The Golem Part 1

THE.

GOLEM.

EDWARD LEE.

For Dave Boulter-Rest in peace.

PROLOGUE.

August 1880.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, lad," Captain Michael McQuinn said at the boat's broad wheel. He'd made the comment to his first mate, a work-weathered Bohemian named Poelzig who now stared listlessly out a starboard window in the small wheel house. All around them stretched the perfectly flat Chesapeake Bay.

"A ghost," muttered Poelzig. He dragged a callused hand across his forehead. "Didn't sleep much last night, Captain, nor did the wife. You?"

"Ah, I slept like a baby," McQuinn insisted in his Irish accent. He patted his hip flask with a smile. "Ain't nothin' to be restless about. We're both immigrants welcomed to this fine land, ay? Promised freedom and good, honest work. We ought to be grateful at all times..."

This much was true. McQuinn was an Irish Catholic, and Poelzig, a Jew from somewhere in Europe. Austria? Who can tell after all them b.l.o.o.d.y wars? McQuinn thought. Poelzig and his wife, Nanya, had fled Jewish persecution, while McQuinn had fled Dublin's tax collectors and more than one irate husband. But from what he could see thus far, America honored its promises.

Yes, that much was true, but what wasn't true was Captain McQuinn's remark about sleeping like a baby. He'd done anything but. They'd been on the bay two weeks now, starting in Baltimore Harbor, delivering goods first up the Patuxent River to Sandsgate, then across and up the Nantic.o.ke, and next up the Wicomico to Salisbury. It seemed that with each off-loading of cargo at each port town, McQuinn felt more and more peculiar, and each night he slept less and less.

Poelzig was still tiredly staring off into s.p.a.ce. "My G.o.d, last night I dreamt..."

McQuinn snapped his gaze to his sullen colleague. "Ya dreamt what, man?"

Poelzig shook his head. He was probably forty but right now looked eighty.

Gads! McQuinn didn't like it when he had to demonstrate his authority. Most of these river runs went like clockwork. So what was wrong now? "Somethin's been addlin' you since we left Baltimore," he snapped, "and more so after every stop. You and your missus ain't no good to me if ya ain't got your minds on your work. So. What is it? What's wrong?"

The otherwise confident first mate now seemed at a loss for words. He pointed behind him while keeping his eyes on McQuinn.

"What? The cargo house? Poelzig, we only have one more stop, then the route is done."

Poelzig's accent cracked. "The destination, sir, is what I and Nanya are troubled by."

For the Lord's sake! McQuinn s.n.a.t.c.hed up the manifest orders and read the destination aloud: "Lowensport, Mary land, eleven miles east, northeast on the Brewer River. What's rubbin' ya the wrong way 'bout goin' there, man? It's just a mill-town's what I hear."

Poelzig cleared his throat. "More than that, sir."

"I scarcely heard'a the Brewer River 'fore this run, but the harbormaster tell me it's a deep trough all the way up'n free of snags. And don't forget, the Wegener's as tough a steamboat as they come. For G.o.d's sake, we ain't gonna sink."

Poelzig's somber face didn't change. "Lowensport itself's what I mean, sir."

McQuinn squinted, leaning forward. "Ain't you and your missus Jews?"

"We are, Captain, and proud of it."

"Well I don't know nothin' 'bout your faith, and precious little 'bout my own if you want the truth, and I don't got nothin' against any man fer what he believes." McQuinn emphasized his next words. "But the harbor-master tell me somethin' else, Poelzig. He tell me this little place called Lowensport was settled by Jews. Your people, Poelzig!"

"Not...our people, sir," Poelzig whispered sharply.

Can't figure none'a this, McQuinn thought. Best to just forget it. Why would two Jews have the frights over a town full of folks who believed the same thing? It'd be like me bein' leery of steppin' into Ma.s.s.

He lined his sight back on the bay, spotted the wide mouth of a river, then checked his maps. "What ever it is that's got your ire up, ya can stow it for now, man, 'cause here's the Brewer River. Bet we're up to six knots an hour now, and goin' upriver'll likely only knock us back to three, so we should be dockin' in Lowensport not more than two hours after sundown. We'll spend the night there."

