The Golem Part 5

"No, sir. It's a steamboat. Buried on your land. And probably over a hundred years old."

CHAPTER TWO.

July 1880 I.

Moonlight frosted the cemetery as the two men dug. Their shovels bit into the earth, the gritty sound maintaining a steady synchroneity which Czanek found aggravating. He kept looking over his shoulder.

Jihome's shovel sunk deep. "What's troubling you?"

Czanek paused. "The sound. The Sibley camp's not much more than a mile away," came the younger man's whispered accent. "It's feasible we could be overheard."

Jihome scoffed, lifting out another shovelful. "There's no quiet way to be about this, so just be about it and have faith."

Have faith, Czanek thought of the irony. Have faith digging up bodies...

All that lit their travails was the moon; they didn't dare light a lamp. When Jihome sunk his blade again, he touched wood. "The ignorant roughs of the camp have little regard for their dead."

"In what way?" Czanek asked.

"Their sin of sloth compels them to dig as shallowly as possible...but that's a good thing for us, is it not?"

Czanek looked paranoically over his shoulder again. "Sooner I'm gone from this ghastly place, the better."

"Set yourself at ease, brother." He stopped digging a moment and smiled. "Our redeemer will protect us, for it is written in the Sefer."

Would he? Czanek hoped so. Lower deeds such as this he understood to be necessary-and even holy, considering. The Conner clan'd kill us sure if they caught us...

"See? Barely a foot of earth over these coffins." Jihome smiled in the moon. "How's yours coming?"

Czanek peered at his work; he'd nearly dug a foot himself. There were no tombstones here, just patches of tabby inscribed with the names and dates of the interred. Tabby was crude concrete that was poured into a shallow hole at the head of the grave, and the inscriptions, such as these, were often forged by a bereaved finger. Czanek focused until the moonlight let him read the plot he was exhuming. elsbeth conner, mar. 1860ajuly 1880. She'd been buried only yesterday, a wench and a thief. Jihome's plot was that of another surly goy, one Walter Caudil, a wh.o.r.emonger. He, too, had been buried yesterday.

The Gaon had instructed them quite concisely. "You must open their graves before they've had much chance to rot, for their corruption is what we need..."

Czanek got down to the woman's coffin top, and began to clear it off. Jihome had already pried up the lid on the one called Caudil.

"Here we are," Jihome said. He leaned on his shovel for a rest, looking down at the dour corpse. "The sc.u.m looks quite at home down there. And thank our redeemer there's not much odor yet." He began to tamp his pipe.

"I'm right behind you," Czanek said, and shovel-bladed the lid out of its seat. The creaking sound unnerved him, but when the moonlight fell on the contents of the flimsy pine casket, his fear about being detected fell to the wayside.

This one's something... Czanek scarcely remembered her when she'd been alive; Conner and all his dirty charcoaling clan kept their contact with Lowensporters to a minimum. But...

Jihome's match flared as he attempted to light his pipe; meanwhile, Czanek found his gaze so taken by the comeliness of the corpse that he lowered himself into the grave. Why oughtn't I? came the crudely immediate thought. The girl's blonde tousles glimmered, the dead bosom still ample beneath the cotton gown.

Czanek ripped the gown open.

"What are ya doin'?" Jihome scolded.

Czanek looked up in objection. "She's a goy harlot, who mocked us all with the rest of her filthy clan. I see no reason why we shouldn't indulge ourselves-there's hardly even a stink yet."

Jihome shook his head. "The Gaon said nothing of it."

"And didn't forbid it, neither," Czanek almost raised his voice in the deepening night. He kept glancing to the dead woman's bared b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the plump flesh like dough freshly made at the baker's. Czanek tore the gown open more, to reveal the tight stomach and- Jihome slapped Czanek's hat off. "You'll do as I say lest it'll be noted to the Gaon. We'll take no liberties such as what you're thinkin', unless we're told it's right."

Czanek simmered, and sat back at the grave's edge. "But they've done likewise to us, many times."

"With no proof, man. Like the Gaon spake. We obey the law..."

Blast it, Czanek thought. It's only fitting we do to the Conners as the Conners've done to us. The fight started with them...

