against the next pillar, Anne’s torch lying exactly where it had fallen. Kitty waited until the limping figure had passed a little way along the nave, then she crept forward with feline stealth, knelt, and collected the torch in her hand. She switched it off and retreated into the darkness.

  The figure seemed to have sensed the movement. Halfway across the nave, it turned, emitting a quavering sigh. “Is … someone there?”

  Hidden behind the pillar, Kitty made no sound.

  “Please … it will find me soon.” The taps started up once more. Steadily, they came nearer.

  Kitty bit her lip. She would dart out, torch on; take a look, run. But fear held her rigid, her limbs refused to move.

  Tap, tap … then, with a hollow clattering, she heard the stick fall upon the stones, followed by the muffled impact of a body collapsing to the floor.

  Kitty came to a decision. Holding the torch between her teeth, she drew something small from her trouser pocket: Grandmama Hyrnek’s silver pendant, cold and heavy in her hand. She grasped the torch once more and stepped out from behind the column. She switched the torch on.

  Right beside her, the skeleton leaned nonchalantly against the pillar, hand on hip, gold mask glinting. “Surprise,” it said. And leaped at her.

  With a scream, Kitty fell back, dropping the torch, thrusting her silver pendant out toward the onrushing blackness. A swirl of air, a creak of bones, a hoarse cry. “Now, that’s not fair.” The form pulled up short. For the first time, she glimpsed its eyes: two red glowing dots flaring with annoyance.