IGMS Issue 8 (6 page)

When Braslava and Anja staggered out of the doorway and into the yard, they found Mislav prostrated in the dirt, arms stretched out, praying into the dust. Nina was standing in shock, her hair wild and filled with debris, holding her babe.

Two of the soldiers lay dead in the yard. Of the rest, Braslava could see none.

She walked over to the spruce next to her hut, where the golem used to sit, and stood in the bed of needles. She held her throbbing arm. The lintel of the door frame, the tops of the windows -- they were all blackened with smoke.

She thought of the prophet Elijah, of the fiery chariot coming for him, and the horses of flame, and him going up in a burning whirlwind of smoke.

Was it not a burning whirlwind that had claimed the golem's spirit, too?

To have survived such a thing! She should have felt gratitude. She should have been filled with praise. But she looked down at the bed of needles and saw clumps of the tree's tacky sap. Unbidden, tears came to her eyes, and she felt only a horrible loss.

Two days later, when they could all think, Braslava insisted Mislav, who had distracted the
volhov
so well, must take the relic of the golem's body and keep it hidden and safe. She did not, however, know what to do with her hut, covered as it was in divine smoke. Did it mean the rocks and timbers themselves were now holy? If so, what person could simply wipe that away?

In her mind this was where the golem died vanquishing the
volhov
. It should be a hero's monument. Besides, hadn't the Lord accepted the ram as an offering? You did not clean away the memories of such things. It was just not done. So Braslava left the hut and moved in with Anja.

However, that did not mean they had to abandon her garden. And so, one day before the snows came in earnest, the two women went to dig in Braslava's garden for turnips to make into a mash. Braslava's eel-bitten arm still ached. Nevertheless, they worked well into the afternoon. It was then, when they came back round to the front of what they now considered the golem's hut, that they found a Turkmen's tulip lying on the doorstep.

A doorstep that had, only hours before, been swept clean.

The tulip was purple with white, ragged stripes. And about it, scattered on the porch stone, lay crumbs of red clay.

Anja looked at Braslava with raised eyebrows. Both women shaded their eyes with a hand and searched the yard and hillside. There was nothing but the sun, the brown autumn grass, and the wind whispering through the spruce.

"You would think," said Anja, "that one golem in a lifetime would be enough."

Braslava stooped and picked up the flower.

God had sent her a man, with clay and fire and beating heart. Had he also sent her a husband? Or was she wrong? Was it she that had been sent to deliver this Jonah from the belly of the earth and these were gifts of gratitude? The golem's body was dead. Of this she was certain. But that did not mean it could not leave a message.

The tulip glistened in the sunlight.

"This is to show," Braslava said, "that even little things are not forgotten."

And so it was. Even if sometimes, the Lord be blessed, the divine message was both wonderful and terrible.

Part One
 
(Part two will be in issue 9.)

Unease swelled in John Griffin as he pulled into a vacant stall at the daycare center and powered down the car. Holos flickered over the double doors at the building's entrance, depicting smiling children playing dodge ball, painting with watercolors, running into the open arms of loving parents. A stab of envy pricked him; a bitter taste flooded his mouth. He glanced away.

Paul had gotten into another fight, bad enough this time for the daycare administrator to send an urgent message to John's handheld, requesting that he collect his son.

He was tempted, for the briefest of moments, to pull out of the parking lot and simply drive on, to drive away, to drive until he ran out of road and the ocean spread before him, immense and blue and glittering. The depth of longing stirred up by the fantasy surprised and dismayed him. His stomach roiled as he got out of the car. The overcast sky threatened snow; even in his heavy coat, John shivered against the frigid December air. The vision of the ocean evaporated.

Bonnie met him at the door, dressed as always in bright primary colors. A normally smiling and vivacious woman, she stood with her shoulders stooped, her mouth turned down. "Thanks for coming, Mr. Griffin."

"Where's Paul?"

"He's in my office. Come in."

