The Jinni sat on the uppermost of the Amherst’s platforms, his legs folded, gazing out over the edge.
He’d spent the hours since Maryam’s departure in unaccustomed stillness, all sense of urgency vanished. What had made the change? he wondered. Was it because, one way or another, his years of seclusion were about to end? Or was it the knowledge that Maryam herself had made that seclusion possible? Yes, he’d shut the doors and covered the windows, but it was Maryam who’d turned their eyes away. It shouldn’t make a difference, he told himself. And yet it did. It meant that everything he’d built was her gift to him, as well as his own creation.
What might she have said, he wondered, if he’d told her about the jinniyeh’s offer? What advice would she have given him? He tried to imagine himself at her coffee-house, unburdening his troubles among the backgammon players and narghile smokers. Ought he to stay and face whatever happened when his neighbors wrenched the doors open? Or should he go to the desert, and the Cursed City?
But the Maryam in his mind remained silent. Perhaps he didn’t know her well enough to imagine what she might say. Or perhaps she’d already given him all the advice that she could.
He looked up. A glow had appeared, beyond the arches.
He was waiting for her at the edge of the uppermost platform.
—Jinni, she greeted him, did you miss me?
“Yes,” he said.
She hovered near him, just over the edge.—I see why you like it here. The currents are exquisite. Well, lover, will you come back to the desert with me, as the story says?
He put out a hand; she curled herself around it. “You’ll tire of me,” he said, smiling slightly.
She took form beside him, drew him close. “Perhaps,” she murmured in his ear. “Or you’ll tire of me first, and lie with all the Bedu in turn.”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t.”
Her fingers tugged at the leather apron-string. “You might change your mind when you see them. Some of the women are quite—”
He moved her hand away. “That’s not what I meant.”
Startled, she pulled back. He appeared to debate with himself, then said, “I took a human lover once, not long after I arrived here. I saw her in a park one day, and decided to seduce her. I didn’t think . . . I wasn’t careful enough. I made her ill, permanently. I’m not certain how it happened, I only know that I was the cause. She left the country, after that. I don’t even know if she’s still alive. But I swore to myself that it could never happen again.”
“Then—you’ve never had another human lover, after all this time?”
“No. And I never will.”
She watched him, schooling her expression to the mildest interest. “But surely this is too extreme a punishment. You felt no malice towards this woman, it was merely an unfortunate accident. And besides, if you don’t know what’s happened to her, then how can you be certain of the outcome? You might have changed her life for the better, in the end.”
He frowned. “How could I possibly?”
“The illness might’ve strengthened her will, even as it weakened her body.”
He seemed to consider this—but then shook his head. “She was barely more than a child, and I tore her life apart. Even if I somehow ‘strengthened her will,’ I can’t believe she’d thank me for it.” He was gazing past her, as though expecting to see Sophia floating beyond the platform, shivering in the updraft.
The jinniyeh stepped closer, drawing his attention back. “You’ve denied yourself so much pleasure, all because of a single unhappy experience. Have you always been so . . . severe?”
He smiled, and ran an idle hand through her hair. “Not always. There was a time when I wouldn’t have cared in the least. Sometimes I wish I still didn’t.”
“The desert will help you,” she whispered. “I will help you. You can be what you were again, once you’re gone from this place.”
A frown touched his forehead. “In some ways, yes. But I’ll still be bound.”
“Yes, of course—but your hiding cripples you twice over! There’s no blame in this, I of all jinn understand. But imagine the freedom, the relief, not to wonder with each sunrise, Is this the day that one of them learns what I am?”
He’d been drawing her toward him, his hands sliding around her waist; now he paused. “There were a few who learned my secret, over the years. They helped me stay hidden, in fact.”
“Arbeely,” she said, remembering the name from Sophia’s scrap of paper. “He was the tinsmith?”
“Yes. And . . . there was a woman. A baker. Her name was Chava.”
She frowned, thinking. “The tinsmith had reason to protect you, you were his livelihood—but what about the woman? Why did she keep your secret?”
He smiled, uncomfortably. “Must there be a reason?”
“There is always a reason.” Was he so very naive?
“Perhaps we were merely friends.”
She chuckled at that. “I see. ‘Friends.’ And where are they now, these friends of yours?”
“Arbeely is dead,” he said. “And Chava is . . . gone. We argued, and parted company, years ago. I wasn’t a particularly good friend to her. To either of them.”
