The Golem's Eye

by Jonathan Stroud

  Julius Tallow ventured an opinion from beneath his wide-brimmed hat. “It is a pity my demon was not at the scene,” he said. “Nemaides is an able creature and would have managed some communication with me before dying. This Bartimaeus was evidently most feeble.”

  Nathaniel glared at him but said nothing.

  “Your demon,” Duvall said, looking at Nathaniel suddenly. “What level was it?”

  “Fourth-level djinni, sir.”

  “Slippery things.” He swilled his glass. The wine danced in the neon light of the ceiling. “Guileful and hard to control. Few people of your age manage it.”

  The implication was clear. Nathaniel ignored it. “I do my best, sir.”

  “They require complex summonings. Some misquotations kill magicians, or allow the demon to run amok. Can be destructive—result in whole buildings being destroyed …” The black eyes glittered.

  “That hasn’t happened in my case,” Nathaniel said evenly. He gripped his fingers together to stop their shaking.

  Mr. Tallow sniffed. “Clearly the youth has been promoted beyond his ability.”

  “Quite so,” Duvall said. “First sensible thing you’ve ever said, Tallow. Perhaps Ms. Whitwell, who promoted him, has a comment to make on that?” He grinned.

  Jessica Whitwell rewarded Tallow with a look of pure malevolence. “I believe you are something of an expert on misquoted summonings, Julius,” she said. “Wasn’t that how your skin acquired its delightful color?”

  Mr. Tallow pulled his hat brim down a little lower over his yellow face. “It was no fault of mine,” he said sullenly. “There was a printing error in my book.”

  Duvall smiled, drew the glass to his lips. “Head of Internal Affairs, and he misreads his own book. Dear me. What hope do we have? Well, we shall see whether my department can shed any light on the Resistance, when it is given its extra powers.” He took a short swig, emptied the glass in one. “I shall first suggest—”

  Without sound, smell, or other theatrical device, the pentacle was occupied once more. The small, apologetic man was back again, this time with two bear’s paws instead of feet. He carried an object delicately in both hands. A bedraggled cat—limp and comatose.

  He opened his mouth to speak, then—remembering his affectation of humility—dropped the cat so that it swung from one hand by its tail. He used the other hand to doff his cap in appropriately servile manner. “Madam,” he began, “we found this specimen in the space between two broken beams; in a small pore, it was, madam; tucked right in. We overlooked it the first time.”

  Ms. Whitwell frowned with distaste. “This thing … is it worthy of our attention?”

  Nathaniel’s lenses, like his master’s, could shed no further light: to him, it was a cat on all three planes. Nevertheless, he guessed what he was seeing, and it seemed dead. He bit his lip.

  The small man made a face; he swung the cat back and forth by its tail. “Depends on what you call ‘worthy,’ madam. It is a djinni of a disreputable cast, that’s certain. Ugly, unkempt; it gives off an unpleasant stench on the sixth plane. Furthermore—”

  “I assume,” Ms. Whitwell interrupted, “that it is still alive.”

  “Yes, madam. It requires merely an appropriate stimulus to awake.”

  “See to it, then you may depart.”

  “Gladly.” The small man tossed the cat unceremoniously upward; he pointed, spoke a word. A jarring arc of green electricity erupted from his finger, caught the cat head-on, and held it, jerking and dancing in midair, all its fur extended. The small man clapped his hands and descended into the floor. A moment passed. The green electricity vanished. The cat plummeted to the center of the pentacle, where in defiance of all normal laws it landed on its back. It lay there a moment, legs pointing outward in four directions from amid a ball of static fluff.

  Nathaniel rose to his feet. “Bartimaeus!”

  The cat’s eyes opened; they bore an indignant expression. “No need to shout.” It paused and blinked. “What’s happened to you?”

  “Nothing. You’re upside down.”

  “Oh.” With a flurry of motion, the cat righted itself. It glanced around the room, noticing Duvall, Whitwell, and Tallow sitting impassively in their high-backed chairs. It scratched itself carelessly with a hind leg. “Got company, I see.”

