The Red Magician (7 page)

“Did you do that? No. I know you didn't do that. I don't know why, but you want to destroy us—my family, my daughter. Someone got another cup for us.”

“Very well then. Think what you please about me. But you know that no one left the courtyard.”

“No,” said the rabbi. He was almost speaking to himself. “You want to destroy us. I don't know why. I don't know who sent you. But I must destroy you first.” He looked up at Vörös and spoke louder. “Ah, but you have one advantage. You know my name, traveler, and I do not know yours.”

“I am called Vörös.”

The rabbi laughed. “You know better than that! You have survived many years, sorcerer—and I sense that you are old, older than you look—and so you must at least know the importance of names. With the proper names one can control all the angels of heaven and the demons of hell. It is said that the prophet Elijah knew seventeen of the names of the demoness Lilith, the child-stealer, and so kept her away from houses with newborns.”

Vörös said nothing.

“So, then, what is your name?” the rabbi went on. “There should be some way to discover it. Let's see. You say your name is Vörös, and Vörös means red. Red is
adom
in Hebrew. Our father Adam was so called because he was made from the red earth—earth much like this.” He spread his hand over the red clay. “So perhaps you are Adam? But no, it says in the first book of the Torah that Adam, though he lived a long life, finally died, like all men. So you cannot be Adam. But we shall see. I will discover your true name sooner or later. I do not like to be at a disadvantage.”

Vörös smiled. “Perhaps you will,” he said.

“Perhaps!” said the rabbi. “You underestimate me, traveler. You say you are not frightened of me. Then yield up your true name to me now. It should be nothing for one such as you, who has no fear.”

“I am not a fool,” said Vörös, still smiling.

“No,” said the rabbi. “I thought not. I do believe I could destroy you if I knew your true name.”

“I don't want it to come to that between us,” said Vörös.

“No? Good. Then stay out of my village and away from my people. And one other thing. I hear from the villagers that you have been spending your time with Imre's youngest daughter.”

The rabbi looked around the hill, taking in everything with his wide gray eyes. Kicsi hunched further behind the rock.

“Kicsi?” said Vörös.

“Yes, that's the one. I don't want you to see her again. You're a bad influence on her. I don't want her exposed to the black sorcery, especially at so young an age.”

Vörös smiled. “I am not a black sorcerer.”

“So you say. Keep away from her. I am not the only one concerned about her. Her father, too, is worried.”

“He has nothing to worry about.”

“I hope you are right,” said the rabbi. “I must go now. And again I warn you. If I find you in the village again, I will kill you.”

“Good day,” said Vörös.

The rabbi stood and walked slowly down the hillside. The dog, who had stood motionless during the exchange between Vörös and the rabbi, began to twitch as though released from a spell. He watched the rabbi as he faded into the evening. Then he whined, and looked at Vörös.

“It's all right,” said Vörös. “He has not said anything I did not know.”

“Vörös!” said Kicsi. She ran out from behind the rock and hugged him, holding on to him tightly. “Vörös, he is going to kill you! And what will he do to me, if he finds me here with you? Is he going to kill me too? I'm frightened, Vörös, I'm so frightened.”

“Don't worry,” said Vörös soothingly. “I've told you not to worry. He won't harm you.”

“Why is he so angry with you? You didn't—you didn't do what he says, did you? Curse his daughter?”

“No. No, he is angry with me because I see something he does not see, or has seen and forgotten.”

Kicsi stepped away from him. “Can I come back tomorrow?”

Vörös laughed. “I thought you were frightened.”

“I—I am. But I want to see what will happen. Can I come back?”

“How do you know that anything will happen?”

“Oh.” She paused. “I don't—I guess I don't really know. Will the rabbi be back?”

“I think so.”

“Can I watch?”

“All right,” said Vörös. “But stay behind the rock again, exactly as you did today. That was a very wise thing you did, when you did not move from the rock.”

She smiled at his praise. “I was too frightened to move,” she said.