Jihome climbed down into the man's grave, with a look of disapproval. "We do as we're told, by the Gaon, for the Gaon knows best. Now unless you want a thrashin', check the b.i.t.c.h for valuables and her foul mouth for gold."

"Yes," Czanek obeyed. He stooped, and at least was able to treat his hands to the feel of her body, but the flimsy garment contained nothing of value, nor did she wear any jewelry. This was not surprising, for Conner's clan of thieves were p.i.s.s-poor. Two fingers gritty with grave dirt pried open her mouth, but no gold sparkled. His hands slid across the vile woman's b.r.e.a.s.t.s ...

"Here ya go, Czanek. A gift from our friend here," Jihome said, and threw something small.

Czanek caught it out of reflex, then paled: a set of shabby wooden dentures still moist from the dead rogue's spit. "You're a right b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Jihome!" He flung the dirty thing away.

Jihome gave a hearty laugh.

"And now your laughin' will awaken all the Conners in the camp, man!"

"Calm yourself," Jihome said, but then in an instant he and Czanek went rigid.

Their eyes shot wide in the moonlight.

Footsteps were approaching.

Polten and Corton each raped the woman twice, in the dark alley behind the row houses. It had been the mutton-chopped Polten who'd knocked her out when she'd turned the corner off the main street. The darkness hid their deeds well. Both men were charcoalers for the Conner clan.

"We had a right good time with this'un, huh?" Corton commented as he refastened his st.u.r.dy tent-canvas trousers.

Polten leaned against the wall, a sated smile on his scarred face. "Yeah. And ya know what Lowen's Jews call us, Corton? They call us goyim. It means *dirty animal' or somethin' like that." He nudged the unconscious woman with a booted foot. "So let's just hope our goyim j.i.s.m puts a baby in this'un's belly."

Polten liked the idea. "If'n she only had some money on her, though."

"Ain't lookin' like anyone's about here," the other man observed and pointed a thumb to the dark window. "Whoever lives here's probably at that weird chapel'a theirs. Synagogue or what ever the hail they call it. The night's young, ain't it?"

Ain't no reason not to go in through this window, Polten reasoned. Rumor was the Jews had lots of silver and gold they'd brought with them from Europe somewhere. "Wouldn't even really be stealin', I don't reckon."

"You kiddin' me? They stolt our land, then somehow wrangle a deed for all of it. It's more ours than theirs, ya ask me."

"Yeah..."

Never mind that the Jewish population of Lowensport had properly paid for the land. Polten and Corton would have none of that.

Corton got his knife blade under the window, but just as he would force it open- "Get back!" Polten whispered.

Lantern light suddenly bloomed in the window, the owner no doubt having just arrived home.

"Who's-"

"Shh! Quiet..."

Several more oil lanterns were lit. Polten and Corton each edged an eye in the window.

Two women, older, in dark frocks and white bonnets. They chatted in their own language as they stoked a pile of glowing embers in a wide fireplace equipped with cooking brackets. High on the wall, an emblem caught both Corton's and Polten's eyes: a fancifully painted board showing a pyramidal configuration sitting atop another such configuration, only the latter was upside down.

"What'cha reckon's that there drawin' on the wall?" Corton whispered.

Two pyramids, Polten mused. One right-side up, one upside down. They were joined at the base. And what had been drawn within each of them? "Don't rightly know. Some Jew design I guess."

"But I thought the sign for the Jews were that six-pointed star we always see 'em wearin'. And then-" Corton thought on. "And what they done drawn in them things looks like faces, don't it?"

"Looks like it."

"But why's the faces so dark?"

Something about the image gave Polten a quick shiver. But, yes, he was sure the Jewish sign was the six-pointed star.

"And, ya know," Corton whispered further, "I keep hearin' ever now'n then that Lowen's people ain't really Jews at all, they was just born Jews, wherever they come from in Europe."

Polten looked at him. "I've heard similar."

"They ain't Jews, they'se just actin' like it."

Actin', Polten considered. But-s.h.i.t. What I care what they believe?

Now one of the women went to some cupboards and slid out a pair of large Dutch ovens.

"They're cookin'," Polten said. "Must be fixin' ta kettle-bake some corn bread."

