The Red Magician (6 page)

Kicsi returned the way she had come, following the sound. The howl came again, closer this time. She saw Vörös and the black dog off in the distance, sitting on a small red hill overlooking the forest, and she ran toward them.

“Hello,” she said, sitting beside Vörös. Then, quickly, before he could ask her to leave: “What are you doing?”

“Looking at the earth,” said Vörös. “There's fine clay here. Your village has good bones. What brings you out here?”

“I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Another question!” Vörös said, laughing.

“Yes,” she said. “I wanted to ask—There's a hole in our roof. Did you—I mean, did the rabbi—Do you have anything to do with that?”

“A hole in your roof?”

“Yes. They're fixing it today. That's why I remembered it.”

“I had nothing to do with it. What would I want with a hole in your roof? Perhaps a tree—”

“There wasn't any tree nearby,” said Kicsi. “I think the rabbi did it.”

“The rabbi?” said Vörös gravely. He picked up a stick and turned it over and over without seeing it. “It could be. It could be. But, Kicsi, that's all over now. The curse is gone. There's nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to worry about!” she said, suddenly angry. “He says he will kill you!”

“I told you,” said Vörös. “I don't think that he can.”

“You don't know him,” said Kicsi. “He's—he's—If he wants to kill you, he can do it.”

“Ah,” said Vörös. “But he does not know me either.”

Kicsi sighed. “You haven't grown up here. You don't know. Once, János, the old shoemaker—he disappeared for a while. And his wife went to the rabbi to get him back. And the next day—it was terrible. He came back, bleeding and limping. I heard someone tell my parents that a wolf had chased him back from the next town.” Vörös looked at her. He was smiling slightly. “All right, so you don't believe me! You think you've seen wonderful things in your travels, but the rabbi—he really can work miracles. He really does. My father—once he needed an operation—”

“I believe you,” said Vörös.

“You—you do?”

“Yes.”

“And you're not afraid? Why not?”

“I think I can protect myself. I will need time, though, and quiet.”

“What will you do?”

“For the moment, nothing. Hush.” He sat a while, studying the ground between his knees.

“Vörös?” said Kicsi a while later.

“Hmmm? Yes?”

“Why don't you ever answer my questions?”

Vörös laughed. He turned her head so that she faced him and looked into her eyes. “A magician's business is with words. He may use other things to help him along—amulets and so forth—but it is within words that the power lies. To choose the wrong words may mean death. And so magicians learn, from the first, to use as few words as possible, to answer as few questions as we can. And that,” he said, smiling softly, “may be the longest answer I've ever given you. Now let me be. I must study the land a while longer.”

After a long while he stood up. The dog looked up at him.

Vörös began to pace. Then, as though he had come to a decision, he walked a large circle around Kicsi and the spot where he had been sitting. “What do you think?” he said to the dog.

The dog nodded once.

“Good,” said Vörös. “Now, Kicsi, once I begin, you may not leave the circle. Do you understand?”

“Did you just talk to the dog? Can he understand you?”

Vörös sighed. “Yes, I did, and yes, he can. If you have to be home, if you have something to do or somewhere to go, you must leave now. If you stay, you cannot leave the circle once I've begun.”

“All—all right.” She meant to ask him what he planned to do, but something stopped her.

“Good. Now then.” He paced the circle again, speaking a few words. Kicsi could tell that they were Hebrew, but the accent was harsher, more angular, than the one she was used to. A thin white line, pale as a scar, sprang up along the ground where he had walked, fencing them in. He returned to the center. The dog continued to prowl the outer edge of the circle.

Vörös sat down. He placed his hands on the ground and began to sing softly, tunelessly. Nothing happened for a long time and Kicsi started to stand up. The air was hot and still. A few grains of sand blew noiselessly along the ground. More joined them, and still more, and suddenly Kicsi saw that they were all moving toward the center of the circle, toward Vörös. She sat back down and put her hand out. There was no breeze. Sand hit her hand sharply, biting like bitter cold, and she pulled her hand back. Vörös continued to sing.