“Of course you weren’t,” she told him. “You were attempting the impossible. Humans and jinn . . . we aren’t meant to be ‘friends.’ We aren’t meant to be anything at all.”
He looked up. “But you and I are?”
“Yes! Can’t you see it?” She grasped him by the wrist, her fingers around the cuff.
He was silent a moment, his eyes upon his wrist, where she held him. Then he said, “Jinniyeh, you must know that if I go back with you, then yes, I will change. But you will change, too.”
She frowned at this. “What do you mean? Change, how?”
“I’ll influence you, without even meaning to. I’ll use some ridiculous human figure of speech, perhaps, and it’ll take root in your mind even as you curse me for it—and one day, instead of telling me that you’re angrier than a ghul’s mother, out will come, It makes my blood boil. It can’t help but happen.”
She laughed, uneasy. “But that makes no sense. I would never say such a thing.”
“No, not at first. But as time goes on . . .”
“Then simply don’t,” she said, growing irritated. “Forget these ‘ridiculous human figures of speech,’ and I needn’t change. All will be well.”
He shook his head. “But then I’d only be hiding again.”
She bristled at that. “Hiding? Merely because I ask that you speak like a jinni, as much as you’re able?”
“I understand your anger,” he said. “I, too, used to think that I could live in this body, among these people, and not be changed by it. That I could, as they say, swim in the water and not get wet.” She shuddered at the image; he smiled and said, “You see?”
“And you’re comfortable saying such things?”
“No, but I’ve learned to live with the discomfort.”
“And now,” she said, “instead of returning to how you ought to be, you will demand that I do the same?”
“Jinniyeh, you may think that all my learned humanity can simply melt away—but it can’t. I’ll never be the same as I was. And if I try, the only thing I’ll achieve is misery. So yes, I will come back to the desert with you. But you must accept that I’ll always be just a little bit human—and that you will be too, in time.”
For a long moment she only stared at him. Then: “No.” She took a step back—his hands slipped from her waist—and then loosed her form and floated away from him, beyond the platform’s edge.—You’re wrong. I didn’t come all this way merely to weaken and debase myself, to grow as fearful of my own nature as you seem to be. I’m no cowering changeling! If I’d known when I first saw—
Her voice stopped; she flinched. She’d used the form of see that implied both a woman and an adversary, as one spies an opponent across a battlefield.
He frowned. “First saw who, jinniyeh?”
—The healer-woman in the souk, she said. The one who told me where to find you.
But her hesitation had been too plain; he was watching her intently now. “Yes,” he said, “the healer-woman, the one who spoke of shining boxes as high as Mount Qaf, and an arch of Palmyra among the trees. It was a beautiful story, jinniyeh. Will you tell me more of it?”
—More of what? I don’t know—
“The story of how you came to find me. Your earlier version was lacking in detail. You said you had to enter many sleeping minds, before you learned which city the healer meant. Whose minds were they? What did they dream of?”
—They were humans, old and young, she said, making a dismissive gesture. They dreamt nonsense, and I understood little of it.
“And what of the ships? You said that you flew to Port Said, and then took a ship across the sea and another across the ocean. But how? Did you read the sailing schedules in the newspapers? Visit the ticket offices in the docklands?”
—No, of course not!
“Then how did you find your way?
—There were men near each of the ships. I changed into a bird and perched nearby, and listened to their conversations. She said it defiantly, to make up for her earlier hesitation. Now will you continue to interrogate me, or have I passed your test?
He folded his arms. “Tell me, jinniyeh. What is a directory?”
She quailed, for she had no idea. What had Sophia said? I found an address in an old directory. That was all.—It’s a place where they keep addresses, she said.
He smiled at that, but his eyes were sharp as flint. “What did the directory look like? Was it big, or small? Round? Flat? Carved from stone? Written in blood?”
—You’re insulting me, she hissed.
“And you, my lover, are lying. You never came here on your own.”
—Oh? Do you think me too stupid, or too helpless?
“Neither. You’re too contemptuous of humans, and too afraid of polluting yourself to learn their ways.”
—I, afraid? You are the one who has locked yourself away, like a mole that fears the sun! And all the while the woman you—She froze.
For a moment he stared blankly—and then his face darkened. “Sophia,” he said. “Of course. She came to Palmyra, didn’t she? You saw her there, you saw what I’d done to her . . . It was Sophia’s dreams that you entered, not some healer’s. Oh, I’m a thrice-cursed fool. Have you hurt her, jinniyeh?”