Corton's eyes thinned. "Yeah, but ain't it an odd time'a night to be doin' that?"

"It surely is, but..." Polten squinted deeper into the room. "There ain't no men in there. Why not we go inside like we planned, thrash these two biddies, and see what we can pinch?"

Corton thought well of the idea. Or maybe just say to h.e.l.l with it, huh? Kill 'em, then spread them fireplace coals and burn the whole place down. Who'd know?

Before either of them could embark on that endeavor, Polten elbowed his colleague hard. "Look, there!" he whispered. "What's that? Is that a-?"

Corton had already seen it. The woman near the cupboard was placing something into one of the Dutch ovens, and Corton gulped when he realized what it was.

A dog's head.

"What they h.e.l.l're those women doin', Corton?"

Next, the woman placed a second dog's head in the other Dutch oven. Then she calmly carried both ovens to the fireplace and sat them in the bed of coals. With a small shovel, she dispersed more coals on the ovens' tops.

"They're cookin' dog heads, man!"

"I ain't never heard'a such a thing," Polten admitted. He'd eaten dog, sure-ribs and loins and backstrap. But never the head.

"Must be some Jew thing," Corton ventured. "Or somethin' they do in Europe or wherever in blazes they come from."

"Don't much care what they cook." Corton got his blade back under the window. "We go in quick, kill 'em, then search the place, okay?"

He began to jiggle the knife but suddenly got the impression that Polten was no longer by his side. "Come on, get'cher knife out'n help me with this window..."

Polten made no response. When Corton glared over his shoulder, his jaw dropped.

Corton had been garrotted and hung up on a nail on an opposite wall. Even in moonlight, his face could be seen swelling. His fingers fruitlessly tried to dig under the garrotte to relieve the pressure, while his feet kicked a foot above the ground.

"What in blue bl-"

Corton's knife was cracked out of his hand as shadows converged. Before he could bellow, his elbows were chicken-winged behind his back and- WHAP!.

-his teeth were knocked out with a club. Meanwhile, more clubs pummeled Polten's groin as he hung helpless against the wall. As Corton was mauled by the barely seen crowd of men, he detected only glimpses of things through his dizzied vision. Other figures farther down unlashed and revived the woman they'd raped, and hustled her away. The figures who continued to bludgeon Corton's groin appeared to be wearing dark hoods and cloaks. Then- WHAP!.

-a similar bludgeon ruptured Corton's t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es in his trousers.

The explosion of pain shut down Corton's ability to even think, not that he could've thought much longer anyway. Hands nearly bodiless leapt from the dark cloaks to beat him in s.n.a.t.c.hes. Corton's knife was retrieved and, first, rammed through his trousers into his a.n.u.s, then dragged hard upward between the crushed testes. Blood poured like an open spigot.

Before Corton died he was fairly sure he saw his innards pulled out of his abdomen and slathered in his face...

The four figures glided slowly down the cobbled street. Angles of moonlight edged over slanted roofs, and wood smoke tinged the air. The men of this select group, each in hoods and cloaks, said nothing as they proceeded from door to door, pa.s.sing dimly lit windows and empty wooden porches. Save for the mill, the town was sealed up, as it had been for some time now due to the evil deeds of the persecutors.

Evil for evil, one of the figures thought.

Beyond the foremost rows of houses, the river's formidable current could be heard, along with the mill's great buzzingsteam-pistonedsaws.

The four figures glided on, one of them swaying a thurible of incense. All of the men prayed silently to themselves.

The queue stopped before the next house. One figure mounted the steps and knocked on the door, which creaked open in a moment.

"The time has come," spoke the figure, "as the Gaon has spoken. Through the power of our redeemer we must deliver ourselves from the hands of our persecutors just as Moses delivered the Tribes from the slavery of the pharaoh."

A hand emerged from the doorway and offered a block of some kind, wrapped in burlap. The block was perhaps half the size of a brick.

The figure nodded, then returned to his cloaked companions.

Through the course of the night, this holy gathering would stop at every house in town to collect from each a portion of the material-some wrapped in burlap, others in jars or tobacco tins.

Each portion was actually a piece of a substance called, in their native tongue, hilna, which was also known as clay.