The Dagger Men: A Novel of the Clay Shamus

by Michael Panush

  Zipporah rolled her eyes at Clay. “Sounds like too many Gods. One’s enough for me, I think—and I have my doubts about him.” She pointed to the mummies. “Those yeggs look like they’re right out of Old King Tut’s Tomb. You ever think about that, Clay? Getting yourself preserved for posterity?”

  “No need.” Clay pointed to a large statue of some pharaoh, a crook and flail crossed over his chest. “I’m more like that fellow—made of something stronger than flesh.”

  “You won’t rot, then?” Zipporah shook her head. “Stupid question. I don’t think you’ll even age. Or die. Must give you some relief.”

  “Yeah.” Clay turned away. He knew that he wouldn’t age or die as normal people did—and that brought him very little succor. He walked over to join Harvey by the mummies. They examined the long-dead Egyptians, their limbs withered by age and shrunk by constraining bandages. The mummies all seemed to have expressions of terror on their faces, as if death had brought them only pain. Clay was considering moving to the next room, the special exhibition hall where the Ancient Judean artifacts waited, when another group of visitors came down the aisle.

  They strolled out from behind an obelisk, which had been sliced in half so that its tip didn’t scrape the roof, and stopped when they saw Harvey. The family consisted of two parents and a son around Harvey’s age, and the boy’s eyes fixed on Harvey. “Harvey?” he asked. “Harvey Holtz?” They appeared to be Damocles Street royalty, dolled up in expensive garments. The boy, a tow-headed child, wore a pale blue suit and bowtie under his coat, and had an expression of growing embarrassment on his face when he spotted Harvey.

  Hesitantly, Harvey faced the boy. “Darby. H-hello.” He turned to Clay and Zipporah. “This is Darby De Vere. He’s in my class at the Academy for Prestigious Young Gentlemen.” He stared at his Buster Browns, obviously unsure what to do. Clay shared his uncertainty. After all, the De Veres were one of the oldest and most powerful families in Sickle City. They had made fortunes in the shipping and manufacturing industries, and, unlike the Jews of Haven Street, there was no question of their role in civic society.

  …an Egyptian chariot…stood before statures of animal-headed gods.

  “You can introduce us,” Zipporah suggested.

  “Darby, this is Mr. Clay and Miss Sarfati. They’re my, ah, my friends. My caretakers.” Harvey corrected himself quickly.

  Darby’s father regarded Harvey as he would a fly on a piece of food. “You’re the Holtz boy, aren’t you?” He had bushy black sideburns, dusted with gray, and a monocle that seemed wedged in his eye. His pearl gray suit and frock coat belonged to an earlier era, and he held a top hat under his arm. He glanced at Clay. “Danforth De Vere, sir. I’m certain you’ve heard of me.”

  “Yes, sir,” Harvey said. “I’m the H-Holtz boy.”

  Darby turned to his father. “He’s the one who’s—”

  “I know, my darling. I am fully aware of the Holtz boy’s ancestry.” He pronounced ‘Holtz’ very loudly, and the word echoed over the chamber, around the oversized sphinx’s head in the corner and the display cases. He turned to his wife. “It’s a shame, I think, that they allow Jews at the Young Gentlemen’s Academy. Such a thing would never be allowed in the old days. It’s a rather distressing situation for all concerned.” He glared at Harvey. “You understand, don’t you? The conniving, obsequious character of the Jew is more suited to an education closer to the street. Attempting to teach one of the Hebraic persuasion of the proper ways to behave is an inherently flawed endeavor.”

  “I, ah...” Harvey stammered. “I don’t really think so, sir. I—” His face flashed red.

  Zipporah glared at De Vere. “You silver spoon heel. I ought to throw you through that display case for—”

  But De Vere had already turned away. “Of course, I’m afraid that goes with the falling standards all across the country. Criminals like the Holtz boy’s father amassing fortunes because of Prohibition, boatloads of new immigrants arriving every day with their own debased languages and cultures, and now they even allow their sort in museums—former bastions of learning and taste. Come along, Minnie. There’s much else to see.”

  The De Veres wandered away, giving Harvey and his friends a wide berth. Darby looked over his shoulder and glanced at Harvey. He offered Harvey a quick wave as his parents directed him to the adjacent door, leading to the Greek exhibits. Harvey waved back, but they had already slipped into the next chamber. Then he turned away and closed his eyes. He let out a single shudder, as if he was trying to stifle a sob. Clay had the idea that Harvey had been called similar names at school and faced the same, dismissive prejudice.