—Of course not!
“Where is she now?”
The jinniyeh said nothing.
His eyes narrowed. He turned from her and descended the staircase. After a moment she followed, spiraling alongside him.—But this is ridiculous! You’re no longer her lover, and you’re neither her ally nor her kin. Why does it matter to you?
“Because I’m the one who sent her into your path.”
He reached the bottom and began a search of the workshop cabinets, at last pulling a stained work-shirt from their depths. He frowned at it, then yanked off the leather apron and donned the shirt in its place, tucking it into his ragged trousers.
—What are you doing? she said. Are you leaving?
“Yes. And so are you. You’re going to take me to Sophia.” He looked down at his feet, bent and rummaged in the cabinet again.
She made a scoffing sound.—And why would I?
“Because I won’t go to the Cursed City if you don’t.” He emerged with a pair of heavy work-boots and put them on.
—Perhaps I don’t want you there anymore, she told him.
“Oh, yes, you do,” he said, tying up the laces. “I’m the iron-bound jinni, remember? I’m part of your precious story. You’ll drag me back like an imp in a gourd if you have to.”
She made a derisive noise.—You might be grateful that I’m offering you a home, when all you have is this . . . this monstrosity in a box!
That made him stop. He stood then and looked past her, gazing at the climbing metalwork with a strange look on his face. “A monstrosity in a box,” he repeated—and then, to her bewilderment, began to chuckle.
—You dare laugh at me?
“No, jinniyeh, at me. I never truly noticed until now—but here, look.” He gestured to the Amherst’s corners, sketching a sharp-sided cube in the air. “Inside one unchanging, earthbound form . . .” And now he pointed to the central staircase, fingers spiraling upward—“. . . is the memory of flight.” He smiled at her confusion. “Don’t you see? I thought I was creating something the world had never seen before, but I only built myself again. Ahmad al-Hadid, the not-quite jinni. The monstrosity in the box.” He grinned, shaking his head. “They can have it, when they come,” he said, as though to himself. “They’ll find some use for it. A playground for the children, perhaps.”
Had he gone mad?—What children? Who are ‘they’?
“My neighbors, the others who live here. Apparently I’ve been hiding away for too long, and they’re about to break down the Amherst door. Imagine their faces.” He grinned.
—And you’ll simply . . . let them? You won’t fight for your home?
His smile faded. “No,” he said, “I won’t. I don’t want to fight them, not for this. You were right. It’s just a box.”
She flew closer.—And if the Cursed City should be threatened—if the humans and our kin should push eastward, against its borders—will you push back? Will you fight then?
“Jinniyeh,” he said, “I know what you want me to say. But—”
She didn’t let him finish.
She grabbed the updraft from the forge and fashioned it into a cyclone that lifted him off his feet. Dust and cinders whirled around him as he struggled to break free. She raised him high in the air, so she could look him in the face. There it was: the fear she’d wanted to see.
—You wish to fly? she said, and threw him against a platform.
The entire building seemed to vibrate. He fell; she caught him in the wind again, lifted him. He was grimacing, his eyes half closed. She smiled. She wouldn’t hurt him, not truly. She only wanted to remind him.
She spun him around and hurled him against the wall behind the forge. Brick and mortar shuddered—and the pipe that led to the water tower snapped in two.
A cataract of water burst from the wall and struck the burning forge, which exploded in a clap of steam that shook the air itself. The jinniyeh tumbled from her wind, half stunned. What had happened? The air was full of water, she couldn’t find her bearings, there wasn’t any sky—where was the sky—
Blinded, terrified, she flew straight into the torrent.
The pain brought the Jinni to his senses.
He lay beside the wall in a pool of water, shallow but growing. He hauled himself to standing, thankful for the boots. Water still poured from the burst pipe, a dozen feet above his head. The break was above the valve; the water would run until the tower was dry.
At the far end of the forge drifted the jinniyeh, stunned and injured, caught in the spray.
“Jinniyeh!” he shouted. He could see through her in places, her formless body flickering around the wounds. He wanted to run to her side—but what good would that do, when he couldn’t even touch her?
He looked up at the fountaining water, then clenched his teeth, grabbed the pipe, and climbed.
Up he went like a cat-burglar, gripping with feet and fingers, hoping against hope that the pipe would bear his weight. Water gushed above him, drowning him in mist. His entire body glowed with pain.
