Deliver us from Evil (61 page)

'
I
turned. There was a staircase ahead of me, at the sight of which
I
felt my heart start to shiver.
I
crossed towards the stairs, and began to climb them. In the darkness ahead,
I
could make out the shadow of a door.
I
reached it, and opened it, and passed inside. At once,
I
felt the pain like a wall of knives; and at the same moment, even worse, a stifling cloud across my thoughts, which it took me a moment to recognise as dread. All
I
could see around me, though, were trunks and piles of books, their outlines muffled beneath pale shrouds of dust.
I
bent down, and touched the floor. Immediately,
I
felt the pain grow worse; and the surge of some shock passing deep into my blood.
I
staggered, then stumbled back out through the door. As
I
did so, from below me
I
could hear the wail of song again; and it seemed suddenly so mournful, so filled with despair, that my terror was transmuted into a sense of the utmost desolation, so that
I
felt
I
would choke if
I
could not escape it.
I
descended from the attic, and out into the night.
I
gulped down air and, as
I
did so,
I
recognised the sweetness of blood. Again, the shiver of panic.
I
spun round. Then
I
saw that there were butchers' shops all along the street; and at the sight of them,
I
started to laugh.
I
turned and hurried on, still eager to purge the terror from my lungs, but finding that the air was foul wherever
I
went, for the alleyways seemed fetid and dense without end. Next to a brothel
I
passed a soaking pit, and then a huddle of tanners' shops, and then, beyond them, a single narrow gate; and then suddenly, unexpectedly,
I
was in an open space.

‘
I
stared about me. Dimly,
I
could make out strange-shaped slabs -protruding, it seemed, from almost every spot of ground.
I
walked forward; and realised
I
was passing through a confusion of graves, impossibly clustered, and crooked like the teeth in an old man's jaw.
I
had no choice but to keep to the winding path, for the earth on either side was bulging and raised; and
I
was not surprised to see, filming the narrow gaps between the stones, the faint silver gleam of spiderwebs.
I
breathed in deeply. The air, at last, seemed wonderfully clear.
I
paused a moment, and breathed it in again; then closed my eyes and leaned against a tomb, struggling to compose my still fast-beating heart.

' "Although this is a place of death, yet it is also called
Beth-Chaim,
the House of Life."

I
opened my eyes, startled. A man was standing before me:
I
guessed him, from his beard and robes, to be a Rabbi.
I
wondered for a moment if he was not Samuel ben Loew; but then
I
knew he could not be, for he was far too young.

"Certainly,"
I
answered him slowly, "
I
have found that life and death may be easily confused."

"Easily?" The Rabbi frowned. "Then
I
dread to think what you have seen." His frown deepened, and
I
realised that he was inspecting me with great attention. "Why," he murmured, "just now, did you climb to the attic of the Synagogue?"

"It is forbidden?"

"It is impossible. No one, not since the death of a former Rabbi here, has had the courage to open and pass through that door."

'
I
licked my lips. "Yes,"
I
whispered at last. "
I
felt it myself.. . how the shadow of the
golem
still lingers there."

"You know of Rabbi Loew?"

"Certainly.
I
have come here to Prague to meet with his son."

'The Rabbi smiled faintly. "Then you are in the right place indeed." He took my arm and led me along the path, then paused by a grave much larger than its neighbours, shaped like an ark, and the length of a man. My companion bowed his head. "This is the tomb of Rabbi Jehuda Loew. And this" - he gestured to a tomb along its side - "is that of his son." He glanced at my face, gauging the scale of my evident despair; then he bowed down, and reached for a handful of stones. He placed a small pile of them on both of the tombs; then rose to his feet, and bowed his head once again.

' "When,"
I
murmured hoarsely, "did Samuel die?"

' "Eleven years ago
..."

' "Only eleven?"
I
exclaimed. "Then it was not Haszler
..."
I
stopped myself suddenly.

'The silence deepened like fog. When
I
glanced at the Rabbi,
I
saw that he was frowning at me again, suspicion and puzzlement intermingled on his face. He opened his mouth; then paused, and looked away, gesturing instead towards Samuel's tomb. "You see," he asked suddenly, "how narrow it is?"

'
I
stared at it; then nodded. It seemed narrow indeed: as though it had been wedged very tight between the neighbouring graves.

'The Rabbi swallowed; and when he spoke again, his voice seemed strangely hesitant. "It was Samuel's dearest wish to be buried at the side of his father's tomb. Yet there was no space; and Samuel was flung into despair, for it seemed to him - such was the state of his conscience - that he was being excluded from his father's company as punishment for an act of betrayal he had made some years before. Yet then he died; and miraculously, the tomb of his father moved, just a fraction, thereby creating the room for Samuel's grave."

