The Golem's Eye

by Jonathan Stroud

  Her companions were still calling out her name; their stupidity amazed her.

  “I’m here!” With a sudden effort, she broke through the inertia of her shock, turning and shouting back along the chamber. Nick and Anne were both close by; at the sound of her voice, their heads darted around, but their eyes remained blank and puzzled, passing over Kitty as if she were not there. Kitty groaned in exasperation and stepped toward them; as she did so, a strange fizzling sensation passed across her body.

  Nick cried out. Anne dropped her lantern.

  “You’d better come and see this,” Kitty said tersely; then, when they did not reply: “What the devil’s wrong with you?”

  Her anger snapped Nick out of his shock. “L-look at you,” he stammered. “You’re half in, half out of the wall.” Kitty looked down—sure enough, from this side, the illusion held quite fast: her stomach, chest, and front foot protruded from the stones as if they sliced right through her. Her body tingled at the margins where the magic touched.

  “Doesn’t even glimmer,” Anne whispered. “I’ve never seen an illusion so strong.”

  “You can walk through,” Kitty said dully. “There’s things behind it.”

  “Treasure?” Nick was eagerness itself.

  “No.”

  In moments, the rest of the company had approached the wall and, after some slight hesitation, stepped through the illusion one by one. The stones did not so much as ripple. From the other side, the barrier was quite invisible.

  All six stared in shocked silence at the illuminated corpses.

  “I vote we get out now,” Kitty said.

  “Look at the hair,” Stanley whispered. “And their nails. Look how long they are.”

  “Laid out like sardines on a plate …”

  “How d’you think—?”

  “Suffocated, maybe …”

  “See his chest—that hole? That didn’t come natural….”

  “We don’t need to worry. They’re very old” Mr. Pennyfeather spoke with hearty assurance, designed perhaps to comfort himself as much as the others. “Look at the color of the skin. They’re practically mummified.”

  “Gladstone’s time, you think?” Nick asked.

  “Undoubtedly. The style of clothes proves it. Late nineteenth century.”

  “But, six of them…. One for each of us….”

  “Shut up, Fred.”

  “But why would they be—?”

  “Some kind of sacrifice, perhaps …?”

  “Mr. Pennyfeather, listen, we really—”

  “No, but why conceal them? It makes no sense.”

  “Grave robbers, then? Punished by entombment.”

  “We really need to go.”

  “That’s more likely. But again, why hide them?”

  “And who did it? And what about the Pestilence? That’s what I don’t understand. If they triggered it …”

  “Mr. Pennyfeather!” Kitty stamped her foot and shouted; the noise reverberated across the chamber. The discussion stopped abruptly. She forced the words out through a tightened throat. “There’s something here that we don’t know about. Some kind of trap. We should forget the treasure and leave now.”

  “But these bones are old,” Stanley said, adopting Mr. Pennyfeather’s decisive manner. “Calm down, girl.”

  “Don’t patronize me, you little twerp.”

  “I agree with Kitty,” Anne said.

  “But my dears—” Mr. Pennyfeather placed a hand upon Kitty’s shoulder and rubbed it with false good humor. “This is very unpleasant, I agree. But we mustn’t let it get out of proportion. However these poor fellows died, they were placed here a very long time ago—probably while the tomb was still open. That would be why the illusory wall that hides them has got no mold, see? It’s all grown up since then. The walls were clean and new when they met their end.” He gesticulated at the corpses with his stick. “Think about it. These boys were lying here before the tomb was sealed—otherwise the Pestilence would have been triggered when they broke in. And it wasn’t—because we’ve just seen it and dispersed it.”

  His words had a muted effect upon the group; there was some nodding and mumbling of agreement. But Kitty shook her head. “We’ve got six dead men calling out to us,” she said. “We’d be fools to ignore them.”

  “Huh! They’re old.” From the relief in Fred’s voice, it seemed the implications of this concept had only just dribbled through to him. “Old bones.” He stretched out a boot and nudged the nearest skull derisively; it rolled to the side, away from the neck, and rocked briefly on the flagstones with a gentle sound like rattling crockery.