The grains of sand flowed together, thickened, became clay. The clay grew under Vörös's hands. As he sang he pulled it from the ground, forming it, shaping it, giving it texture, calling it to him. Red rivers grew at his feet, humping out of the ground, flowing into pools. He stood.

The pools grew slowly. Wet clay touched the hem of Kicsi's dress and she moved away, toward the edge. Beyond the circle everything looked shapeless and pale. The forest, the paths, the sun wavered as though they were woven into a tapestry hanging in the wind. She walked closer to the white line, trying to see. The dog turned to her and growled low in its throat, rumbling like a distant train. Vörös looked at her and she sat down quickly.

Vörös raised his hands and began another song, this one fast and full of melody. Air brushed past Kicsi's cheek, moving toward his hands. The wind grew stronger, quicker, spinning about Vörös, tossing his clothes, his hair. The wind howled like mourners. Vörös stood steadily, his mouth opening and closing in the words of the song, but he could not be heard.

The clay spun around the whirlwind. Higher and higher it rose, spinning itself out like rope, until it had grown past the tops of the trees. Vörös stopped the wind then, letting his hands fall to his sides, and the clay fell slowly to earth, folding back upon itself in layers. The clay stood still, an unformed shape in the middle of the circle.

Vörös sang softly, coaxingly, to the clay, like a mother singing to her child. The clay began to shape itself, to flow, to change its outlines. It formed for itself a head, an arm, a leg.

Suddenly Kicsi saw that all Vörös's magic was based on illusion. With his song he sought to beguile the clay into thinking it was a man. He sang to it of man-things: of hard work and sleep, of sun and rain, snow and mist, of comfort and pain. Come away, he sang. Be clay no more. Be a man.

The clay took one slow step toward Vörös. Then it toppled forward slowly, falling with no sound. One of its legs lay twisted under it at an impossible angle.

Vörös bent over the clay form. He straightened the leg, smoothed out the damage it had suffered in the fall. Then he sat back, staring off at the forest. The protective white line had disappeared and everything outside the circle was as clear as before.

“What is it?” said Kicsi. “Is it a golem?”

Vörös looked at her sharply. He seemed surprised that she was still there. “Yes,” he said. His voice was hoarse.

“I've heard stories about golems,” Kicsi said, “Erzsébet's father tells them. There was a rabbi somewhere in Prague—I forget his name—who made a golem to protect the people. He was alive, but he couldn't talk. The golem, I mean. Is that what you were trying to do?” She paused, looked at the still clay form. “Why didn't it work?”

“It needs more words,” said Vörös.

“What do you mean?”

“More words,” Vörös repeated, as if he thought that Kicsi had not heard him.

“I don't—I don't understand.” She looked at him. He was very white; against his pale skin his scar gleamed like a sword. His blue eyes were large and expressionless. “Oh. You're tired. I'm sorry. I'll go home now.”

“Yes,” said Vörös. “Please.”

“Can I—can I come back tomorrow?”

Vörös nodded.

“All right. Good-bye.” She walked away slowly, stopped, and turned around. Vörös had slumped against the golem, his eyes closed. “Good-bye,” she said softly.

It was late when she finally came home. The family had started supper. “Kicsi,” said Sarah. “There you are. You've gotten stains all over your dress. How on earth did you manage that? Where have you been? Erzsébet's mother told me she'd seen you going to the forest.”

Kicsi said nothing. She slipped quietly into her place at the table.

“Maybe she's got a boyfriend,” said Magda.

“Don't be silly,” said Kicsi.

“Kicsi's got a boyfriend,” said Ilona. “Kicsi's got—”

“Be quiet!” said Kicsi.

“Yes, please,” said Imre. “Kicsi, have you been to the forest? I'm sure your mother needs you at home. And are you doing your schoolwork?”

“Of course,” said Kicsi, thinking about that day's assignment that she had not done yet.

“I don't want you out neglecting your studies,” said Sarah. “Your father practically risked his life—we all did—so that you children could go to that school.”

“I know,” said Kicsi.