  Nathaniel nodded. Beneath his black coat he was crossing his fingers, praying that Bartimaeus did not choose to reveal anything inappropriate, such as his name. “Be careful how you answer me,” he said. “We are among the great.” He made the warning sound as portentous as possible for his superiors’sake.

  The cat looked silently at the other magicians for a moment. It raised a paw, leaned forward conspiratorially. “Between you and me, I’ve seen greater.”

  “So, I imagine, have they. You look like a pompom with legs.”

  The cat noticed its fluffy condition for the first time. It gave a hiss of annoyance and changed instantly; a black panther sat in the pentacle, smooth-furred and gleaming of coat. It flicked its tail neatly around its paws. “So then, you wish my report?”

  Nathaniel held up a hand. Everything depended on what the djinni would say. If it did not have strong insight into the nature of their adversary, his position was vulnerable indeed. The level of destruction at the British Museum paralleled that in Piccadilly the week before, and he knew that a messenger imp had already visited Ms. Whitwell, communicating the Prime Minister’s wrath. That boded ill for Nathaniel. “Bartimaeus,” he said, “we know this much. Your signal was seen outside the museum last night. I arrived soon afterward, along with others from my department. Disturbances were heard inside. We sealed off the museum.”

  The panther extended its claws and tapped the floor meaningfully. “Yes, I kind of noticed that.”

  “At approximately 1:44 A.M., one interior wall of the east wing was seen to collapse. Soon afterward, something unknown broke through the security cordon, killing imps in the vicinity. We have since searched the area. Nothing was found, except yourself—in an unconscious condition.”

  The panther shrugged. “Well, what do you expect when a building falls on me? That I’d be dancing a mazurka in the ruins?”

  Nathaniel coughed loudly and drew himself up. “Be that as it may,” he said sternly, “in the absence of other evidence, blame will fall on you as the cause of all this devastation, unless you can give us information to the contrary.”

  “What!” The panther’s eyes widened in outrage. “You’re blaming me? After what I’ve suffered? My essence is one big bruise, I tell you! I’ve got bruises where bruises don’t ought to be!”

  “So then …” Nathaniel said, “what caused it?”

  “What caused the building to collapse?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to know what caused all the devastation last night and yet disappeared from right under your noses?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you’re asking me for the identity of the creature that arrives as if from nowhere, departs again unseen and, while it’s here, wraps a cloak of blackness around it to protect it from the vision of spirit, human or animal, on this and every other plane? That’s seriously what you’re asking?”

  Nathaniel’s heart had sunk down into his boots."…Yes.”

  “That’s easy It’s a golem.”

  There was a small gasp from the direction of Ms. Whitwell and snorts from Tallow and Duvall. Nathaniel sat back in shock. “A … a golem?”

  The panther licked a paw and smoothed back the fur above one eye. “You’d better believe it, buster.”

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “A giant man of animated clay, hard as granite, invulnerable to attack, with the strength to rip down walls. Cloaks itself in darkness and carries the odor of earth in its wake. A touch that brings death to all beings of air and fire like me … that within seconds reduces our essences to smoldering ash. Yes, I’d say I was pretty sure.”

  Ms. Whitwell made a dism
issive gesture. “You may be mistaken, demon.”

  The panther turned its yellow eyes upon her. For a horrid moment, Nathaniel thought it was going to be cheeky. But if so, it seemed to reconsider. It bowed its head. “Madam, I may. But I have seen golems before, during my time in Prague.”

  “In Prague, yes! Centuries ago.” Mr. Duvall spoke for the first time; he appeared irritated by the turn of events. “They disappeared with the Holy Roman Empire. The last recorded use of them against our forces was in the time of Gladstone. They drove one of our battalions into the Vltava, below the ramparts of their castle. But the magicians controlling them were located and destroyed, and the golems disintegrated on the Stone Bridge. This is all in the annals of the day.”

  The panther bowed again. “Sir, this may well be true.”

  Mr. Duvall banged a heavy fist down upon the arm of his chair. “It is true! Since the implosion of the Czech Empire, no golems have been recorded. The magicians who defected to us did not bring the secrets of their construction, while those who remained in Prague were shadows of their predecessors, amateurs in magic. Hence the lore has been lost.”

