The Red Magician

by Lisa Goldstein

  “You are a very rude man,” he said. “I trust we will be rid of you soon.”

  Vörös stopped the flow of his words. He picked up a sharpened stick from the ground and wrote a word on the golem’s forehead. Then he moved back so that the rabbi could read the word he had written. It was Adam.

  “That is blasphemy!” said the rabbi. “You are not God. You cannot play like this with creation!”

  The rabbi stepped back. His eyes were bright with rage. He lifted his cane and pointed it at Vörös.

  For a moment nothing happened. Then the world exploded. The forest tore free of the sky and the sun skittered away like a top. Kicsi held on tightly to the rock and closed her eyes. A noise filled the world, drowning it in thunder, and went on and on forever. She lived alone in an agony of darkness and sound. She opened her eyes.

  Vörös lay on the ground, not moving. The golem got up, slowly, forcing itself to its knees, its feet. It walked unsteadily across the moving ground toward the rabbi.

  The rabbi stepped back once more. A look of horror was on his face and he lost control of his spell. The world slowly fit itself together again. He took one step more, then drew himself up and faced the golem. He held up his cane, pointed it at the golem. Suddenly everything stood out sharply in a great flash of light. The earth tossed once more.

  The golem’s hand rose slowly and covered his forehead and fell down, lifeless. The rabbi’s fire had erased the first letter of its name. The word on its forehead now spelled dam, blood.

  Blood spilled slowly from its wound, blood that could barely be seen against the red of the clay. More blood came, and more, spilling over the golem’s arms and legs and on to the ground. The golem wavered. It fell.

  Vörös stood. He held his left hand to his forehead, as though he had been hit in the same place as the golem. With his right hand he held tightly to the sharpened stick. He shouted and flung the stick at the rabbi. The ground burst into flames at the rabbi’s feet.

  The rabbi stepped back. He passed his cane over the flames and they fell away. Then he moved forward, his face twisted into a smile.

  “It may be that I will not need your name to defeat you, eh, traveler?”

  “It may be,” said Vörös, breathing heavily. Blood dripped from his forehead into his eyes, and he wiped them with his sleeve.

  “You put a lot of yourself into the golem, did you not, traveler?” said the rabbi.

  “You know I did,” said Vörös.

  The rabbi came on. “I am fond of my daughter, too, traveler.”

  “Rabbi,” said Vörös. He swallowed. “Then we are even, you and I. More then even, for your daughter lives and my creation is dead.” He pointed to the golem. It could now barely be distinguished from the earth.

  The rabbi laughed. “But I love my daughter. What do you know of love, traveler? Did you love your golem? I do not think so.”

  The rabbi raised his cane again. Once again the earth was forced apart. Boulders ran down the hillside. Trees fell crashing to the forest floor.

  Vörös raised his hands. With an obvious effort he calmed the trees, the hill.

  The rabbi came forward. “You are weakening, are you not, sorcerer?”

  Vörös moved back. He stumbled over a stone and was down so suddenly that Kicsi had not seen it happen. The rabbi stood over him.

  “Is it true that you think that you are God?” said the rabbi.

  “No,” said Vörös.

  “Once you said you were not afraid,” said the rabbi. “What do you say now?”

  “I am still not afraid,” said Vörös. He tried to stand, but could not. “Kill me now.”

  The dog moved suddenly. He grew as hazy as fire smoke. In his place stood a tall man in a long robe and brightly colored cap.

  “Who—who are you?” said the rabbi. His eyes moved from Vörös to the man.

  “I am called Akan,” said the man. His voice was very deep. “You will not have heard my real name.”

  “That does not matter to me,” said the rabbi. He raised his cane a third time. “Your friend lies bound and helpless. In a few minutes he will be dead.”

  “No!” said Akan. He raised his hands. Flames leapt up in a circle around the rabbi, hemming him in. Closer and closer they came to him. Kicsi thought she saw his long coat catch fire.

  The rabbi twisted like a bird caught in a cage. Through the red walls of fire Kicsi could see him raise and lower his cane. She could feel the heat of the fire.