Poelzig suddenly tensed when he shot a gaze forward and saw the river's wide mouth. Then he went lax with a forlorn despair. "Captain, I and my wife implore you. We cannot spend the night in Lowensport. Please, sir. Let's anchor here and finish the route tomorrow, in daylight."

Now McQuinn was getting mad. "We'd get back to Baltimore a day late, man! Are ya bonkers?"

"Please, sir. I and my wife cannot go there at night," Poelzig rea.s.serted. "Because if you must, then I and Nanya will have to swim ash.o.r.e now, and walk back to Baltimore, leaving the rest of the route to you by yourself."

McQuinn offered his first mate a chiseled stare. Was Poelzig threatening McQuinn with the outrageous implication? I'm the captain of this boat and no first mate is directing my course, d.a.m.n it! But the harder he glared at Poelzig, the more forlorn the man became. "Poelzig. Are you tryin' to countermand my authority on this boat?"

"Not at all, sir. And you've been as fine a man as ever let me work for him," Poelzig said rather dolefully. "I am pleadin' with you, though. Let's not spend the night in Lowensport. Please."

McQuinn took a big sip off his flask, thinking. I'm so mad I could throw the bloke and his pretty wife overboard right now, but... But what? McQuinn let his temper idle, and then it occurred to him, Poelzig's worked himself to the bone for me for months and never once has he asked for anything...

"All right," McQuinn agreed. "I'll give you your way. I'll take us upriver a mile or two, then drop anchor. But I want that bin full, are ya hearin' me?"

Poelzig smiled for the first time since the trip started. "I hear you very well, Captain, and you have I and my wife's fondest thanks." And then he rushed out the back door and began to shout the news to Nanya in their own arcane language.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, McQuinn thought.

After anchoring, McQuinn halfheartedly raked for oysters off the stern while Poelzig lowered the crab traps and his wife methodically chopped the last of the wood for the tender. When McQuinn looked down the length of the boat, he felt the same pride he had on the day he'd taken it over. The Wegener was the last of its kind as far as shallow-draft riverboats went: a 100-foot-long stern-wheeler that burned wood under its boiler instead of coal. Coal in some parts was too hard to come by. Sure, the coal-burners would move faster but their furnaces cost double. Wood-burners like the Wegener, however, could take plenty of freight up more narrow rivers, and when fuel ran short you merely dropped the brow, went ash.o.r.e, and cut more. McQuinn had never seen such hardwood forests as those along the Chesapeake. Forward of the wood-tender, the furnace, and the great paddle wheel was the freight house on First Deck, and the quarters on Top Deck. There was no belowdeck for there was no hull; the boat was essentially a great rectangular platform that floated atop the water, which made it ideal for poorly charted rivers with unknown true depths and sandbars. McQuinn had never run aground, ever, not even at low tide; neither had he ever damaged the paddle wheel over snags. He loved navigating the water, and after so many years now, he could choose his own routes for much more pay than the younger captains who'd survived the War.

McQuinn tended the oyster rake-not much luck tonight-and alternately glanced over his shoulder with each great thunk of the ax. Can't figure these Europeans out, he puzzled. The man let his wife chop wood, but he had to admit it was much more pleasing to watch her wield the ax than Poelzig himself. Nanya was a unique woman, indeed, a head-turner if McQuinn ever saw one but proportioned so uncommonly.

Mother Mary, he thought, looking at her now. While he and Poelzig wore typical canvas overalls, long-sleeved cotton s.h.i.+rts, and Jefferson boots, Nanya wore identical boots, which came up just past the ankles, and a heavy cotton smock-nothing more. Her hard face remained pretty for its angles, and her roughly cut off-blonde hair looked appealing even in its unkemptness. Her body, though, was another thing. She stood tall or taller than most men-a large-framed woman, but with nary a pinch of fat on her. Instead, her body seemed sculpted from pale marble, her muscles so toned from ceaseless labor that she was likely as strong as McQuinn or Poelzig themselves. The word statuesque came to mind.

Thunk...thunk...thunk, went the ax in perfect rhythm, and each swipe caused the most precious jiggle of Nanya's unbridled and quite ample bosom.

McQuinn didn't feel he was l.u.s.ting after another man's wife but instead admiring the bonnie physique. The woman raised and lowered the ax in a machinelike synchronicity, and with each drop of the blade-thunk!-he could actually feel the vibration through the boat's great platform. Lord, he thought next. The sun sank just behind her, silhouetting that coltish body through the baggy smock.