  “Evidently not to everyone.” The djinni swished its tail back and forth. “The golem’s actions were being controlled by somebody. He or she was observing through a watch-eye in the golem’s forehead. I saw the glint of his or her intelligence when the black clouds drew back.”

  “Pah!” Mr. Duvall was unconvinced. “This is fanciful stuff. The demon lies!”

  Nathaniel glanced at his master; her face was frowning. “Bartimaeus,” he said, “I charge you to speak truthfully. Can there be any doubting what you saw?”

  The yellow eyes blinked slowly. “None. Four hundred years ago, I witnessed the activities of the first golem, which the great magician Loew created deep in the ghetto at Prague. He sent it out from its attic of shrouds and cobwebs to instill fear into the enemies of his people. It was itself a creature of magic, but it worked against the magic of the djinn. It wielded the essence of earth with a great weight: our spells failed in its presence, it made us blind and weak; it struck us down. The creature I fought last night was of the same kind. It killed one of my fellows. I do not lie.”

  Duvall snorted. “I have not lived as long as I have by believing every tale a demon told. This is a blatant fabrication to protect its master.” He tossed his glass aside and, standing, glared around at the company. “But golem or not makes little difference. It is clear that Internal Affairs has lost all control of the situation. We shall see whether my department can do any better. I shall apply to the Prime Minister for an interview forthwith. Good day to you.”

  He strode to the door, straight-backed, the leather on his jackboots squeaking. No one said a word.

  The door closed. Ms. Whitwell remained still. The strip lights in the ceiling shone down harshly upon her; her face was more cadaverous even than usual. She stroked her pointed chin thoughtfully, the long nails making a slight scratching noise upon the skin. “We must consider this with care,” she said at last. “If the demon speaks truthfully, we have gained valuable insight. But Duvall is right to be skeptical, although he speaks from a desire to belittle our achievements. Creating a golem is a difficult business, considered nigh on impossible. What do you know of it, Tallow?”

  The minister made a face. “Very little, madam, thank goodness. It is a primitive kind of magic that has never been practiced in our enlightened society. I have never cared to investigate.”

  “Mandrake, what of you?”

  Nathaniel cleared his throat; he always relished questions of general knowledge. “A magician needs two powerful artifacts, ma’am,” he said brightly. “Each with a different function. First, he or she requires a parchment inscribed with the spell that brings the golem to life; once the body has been formed of river clay, this parchment is inserted into the golem’s mouth to animate it.”

  His master nodded. “Exactly. That is the spell that is considered lost. The Czech masters never wrote the secret down.”

  “The second artifact,” Nathaniel continued, “is a special piece of clay, created by separate spells. It is placed in the monster’s forehead and helps focus its power. It acts as a watch-eye for the magician, much as Bartimaeus described. He or she can then control the creature through a common crystal orb.”

  “Correct. So, if your demon speaks truthfully, we are looking for someone who has acquired both a golem’s eye and the animating parchment. Who might that be?”

  “No one.” Tallow interlinked his fingers and, flexing, cracked the joints loudly, like a volley of rifle shots. “It is absurd. These objects no longer exist. Mandrake’s creature should be consigned to the Shriveling Fire. As for Mandrake, madam, this disaster is his responsibility.”

  “You seem very confident about your facts,” the panther remarked, yawning loudly and displaying an impressive set of teeth. “It’s true that the parchments disintegrate when they are removed from the golem’s mouth. And by the terms of the spell, the monster must then return to its master and subside back into clay, so the body doesn’t survive either. But the golem’s eye is not destroyed. It can be used many times. So there may well be one here, in modern London. Why are you so yellow?”

  Tallow’s jaw dropped in rage. “Mandrake—keep this thing under control, or I’ll make you suffer the consequences.”

  Nathaniel removed his smirk promptly. “Yes, Mr. Tallow. Silence, slave!”

  “Oooh, pardon me, I’m sure.”