  He cried out one long, despairing word and turned and threw his cane through the fire at Akan. The other man screamed and clutched his head. Then he was gone. The flames went out.

  The rabbi stood a while, trying to catch his breath. Then he said, “Ah, that was intended for your friend Vörös.” He turned back to where Vörös had fallen, but Vörös was not there. He laughed softly. “So, you have escaped me once again. No, I am not angry. I only hope that you do not come back. I hope that we have seen the last of you.” He bent down and picked up his cane. It was barely singed.

  He walked with difficulty, leaning on his cane, to where Akan had last stood. “Your friend was better at withstanding me, I see. I did not mean for this to happen. Him I would have taken apart piece by piece and thrown to the winds, as I did you. But I did not bear a grudge against you. You I did not know.”

  The rabbi stood straighter and held heavily to his cane. “But,” he said, “if you had any part in this blasphemy, if you sought in any way to take upon yourself the function of the Creator, then I have done well. Then I have made no mistake. And of course, if you were a friend of the traveler, then you had probably meddled too far in the black sorcery for the good of your soul.”

  He poked with his cane at the remains of the golem. “Ah, that is something I would like to know.” Then he shivered, and wrapped his torn coat tighter around him. Twilight had come upon them during the battle. “But it is probably for the best that I never find out.”

  He turned and walked down the hill, making no sound.

  Kicsi came out from behind the rock. She could still hear faintly the terrible sound of the world being torn down the middle, sounding in her mind like a distant bell ringing forever. She began to shiver violently and sat down for a long time until she could walk. Far off, she heard howls and shrieks—animals crying in the forest—and she looked up. A few trees were on fire, and the blaze caught quickly.

  She stood up, holding to the rock for support. It was as if nothing had happened. Vörös and the rabbi were gone, Akan was dead, and the golem was as if it had never been. She could not even see any footprints. She could see only the rocks, the red clay, and the paths leading to the forest.

  She waited until she was sure the rabbi had left, then began to walk down the hillside. As she went, she tripped over something soft in the dark and she bent down to feel its outlines. It was Vörös’s knapsack.

  She picked it up—it was surprisingly light—and carried it with her into the town. By the light of the first lamp post she knelt and opened it.

  There was a peacock’s feather, a fox’s tail, pieces of amber, bits of jewelry. There were amulets of gold, of brass, of copper. There were keys attached to a necklace of silver. There were seashells, stones, dried flowers, cloth bags with various sweet-smelling herbs. There were shirts and pants and headgear, but none of a fashion she had ever seen. And finally, at the bottom, there was a small leather bag tied round with ribbons.

  She lifted the bag out of the sack and held it in her hands. Then suddenly she was confused. What was she doing? The street seemed to tilt and the lights ran together. She placed the bag back where she had found it in the knapsack and shook her head. She took a deep breath, decided that she felt better, and set off down the street.

  When she got home, she went around the side way, lifting the latch on the gate to get into the backyard. With some recently chopped wood she found in the woodpile she dug a hole and put in the sack. Then she covered the sack as neatly as she could and marke
d the spot with a small piece of wood. Later she would return and hide the sack away in one of the thick walls of the house.

  It was only when she opened the front door that she realized it must be very late. The food set on the table had grown cold and everyone stood near the door, waiting. Ilona was crying. Sarah was sitting down and holding her head in her hands. She did not look up as the door opened.

  “Kicsi!” said Imre. “Where have you been?” Without waiting for an answer he grasped the back of her neck and walked her forcefully to the window. She could see small flames in the distance, like demons dancing. “Do you see that? The forest is burning. Didn’t your mother and I warn you?”

  Sarah looked up. “Your dress! Imre, look what she’s done to herself. Her dress is ruined! And what happened to your hair?”

  Kicsi reached up and touched her short brown hair. It was woven with sand and clay and small rocks.

  “Where have you been? Have you been to the forest?”

  “Y—Yes.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “The fire—there was a terrible fire—”

  “Did you see the fire?” asked Tibor. The others stared at her. “How did it start?”

  “I don’t know—I don’t know.”