He laughed. “All right then. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Kicsi looked around her. In the twilight the golem was no more than another stone. “Why didn't he see the golem?”

“The protection on the circle still extended that far,” said Vörös. “There was a spell on him so that he was unable to see it. But I think,” he said, looking toward the setting sun, “that I shall let him see it tomorrow. It will not hurt to let him know what I have in mind.”

“I'd better go now,” said Kicsi. “It's very late.”

“Yes,” said Vörös. “Good-bye.” He called after her as she ran down the hillside. “And good luck!”

The rabbi arrived the next day, shortly after Kicsi had taken her place behind the rock. Vörös had not put up the protective circle, and so the rabbi found him bent over the still clay form.

“Ah,” said the rabbi, seating himself on a rock. “So you are making a golem.”

Vörös said nothing.

“It is interesting that you should attempt that,” said the rabbi. “It has not been done successfully since 1580, as far as I know. Yet you think you will succeed, of course, or you would not have gone to the trouble. May I ask what you are making him for?”

Vörös looked up. He was very pale; even his eyes seemed to have lost color. Kicsi thought, shocked, that he looked as though he had not slept all night. Perhaps he had given the golem more words, as he said he would. “To protect the village,” he said.

“I protect the village, not you,” the rabbi said emphatically. “Do you think the people here do not know that? I am their teacher, their adviser, their”—he looked to the golem again, and his voice, though lowered, carried to where Kicsi sat concealed by the rock—“magician. We do not need you here among us to create trouble. I am afraid you see monsters where none exist.”

“I see a man in my dreams,” said Vörös. “I see him often. A man with no teeth.”

The rabbi looked up, startled.

“Ah,” said Vörös, “you see him too.”

“So what if I do? They are dreams, nothing more.”

“No, rabbi,” Vörös said. “They are not just dreams. You know what they are. Please, tell the people they are not safe here. They listen to you, not to me.”

“They listen to me,” the rabbi said. “They listen because I have never advised them wrongly. What will they say if I suddenly tell them to leave their homes, their synagogue, their village—all on the strength of a dream?”

Vörös looked at him. Light broke against his eyes and he looked as though he were seeing some terror. “Rabbi,” he said levelly, “they will thank you.”

The rabbi shrugged. “I have lived here longer than you,” he said. “I know my people, and you do not.” He bent over and peered at the golem.

“I see you have nothing written on the golem's forehead,” the rabbi said. “I know that you understand the importance of names. I am curious. Tell me. There are many schools of thought concerning the word that should be written on the forehead of a golem. Which word will you choose?”

“I do only as I have been taught,” said Vörös.

“Ah! And who taught you? That would be an interesting thing to learn. There are those who teach that the Holy Name of God should be written on the golem's forehead to bring him to life and that to take away the gift of life one must erase the Name.” The rabbi paused. Vörös said nothing. “And then there are those who believe that the word
emes
, truth, should be the word written on the forehead, and that to take away life one must erase the first letter, the
aleph
, so that the word on his forehead is now the word for death.

“Ah, so you will not speak,” said the rabbi. “Very well then. I shall be back tomorrow to see the progress you have made.
Sholom aleichem.
”

The rabbi stood and began to walk down the hill. Vörös spoke softly to the golem, swaying back and forth, his words falling like rain falling on bare ground. The rabbi turned back, puzzled.

“You are a very rude man,” he said. “I trust we will be rid of you soon.”

Vörös stopped the flow of his words. He picked up a sharpened stick from the ground and wrote a word on the golem's forehead. Then he moved back so that the rabbi could read the word he had written. It was Adam.

“That is blasphemy!” said the rabbi. “You are not God. You cannot play like this with creation!”

The rabbi stepped back. His eyes were bright with rage. He lifted his cane and pointed it at Vörös.

For a moment nothing happened. Then the world exploded. The forest tore free of the sky and the sun skittered away like a top. Kicsi held on tightly to the rock and closed her eyes. A noise filled the world, drowning it in thunder, and went on and on forever. She lived alone in an agony of darkness and sound. She opened her eyes.