  He walked over to Harvey and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault. You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s just...” He paused, trying to think of the right word. “It’s just the way that things are.”

  “I know.” He wiped his eyes quickly on his sleeve. “It’s okay. They’re heels anyway, like Miss Sarfati said. Darby’s nice to me sometimes, but he still keeps his distance. Most of the other boys at school do that.” He glanced at Zipporah. “We should get to the exhibition on Ancient Judea.” He moved away, stumbled on the polished floor, and then headed to the arched doorway past the obelisk and the sphinx.

  Clay and Zipporah trailed after him. “Does Rabbi Holtz know?” Zipporah asked. “Maybe he could arrange a better school for Harvey? Something closer in the neighborhood?”

  “He wouldn’t fit in there, either,” Clay explained. “Not when everyone knows what Rabbi Holtz is and treats him with a mixture of fear and respect.” His body creaked a little as he watched Harvey forlornly put his hands in his pockets. “He doesn’t exactly fit in anywhere.”

  “Reminds me of some other people,” Zipporah suggested.

  “Yeah.” Clay fell silent and moved ahead, joining Harvey in the next chamber. He tried to shake those feelings away. They had a job to do, after all.

  The Judean artifacts rested in a round chamber, inside the dome that topped the Museum of Venerable Antiquities. They occupied brass pedestals and marble plinths, or rested in glass display cases and shelves. The shards of ancient pottery with Hebrew etched on the sides, rusted swords, clubs, axes, and occasional dusty ram’s horn didn’t have the grandeur of Ancient Egypt, but the collection did boast quite a few unique items. The most impressive rested in a display case set in the center of the room. A set of giant bones—femurs, ribs, and a single skull—lay on metal frames. Clay and his friends approached the case and stared inside. The skull looked as big as Harvey's chest, while some of the leg and arms bones doubled the size of Clay’s limbs.

  Zipporah folded her arms as she gazed at the bones.”What are these? Goliath’s bones, after David and his slingshot got done with him?”

  “Not quite, Miss Sarfati.” Harvey examined the descriptive plaque. “These were uncovered in a subterranean temple, below Jerusalem. It’s supposed to be part of one of the Nephilim.” He adjusted his spectacles as he spoke. A professorial lecture helped him forget his earlier feelings, for which Clay was grateful. “These were giants—descendants of angels who were cast out of heaven and mortal women. Most of them were bad guys, and enemies of the Israelites. Supposedly, Goliath was descended from them.”

  Clay rested his fingers on the glass, near the bones of the giant. “Why would the Judeans keep the bones of their enemies?”

  “Well, some Judeans worshipped the gods and forces that others considered evil—just like we have occultists and devil-worshippers today.” Harvey walked past the giant bones, and faced another artifact set under a large skylight. “I guess some of them even worshipped Asmodeus.”

  They joined Harvey in front of the next display—a great stone altar, about as big as a cauldron, set on a marble stand. The stone altar had been covered in Hebrew carvings and occult symbols, all of which surrounded a
small depression. Perhaps that was where the blood went during sacrificial rituals. A set of three carved stone heads topped the altar, all connected by stout necks to a coiling dragon. One head belonged to a ram, another to a bird with a thin beak, and the one in the center looked almost human, apart from pointed ears. Golden light cascaded on the altar from the window above, making the whole device gleam. Clay stared at the three faces.

  “Asmodeus,” he whispered the name to himself. “He’s the King of the Demons, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir,” Harvey agreed. “He’s called Asmodai or Ashmedai as well, depending on who you ask. And he is the King of the Demons, so he’s not exactly a nice guy. He’s a villain in the Book of Tobit, where he falls in love with a human woman and murders the seven men who try to marry her. But he can also do good stuff as well. King Solomon was able to trick him into building the great Temple in Jerusalem. That story’s in the Talmud, where he’s more of a trickster.”

  “But he’s not a nice guy,” Zipporah said.

  “Not at all.” Harvey leaned down and looked at the informative plaque. “This belonged to a cult of devil-worshippers in ancient Jerusalem. They must have used it to conduct all kinds of terrible rituals, trying to summon and control Asmodeus.”