  “All right,” said Imre. “That’s enough. Kicsi, I forbid you to go to the forest again. Do you hear me?”

  She nodded.

  “And you may not come and eat with us until you have washed yourself—and your hair—and put on clean clothes. And as for the rest of you, you are not to talk about this unless Kicsi shows that she is willing to listen.” He pulled her closer to him. “It’s all right, Kicsi, it’s all right. You can cry now if you want to.” But she could not cry.

  Later, as she was taking her bath, she realized two things. The first was that Vörös had escaped the rabbi and was still alive. The second, following the first so closely that she did not have time to feel joy, was a certainty that went deeper than the need for proof. She knew that Vörös would never sit and eat with them again. And then she began to cry.

  5

  A small fine rain had started the morning of Thursday, market day, and had not let up by afternoon. Sarah looked out the windows and stood watching for a moment, then she said, “Let’s go, Kicsi. I don’t think the rain will keep anyone away.”

  Sarah picked up her coat and purse. Kicsi put away her schoolbooks and followed Sarah out the door and down toward the crossroads, where the market was set up.

  “Now, don’t forget—we’re having company tomorrow. I’ll have to get a large chicken, and—let me see—vegetables—”

  Kicsi said nothing. Sarah glanced at her, worried. Kicsi seemed to act much as she always had. She was very often loud and forceful just to make herself heard over the other three children. Sometimes Sarah would hear her say wildly untrue things, and she would have to remind herself that her daughter just wanted to be noticed. Now Sarah sensed that something had happened to Kicsi, that she was troubled and unhappy. More and more Sarah felt that she did not know her daughter at all, and she wondered how much of Kicsi’s unhappiness was because of Vörös. She had talked to Imre, but Imre would only say that Kicsi was growing up. Still, all the while she planned dinner a part of Sarah’s mind was on her daughter.

  A large old truck, its once-green paint peeling, shifted noisily into second gear behind them. Sarah and Kicsi moved quickly to the side of the road. The truck rumbled past them, and they followed it to the marketplace.

  The driver got out by one of the stalls and opened one of the rusty rear doors. Sarah recognized him as Sholom, the fish peddler. “Hello, Sholom,” she said. “What’s new?”

  He shrugged, lifting one of the heavy crates out of the truck. “Nothing new.” He set the crate down by his stall and wiped the rain from his eyes. “Rain’s driven everyone away,” he said.

  “And Jancsi? How’s your son?”

  Sholom shrugged again. “The same. Me, I sometimes think, if he dies, it will be God’s will. But my wife—she’s frantic. She’s been to see the rabbi every day this week.”

  “What does the rabbi say?” said Sarah. Kicsi looked up.

  “Nothing. What can he say? He prays for him.”

  Sarah sighed. “It’s a terrible thing,” she said. “Well, we’ve got to get going. Come on, Kicsi.”

  They moved through the marketplace, stopping to chat and to buy a chicken, eggs, some fresh vegetables. The rain was ending as they passed Sholom’s stall on their way home. Sholom’s wife stood there. “Hello, Perl,” said Sarah.

  “Hello,” said Perl. She fidgeted, twisting her wedding ring on her finger. She turned to her husband. “I’ve been to see the rabbi again,” she said.

  “Well,” said Sholom. “What does he say?”

  “I don’t know,” said Perl. “He seems—I don’t know. Unwilling to talk to me. As though he’s thinking of something else.”

  “Ah,” said Sholom. “Thinking of his daughter, I’ll bet.”

  “His daughter?” said Perl.

  “You remember, at the wedding. That traveling man, the redhead. He said something—I don’t remember what. The rabbi thinks he’s cursed his daughter.”

  “Vörös,” said Perl. Her fingers stilled. She stood silently for a moment. “He’s a magician, isn’t he?” She turned to Sarah. “You knew him, didn’t you? He stayed at your house.”

  Without thinking, Kicsi put her hand to the star she wore under her dress. Perl’s eyes moved to her, quick as lightning. “What’s that?” she said. “He gave you something? What is it?”

  “Show her, Kicsi,” said Sarah. “Maybe your charm can help poor Jancsi.”