Thunk...thunk...thunk...

McQuinn had half a flask in him now, and he saw no harm in a complimentary comment. "Poelzig, my good man, I hope ya don't mind me pointin' out that that is one sure-fire woman you've got for a wife."

"Yes, it is quite true, sir," Poelzig said. He had his back to McQuinn as he tossed each log wedge into the tender.

McQuinn chuckled. "But I also got to say that if an Irishman was to let it be known he allowed his wife to chop wood, why, that same Irishman would be thrashed in the square."

Poelzig gave an odd chuckle himself. "But you see, sir, I would be thrashed worse for not allowing Nanya to chop wood."

McQuinn didn't understand. "Thrashed by who?"

Poelzig pointed. "By Nanya. She can fell a tree or cut a cord faster than near any man. Strong, she is. Limber. Her father-a useless cad-beat her every day as a child, until one day, when she was older, she beat him to within an inch of his sorry life."

McQuinn's eyes widened at the account.

"And that is why she insists on cutting all the wood, to keep strong, so that no man'll ever raise a hand to her again."

Thunk! went the ax, and the boat shuddered as one stout log section burst into two.

"My," McQuinn murmured. "That is indeed one strong la.s.s..."

"And it's her desire to keep fit and never go to fat," Poelzig added, "so I'll never be of the mind to leave her."

McQuinn guffawed whiskey-breath. "Only a man off his head would leave a woman with a body like that. I can only imagine what she's like in-" But he severed his cra.s.sness before he could say the word bed.

Poelzig gave him a half smile and a nod.

They only kept a quarter-fire going in the furnace now, since the boiler wasn't needed. The front trough was where they cooked, and it came equipped with a pot-hanger and grill. Poelzig "ah'd" when he hoisted up the wood-slat crab trap, and found it full with large, snapping crustaceans.

"Lord, man! The size of 'em!"

"Ja," the first mate agreed, and hauled the trap to the fat pot of water hanging over the fire. "One must be careful how he handles these, for they can be vicious." He opened the trap and plucked each of the sh.e.l.led creatures up by a rear appendage and flung it into the pot.

"They're nearly as big as the brown crabs we had back in Ireland," McQuinn remarked. "Poelzig, do you have crabs where you come from?"

"Ne-er, no, sir." He pushed several of the more stubborn crabs back into the steaming water with the fire tongs. "None such as these, though we do have river crabs called kraben, but they're not nearly as sweet as these."

Nanya had finished chopping, and she smiled as her husband narrowly avoided being nicked by a crab's saw-toothed claw.

McQuinn rowed his long oyster rake again but pulled up nothing. "Blast it, I was hopin' for some oysters like we been gettin' all week, for they go mighty fine with these crabs."

Nanya said something to her husband in their language, then Poelzig took McQuinn's rake and handed it to her. "Nanya knows the ways of the water, long as she's been workin' it. In a river's mouth, the salinity's lower so the oysters grow closer to sh.o.r.e."

"d.a.m.ned if I knew that," McQuinn said, but now his eyes were stuck back on the st.u.r.dy woman. "But-wait, la.s.s! What are ya-"

Nanya had kicked off her boots, then splashed immediately into the water. She grinned at McQuinn as she turned on her back and began kicking, the rake across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. When she shouted something else to Poelzig, the man heaved a large sack-net to her.

Blimey, McQuinn thought next. Nanya waded up till she was waist-deep and began to work the rake, but with each rearward stroke, the current lifted her smock over her bare bottom. McQuinn's cheeks billowed at the sight. Ten minutes later, she returned to the boat with a full sack.

"You Europeans have a sound touch with the fruits of these waterways, I surely must say." But then McQuinn almost fell backward when Poelzig helped his wife out of the water.

She stepped on deck, dripping. The water-logged blouse now adhered to the contours of her body, revealing every detail. My eye-teeth are havin' a banquet today, McQuinn thought. The woman-and Poelzig as well-seemed oblivious to the rousing effect of the drenched gown. Nanya sat at a deck table and immediately began opening the oysters with a knife.

"The aperitiv, Captain," Poelzig said. "In our language, we call these ustrices. And they're best raw, for they're known to make a man...well..."

