Alchemy and Artifacts, page 25
A need. Something he understood. Nodding to Dahoum, Lawrence pulled on the reins and followed her lead. They traveled without conversation, Gertrude in a kind of trance, Dahoum looking on with undisguised concern. They’d grown fond of each other, a relationship that made Lawrence envious.
He was equally envious of her Talent and choked back the question he’d been yearning to ask since learning of the MOA.
If everyone has some Talent, do I?
Gertrude rode on, hunched forward, eyes open but he wondered what she truly saw. They traveled at a camel’s normal gait, seemingly at random long after the setting sun stretched shadows across the hard, uneven rock.
Lawrence and Dahoum remained alert, silvery illumination from the moon and stars turning the desert into a nightmarish landscape. He contemplated calling a halt, but recognized the strength of Gertrude’s need and kept his peace. Again, she yanked on her reins, redirecting the party onto a plain of stunted grass. A stand of trees arose before them like sentinels in the velvet night. Plump ripe fruit weighed down nearly every branch.
The camels bayed their hunger. Knowing the beasts as he did, Lawrence gave the command to kneel so that he might dismount. Once free of its human burden the camel ambled into the grove and chewed on lush green grass.
He forced Gertrude’s camel to do the same, helping her to dismount as she seemed trapped within her stupor. Once on her feet Gertrude walked unerringly between the trees. Lawrence followed, leaving the camels to Dahoum’s care.
The air chilled and gooseflesh pimpled his skin; he wished he’d had his own thobe instead of his standard European-style shirt and trousers.
Gertrude continued, unaffected. She walked with purpose, but unhurried as if knowing exactly where she needed to go. The air was a heady mixture of fruits and nuts. His stomach grumbled, and unable to stave off his hunger he plucked an orange. Half-peeled, Lawrence bit into the flesh. Sweet juice ran down his chin. To his right he saw a tree of unusual shape. Tossing away the orange, he stepped forward when Gertrude’s coo of delight drew his attention.
In her hands was a long, carved shaft of wood. Her smile was broad and winning, then suddenly turned to alarm.
“Ned,” she called out, but he sensed it was already too late. He half-turned in time to see his attacker before his head exploded in a flurry of bright lights — then black.
A thick German accent pulled him back from unconsciousness. Arms tingling, he tried to move, but was unable. He was tied to the trunk of an orange tree.
A pinched face topped with blonde hair shaved close at the sides wavered into focus. “Ah, you are awake. Gut.”
Lawrence shook his head, trying to clear his vision. “Where….” He battled nausea, then began again. “Where are my companions?”
His captor grasped a handful of Lawrence’s hair and twisted his head. “There,” he said.
Gertrude and Dahoum sat nearby, bound and gagged but otherwise unharmed. More Germans stood a short distance away. One held the staff Gertrude had discovered.
“Don’t worry. I’ll let them live. Think of it as a professional courtesy among the Talented. But you…” The German released Lawrence’s hair. Utter disdain filled eyes so blue as to be opaque. His open hand swept across Lawrence’s face. Pain electrified skin already burned red by the Syrian sun and he bit back the urge to cry out.
The German slowly donned leather gloves. “Ja. Very amusing, telling those tribal peasants we were slavers.” He struck again, this time with a closed fist. “Slavers! Do you know how insulting that is? How distasteful it is to me?”
Lawrence tasted blood. The world was a fuzzy blur. Each passing second numbed the pain. Sensations twisted, morphing into something he considered… pleasant. But the pain of the initial strike, that’s when he was most vulnerable. What had the German said? Yes, telling Faizah their pursuers were slavers was funny. Bracing himself, Lawrence chuckled.
“You laugh?” His captor straightened. “You think your joke is amusing, ja? Well, Herr Komiker. I. Do. Not.” He punctuated each word with a vicious kick to Lawrence’s stomach, ribs, a punch to the head … another kick to the groin. Blows alternated between boots and fists, precision applications of torturous vengeance.