He climbed the last few feet, braced himself for a moment—and then lunged and grabbed the pipe above the break.
Water poured over him as he twisted the pipe back upon itself. His legs shook; his hands grew numb. He could barely see, but he was almost there, just a few more inches—
The pipe below him buckled. The world turned gray.
The jinniyeh hung in tatters.
She drifted upward, trying to focus. Every part of her shrieked in pain. The forge below her was a dark pool of ash—but the pipe had been twisted shut. A thin stream of water ran from its bent lip.
The iron-bound jinni lay on the floor below it.
She dropped to his side, keening in horror. Was he alive? This was all her fault, she hadn’t meant to—oh, it had all gone so terribly wrong—
She jumped at a sound nearby: a fist, knocking upon a door. “Hello?” a voice called. “Mister Ahm—Uh, Mister al-Hadid?”
She looked to her lover, then flew to the door and took form, nearly screaming with the pain of it. She turned the lock with shaking fingers, twisted the knob and pulled.
On the other side of the door was a boy—a man?—who wore a cap with a shining metal badge. He stood staring at her, his mouth open in shock.
“Help him,” she pleaded, and vanished into the air.
* * *
It wasn’t long before the entire Asylum knew the story of Kreindel Altschul and her bicycle messenger.
The tale greeted the children as they returned from their adventures, group by reluctant group. They traded it back and forth in the dormitories along with the contraband they’d gathered: chocolates and chewing gum, tobacco cards, pairs of dice, stolen oranges. With each retelling the tale grew more impressive and elaborate, until Toby had fought off a dozen Irishmen single-handed, and Kreindel had pledged her eternal love to him at the Amsterdam gate.
The girls of Dormitory 2, Room 3 talked of nothing else; all swore, with deep solemnity, that they’d marry a Western Union boy someday. They were clustered together in their room, in the midst of a dramatic reenactment, when the door opened and Rachel Winkelman strode in. She smiled into the silence, and held up a shining quarter.
“Who wants to earn this?” she said.
* * *
Charlotte Levy walked along Twelfth Avenue beneath the Riverside Drive Viaduct, listening to the thrum of tires on the pavement above. She hadn’t been able to face returning to her apartment, not after watching Toby ride away with her message in his pocket. She needed to walk, to think.
Toby Blumberg. Older, taller, stubble upon his chin, his thoughts full of everything she’d tried to leave behind. And Kreindel! Her image shining in his mind: a small, dark-haired girl, walking beside his bicycle. Would Yossele have attacked those boys, if Toby hadn’t intervened? How many lives might Toby have saved that morning, without even realizing it?
The Viaduct ended at 129th, the roadway merging into the park above her. A drift of decaying leaves lay at the base of the embankment, left over from the autumn. On impulse she took off her gloves and scooped a few damp handfuls into her coat pockets, then climbed the steps that curved around the hill, past Grant’s Tomb and the Claremont Inn and into the park itself.
The river to her right was a flow of silver, seen in glimpses. The park turned from lawn to trees: maples and elms, cherries, maidenhairs, their leaves still young and freshly green. She walked among them, staring up into their canopies, then reached out a hand to one of them, marveling at its rough bark. Charlotte Levy had never once allowed herself to do this. She’d made a new life for herself, but it had been a rootless, undernourished thing, and now she could feel it withering away again. She wondered what she’d be left with, when it was gone.
She crouched down at the base of the tree, emptied the mulch from her pockets, and worked it into the soil with her fingers. A girl on the path stopped to watch her quizzically. She smiled at the girl, then stood and brushed the dirt from her hands. She would have to go back to the basement, she realized; there was still the matter of Monday’s inspection. She couldn’t simply hope that the headmistress would fail to notice its hidden inhabitant. If she could rearrange the room, she might disguise the alcove entirely. Perhaps that would gain them all enough time to arrive at a better solution, once her message reached its destination.
Chava Levy must not know. Was her guess about the “ghost” correct? She had no right at all to the jealousy that had filled her at the thought; no right, either, to ask for his help, after everything that had happened. But she feared that she’d never be able to open the locket herself, not for Yossele. She’d hesitate, make excuses, forgive him for everything that she would abhor in herself. The locket was useless to her—she needed the man who’d made it.
* * *
It was just a dream, Julia Winston thought.