  The altar shone in the sunlight. Clay moved closer to the altar and stretched out his hand. He wanted to feel the arm of the stone on his fingers. It would be comforting. His hand inched out.

  His finger brushed the ridged edge of the altar. Suddenly, a deep creaking rang through Clay’s body. The museum room shifted; the pale whiteness of the marble obscured by pulsating smoke. Clay stumbled back as the shadows covered him. He turned around, looking for Harvey and Zipporah. They had vanished. Clay stood alone, lost in a maze of smoke. He could make out features in the distance –canyons and mountains, but all were outlines of smoke. It was a dream of a valley, where nothing was distinct. Clay stared down at the valley floor. Bones lay before him, etched in the same dark shadows. Skulls, rib cages, limbs and more lay in a wild pile. Clay stared at the bones.

  A voice whispered in his ear, high-pitched and full of humor. “You’ve seen this before, man of earth.”

  “Yes.” Clay remembered the plains of Russia. “The bodies of the dead, resting in the snow in the evening. But there was moonlight, then. Not just shadow.” He spun around. “Where am I? Who are you, and what do you want?”

  “You are in the Valley of Dry Bones, where God took the prophet Ezekiel. But where is God? Nowhere to be found, though his servants are present.” Clay kept turning, searching for the voice. “Who am I? You know that, Emmet Clay, just as you know yourself. The King of Demons is calling to you.” So Asmodeus had summoned Clay—but why? “And I bring you here, to my shadowy kingdom, for a simple reason. I come to warn you. Evil is coming to your city, man of earth. Evil clothed in the armor of righteousness. Soon, you will see that Man will do far worse things than ever appeared in my shadowy kingdom.” Laughter came from all directions. The bones began to shake. “Perhaps that is the greatest joke of all.”

  “What do you—” Clay started, but then the shadows receded. The bones vanished. Clay stood again in the museum. He gasped and his body creaked. He pulled back his hand from the altar as if the stone burned. Harvey and Zipporah stared at him. Zipporah’s hand moved protectively to Harvey’s shoulder. “Asmodeus appeared in front of me,” Clay said. “He said that—”

  Before Clay could explain, the De Veres strolled into the room from an adjacent exhibit. They walked past a collection of Biblical scrolls, and came to an immediate halt. They stared at each other, surrounded by ancient artifacts. Harvey raised his hand in a quiet greeting, which Darby returned, and then Danforth De Vere stepped almost protectively in front of his son.

  He nodded to Clay. “A Hebraic goliath. You are one of Rabbi Holtz’s thugs, perhaps? Well, you must have some sense. My family and I wish to tour this part of the museum, so why don’t you go to a different floor? Perhaps you can return when we are finished. That will spare both of our young charges some embarrassment.”

  “Danforth...” Minnie De Vere whispered. “We don’t need to—”

  “Hush, my dear.” De Vere waved away her protest with a kid-gloved hand. “This mammoth Jew knows that we are correct.”

  “I don’t think I do,” Clay replied.

  Zipporah took a step closer, her anger rising. “I think we may leave, Mr. De Vere.” She raised a fist. “But I’d like to leave you with something first.”

  Darby stared at Harvey. “Did your servant just threaten my father?”

  “Miss Sarfati,” Harvey started, his face going red. “Please, don’t cause any—”

  The skylight above them shattered. Glass rained down, falling onto the altar. Clay grabbed Harvey and tugged him back as the glass descended. It shattered on the marble floor, forming a shimmering, crystalline blizzard. More windows shattered, breaking one after the other. Glass clinked on the display cases and pedestals. Clay raised his fists as Zipporah reached for her swords. They hadn’t expected the Dagger Men to come so soon. Birds fluttered down through the broken windows, and swooped into the exhibition room. The birds had the shimmering, dark feathers of ravens, and the round faces of owls with protruding beaks and bone-white talons. Minnie De Vere screamed. She grabbed Darby and hauled him away, while Danforth watched in terror.

  A pair of birds fluttered toward Clay. His fists lashed out, striking together. He punched back both birds, his knuckles ramming through their beaks and cutting through their feathers. Small bones snapped under his blows, and the birds struck the ground as masses of feather and ash. Zipporah worked with her swords, protecting Harvey with a few rapid slashes that cut off the heads of the wheeling birds.

  She turned to Harvey. “What are these, child?”