  Jessica Whitwell held up a hand. “Despite its insolence, the demon is correct on one account at least. Golem’s eyes do exist. I saw one myself, two years ago.”

  Julius Tallow raised an eyebrow. “Indeed, madam? Where?”

  “In the collection of someone we all have reason to remember. Simon Lovelace.”

  Nathaniel gave a little start; a cold shiver ran between his shoulder blades. The name still had power over him. Tallow shrugged. “Lovelace is long dead.”

  “I know …” Ms. Whitwell had an air of preoccupation. She sat back in her chair and swiveled it to face another pentacle similar to the one in which the panther sat. The room contained several, each of subtly different design. She snapped her fingers and her djinni appeared, this time in full bear’s guise. “Shubit,” she said, “visit the Artifact Vaults beneath Security. Locate the Lovelace collection; itemize it fully. Among it, you will find a carved eye of hardened clay. Bring it to me at speed.”

  The bear bent its legs and vanished as it sprang.

  Julius Tallow gave Nathaniel an unctuous smile. “That’s the kind of servant you need, Mandrake,” he said. “No glibness, no chatter. Obeys without question. I’d get rid of this smooth-tongued serpent, if I were you.”

  The panther swished its tail. “Hey, we’ve all got problems, chum. I’m overly talkative. You look like a field of buttercups in a suit.”

  “The traitor Lovelace had an interesting collection,” Ms. Whitwell mused, ignoring Tallow’s cries of fury. “The golem’s eye was one of several noteworthy items we confiscated. It will be interesting to inspect it now.”

  With a clicking of hairy joints, the bear was back, landing lightly in the center of its circle. Its paws were empty, except for its cap, which it held in fully humble pose.

  “Yep, that’s the kind of servant you need,” the panther said. “No chatter. Obedient. Absolutely useless. You wait: it’ll have forgotten its charge.”

  Ms. Whitwell gave an impatient signal. “Shubit—you have been to the Lovelace collection?”

  “Madam, I have.”

  “Is a clay eye among the items?”

  “No, madam. It is not.”

  “Was it among the goods labeled in the inventory?”

  “It was. Number thirty-four, madam. ‘A clay eye of nine centimeters width, decorated with cabalistic symbols. Purpose: golem’s watch-eye. Origin: Prague.’“

  “You may depart.” Ms. Whitwell spun her chair back to face the others. “So,” she said. “There w
as such an eye. Now it is gone.”

  Nathaniel’s face flushed with excitement. “It can’t be a coincidence, ma’am. Someone’s stolen it and put it to use.”

  “But did Lovelace have the animating parchment in his collection?” Tallow asked irritably. “Of course not! So where’d that come from?”

  “That,” Jessica Whitwell said, “is what we need to find out.” She rubbed her slender white hands together. “Gentlemen, we have a new situation. After tonight’s debacle, Duvall will press the Prime Minister for greater powers at my expense. I must go to Richmond now and prepare to speak against him. In my absence, I wish you, Tallow, to continue organizing surveillance. Doubtless, the golem—if that is what it is—will strike again. I now entrust this to you alone.”

  Mr. Tallow nodded smugly. Nathaniel cleared his throat. “You, er, you no longer wish me to be involved, ma’am?”

  “No. You are walking a tightrope, John. I entrusted you with great responsibility—and what happens? The National Gallery and British Museum are ransacked. However, thanks to your demon, we do have a clue to the nature of our enemy. Now we need to know the identity of whoever controls it. Is it a foreign power? A local renegade? The theft of the golem’s eye suggests that someone has discovered the means to create the animating spell. That must be where you start. Seek out the lost knowledge, and do so quickly”

  “Very well, ma’am. Whatever you say.” Nathaniel’s eyes were glazed in doubt. He had not the first idea how to begin this task.

  “We shall attack the golem through its master,” Ms. Whitwell said. “When we find the source of the knowledge, we will find the face of our enemy. And then we can act decisively.” Her voice was harsh.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “This djinni of yours seems useful….” She contemplated the panther, which was sitting washing its paws with its back to them, studiously ignoring the conversation.

  Nathaniel made a grudging face. “It’s all right, I suppose.”