  Kicsi began to draw out her necklace. She was curiously unwilling. “A charm?” said Perl. “Let me see.”

  Kicsi held the star in her hand. It shone with a pale silver light. “Let me see it,” said Perl. She held out her hand impatiently.

  “It’s just a necklace,” said Kicsi. “It isn’t magic. It can’t help you.” She let the star fall against her dress.

  “Kicsi!” said Sarah. “Don’t be selfish. Show her the charm. How can you refuse to help them?”

  “It’s mine,” said Kicsi. “Vörös gave it to me.” Where is he? she wondered, not for the first time. Is he in danger while I stay here, safe and among friends?

  Perl reached for the necklace, held it in her hand. “Please!” she said. Without realizing it she began to pull the star toward her. The chain cut deep into Kicsi’s neck. “You have to help us.”

  “Wait a minute—you’re hurting me—” said Kicsi.

  “Perl, stop that!” said Sholom. “I’m sure she’ll let you borrow the necklace. You have to explain to her—” He could not go on.

  “Their son is very sick, Kicsi,” said Sarah. “We’re afraid that—God forbid—he might die.”

  “All—all right,” said Kicsi finally. “But you can’t take the necklace. I’ll have to be there when you use it.”

  “Thank you,” said Perl softly. She dropped her hand.

  “But anyway, it won’t work,” said Kicsi. “It’s just a necklace.”

  “Kicsi!” said Sarah. “Don’t say such things. You don’t know.”

  “Be at our house tomorrow, after school,” said Perl. “Please.”

  “We will,” said Sarah. She embraced Perl awkwardly, holding bags full of food.

  They walked along the gravel roads toward home. “Kicsi!” someone called. Kicsi turned. It was Erzsébet, with her mother and someone she did not know.

  Sarah and Kicsi slowed. “Hello,” said Erzsébet. “This is my cousin, Aladár.” She turned to the young man beside her. “Ali, this is my best friend, Kicsi.”

  “Hello,” said Aladár. His voice was pleasant. “What just happened with you and that woman?” He laughed. “She looked like she wanted your head.”

  Kicsi laughed. “She almost did.”

  “Ali’s going to go to college soon,” said Erzsébet. “Tell her about it, Ali. What y
ou told me.”

  Aladár looked at Kicsi, and, quite suddenly, they both decided not to answer Erzsébet.

  “She wanted my necklace,” said Kicsi.

  “Your necklace?”

  “Yes,” said Kicsi. “See?” She showed him the star. In the afternoon shadows it shone like a seashell.

  “Where did you get that?” said Aladár.

  “From Vörös.”

  “The magician?” said Aladár. Erzsébet shrugged and moved ahead to join her mother and Sarah. Aladár and Kicsi fell behind. “Erzsi told me.”

  “About Vörös?” Aladár nodded. “They thought it was a magic charm. They wanted to use it to cure their son, Jancsi. He’s very sick. But I don’t think it’s a charm at all. I didn’t want to give it to them. I thought I was just being selfish—that’s what my mother thought, too—but now I don’t think so. I think I knew, somehow, that my necklace won’t help. I don’t want to raise their hopes. Do you know what I mean?”

  Aladár nodded. “But you could have been more tactful.”

  “I know. I have problems with tact. Everyone tells me. I don’t know what I could have done though.”

  “Did you know Vörös?”

  “I guess so. As much as anyone here knew him.”

  “Were you there—at the wedding, I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you—Say—” He broke off, became thoughtful. Then he said, “Did he teach you anything? You know—sorcery?”

  “He showed me how to make a golem once.”

  “A golem! How?”

  She stopped. She had not meant to say that. It was her secret, all that was left to her of Vörös except the star. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Oh, come on! A golem! Did it really move? How did it work?” His friendly round face shone with curiosity.

  “I can’t tell you. I don’t want to.”

  “I don’t believe you. You made it all up.”

  “No, I didn’t! I just don’t want to tell you. It was between Vörös and me. No one else knows.” Except the rabbi, she thought. “I can’t tell you.”