With one hand on Jack and the other on the door, Crispin turned back. “We are a danger to each other, I fear. Go to the sheriffs with this.”
Crispin pulled open the door and scanned the empty corridor, wondering how he was to sneak out of the palace right outside the queen’s own chamber.
“There will be more murders,” said Jacob.
Crispin froze. Slowly, he turned back. “What did you say?”
“The murders,” Jacob whispered. “The boys. I have heard of the murders.” His tongue scraped his dry lips. “I know who is responsible.”
5
“Father,” warned Julian.
Jacob made a tight jerk of his head, closing his tired eyes.
“Explain yourself,” said Crispin.
“Please.” Jacob gestured toward the chair by the fire. “Sit.”
Cursing under his breath, he felt a twinge in his wounded arm, and finally stomped back to the fire. He sat hard on the chair.
“I know you find this distasteful, Maître Guest.” Jacob sank wearily onto his own chair. “Forgive me. But the help I need will not come from the sheriffs nor from the court. I sought you out in particular because of the rumors that you often deal with objects of religious significance. Is this true?”
Crispin felt the warmth of the fire at his cheek. It did little to warm the coldness creeping within him. “It is my curse,” he said, half-jesting.
The man did not take it as a jest. He edged forward. “Then you are no stranger to the hand of the Lord.”
He laughed unpleasantly. “Of this I know not. Relics, such as they are, are only relics to those who deem them so. They bear little significance to me.” He swallowed the half-truth with the toss of his head. “Are you saying these parchments are relics? That they have to do with murder? By all the saints, I am at my wits’ end, old man! Say your peace and have done!”
“I fear, Maître Guest, that the monster has been released.”
Jack sprang to his feet. “God blind me!” he shrieked. “Monster?”
“He . . .” Crispin steadied himself and shook his head. “He does not mean that literally, Jack. He speaks of the monster of inhumanity—”
“I speak of it very literally, good maître. It is the missing parchments. They contain the words of Creation.” He shook his head sadly and fingered his beard. “And I let them slip through my fingers. I’m a fool. I cannot forgive myself.”
Crispin felt the tension in his body drain away. He saw in his mind a dark shape receding into the misty night. Heavy footfalls. Fear. “What . . . what is this . . . monster?”
“But we saw it, Master!” cried Jack. “We saw it!”
Jacob gasped. “What did you see?”
“This is utter nonsense,” muttered Crispin. He ran his fingers into his shaggy hair. “It was a man, surely. Tall and very broad. A . . . a small . . . head . . .”
Jacob covered his mouth with his trembling fingers. “The Golem. He has been animated. We are dead.” He reached for his robe and ripped the seam.
“Father!” Julian was kneeling beside him, staying his hand from doing more damage to his robe. “No! It cannot be. This man is lying.”
Crispin raised his chin. “I am not lying. That is one sin of which I am not guilty.” He glanced back at Jack to confirm it but Jack appeared too frightened to speak. Damn this! “Harken to me, all of you. There is no monster. There is only Jewish superstition and odd circumstances.”
“The murders—” said Jacob.
“The fact that you know about these murders makes me very suspicious.”
Jacob shook his head. “When they first happened, I was the only physician nearby. They called me forth. I have since heard of two others. I saw the dead boys. Who but a monster would commit these horrible crimes?”
Who indeed? “What are you implying? That this . . . this Golem . . . has murdered these children?”
“I saw what was done to those boys.”
“How did you know that I am investigating?”
“One hears things. But that was after I had decided to seek you out.”
Crispin narrowed his eyes and looked across the room, peering into the shadows of the alcoves, trying to discern the strange beakers and jars from the shapes of alchemic apparatuses. “What is a . . . Golem?”
Jacob rose and returned to his table, unrolling a scroll with shaking hands. “This, Maître Guest, is the Sefer Yetzirah: The Book of Creation.”
Curious, Crispin strode across the room and looked over the man’s shoulders. He gritted his teeth when he beheld the page of strange symbols interspersed with Stars of David. “These seguloth,” said Jacob, pointing to the symbols, “explain the book. Our Father Abraham was given the divine revelation of these pages by the Lord—blessed be His name—and the rabbis of old have discussed it and analyzed it for centuries. This,” he said, spreading his fingers over the tan parchment, “is the understanding of Creation itself. How the universe was created through the Sefirot, the Ten Sacred Numbers—”
“Enough!” The room felt close suddenly. This talk of Jewish magic made Crispin’s skin crawl. “This monster. This Golem. What is it? Did you make it?”
“Me? Oh no! Never! Only in extreme circumstances and only with the counsel of many wise rabbis would I attempt it. You see, Maître, the word ‘Golem’ means a ‘shapeless mass.’ It is made from mud or clay. The Golem is created to protect the Jewish people from harm. It is a sacred obligation. A man who has a Golem as a servant is naturally imbued with much wisdom and piety. Wisdom in being able to choose the right path, and piety in order to discern the Almighty’s will. If he does not possess these traits, then there is no controlling the servant. No, Maître Guest, it was not me. But someone else. Someone who wanted the power of the demon.”
“So it is a demon.”
Jacob opened his lips as if to explain, but shut them again, his brows working over his eyes. Like a tutor speaking carefully to a pupil, he began. “Adam, the father of Man, was created from mud, from clay. From this clay, the Lord breathed life into him. And so it is similar with the Golem. He is made of clay and can be animated by reading the words on the Sefer Yetzirah and placing the word for ‘truth’ on its body. It is a soulless being with no emotions, no pity, no mercy. A man who uses a Golem for unholy purposes”—he shook his head—“is himself a monster.”
“What makes you think this Golem of yours committed these murders?”
“The strangeness of it. The cutting along the abdomen. The taking of the entrails.” He seemed to notice Crispin flinching and nodded. “As you noticed yourself. I do not think a Golem needs to feed, but there is so little we know of these creatures. The blood and entrails of a youth would be horrible nourishment, but nourishment just the same. If the Golem’s creator wished it, these things would be done. A Golem is only a shell. He does what he is told.”
“And so,” said Crispin, walking slowly toward the alcoves. They seemed to compel him with their strange smells and instruments. “And so these papers were stolen from you. When?”
“It must have been two months ago. That was when the first murder was discovered.”
“Months? Why did you wait so long to say something?”
“I did not want to believe it. I could not. But then, when the murders happened again and again . . .”