She led him past the playroom, full of boisterous children and excited babble. Envy pricked him again. He followed her down the tiled hallway to her small office.

It was neat and colorful, adorned with posters of animals and cartoon characters. Child psychology books filled a small bookcase next to her desk. Paul sat in a plastic chair in front of the desk, a scrap of a boy, looking at his shoes. Bonnie took the remaining seat.

John squatted in front of his son. "Hey. What happened?"

Paul remained silent.

John put a hand under Paul's chin and lifted his head. His fine blonde hair was tousled. A red scratch marked one pale cheek.

"Where did that come from, Paul?"

"Nowhere."

John glanced at Bonnie.

"He got into a fight with Phillip Seltzer, a boy about Paul's age. Phillip scratched at his face in the tussle."

John stood and crossed his arms. "Is that so?"

"Mr. Griffin, Paul was sitting on Phillip's chest, hitting him repeatedly. Phillip was pinned. He acted in self-defense. Paul gave him a bloody nose and a mouse under one eye."

"Paul, is that true?"

"No." Paul stared at his shoes again.

"Then what happened?"

"Nothing."

John looked at Bonnie. She only shrugged.

"What started it? Did the other boy provoke him?"

"He called me Frankie," Paul said. "Frankie, Frankie, Frankie. They all did."

Bonnie rolled her eyes. John resented the expression, but he couldn't really blame her. Both of them had heard it before; it was Paul's favorite excuse. "No one called you that, Paul," she said. "The other children all know better by now. And Mrs. Simmons was right there when it happened."

"If she was right there," John said, "she should have been able to break up the fight before one boy got a bloody nose and the other got a scratch on his cheek."

"It happened so quickly. She --"

"Then maybe you're a tad understaffed here."

Bonnie took a deep breath. "Mr. Griffin, this is the third incident in two months, and the worst yet. None of the other children have this kind of trouble."

"None of the other children get called
Frankie
while the adults stand around and let it happen, do they?"

Bonnie hesitated several moments before replying. "Mr. Griffin, if this behavior continues, we may have to talk about finding a daycare better suited for Paul's special needs."

John narrowed his eyes. He thought again of the ocean. "Come on, Paul. Let's get you home."

From the journal of John Griffin:

June 2, 2025

My son was born again today.

I suppose I shouldn't put it that way. If I wanted to be boringly technical, like Dr. Aiken at the clinic, I would say that Paul is a genetic duplicate of Steven, physically like him in every way, but he isn't really Steven. Dr. Aiken said I should think of him as Steven's identical twin brother.

Sure. Just born nine years after Steven, and two years after Steven's death.

Dr. Aiken is right, I know. He's not Steven. But since I'm just beginning this journal (and struggling with this handheld's tiny stylus, I might add) I suppose I should establish a good habit, and avoid equivocation. It's bad form for a writer, even one who hasn't written for two years. Besides, aren't you supposed to be completely honest in a journal? Isn't that the one place you can entertain your most secret fantasies? Here, if nowhere else?

Never mind. Of course he's not Steven. His name is Paul, and he is an unqualified miracle. Paul Kenneth Griffin, eight pounds and thirteen ounces, twenty-two inches long. Born today at 6:31 p.m., after twenty-seven hours of labor. His hair, when it comes in, will be his mother's blonde; his eyes, when they finish changing, will be her pale blue. His skin will be fair and will burn easily. He'll have a smile that will charm the little girls in the neighborhood, who will chase after him and kiss his cheek on a dare. I won't blame them. He is an angel, and he is my son, and I thank God for him.

I flashed on the accident for a few minutes just now, but was able to push the memory away. Today is not a day for sorrow, nor for the doubts that plagued Marie and I about leaving the Church. It's a time for celebration. Not even the bigots and fanatics who call cloned children "abominations" and "Frankensteins" -- and worse -- not even they can trouble me today.

My son was born again. And so was I.