Despite the headache that had dogged her since the morning, she was in her study, attempting the usual motions of a Saturday afternoon: a review of the household ledgers, as well as correspondence with those distant family members who wrote her dutifully in hopes of an eventual bequeathment. Make-work, all of it, designed to fill her superfluous hours, her superfluous life.
With each scratch of her pen the headache grew worse. She longed to lie down, but the thought of returning to her dream of the night before was too dreadful to contemplate. The dream had accompanied her through the day, with its image of the woman bending over Sophia like some vampiric spirit, ready to drain the life from her veins.
It was just a dream, she told herself again. It wasn’t real, for God’s sake.
A knock came at the door; a maid appeared, bearing an envelope. “This just arrived, ma’am. They said it was urgent, but didn’t wait for an answer.”
She took it, and read:
Dear Mrs. Winston:
My apologies for writing to you in such a fashion. The manager of the Hotel Earle on Waverly Place tells me that one of his guests is using your daughter’s name. She is locked inside her room, and has not been heard from in some time. The manager is within his rights to enter, and plans to do so by 4 o’clock this afternoon, accompanied by myself. It’s possible that this is all a misunderstanding, but the newspapers have all sent their men to the premises, and they will do whatever they can to stir up trouble. My aim is only to inform you, so that you might take any actions that you feel are warranted.
Very sincerely,
Lieutenant Oscar Galloway, 15th Precinct Station-House
Julia glanced at the clock. It was a quarter after three.
“Have the car brought around,” she told the maid. “I must leave as soon as possible—and in full mourning, not half.” Startled, the maid rushed away.
Perhaps, Julia thought, the newspaper-men would grin at the sight of the famed widow parading in her ghoulish finery. But if she was to walk into enemy territory, she wanted her best suit of armor. Let this girl, whoever she was, stare Julia Winston in the eye and explain herself.
* * *
In his alcove, Yossele struggled to watch his master as the day’s events buzzed inside him, refusing to be ignored.
His master had been attacked. She’d nearly called him to defend her, only to be interrupted by the boy on the bicycle. Even now, as Kreindel sat alone in her dormitory room, a part of him was still poised at the end of his tether, listening for that summons. Then there was the fact of Miss Levy’s nature, which thrilled him even as his master’s ignorance of it distressed him; the confusion this caused added its own, distinct ache.
The knowledge that he was a separate being from his master had become a gulf, a resentment. Why didn’t Kreindel know that Miss Levy was a golem? Why couldn’t he tell her? Why had she spent the hours since her return to the Asylum thinking about the boy on the bicycle, the one who’d stolen Yossele’s place? She was thinking about the boy even now. He didn’t want to see. He couldn’t look away.
A sound made him turn his head: a quiet knock, upon the storage room door.
Hope grew inside him as the doorknob turned. Yes; it was she. He’d begun to learn her patterns, her motions. Two steps inside, the door closing behind her. A deep breath at the threshold, even though she didn’t need to breathe. Would she come to where he sat? Would she hold his hand again?
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, from outside the maze. “I can’t come to you. I truly wish I could. I’m only here because I have to rearrange—”
But already his hope had turned to bitter frustration. Why must she come at all, if not to sit with him? He was beset by so many questions! He had no idea what to do with them all, and if this went on for much longer something would happen—he didn’t know what, but he could feel it building—
“Oh, Yossele,” she whispered; and then she was coming toward him, through the maze.
Desks, cots, hat-stand, final corner. She rushed through them as quickly as she could. He was hurting, dangerously so, and she must do what she could to help him.
He sat in the slanting afternoon light from the high window, fidgeting like a man plagued by a swarm of insects. As she approached, he reached out, took her hand, and pulled her to him.
Their connection came roaring back. She felt his mind aching beneath its burden of knowledge. It was all too large for him, it made no sense, he didn’t want any of it—
It’s all right, she told him. I’m here. We can manage it together.
She set to work among the seething tangle of his thoughts, gathering them one by one, holding them carefully in her arms. Some were incomplete, with pieces missing; these she patched with new knowledge and made whole. Kreindel is a young woman now. It’s natural that she should feel this way about a boy. She doesn’t love you any less because of it. I’ll tell Kreindel about myself as soon as I can. We’ll find a way forward, together. Then, once his thoughts had all been calmed, she slowly put them back again, finding neat and orderly places for each part of him, like a well-organized pantry where he could see everything at once. At last she stepped back, examining her work.