And in between came waves of delightful warmth, an erotic sensation he only began to understand. Eyes swelled leaving only sound; stifled cries from Gertrude and Dahoum; grunts of exertion from his assailant. Every nerve was on fire. The hair on his body felt like tiny stilettos jabbing his skin. He tried to speak but all that came was a muffled ruin of words.
“Was?” The German grabbed a fistful of hair. Hot stale breath brushed his cheek. “What do you want to say?”
Lawrence strained against his bonds. He had to keep the German from the truth, distract him from the oddly shaped tree not ten feet away. He knew of only one path. Shivering with anticipation and terror, his tongue wetted thickened lips. Struggling to form a single word, he forced it out into the world like defiance.
“More,” he whispered.
“Schweinehund!” The German spat on him, renewing his assault with gleeful vigor. Lawrence thought he laughed before he was beaten into oblivion.
~ ~ ~
No dreams. No visions of family and friends. Brilliant white brought Lawrence back from the dead. He creaked opened his right eye to blinding sunlight and groaned. Labored breathing suggested broken ribs. Running his tongue around his mouth was a pleasant surprise; he still had his teeth. Other than that, he was only bruised.
Hundreds of bruises.
Everything hurt. Not the delicious pain he’d felt earlier, but true misery. Still, he’d survived. With a start he remembered Gertrude and Dahoum. He turned his head and relaxed.
Gertrude, free of her bonds sat nearby, watching him with a peculiar expression.
“Hello,” he croaked, then tensed again. “Dahoum?”
“He is tending the camels,” she answered. “Klaus, that bastard, left us to rot, but we managed to cut our bonds on a jagged rock.”
Good, Lawrence wanted to say, but the set of her jaw, the tilt of her head alarmed him. “What?” he managed with great effort.
“How is your neck?” she asked carefully.
He tried to shrug, regretted the decision. “It’s fine. Why?”
She paused, crossed her arms. “Klaus… I’ve never seen such a beating. You should have died, but you still breathed. You breathed… and you…. We freed you and you lay where you are now, moaning…. Aroused. I could tell because you lay on your back. I ask because I know that is a symptom of neck injuries. Are you sure your neck is fine?”
Lawrence considered for a moment. “It does feel… painful. Perhaps he did some injury, but as you can see my head turns.” To assure her, and him, he forced himself into a sitting position. “Are you sure about my….” Memories of the beating flooded back, and he shifted position, crossing his legs. “I am sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be.” Gertrude gave a worldly wave. “Nothing I haven’t seen before. The important thing is that you’re alive.” Like a switch, her expression became one of anguish. “Dammit, Ned. We had it. I had the staff in my hands and that bastard took it. All that work for nothing.”
Dim relief eased his inner turmoil. Through it all he hadn’t revealed the truth. Klaus’ intention had been punishment, not interrogation. “How did he find us?”
“His Talent,” she said. “He can track like a bloodhound. That’s why he stayed so far from us. He had no need to come closer. Sending the Bedouins only angered him.” She knelt beside him. “But you know that.”
“Yes.” He touched his lips. They were thick as sausages. “But don’t worry about the Staff. I don’t know what you found, but it wasn’t Aaron’s Rod.”
Gertrude pushed away as if insulted. “What are you saying? I felt its magic.”
“Oh, I’m sure whatever you found was magical. It just wasn’t our Staff.”
“How do you know?”
With her help Lawrence gained unstable footing. “And it came to pass, that on the morrow Moses went into the tabernacle of witness.” He quoted the Book of Numbers. Leaning heavily on Gertrude, he limped towards the curiously-shaped tree. “And, behold, the rod of Aaron for the house of Levi was budded, and brought forth buds, and bloomed blossoms, and yielded almonds.” Lawrence reached out and plucked a ripe almond pod from a tree unnaturally straight. “I’d seen this just as you found your stick, but before I could say anything, what did you say his name was, Klaus? Yes, Klaus von Bastard attacked me. Lucky he did, too. Otherwise, he might have found this.” He grasped the trunk and tugged. The tree lifted easily from the earth, rootless, blossoms retreating in heartbeats.
Gertrude gasped as if struck. “I feel it.” She grinned, reached out to take it. “Before there was nothing, but now… now I feel it.”
