“Knew what?” a third
voice, that of a man, but as if spoken from the far side of a long
tunnel, interrupted their conversation. The voice was squeaky,
nervous, and grating to Heraclix's little ears (and Pomp's very
little ears).
“Who's there?”
Heraclix spun around in the direction of the voice. Pomp went
invisible, which was her natural state, truth be told. She preferred
to stay visible around her friend, since she knew it helped him to
know that she was there. But the sudden voice threw her into a
defensive posture.
“An interested
observer,” came the voice.
It seemed familiar to
Pomp. She was sure that she had heard the voice before.
“And what do you
observe?” Heraclix asked, “seeing that we cannot observe you?”
He searched in vain for the source of the voice, which seemed just
beyond the lamp light.
“I observe a giant, a
monster, accompanied by a little winged spirit, or, should I say,
sprite?”
“I don't know what
you're talking about. There's only me here,” Heraclix lied.
“That's because it, no,
she, is hovering in the air just above and behind your head.”
Heraclix turned to look,
but did not see anything.
“I still don't see
anything,” he said, telling the truth while still trying to defend
his friend.
“She's right there!”
the voice said. “Up in the air, making obscene gestures at me and
pulling faces.”
“Ghost,” Pomp said
with a touch of disappointment. “You can see me when the living
can't. You're a ghost. Or a devil!”
“No devil,” the voice
came closer. “Just an old resident of these parts.”
From the gloom, near the
edge of the flickering light, Heraclix could see the specter
materialize. He, or it, more properly (since gender didn't do
you any good without a body, and Pomp knew that if this being ended
up in hell, he would become an “it”), was old, bearded, dressed
in moth-eaten rabbinical robes that were embroidered with strange
symbols and letters that carried sinister undertones. The ghost's
eyes drooped over triple-folded bags, as if the spirit had kept vigil
for some long-sought miracle, sacrificing sleep so as to not miss the
epiphanic moment. The smile that creased the thing's face held a hint
of perversity in its corners, an unnatural glee that bespoke
fanaticism of some type. The face made Pomp weary and Heraclix
uncomfortable.
“You!” Pomp said.
“You want Heraclix . . . and me . . . to be your slaves! You tried
for a long . . . time is the word . . . to wake Heraclix up so you
could make him do what you wanted.”
“Too late for all
that,” the ghost admitted. “Or I am late, if you catch my
drift.”
“I saw you . . . die.”
Even after all her experiences, Pomp found the concept of death
difficult to comprehend.
“And now, I get to see
you live,” the ghost said with barely disguised pride, as if it had
been the cause of the pair's liberty from their magical bindings. “I
have watched and waited for this moment for such a long time. You,”
it pointed to Heraclix, “are even more terrifying awake than you
were asleep. That's saying something! And you,” he turned to Pomp,
clearly seeing her, though she would be invisible to living eyes,
“you are nothing like what I imagined. I was led to believe that
you were a fiery efreet, a bottled genie who would grant me my wishes
if I freed you.”
“Who told you this?”
Heraclix asked.
“The man who wanted you
stored here: Gerhart Storm.”
“And what became of
Storm?”
“I'm not altogether
sure,” the ghost said. “But something tells me I'm about to find
out.”
“Speak plain,” Pomp
demanded. “No games. What do you mean?”
“I'm being drawn
somewhere,” the ghost said. Already, its glowing figure was
beginning to stretch toward the trapdoor, as if an invisible hand was
pulling him by a stray ectoplasmic thread to another destination.
“I've got a bad feeling
about where I'm going.” Any hint of self-assuredness had left the
ghost, replaced by a deep fear that manifested itself in those tired
eyes, growing like tulips out of the winter dirt. “But I think I
might find Storm there, if you'll follow meeee!”
The ghost's body
attenuated, pulled like taffy down through the trapdoor.
Pomp bolted, following
the ghost at full speed. Heraclix clambered over the floor and leaped
down after, crashing through the ladder and landing on the synagogue
floor. He saw Pomp zip through an open door. He sprang to the doorway
with an agility that seemed impossible to one of his size, then
sprinted off into the night, careful to keep Pomp, who had made
herself fully visible to aid her friend, in his sights. The full moon
had crested overhead, making her wings shine, even in the dark
architectural canyons of Josefov. She flew so fast that it seemed
like she left a white blur behind her. Whether the trace of her
movement was real or the after-effects of 150 years of slumber on his
vision, Heraclix could not be sure. All he knew was that, as he
followe it, he could see her, ofttimes only seeing her feet
disappearing around a corner ahead, just as he emerged from a corner
behind.
Heraclix became heedless
of direction, careening through alleyways, over piles of junk and
tomcats, and down Prague's cobblestone streets.
Gustav Meyrink, fresh
from his drunken vomit (never, ever eat sweetcakes after that much
wine!), emerged from a darkened alleyway into the shadow-cut
moonlight. It had been a rough night, full of inebriated visions both
miraculous and terrifying, all of them unbelievable and seemingly
silly when moments of lucidity cleared the alcohol fumes from his
brain. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a skull-splitting headache
lurked. He knew it was there, waiting for morning to dig its claws
into his head. But he welcomed the prospect of pain, of something
that would cut through his soul-numbed phantasmagorical dreams,
something real.
Something like the man
that he now saw running down the street, the man dressed in rags that
had fallen out of fashion over a century ago. The man who became
impossibly large, the closer he got. The man with one glaring rd eye
and a tattoo on his forehead.
Only that was no tattoo.
It was a smudged word, a word written in Hebrew letters, from his
strangest dreams, which would only mean . . .
Oh, no!
The giant stopped in the
street long enough to cast a glance of Gustav the drunk. The monster
seemed to recognize the writer.
Gustav passed out, his
body hitting the street just as the golem rejoined the chase.
Heraclix ducked through a
doorway, entering a derelict building. It was in even worse condition
than the surrounding block of cracked-wall, teetering flats.
He recognized the place
at once.
“No!” he said aloud.
Pomp stepped out from a
hole in what appeared to be a bricked up doorway.
“Yes,” Pomp said.
“The ghost goes down there,” she pointed to the area through the
hole, beyond the bricked-up wall.
“Where else?”
Heraclix said in resignation. He sighed heavily. “Well, friend
Pomp, once more into the breech!”
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