' "A pretty story,"
I
nodded.
I
gazed down at the tomb. "And yet
I
am glad,"
I
continued, "that the Rabbi was not punished for the wisdom he had betrayed, for it was no sin what he did, not when the torturers were working for a demon such as Tadeus, who had confused indeed what was life and what was death."

'The Rabbi made no answer at first, save to gather his cloak about him, for an icy wind had begun to blow across the graves. "What is your purpose here?" he murmured at last.

' "Buried,"
I
answered him, gesturing towards Samuel's narrow grave.

' "The book," he asked me suddenly. "Where is it?"
I
turned to him in surprise.

' "Come, sir," he whispered. "The book which the Wanderer brought to Rabbi Loew."

' "How can you know
I
possess it?"

'The Rabbi seized my arm. "Because
I
am the heir to these two," he whispered, gesturing again towards the tombs.
"
I
am Aaron Simon Spira, Chief Rabbi of Prague; and therefore learned in the writings of Rabbi Loew. Oh yes," he nodded, "there were secret records left - a true account of all that he had done
..
. and a guide as well to that which might yet occur."

' "And this guide,"
I
asked him, not bothering to conceal the sudden blaze of my excitement, "what did it say?"

' "That he had seen you." The Rabbi tightened his grip on my arm, and began to lead me back along the cemetery path. "A stranger from a distant land, in peril much greater perhaps than you suspected - and yet bringing with you too the Wanderer's secret book."

' "And you can read it?"
I
pressed him. "You can understand the script?"

'The Rabbi paused, then shook his head.

' "But there is someone - or some way - it must have been foreseen
..."

'My voice trailed away. The Rabbi continued to lead me in silence along the path, until we were standing beneath the narrow cemetery gate. Then he turned to me again. "The writings ended," he whispered, "with the single description of a stranger standing in the Cemetery. But then, pressed between two blank pages - something else" - he paused - "a withered, ancient flower."

I
frowned at him. "What did it mean?"

'The Rabbi smiled sadly.
"
I
was hoping, sir, that you might tell me that yourself."

I
breathed in deeply, as
I
gazed across the stillness and silence of the graves. "Then all is lost."

' "And yet it has been said," the Rabbi answered slowly, "that even in the smallest and meanest flower, great mysteries and secrets may still be found."

' "Why, sir,"
I
asked him, narrowing my eyes, "what can you mean?"

' "Do you have the book?" ' "Not upon me."

' "Then fetch it and come to me in the Synagogue.
I
shall be waiting for you there."

' "Why,"
I
called after him, "what do you hope for?" But he was already leaving me, his black robes melting into the dark; and though
I
might easily have stopped him,
I
let him go.
I
stood for a few moments more, gazing at the graves; then
I
too turned about.

'Yet the book, when
I
returned to my rooms, was no longer in its place.
I
stared at where it had been and felt disbelief, like hemlock, slowly numbing my limbs. Milady - where was Milady? Still not back.
I
began to call out her name wildly; then to ransack every corner of our rooms, even though
I
knew, as
I
tore the place apart, that
I
would not find the book there, that Milady - or someone - had taken it away. At last,
I
returned to the streets, and sought out all the darkest corners of Prague, all those places where Milady might possibly have gone; yet still
I
did not discover her. Once, as
I
called out her name, two figures ahead of me paused, then turned; and their eyes seemed to gleam as blood-drinkers' do. Yet then they turned again, and slipped away; and though
I
pursued them fast,
I
could not track them down.
I
soon grew lost amidst the palaces of Mala Strana, until at length
I
found myself by the river bank, and saw that dawn was lightening the eastern sky.
I
had been hunting Milady all night. Suddenly, my limbs felt heavy again; and the pain in my stomach was throbbing hard.
I
turned, and went back to my empty rooms
..
.

'Save that they were no longer empty. Milady was sitting on the side of her bed - the book in her hands.

I
crossed to her, my fury intermingled with disbelief. "Where have you been?"
I
asked her, my voice very calm.

'
"
I
had business," she answered, not looking up.

' "Business?"
I
echoed mistrustfully.

'
"
I
have been debating," she murmured, still staring at the book, "all the length of this night, whether or not
I
should destroy this thing

- destroy it utterly, Lovelace, so that nothing remains. For as much as
I
have hopes of it - so also
I
have fears." She turned, at last, to look up at me; and my anger was melted at once by her look. For her face seemed unaccountably delicate and frail; her eyes dulled; her nervousness more evident even than before.
I
reached for her hands, and kissed her very softly; then leaned across her to whisper in her ear. "We must rise now and go to the Synagogue."

'
I
felt her start; and as
I
stepped back to look at her again,
I
saw how the gleam was returning to her eyes. "You have found something?" she asked.