“Perhaps it needs to be held,” Lawrence speculated.
“My God!” Gertrude looked to the north where Klaus had escaped. “If not for that other staff we may never have found this.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Lawrence mused. “Remember Mustafa’s tale? The oasis only appears to those in need of sustenance … and those deserving of its gifts.”
“What now?” She held the Staff with reverence. “Fenway will want to destroy it.”
“I don’t think anyone can destroy something created by gods.”
“Distance!” Gertrude’s eyes opened wide. Lawrence suspected she’d gleaned something from her Talent. “Ned, the farther we separate this from its companion, both will weaken.”
Lawrence considered this. “Yes, that does make sense. The strength of the caduceus is in its unity.”
“Then my people will be free?” Lawrence turned at Dahoum’s voice in time to receive his warm embrace. “It is good to see you are not dead, Lawrence.”
“I feel the same,” said Lawrence with equal affection. “But merely weakening the Istanbul Staff won’t free your people. Arabs must rise up and free themselves.”
“An Arab revolt,” said Gertrude, caught up in Lawrence’s fervor.
“Led by you, Lawrence,” said Dahoum.
“Yes.” Gertrude, holding Aaron’s Rod, struck a heroic pose. “Ned of Arabia.”
Lawrence lowered his chin. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he said with his impish smile. “You overestimate me. I’m no superman, but quite ordinary.”
But he wasn’t ordinary, a matter to discuss with Sir Margrave Fenway.
* * *
>>> Before he became Lawrence of Arabia, T.E Lawrence was an archeologist specializing in the Middle East. He had a strong affinity for the Arab Peoples and viewed the Ottoman Empire as their oppressors. While there is no evidence the Staff of Moses and the Rod of Aaron were ever combined, in a world of magic the power of these two artifacts would be substantial. Lawrence and Gertrude’s success served to weaken the Ottoman’s hold over the Arabs and led to Lawrence’s assistance in the Arab Revolt during the First World War.
Mike Rimar
Mike Rimar has matured. He no longer writes witty bios with clever puns. He has stopped comparing his two daughters to pets, especially after the cease and desist order. He sees nothing funny about writing science fiction, fantasy, and some horror, although many of his stories might be considered humorous, and purposefully humorous, not this-is-so-bad-it’s-funny kind of humorous. As proof, his story, A Bunny Hug for Karl, was nominated for the 2014 Prix Aurora for the best in Canadian Science Fiction and Fantasy. He is also an associate publisher of Bundoran Press (www.bundoranpress.com) and co-editor of the anthologies, Second Contacts, for which he won the 2016 Aurora award and Lazurus Risen, for which he was nominated for the 2017 Aurora. He has been published in OSC’s InterGalactic Medicine Show, Writers of the Future XXI, On Spec, and Tesseracts 15, all serious publications despite having the occasional humorous story.
www.mikerimar.com
The Berlin Golem
Geoffrey Hart
My first memories are of bitter cold, and of floating in a void. I hear nothing, see nothing, and smell nothing. There is only me. I have some sense of a torso, but it feels as if my limbs have been severed. In time, the cold fades, and I begin to feel my limbs, but they aren’t talking to me and don’t respond when I urge them to move. I can feel eyes, ears, and a nose, but they don’t respond to my urgings either. I should be terrified, but other than that ghost-limb discomfort, there is no fear. Also no curiosity, anger, or any other emotion one might expect upon waking in a strange place, cut off from one’s body and senses. I have waited before, and I will wait again, so I do that.
Time passes, and now I can hear a rich voice, speaking unintelligible words. It takes me more time to realize that the words are incomprehensible because they’re in at least three languages (German, Hebrew, and Yiddish). Once I understand this, their meaning gradually becomes clear. I recognize the Hebrew, at least; it is from the Pentateuch, though how I know this I cannot say. Thinking back, it is clear most of those early words were from Genesis — appropriate enough for a newborn soul such as mine — but the voice has long since moved on to other books of the Pentateuch that feel less relevant.