“And I don't like you going to that forest,” said Sarah. “There are—things—in that forest. It isn't safe. Your great-uncle saw his dead wife's ghost there once. And there are animals there, too. Wolves.”

“I'm very careful,” said Kicsi. “And I leave when it starts getting dark. You don't have to worry.”

“All right,” said Sarah. “But I don't like it. I wish you'd find someplace else to go. And tomorrow, I want you right here after school, so I can see you doing your schoolwork. Then you can go off to the forest.”

“But—but I can't—”

“Why? What else do you have to do?”

I can't tell you, Kicsi thought. I want to tell you about Vörös, and the clay, and the dog, but you won't believe me. Or you'll forbid me to go. And it might get back to the rabbi that Vörös hasn't left yet, and he might be—might be—No, I can't tell anyone.

“Nothing,” she said aloud. “I'll be here. You'll see.”

She hurried through her schoolwork the next day and ran straight to the forest after she was done, but still she was late getting there. Evening was near, and the day was growing cold. Vörös and the dog had already started marking out the circle. She sat a small distance away, behind a rock, out of sight of any prying eyes from the village.

Suddenly the dog stopped. He pointed his head toward the forest. His ears lay flat and he growled, showing his teeth. Vörös looked around and Kicsi, after a while, did the same. There, picking his way slowly through the trail that led from the forest, making no sound, was the rabbi.

He came to the hill and stopped, leaning on his cane. Then he began to walk again. He climbed the hill with difficulty and stopped every so often, but still he came on. He made no sound as he walked over the leaves and sand and rocks, and Kicsi shivered. Vörös did not move.

“Good day to you, traveler,” said the rabbi. He thrust his cane through the protective circle and the white line snapped apart with the sound of sparks crackling. The cane was still raised as he walked across the circle and sat down on a small rock. Then he balanced his cane against his knees, lifted his hat, and adjusted the skullcap beneath it, never once looking away from Vörös.

“Good day,” said Vörös calmly, still standing. He looked around at the dog, who stood motionless, and at Kicsi, still well hidden behind the rock.

“I suppose it can be argued,” said the rabbi, “whether this hill is indeed part of the town. During the Sabbath, when one is not supposed to travel farther than the limits of the town, it is true that no one comes here. And if this hill is not part of the town then I suppose you are safe, for I said that I would kill you if I ever saw you in the town again.”

“I suppose so,” said Vörös.

“Still,” said the rabbi, “it may be that you will go into the town again—to get food, supplies, whatever you need. And if you do—if you bother us again—I will be waiting.”

“Yes,” said Vörös.

“Don't be so calm!” said the rabbi. “Do you suppose that I want to kill you? I wish I had never seen you. Every day I watch my daughter, to see if all is well with her, and every day I give thanks to God that she is healthy and happy. But if she dies, if she dies, you are responsible for her death just as surely as if you killed her, because yours were the words of evil omen spoken at the wedding. I don't want to kill you. I just want you to leave us alone. I want you to go back to your home, if you have a home, or to wherever it is you came from. You have caused enough trouble in this town.”

“I have things that I must do here.”

“Well, then, you have been warned. I have warned you what will happen if you continue to meddle in the affairs of this town.”

“I'm not afraid of you.”

“No?” The rabbi's bushy eyebrows moved closer together. “Well, then. We shall see. I suppose you think that your knowledge of sorcery is greater than mine. It is true that you removed the curse that I set on Imre's household, but that was only a very minor piece of spell-work. I was not expecting someone like you to happen along.”

“I go where I must.”

“Hmmm?” said the rabbi. He raised his eyebrows and looked at Vörös with clear, expressionless gray eyes. “Perhaps there are other forces at work here. I was not expecting that. Perhaps you work for the devil? Hmmm?”

“You know that isn't true.”

“No. Well. You're just a troublemaker, as I first suspected. Perhaps you think you can win against me because you broke my spell of darkness at the wedding. Again, that was a very minor thing. I was testing your power.”

“I knew you were,” said Vörös. “Though you have never thanked me for making the cup whole again.”