There, she said. Is that any better?
Kreindel sat alone upon her cot, knees to her chest.
Toby’s face had haunted her all through the afternoon. She recalled each moment of their walk together, as though deliberately pressing on a bruise: the way her tongue-tied awkwardness had given way to easy conversation; how he’d seemed to fill her field of vision, even though they were walking side by side. The warmth of his hand on her arm, as he’d steadied her. He didn’t know about true orphans. He’d talked to her, even touched her, as though she were an ordinary girl.
She looked up at a creak from the hallway door. It was one of the girls from Dormitory 2, Room 3. The girl darted into the room, running toward her between the cots. A folded note, dropped into Kreindel’s hand—and the girl was gone again, giggling as the door closed behind her.
Kreindel opened the note.
I liked talking to you. I’m in the marching band room. Will you meet me there?—Toby
It was a prank; it had to be. How would he even know about the Marching Band room, or how to find it? Yes, the handwriting looked like a boy’s, with its stick-straight letters. But any girl could write like that, if she wanted to.
Nevertheless, a small, stubborn hope had been kindled. She recalled what he’d said about his uniform, the key that opened every door in the city. He could get inside easily—maybe even through the gate on 136th, which would lead him straight to the basement. The Marching Band room was practically across the hall from the stairwell. It might even be the first door he’d try.
What if it actually was Toby?
She’d never snuck into the basement during daylight hours; it would be far too easy to get caught by a janitor, or even a teacher. But on Excursion Days the bell was silenced, the rules relaxed. If she went now, she’d be just another resident in a hallway, taking advantage of her temporary freedom. And if she took the time to think about it, she would lose her nerve.
Is that any better? Miss Levy asked.
It was as though Yossele had spent his entire life hunched over in a cramped room, and then Miss Levy had raised the ceiling so he could stand upright. He turned about in surprise, rejoicing at his quiet, orderly mind. He could see everything, could examine his own thoughts at his leisure. Nothing lurked just out of sight, clamoring to be noticed. And in the middle of it all was his beloved Kreindel, his connection to her stronger than ever.
Thank you, he told Miss Levy.
She was still there among his thoughts, a golden presence. He reached out to her, and she flowed around him like dust in sunlight, each mote a separate part of her. He gazed at them as they passed, saw flashes of people, places, memories. A Brooklyn cemetery; a burning building. Her own hands, braiding a challah. The tall man that Kreindel had dreamt about, lying not upon a bed but in a freezing alley, the ground broken beneath him. A silver chain, and a steel locket—and inside it—inside it was—
death, around her neck—
She’d tried to destroy him. She’d stood in this room, only feet away from him, and she had tried.
His mind darkened with anger.
Wait, she said, pulling away. Yossele, please. I only meant to be careful, to—
He surrounded her, instincts flaring to life, all thought obliterated by the urge to protect himself. But she, too, was strong; she pushed back against his anger, holding it at bay so that it wouldn’t ignite her own. Within moments they were balanced at a standstill, his connection to Kreindel shining between them. And Kreindel—
Wait. What was Kreindel doing?
The basement’s familiar scent of mildew greeted Kreindel as she descended.
The laundry room was empty, the shoe-shop dark and locked. She could hear shouts from the playground, where a few of the younger residents were spending their last minutes of freedom—but the basement seemed deserted. If Toby was truly here, then they’d be alone. She would tell him that he shouldn’t have come, that she couldn’t see him in secret like this. That it could only be just the once.
No light came from the Marching Band room, but someone had cracked the door open. She edged up to it, put a hand on the knob. “Toby?” she whispered.
There was a rustle of movement, deep in the room—and then an answering whisper: “Kreindel?”
The door creaked as she slowly pushed it open—
In the alcove, in their stalemate, the golems could only watch—
—as a deluge of water struck Kreindel in the face, filthy with salt and the stink of sweat.
Kreindel staggered backward into the hallway, blinded and choking, her stomach heaving. She heard shrieks of laughter, and the clang of a metal bucket dropping to the floor. Dimly she recognized Rachel Winkelman, Harriet Loeb, a few others. Her eyes burned; the world was a red haze. She fell to her knees, retched, vomited. Rage overwhelmed her.
Yossele, she thought. Get them—
—and the Golem fled Yossele’s mind as it lit up like a bonfire behind her.