  “Broxa,” Harvey explained. “They suck goat milk and blood. They’re like vampire birds.”

  The Broxa billowed around the room, soaring around the artifacts on silent wings. A few more sped to Clay and Zipporah, who dealt with them quickly. They moved in front of Harvey, protecting him from the talons. The De Veres huddled near the altar, Danforth and Minnie shielding their son. Clay glanced at them. Despite their bigotry, they did care for their son. Then footsteps clicked on the stone floor. Clay turned around, preparing his fists for another blow.

  The servants of the Dagger Men had arrived—a trio of Roman skeletons storming into the exhibition hall with blades drawn. These Romans had frayed plumes topping their rusted helmets, and carried swords with longer blades than the weapons wielded by the other legionaries.

  “Centurions,” Harvey said.”The officers of the legions.”

  “I’ll deal with them.” Clay hurried across the room and met the centurions at a charge. He reached the first centurion, which swung its sword as he approached. Clay put the momentum of his charge behind the blow, and rammed his fist into the Roman's chest. Armor shattered. The centurion collapsed, even as its sword slashed his shoulder and ricocheted against his stone skin. The other skeletons moved in, one stabbing a spear into Clay’s side, while the next hacked down with his sword. Clay took the spear blow, but the sword aimed for his forehead. A blow from that would damage the carvings and destroy him for good. Clay met the sword with an upper cut, his fist catching the blade and pushing it back. Then he wrenched out the spear and smashed it into the centurion’s ribcage. Clay drove a right hook into the remaining centurion, hard enough to rip the skull from its shoulders.

  The centurions collapsed, their bones rattling on the ground. Clay kicked them aside and turned back to the hall. Rabbi Geist stood there, flanked by a pair of Roman archers. Their bows twanged and two arrows thudded into Clay’s chest. He winced as the shafts burrowed into him, and started toward Geist. The bearded rabbi folded his arms and watched as his archers prepared another set of arrows. The shafts hummed through the air. One grazed
Clay’s elbow and another arrow wedged into his chest. Then he reached the archers. He grabbed the arm from one, tore the bone from its socket, and smashed the limb against the skull of the other. Both archers collapsed.

  Rabbi Geist watched with disinterested eyes. “You certainly know how to destroy, golem. That’s no surprise. It’s what you were created to do, after all.” He made some occult sigil in the air, his fingers dancing as he formed the gesture. “But the Dagger Men were made for a grander purpose. Tasked by God himself with a holy mission. That is why we are here today.”

  “How about you tell me what it is?” Clay asked. “Before I rip out your beard?”

  “Why not ask our leader?” Rabbi Geist pointed to the center of the room. “The Tzadik of the Dagger Men stands before you, golem. Quake in his presence.” Clay turned around. Tzadik was a title given to spiritual masters. Someone of that caliber had to be leading the Dagger Men, if they could pull off summoning armies of dead Romans and flocks of Broxa. Clay had guessed that the true leader of the Dagger Men couldn’t be the hirsute Rabbi Geist. He raised his fist as he scanned the exhibition room for any sign of the Tzadik.

  A swarm of Broxa gathered before the altar, forming a spinning pillar of shimmering feathers. They spun around, their feathers blurring together. Zipporah and Harvey scrambled next to Clay, and watched as the Broxa turned. The vampire birds eventually fluttered away, their wings silent in the still air. A man stood where they had spun, gazing at the altar to Asmodeus. He moved closer to the altar, ignoring the huddled, whimpering forms of the De Veres.

  Clay had seen him before—on the pier of Palisade Park, the night before they ventured into the sewers for Sid Sapphire. He had emerged in the rain, marked Clay as a golem, and then vanished into the night. He had no hair at all—not even eyebrows—on his round, pale face. His clothes seemed strangely normal compared to the robes of Rabbi Geist, with only a rumpled black suit and vest over a tattered shirt. With his medium stature and placid eyes, he could have been an average fellow walking down a Sickle City Street, on the way to a job in a factory or the docks—if it wasn’t for the endless occult tattoos of Hebrew lettering and strange symbols on his pale skin. They curled around his nose and cheeks, rested on his forehead, and appeared along the back of his head and even his eyelids. More tattoos appeared on his hands. Tattoos were forbidden by Jewish Law, so why would a Tzadik cover himself in such images? Clay didn’t want to ask.