  “You must learn, Kitty dear, to be less emotional,” Mr. Pennyfeather said, removing a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his brow. “We have already opened the old devil’s sarcophagus—and the earth’s not swallowed us up, has it? Come and look, girl: you haven’t seen it yet. A silken winding sheet laid out prettily on top—it alone must be worth a fortune. Five minutes, Kitty. Five minutes is all we’ll need to lift that sheet and whisk the purse and crystal ball away. We won’t disturb Gladstone’s sleep for long.”

  Kitty said nothing; she turned and stalked white-faced through the barrier and back along the chamber. She could not trust herself to speak. Her anger was directed as much at herself—for her own weakness and unreasoning fear—as at her leader. His words seemed facile to her; too glib and easy. But she was not used to directly opposing his will; and she knew the mood of the group was with him.

  The tap-tap-tapping of Mr. Pennyfeather’s stick came close behind her. He was slightly out of breath. “I hope, Kitty dear, that you—you would do me the honor—of taking the crystal ball itself—in your bag. I trust you, you see—I trust you implicitly. We shall all be strong for five minutes more, then leave this cursed place forever. Gather around, and get your knapsacks ready. Our fortune awaits us!”

  The lid of the sarcophagus remained where it had fallen, at an angle between the tomb and the floor. A section of one corner had snapped off on impact, and lay a little apart amid the mold. A lantern sat on the floor burning merrily, but no light was cast up into the gaping black interior of the tomb. Mr. Pennyfeather took up position at one end of the sarcophagus, leaned his stick up against the stone, and grasped the marble for support. He smiled around at the company and flexed his fingers.

  “Frederick, Nicholas—hold your lanterns up and over. I’d like to see exactly what I’m touching.” Stanley giggled nervously.

  Kitty glanced back up the chamber. Through the dark, she could just glimpse the impassive outline of the fake wall, its dreadful secret hidden behind. She took a deep breath. Why? It made no sense …

  She turned back to the sarcophagus. Mr. Pennyfeather leaned in, took tentative hold of something, and pulled.

  31

  The silken sheet rose from the sarcophagus almost soundlessly, with the faintest of dry whispers and a delicate cloud of brown dust that erupted up like spores from a bursting puffball. The dust wheeled in the crowding lantern light, then sank slowly. Mr. Pennyfeather gathered up the sheet and rested it carefully on the marble rim; then, and only then, did he lean forward and look inside.

  “Lower the light,” he whispered.

  Nick did so; everyone craned their heads over and looked.

  “Ahh …” Mr. Pennyfeather’s sigh was that of a gourmet at his table, whose meal sits before him and who knows that gratification is near. A chorus of gasps and gentle cries echoed him. Even Kitty’s misgivings were momentarily forgotten.

  Each one of them knew the face as if it were his or her own. It was a centerpiece of life in London, an unavoidable presence in every public place. They had seen its image a thousand times, on statues, memorials, on roadside murals. It was inscribed in profile on school textbooks, on government forms, on posters and placards erected on high billboards in every market. It looked down with austere command from plinths in half the leafy squares; it gazed up at them from the pound notes drawn crumpled fr
om their pockets. Through all their hurrying and scurrying, through all their daily hopes and anxieties, the face of Gladstone was a constant companion, watching over their little lives.

  Here, in the tomb, they looked upon the face with a thrill of recognition.

  It was fashioned, perhaps, from gold, thinly beaten and finely shaped; a death mask fit for the founder of an empire. While the body still lay cooling, skilled craftsmen had taken the likeness, made the cast, poured in the liquid metal. Upon burial, the mask had been set back on the face, an incorruptible image to gaze forever into the darkness, while the flesh beneath it fell away. It was an old man’s face: hook-nosed, thin-lipped, gaunt about the cheeks—where suggestions of the sideburns lingered in the gold—and incised by a thousand wrinkles. The eyes, sunk back deep within the sockets, had been left blank, the gold cut through. Two gaping holes stared blackly at eternity. To the company, gazing open-mouthed, it seemed that they looked upon the face of an emperor from ancient times, wreathed in his awful power.