Knowing there are words, I suddenly feel my tongue, and my mouth fills with the taste of dirt. It’s not unpleasant, not really. It’s… earthy. And the words bring me comfort, for they mean that I’m not alone — and that someone considers me worthy of their time and attention. My tongue twitches along with the spoken words, and I savor that feeling and the sense of shared purpose. If I felt fear, this would eliminate it. I don’t fear, but the knowledge of my value brings a warmth that eases the chill. I feel an urge to smile, but my lips have not yet returned to me, and I must wait.
But inside, I smile.
~ ~ ~
I feel my eyelids twitch, and all at once, the voice ceases. Then it switches to German. “Ah, good. You’re awake.”
I try to speak, but all that emerges is a moan and wet, sloppy sounds, as if I were Demosthenes practicing oration with a mouthful of gravel. How do I know about Demosthenes?
“Don’t worry that you can’t move yet. I expect that it’s perfectly normal after awakening.”
I moan again. My tongue feels more nimble, but meaningful words elude it.
“Don’t try to talk just yet.”
I feel a hand on my forehead, and my eyes open. It takes a moment before I realize I am looking up at the ceiling. Then I see a seamed face leaning over, surrounded by white hair below and a grizzled beard above. Inverted, I abruptly realize, because he stands at my head, but even inverted, I can see the twist in his spine.
“I’m Igor Berliner, but please just call me Igor. I’ve been your shomer, sort of. It’s my pleasure to meet you and welcome you to the world.”
I think, Are you my creator? but only a moan emerges from my lips. I feel my heavy brows furrow in frustration.
“Rest. Relax. I will read to you, and in time things will come clear.” The voice switches back to Hebrew. Deuteronomy this time. He speaks of entry to the holy land, the need to honor the customs of one’s people, and of the promise of salvation through repentance. But it is not clear why this is relevant to me: Have I entered the holy land, do I have a people whose customs I must learn, is there some deed for which I must repent, and do I have any hope of salvation? I sigh. All will become clear in time. The voice drones on, and I go with it, tongue twitching in harmony with the speaker’s enunciations.
After a time, the feeling of gravel in my mouth abates and I can move air through my mouth and nose without sounding like a drowning man. “Who am I?” I croak.
“Well done! Not so well asked, unfortunately. As of yet, you have no name. But if it were up to me, I’d name you Yossi.”
“Why Yossi?”
“Your ancestor, the Golem of Prague, was named Josef, but nicknamed Yossele. Hence, Yossi. A proud name for you to reincarnate.”
No other name suggests itself. I manage to nod, and Igor goes back to reading his book to me.
~ ~ ~
Upstairs, the door slams and I hear heavy steps moving across the ceiling. Igor puts down his book.
“The master has returned.”
“Master?”
Igor chuckles. “Judah Halevi, my employer. His father named him after the Spanish physician philosopher, but he’s no physician and only an indifferent philosopher. Still, he pays well, and who else would employ a crippled alterkacker like me?”
The door to the basement opens, and the master flings himself down the stairs. He’s a younger man, his thick beard still black and his face unlined, save for a deep furrow between his eyes that seems permanently engraved there. He wears richly woven robes, stained with something thick and black.
“Is it still lying there? Get it moving. We have need of it.”
“What happened, Judah?”
“The Gott verdammt Hitlerjugend. They cast pig’s blood upon me. Now I’ll have to burn these robes.” He crosses the room and seizes my arm, lifting it from my slab and letting it fall heavily back with a dull slapping noise.
“We’re making progress, Judah. His eyes are open, and his tongue has grown sufficiently nimble he can pronounce a few words. Give him time. In a day, he’ll be up and about, skipping like a young goat.”
The younger man snorts. “See that he is.” He storms up the stairs once more, slamming the door behind him.
I find my voice for the first time. “Is he my creator? My god?”
“Yes to the first, but no to the second. You were created from the same dust and clay as Adam, the first of us. So yes, he created you. But not even Judah is so arrogant as to believe he gave you the spark of life. That would be an act of hubris for the ages. Not that this has stopped others from believing in their own genius.”
“Then where did I come from?”
