The Golem Part 15

CHAPTER FIVE.

July 1880 I.

"It's d.a.m.n near August, Mr. Conner," Norris said after his first sip of the whiskey that tasted more like varnish. He pointed to the calendar tacked to the wood-slat wall. "Then it'll be September, and then...Winter comes fast in these parts."

Conner slammed his mug down on the table. What splashed out was a cheap ale the saloon keeper made himself with what ever grain might be available. "Think I don't know that?" he growled more than answered. "Think I like half my men livin' in G.o.dd.a.m.n Sibley tents leftover from the War?"

"They're gettin' a bit uneasy is all I'm saying. You, me, and the other foremen and senior cutters-sure, we got houses to live in with woodstoves. But the rest'a the men...They don't wanna do another winter like they been doin'."

The cramped saloon had no name; in fact, neither did the town that existed north of Lowensport, not that one would even call it a town. It was a dilapidated hodgepodge of dirt-floor hovels built with splitting-froes instead of saws. Some dwellings were so ramshackle that their collapsed roofs had been haphazardly replaced by canvas. And just beyond the unnamed town sat the Sibley camp, rows and rows of tents that housed the roughened workers known as the Conner clan.

Norris, Conner's closest subordinate, seemed ill at ease to continue. "And there's rumors, too, Mr. Conner."

Conner's scarred face jerked up. "Yeah?"

"Yes, sir. That Lowen offered you'n all our men jobs cuttin' down trees for him...fer almost thirty dollars a month..."

Conner's close-set eyes seemed to burn under the stained leather hat. "I ain't workin' for kikes and neither are you! s.h.i.+t, they ain't even from America! You wanna take a job from the same b.a.s.t.a.r.d who took our land from us? Do ya?"

"No, Mr. Conner, but the men-they don't wanna freeze again this winter. We lost six, seven women last year, and a coupl'a men. With Lowen's mill we could build ourselves a real town'n have real money. We make less'n less from charcoalin' each year, and they say there ain't gonna be a need for it real soon, what with coal."

"Lowen's mill," Conner croaked in disgust. "You just don't get it, do ya? That's our mill. And all these trees? They're our trees, and we should be makin' the profit, not a bunch'a heebs from G.o.d knows where across the ocean." He grimaced at the barkeeper for another ale. "Just be patient, and before winter Lowen and his s.h.i.+fty kikes'll be gone, and it'll be us livin' in that town'a his, and runnin' that mill."

"We been patient, Mr. Conner. And we ain't killin' 'em fast enough-"

"We're gonna kill all of 'em. I told ya long ago, I got a plan."

Norris bottomed out his drink. "It's just my job to tell ya, Mr. Conner, but the men? They're startin' to think there really ain't no plan. In the meantime, it's our men who're startin' to disappear. Polten, Corton, Yerby, Fitch, Nickerson, and-"

Conner pointed a dirty finger. "It's your job to tell me? Well, it's your d.a.m.n job to tell the men. I do gota plan, and it'll work." He leaned over, quieter. "I used to do it in the War. I was a lieutenant."

"I thought you deserted..."

"Yeah, but before that, I mean. South Carolina and Georgia, mainly. We'd wipe out whole towns overnight, kill everybody. Then we'd bury 'em all and move on. And ya know what? No one ever asked a single question 'cos there weren't no one left alive to tell the tale."

"Mr. Conner, we ain't got enough guns to do that, and you know it..."

Conner grabbed Norris by the collar, yanked him close. "I been keepin' it to myself 'cos it's gotta be a secret for now, d.a.m.n you." He shoved Norris back in his seat.

Norris glared. "Keepin' what a secret, sir?"

When the barkeep disappeared into the back room, Conner thunked a pistol down on the table. "See that?"

"Why, yeah."

The big, clunky cap-and-ball pistol s.h.i.+ned at its edges. "It's a Beals-Remington .36. They ain't been used in ages, but they still work just fine. There's an armory in Baltimore that's sellin' 'em. They found a bunch of 'em, brand-new, still packed in their grease."

Something like hope began to flicker in Norris's eyes. "That's dandy, sir, but we'd need twenty or thirty of 'em to do a job like what you're talkin'."

"I got fifty comin'," Conner whispered.

Norris's mouth fell open.

"And powder'n b.a.l.l.s. We should have 'em on the last day of the month. But keep that to yourself. I don't want n.o.body jackin' the s.h.i.+pment, ya hear?"

Norris nodded, speechless.

Conner finished the rest of the bitter ale, then got up. "Just keep the men simmered down a few more days." He smiled with corroded teeth. "Pretty soon, Norris...we'll all be sittin' pretty." Then Conner walked out of the bar into the sultry night.