The others didn’t notice at first, over their own laughter. Then, “Shhh,” Rachel hissed, and all the girls heard it: a series of cascading crashes at the far end of the hallway, shelves falling over like dominoes, their spilled contents shoved aside to make a path.
“What the hell is that?” said Rachel.
On her hands and knees below her, Kreindel smiled grimly. “That’s Yossele.”
A door burst open in the murky distance—but what emerged wasn’t Yossele. It was a woman, running toward them faster than anyone Kreindel had ever seen.
Miss Levy? she thought, dumbfounded—
And then the wall behind the woman exploded.
Pounding toward them through the dust came an enormous gray figure, its stride filling the hallway. It had a craggy, misshapen head that hung like a bull’s between mountainous shoulders, and club-like fists that swung at the ends of thickly bunched arms. Its mouth was a cavernous maw surrounded by grotesquely raised lips that now opened in a silent roar, as though it meant to swallow them whole.
The girls all stood frozen—and then Kreindel shrieked in terror.
“Go, all of you!” Miss Levy cried.
The spell broke. Screaming, Rachel and the others fled up the staircase—but Kreindel stayed where she was, staring, aghast. How could this thing be her Yossele, who’d cradled her in his arms while she cried? It couldn’t be—but of course it was. This was the creature her father had meant to build. She’d brought him to life and hidden him among children, and now he’d paint the walls with their blood—
Miss Levy placed herself in front of Kreindel, like a barrier. “Kreindel, tell him to stop,” she said, her voice straining.
The girl let out a sob. Behind her, there was a commotion on the staircase, and then a scream.
“Kreindel!” Miss Levy shouted. “You’re his master, he might still listen to you! Tell him to stop!”
My God, she knew? Everything bad was happening at once! “Yossele,” she whispered. “Stop.”
He barely slowed.
She tried again, her voice quavering. “Don’t hurt them, Yossele. Stop. Please.”
His brow furrowed; he paused, still eyeing the staircase where the girls had vanished.
“It’s not enough,” Miss Levy said. She pulled something from around her neck, and held it out: a locket, on a chain. “Yossele!” she shouted.
The enormous head swiveled toward her. The marble eyes tracked the locket.
“Come and take it from me!” Miss Levy yelled—and then she ran for the door.
It was growing late in the day, the spring warmth leaching from the asphalt. The children on the Asylum playground were contemplating an end to their games, a retreat inside—when suddenly the stairwell door slammed open and their Culinary Science instructor burst out of the basement, navy skirts flying as she ran for the gate at 136th. And behind her, rising like a mountain out of the earth—was it an animal? A prankster in a costume? Or, most unthinkably, a man? None of the spectators would later agree, but all would remember the sound of its feet striking the path, like the crack of sledgehammers.
She reached the gate, wrenched off the lock, and ran toward Broadway, Yossele’s fury a tide at her back. The intersection approached, a Saturday evening tangle of taxicabs and wagons. She dodged through them without pause, not looking back for fear that she might turn and fight him, there in the middle of the avenue. Was he gaining on her? She heard a shout, a woman’s scream, the screech of tires. She kept going.
She crossed Riverside, ran past the benches, then jumped the balustrade and slid down the grassy slope to the retaining wall. Twelfth Avenue and the freight tracks lay twenty feet below her, a straight drop; beyond were the coal-yards and freight sheds, and then the river. Above her, onlookers on the sidewalk squinted down in horror at the madwoman standing on the wall. She had just enough time to reflect that there’d be no coming back from this, that Charlotte Levy would be gone forever—and then there was a shriek, and Yossele was at the balustrade, his anger rolling toward her down the hill. His body blotted out the sky.
The Golem smiled, and fell from the wall.
Yossele didn’t so much as break stride. He vaulted the balustrade, sprinted down the slope, and leapt after her.
His arc took him across Twelfth and the tracks entirely, and into a coal-yard on the other side, landing with a concussion that shook the ground. He clambered out of the pulverized coal, his anger undiminished, and looked about. There she was, running toward a nearby pier.
He took off after her, ignoring the shouts from the park above. Only his anger mattered now. The world was a tunnel with Miss Levy at its end; even his master had receded to a pinprick in his mind. He wove between the coal-heaps and up onto the pier, the wood cracking beneath his feet as he followed, seeing only her, gaining, gaining, until suddenly she was gone and the pier had dwindled to its final plank—
He struck the water, and fell into a greenish gloom that deepened within moments to black.