  All about the mask was a pillow of white hair.

  He lay neatly, in a pose not dissimilar to the bodies in the secret annex, hands clasped upon his stomach. The fingers were entirely bone. He wore a black suit, still buttoned, taut enough above the ribs, but sagging nastily elsewhere. Here and there, industrious worms or mites in the material had started the process of decay, and small patches of white shone through. The shoes were small, black, and narrow, wearing an additional patina of dust over the dull leather.

  The body rested on red satin pillows, on a high shelf that took up half the width of the sarcophagus interior. While Kitty’s eyes had lingered on the golden mask, the others’had been drawn to the rather lower shelf alongside.

  “Look at the glow …” Anne breathed. “It’s incredible!”

  “It’s all worth taking,” Stanley said, grinning stupidly. “I’ve never seen an aura like it. Something here must be really strong, but it’s all got power—even the cloak.”

  Across the knees, and neatly folded, was a garment of black and purple, topped by a small gold brooch. “The Cloak of State,” Mr. Pennyfeather whispered. “Our friend and benefactor wants that. He’s welcome to it. Look at the rest.…”

  And there they were, piled high upon the lower shelf: the marvelous grave goods they had come to find. There was a clustering of golden objects—small statuettes fashioned in the shape of animals, ornate boxes, jeweled swords and daggers, a fringe of black onyx globes, a small triangular skull of some unknown creature, a couple of sealed scrolls. Up by the head sat something small and domed, covered in a black cloth now gray with dust—presumably the prophetic crystal ball. Near the feet, between a flask with a stopper carved like a dog’s head and a dull pewter chalice, a satin purse sat inside a glass container. Alongside was a small black bag, fixed with a bronze clasp. Down the whole length of the sarcophagus, close to the body itself, ran a ceremonial sword and, beside it, a staff of blackened wood, plain and unadorned, except for a pentacle carved within a circle at the top.

  Even without the others’ gifts, Kitty could feel the power emanating from this assembly. It practically vibrated in the air.

  Mr. Pennyfeather pulled himself together with a start. “Right, action stations. Bags open and at the ready. We’re taking the lot.” He glanced at his watch and gave a gasp of surprise. “Almost one o’clock! We’ve wasted far too much time already. Anne—you first.”

  He leaned his body against the lip of the sarcophagus, stretching inside and seizing objects in both hands. “Here. Egyptian these, if I’m not mistaken…. There’s the purse…. Careful with it, woman! Bag full? Right—Stanley, take her place….”

  While the sarcophagus was being despoiled, Kitty stood back, her rucksack open, arms loosely at her sides. The unease that had engulfed her upon the discovery of the bodies drifted in on her once more. She kept glancing over toward the fake wall and back toward the entrance stairs, her skin prickling and crawling with imaginary fears. This anxiety was accompanied by a growing regret at the night’s activities. Never had her ideals—her desire to see the magicians vanquished and power returned to the commoners—seemed so divorced from the reality of Mr. Pennyfeather’s group. And what a grotesque reality it was. The naked greed of her companions, their excited cries, Mr. Pennyfeather’s red, glistening face, the soft clinking of the valuables as they disappeared into the outstretched bags—all of it seemed suddenly repugnant to her. The Resistance was little more than a band of thieves and grave robbers—and she was one of them.

  “Kitty! Over here!”

  Stanley and Nick had filled their bags and moved aside. It was her turn. Kitty approached. Mr. Pennyfeather was now stretching in farther than ever, his head and shoulders invisible within the sarcophagus. He emerged briefly, handed her a small funerary pot and a jar decorated with a snake head and tipped himself forward again. “Here …” His voice echoed oddly in the tomb. “Take the cloak … and the staff, too. Both those are for Mr. Hopkins’s benefactor, who has—oof!—guided us so well. I can’t reach the other bits from this side; Stanley, can you take over, please?”