"Bonnie!" Conner's voice cracked when he came home to his wood-slat shack. Where was she? d.a.m.n woman, he thought. A man's wife needs to be waitin' at the door when her man's comin' home from the fields. Normally, she was, preparing dinner in the middle room, which housed the kitchen, the woodstove, and their bed. Conner smelled meat cooking, but there was no sign of his typically attendant wife.

First thing a man needs to see when he walks into his home is his d.a.m.n wife...And not only was there no supper on the table, but the table hadn't even been set. Conner fumed.

It had been at least a month since he'd thrashed her. Too nice-that's what I am, his thoughts sputtered. Guess I'll have to get back to beatin' her weekly. It's the only way to keep 'em cowed. Conner heard something from the was.h.i.+ng room in back. b.i.t.c.h is probably back there nippin' at my corn liquor. But then his anger peaked when he looked to the woodstove. There in the skillet lay two once-fat deer loins, now shriveled and burned.

"G.o.d d.a.m.n!" his voice boomed through the small house. "Ya've ruined good meat! Bonnie! Get'cher a.s.s out here NOW!"

No voice replied from the hall, no footsteps.

Conner took his belt off, wrapped it around his knuckles, and stalked into the hall.

The hall stood dark but he could see lantern light flickering from the was.h.i.+ng room. Conner would never consciously admit it, but the prospect of beating his wife made him aroused. He tromped down the hall, boots raising dust from the dirt floor, and he barged into the room- Before he could shout, the scene he was looking at stopped him cold. "Bon-" The lantern light threw jagged shadows.

On the floor lay two bare arms that had obviously been wrenched from their sockets, and Conner didn't have to be told whose arms they were.

He squinted through the light-diced shadows. On the floor something moved rapidly; it appeared to be a figure lying atop another figure. And when Conner's brain finally allowed him to reckon exactly what he was seeing, he whimpered almost like a dog, then turned around and bolted out of the house.

What he'd seen was this: his armless wife convulsing naked in the dirt, raw sockets where her arms used to be. She was being fastidiously raped, but her rapist was something far less than a man.

His terror propelled him across the road to the nearest house, where Jake Howeth lived with his wife and sixteen-year-oldson.

"Jake!" he yelled. "There's somethin'-some thing-just kilt Bonnie!" But before he could slam open Howeth's front door, more lantern light caught his eye, from the window. Conner's hands shook when he peered in...

Jake's son lay in a great circle of blood on the floor, both legs pulled off; and Howeth's wife lay headless and sprawled nude in the other corner. Some dark, vile liquid had oozed from the dead woman's s.e.x.

My G.o.d, Conner's thoughts croaked. Another one...

He saw the thing in better light than the one in his own house: a hideous figure with scarcely more girth than a skeleton, but a nauseating brownish-gray color. In fact, Conner thought of just that, a skeleton caked with mud. But this skeleton stood nimbly, one thin foot pressed against Jake Howeth's chest, while its skeletal hand ringed Howeth's wrist and pulled upward. With seemingly no effort, the thing tore Howeth's arm off his shoulder. Then, with a wet, grisly smacking sound, it pulled off Howeth's other arm.

Conner could do nothing but stare at this evil impossibility. It was almost with nonchalance, then, that the atrocious stick figure hoisted Howeth's armless body off the floor. Howeth still had legs, and those legs trembled as blood gushed, but the man was still alive, if only just barely. A m.u.f.fled scream resounded when the thing pushed Howeth's head into the woodstove and held it there a few moments, to let it simmer.

Conner wasn't sure if he would pa.s.s out or simply be sick right there by the window. It occurred to him to brandish his pistol and go inside to confront the abomination...but that idea waned the second it entered his head. Instead, Conner remained half paralyzed before the window.

That's when the thing turned very quickly and looked right at him: black sockets for eyes, and a thin face whose flesh had been replaced by clay. Disarrayed hair stuck out from its head as though the only flesh that hadn't been stripped off the thing had been the scalp. Conner made out letters written across the thing's chest. The letters spelled this word: S'MOL.

Then, with lips like a knife-cut in meat...the thing smiled.

Conner turned, screamed, and ran and ran and ran.

II.

The Present Last night Seth and Judy had managed to remove the parchment from the mezuzah from its wooden casing. Seth had been sure it would've been written in Hebrew-something Judy could read-but instead: "I should've known," she'd said after examining it. "It's Aramaic, and I don't know it."

Seth had jokingly put a hand to his ear. "Is that the earth I hear cracking open? Finally! There's something my super-smart girlfriend doesn't know!"

Judy had smiled snidely. "Oh, and you know how many languages?"

Seth had paused, "Uh, well, let's see, FORTRAN, COBOL, SPL-1 Cold Fusion."

"Computer languages don't count," she complained, but then laughed. "Seth, you're actually much smarter than me."