Vörös lay on the ground, not moving. The golem got up, slowly, forcing itself to its knees, its feet. It walked unsteadily across the moving ground toward the rabbi.

The rabbi stepped back once more. A look of horror was on his face and he lost control of his spell. The world slowly fit itself together again. He took one step more, then drew himself up and faced the golem. He held up his cane, pointed it at the golem. Suddenly everything stood out sharply in a great flash of light. The earth tossed once more.

The golem's hand rose slowly and covered his forehead and fell down, lifeless. The rabbi's fire had erased the first letter of its name. The word on its forehead now spelled
dam
, blood.

Blood spilled slowly from its wound, blood that could barely be seen against the red of the clay. More blood came, and more, spilling over the golem's arms and legs and on to the ground. The golem wavered. It fell.

Vörös stood. He held his left hand to his forehead, as though he had been hit in the same place as the golem. With his right hand he held tightly to the sharpened stick. He shouted and flung the stick at the rabbi. The ground burst into flames at the rabbi's feet.

The rabbi stepped back. He passed his cane over the flames and they fell away. Then he moved forward, his face twisted into a smile.

“It may be that I will not need your name to defeat you, eh, traveler?”

“It may be,” said Vörös, breathing heavily. Blood dripped from his forehead into his eyes, and he wiped them with his sleeve.

“You put a lot of yourself into the golem, did you not, traveler?” said the rabbi.

“You know I did,” said Vörös.

The rabbi came on. “I am fond of my daughter, too, traveler.”

“Rabbi,” said Vörös. He swallowed. “Then we are even, you and I. More then even, for your daughter lives and my creation is dead.” He pointed to the golem. It could now barely be distinguished from the earth.

The rabbi laughed. “But I love my daughter. What do you know of love, traveler? Did you love your golem? I do not think so.”

The rabbi raised his cane again. Once again the earth was forced apart. Boulders ran down the hillside. Trees fell crashing to the forest floor.

Vörös raised his hands. With an obvious effort he calmed the trees, the hill.

The rabbi came forward. “You are weakening, are you not, sorcerer?”

Vörös moved back. He stumbled over a stone and was down so suddenly that Kicsi had not seen it happen. The rabbi stood over him.

“Is it true that you think that you are God?” said the rabbi.

“No,” said Vörös.

“Once you said you were not afraid,” said the rabbi. “What do you say now?”

“I am still not afraid,” said Vörös. He tried to stand, but could not. “Kill me now.”

The dog moved suddenly. He grew as hazy as fire smoke. In his place stood a tall man in a long robe and brightly colored cap.

“Who—who are you?” said the rabbi. His eyes moved from Vörös to the man.

“I am called Akan,” said the man. His voice was very deep. “You will not have heard my real name.”

“That does not matter to me,” said the rabbi. He raised his cane a third time. “Your friend lies bound and helpless. In a few minutes he will be dead.”

“No!” said Akan. He raised his hands. Flames leapt up in a circle around the rabbi, hemming him in. Closer and closer they came to him. Kicsi thought she saw his long coat catch fire.

The rabbi twisted like a bird caught in a cage. Through the red walls of fire Kicsi could see him raise and lower his cane. She could feel the heat of the fire.

He cried out one long, despairing word and turned and threw his cane through the fire at Akan. The other man screamed and clutched his head. Then he was gone. The flames went out.

The rabbi stood a while, trying to catch his breath. Then he said, “Ah, that was intended for your friend Vörös.” He turned back to where Vörös had fallen, but Vörös was not there. He laughed softly. “So, you have escaped me once again. No, I am not angry. I only hope that you do not come back. I hope that we have seen the last of you.” He bent down and picked up his cane. It was barely singed.

He walked with difficulty, leaning on his cane, to where Akan had last stood. “Your friend was better at withstanding me, I see. I did not mean for this to happen. Him I would have taken apart piece by piece and thrown to the winds, as I did you. But I did not bear a grudge against you. You I did not know.”