  Kitty took the stick and shoved the cloak deep into her bag, recoiling a little from its cold and faintly greasy touch. She watched Stanley raise himself onto the lip of the sarcophagus and swing his top half down, reaching into the depths while his legs waved momentarily in the air. At the opposite end, Mr. Pennyfeather leaned against the wall, wiping his brow. “Just a few things left,” he panted. “Then we—oh, drat the boy! Why can’t he be more careful?”

  Perhaps in an overabundance of enthusiasm, Stanley had fallen headfirst inside the sarcophagus, knocking his lantern backward onto the floor. There was a dull thud.

  “You little fool! If you’ve broken anything …” Mr. Pennyfeather leaned forward to look inside, but could see nothing in the well of darkness. Intermittent rustling sounds came from below, together with sounds of uncoordinated movement. “Pick yourself up carefully. Don’t damage the crystal ball.”

  Kitty rescued the lantern from where it was rolling on the flagstones, muttering at Stanley’s stupidity. He had always been an oaf, but this was priceless, even for him. She clambered over the broken lid to hold the lantern above the sarcophagus, but jumped back in shock as, with great speed and suddenness, Stanley’s head popped up above the rim. His cap had fallen down over his face, obscuring it completely.

  “Whoops!” he said, in a high, irritating voice. “Clumsy, clumsy me.”

  Kitty’s blood boiled. “What d’you think you’re doing, startling me like that? This isn’t a game!”

  “Hurry it up, Stanley,” Mr. Pennyfeather said.

  “So sorry. So sorry.” But Stanley didn’t seem sorry at all. He didn’t adjust his cap or emerge any farther from the tomb.

  Mr. Pennyfeather’s mood turned dangerous. “I’ll take my stick to you, boy,” he cried, “if you don’t get moving.”

  “Move? Oh, I can do that.” With that, Stanley’s head began to jerk to and fro inanely, as if to a rhythm only it could hear.

  To Kitty’s stupefaction, it then ducked down out of sight, paused a moment and sprang up again with a giggle. This action appeared to give Stanley childish pleasure; he repeated the motion, accompanying it with assorted whoops and cries. “Now you see me!” he cried, his voice muffled behind his cap. “And now … you don’t!”

  “The boy’s gone mad,” Mr. Pennyfeather said.

  “Get out of there now, Stanley,” Kitty said, in an altogether different tone. Suddenly, unaccountably, her heart was beating fast.

  “Stanley, am I?” the head said. “Stanley … mmm, suits me, that does. Good honest British name. Mr. G. would approve.”

  Fred was beside Kitty now. “Hey …” He was unusually hesitant in manner. “How come his voice has changed?”

  The head stopped dead still, then tilted coquettishly to one side. “Well now,” it said. “There’s a question. I wonder if anyone can guess.” Kitty took a slow step backward. Fred wa
s right. The voice no longer sounded much like Stanley’s, if it ever had.

  “Oh, don’t try to leave, little girl.” The head shook vigorously back and forth. “Then it’ll only get messy. Let’s take a look at you.” Skeletal fingers, extending from a tattered black sleeve, rose from the sarcophagus. The head tipped sideways. With loving care, the fingers removed the cap from the face and placed it on the head at a rakish angle. “That’s better,” the voice said. “Now we can see each other clearly.”

  Beneath the cap, a face that was not Stanley’s flashed with a glint of gold. A spray of white hair showed all around.

  Anne gave a sudden wail and ran for the staircase. The head gave a jerk of surprise. “The bloody cheek! We haven’t been introduced! “With a sudden flick of a bony wrist, something was scooped from inside the sarcophagus and hurled forward through the air. The crystal ball landed with a crack at the foot of the stairs, rolling directly in Anne’s path. She screamed and collapsed back upon the floor.