"Really?" he'd replied, astonished.

"I know a lot of things," she'd gone on, "because I used to teach college, used to be around a lot of academicians, and I happen to remember a lot of what I read and hear. You, on the other hand, are an aesthetic architect."

"Aesthetic architect, huh?" Seth had mulled the term over. "What ever that means, I like the sound of it."

"You don't build houses or offices," she'd continued, "you build fantasy worlds with your mind. Me? I just have a great memory."

At that Seth had pulled her right up to him and peeled off her robe. "You have more than a great memory," he said, already anxious for her. "You have a great body."

Judy had hissed at the sudden feel of his hands running over her skin, and that's when they had forgotten all about the parchment they'd found in the bas.e.m.e.nt. They'd made love until they were both exhausted, and then had fallen asleep.

Judy tended to rise earlier than Seth. The next morning she eagerly leaned over by the bed and shook him awake.

"What, what?" he grumbled. "It's early..."

"It's almost eleven! You need to get up."

He leaned up and looked at her, the sudden image jolting him. "Now that's even better than waking up to a beautiful sunrise."

"What is?"

"You. Standing there naked."

She laughed and kissed him, then waved something in his face. "I just thought of something. You need to scan this."

Seth blinked sleep out of his eyes. "What is it?"

"The mezuzah parchment."

"But I thought you didn't know Aramaic."

"I don't, but if you scan it, I can find out what it says."

Seth groaned, then put his legs out to sit on the bedside. "Oh, one of those translator programs. I heard they're not very accurate."

"No, no, I used to-"

"Let me guess!" he complained. "You used to date a guy who knows Aramaic!"

"Don't be ridiculous. I used to have a teaching a.s.sistant-a woman-who knows it. Her name's Wanda. I can e-mail the scan to her and she can translate it."

"Oh. All right. Let me get my gears turning." He rubbed his eyes, then looked up to find Judy's bare abdomen only inches away from his face. It was impulse that brought his hands to her hips and pulled. He began to kiss her belly. Then his fingers brushed up over her private hair, and he started to lick a line from her navel straight down. She moaned, moving closer, but then she flinched.

"Save it for later. We can't now," she whispered.

"Why not?"

She s.h.i.+mmied out of his clutches, then thrust the parchment toward him. "Because you have to scan this, and then we have to go."

"Go where?" he complained.

"To Lowensport. While you were in bed sleeping the day away, the rabbi called."

"Asher?"

"Yes. He invited us for coffee at noon and I accepted. So come on!"

"Talk about a picture-postcard town," Judy said from the pa.s.senger side, watching the clean, rustic row houses pa.s.s by. The Tahoe's tires crunched lightly over what was presumably the main drag, yet another road topped by crushed oyster sh.e.l.ls. The sidewalks were darker. "Cobblestones," Judy said. "Probably used to be ballast." Every building seemed a row house style, all painted a deep pine-green with white trim. What Seth and Judy noticed at once was the architectural similarity between these houses and the Lowen House; they all had the same mansard-type roofs, lancet windows and doors. "I guess these are all original dwellings," Judy observed, "only they've been painted."

"I'll bet they were built the same time our house was built," Seth added, "and they're all made from the same larch beams. That's what I call getting your money's worth out of building material." Along the way, they noticed very few pa.s.sersby: a woman walking a dog here, an ap.r.o.ned shopkeeper sweeping a sidewalk there. Very few cars were in evidence as well, but those they did see, though older models, were all clean and in good repair. "It's almost like we're driving into a different era," Seth mentioned. "A little slice of the past, American Gothic and all that."

Judy smiled in agreement. "There are still horse-posts in front of the row houses, and look, there's a cobbler's shop. When was the last time you saw that?"

"Never."

"Bakery," Judy read off the gla.s.s shopfronts. "Clothier, Kosher butcher's, and, look, a book shoppe, not a Barnes & n.o.ble."

Seth pointed toward the corner. "No Seven-Eleven, either. But they've got Sidney's General Store."

"I love it."

"I guess some communities make an effort to hang on to as much of their past as possible," Seth said, but then they both laughed when they pa.s.sed a Starbucks. "Make that, almost as much as possible."

As they proceeded, their angle allowed the sun to flash between two distant trees; Judy caught the glimmer at Seth's throat: his Star of David. "You're wearing your Star," she remarked. "Haven't seen you with that on in a while." Judy's cross caught some momentary sun as well.

Without forethought, Seth's finger touched the star. "Actually I barely remember deciding to wear it."

"Want to make a good show for the rabbi," Judy joked. "I guess." He shrugged. "I don't know why I decided to wear it today."

"And I guess I'd be lying if I said I wore my cross out of any sense of devout faith...since I haven't been to church in years."