Nanya giggled as she expertly shucked one oyster after the next.

McQuinn struggled to keep his eyes off the woman. "Since you've brought it to mind, Poelzig, what is your language?"

"We are Czech, Captain." And then the first mate loaded a tin plate with shucked oysters and pa.s.sed them to McQuinn.

Czech. McQuinn had heard the word before, but knew nothing beyond that. He sucked several oysters down, and asked, "So where are you from in Europe, exactly?"

"A region known as Czechoslovak. It is a beautiful place illegally taken by lying monarchs of Austria-the Habsburgs." When Poelzig said this, Nanya grimaced and attempted, "They Habs ne Jude leek."

Poelzig smiled. "What my wife means, sir, is that the House of Habsburg doesn't like Jews. They promise religious tolerance in their const.i.tution but then force us to live in ghettos. That is why we come here."

"That's right low-down of the blokes," McQuinn said, and it was something he could never figure himself. "As long as folks work hard and mind the law, what difference does it make how they choose to wors.h.i.+p? Faithwise I couldn't tell ya the difference betwixt a Jew, a Prot, and a Catholic to save my neck."

Poelzig nodded. Then his wife said, "You more like ustrices, Captain, ano?" and piled more oysters on his plate.

McQuinn thought he understood, "Why, yes, you can bet I would." Then, to Poelzig, "Well, it seems your darlin' missus can speak a smidgen of English."

"She's learning, sir. A good learner, she is."

And a good -looker, McQuinn amended. He nearly moaned as Nanya leaned over to grab more oysters from the sack. The position caused her smock's neckline to plunge, revealing glistening bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s. To divert himself, he resumed the previous topic. "So, Czechs, ya say? Could ya name me a city so that I might have a better reference of your homeland?"

"Praha," Nanya intoned, but then Poelzig corrected, "The city we was born in, sir, is known to Americans as Prague."

Even with the whiskey buzzing in his head, the name piqued McQuinn. "You don't say...Well I'll be blasted if that ain't the-" He broke from his stance. "I'll be back in a wink. Just let me fetch the manifest..." He climbed the ladder to the wheel house and grabbed the book. When he returned astern, Poelzig was tonging out the cooked, bright-orange crabs from the water. The sun had crept fully away now; McQuinn lit a fish-oil lantern and eagerly opened the boat's cargo manifest.

"I knew I'd heard of that city before," he exclaimed. "Here. The city of origin for the Lowensport cargo is Prague." He looked up and found Poelzig undismayed.

"I and my wife are aware of that, sir. It was stamped on all of the s.h.i.+pping barrels. We're aware also that the people who now live in Lowensport emigrated from Prague."

McQuinn scratched his head. "Well if that ain't the most daft...I just don't see it, Poelzig. You're more than a tad unsettled by the prospect of goin' to Lowensport yet not only are the folk there of your own faith but they're from your own hometown! Why? What is it that's givin' ya the w.i.l.l.i.e.s about meeting people from Prague who are Jews just like yourselves?"

Poelzig's voice rattled when he replied, "They're not Jews such as ourselves, Captain."

Nanya's eyes darkened and she hissed the word, "Kischuph!" and turned in a rush to glance fretfully over a rope rail.

These two I cannot reckon for the life of me, McQuinn thought. "Ya have my most steadfast apology if it was somethin' wrong I said."

"Not all at, sir." Poelzig set the steaming tray of crabs on the deck table. "Nanya is just a little more sensitive about some things. It's best understood to put it this way: Judaism comes in different forms just as Christianity does."

McQuinn belted a laugh. "I'll drink to that, Poelzig! Try bein' a Catholic in bleedin' Kentucky! Now I'm gettin' what it is you're sayin'."

Eventually Nanya returned, having shaken off her un-ease. She nudged her husband away from the table and began breaking the crabs open for them.

McQuinn offered them his flask. "Have a nip, the both of ya. It's struck me only now that I've yet to see either of ya imbibe."

"Thank you for your generosity, sir," Poelzig said, "but I and Nanya never partake in spirits, for reasons of our faith."

"Jews are forbidden to drink?" McQuinn asked in astoundment.

"It isn't that, sir, but most often choose not to. We believe that a fuzzy head prevents one from seeing En Soph."