IGMS Issue 8 Read online

  "But we're women," said Braslava. "Shouldn't Mislav --"

  "Sometimes," said Anja, "the Lord uses a Deborah and Jael." She withdrew the cluster of mint leaves, red with blood, and wiped them across the golem's forehead. "Sometimes he uses a harlot." The smell of the blood and mint mixed with the brine. She dipped the leaves again, and wiped the golem's arm.

  "You," the solider Anja had sent out pointed at them. "Stop!" He charged.

  Anja dipped again, but the soldier had crossed the space between them and delivered a kick to her head that sent her reeling. The crock of blood and mint leaves flew from her hands. Anja tried to roll to her knees, but the soldier shoved her aside.

  Braslava picked up the stone the volhov had smashed her fingers with.

  The soldier bent to recover the crock.

  Braslava struck him in the head. She struck again. He stumbled back, a look of surprise on his face. With all her might she smashed him one last time in the temple.

  The soldier fell sideways to the floor.

  Braslava dropped to her knees and grabbed for the pot and mint. Her arm was swelling from the venom. Most of the blood had spilled on the floor. She sopped up the blood, turned, anointed the golem's other arm. She anointed its right leg. Sopped up more blood. The smell of mint and blood filled her. Her arm felt like fire.

  The doorway darkened.

  Braslava did not look up.

  "No!" snarled the volhov.

  She anointed its other leg. Smeared blood on its chest.

  A soldier yanked her back by her hair. She fought to get her legs underneath her, but he dragged her along the floor.

  "No," repeated the volhov. "No!" He grabbed one of the empty barrels, scooped up water from the box, and splashed it over the golem.

  The blood did not wash off.

  "A cloth!" he yelled. He dropped to his knees. Scrubbed at the blood with his tunic. "Come off!" he commanded, but the blood had soaked into the clay.

  The golem sat up. It raised one hand and took the volhov by the throat. It convulsed, then rolled over to its hands and knees, dragging the volhov with it.

  It convulsed again, violently, and spat a black and slimy lump onto the floor. The shem.

  The golem stood and walked over to the small barrel. It reached in and fetched its eye, the volhov still struggling in its grip.

  The soldier released Braslava's hair and backed up.

  The golem stuffed its eye back in its head. Then it turned its attention to the volhov. Its face was terrible.

  Fear flashed through her. What bindings had the volhov broken?

  Steam rose from the blood stains on the golem's red clay. But it wasn't steam. It wasn't anything she'd ever seen: wisps of light that hovered and flowed like heavy smoke.

  Glory.

  It was glory. It was God's divine burnings.

  Glory smoked from the golem's eyes. It flowed from in its mouth.

  The volhov fumbled in his coat.

  The golem's hand and forearm burst into flame.

  The volhov screamed.

  The golem lifted the volhov off the ground by his neck.

  The fire spread, curling the volhov's beard, smoking the linen surcoat. Then in a whoosh, he caught flame like a piece of dry grass, blazed into a pillar of fire. Smoke flooded the room, billowed along the ceiling.

  Braslava coughed, dropped to her knees. The brightness of that fire hurt. She shielded her eyes.

  Anja moaned.

  Outside, soldiers shouted. On the roof, the slate shingles clattered and clinked. Dirt blew into the room, followed by a blast of wind that slammed the door and shutters against the wall. Debris flew into Braslava's face. Something struck her in the back. And then the wind turned into a gale.

  The room was a furnace. Her hair crackled and curled in the heat. Braslava thought of the burning bush, the smoking mount -- they would all be immolated by God's glory.

  She heard a huge crack. Felt herself being pulled up by the wind.

  It gusted again and she swore in the rush of wind she heard music or singing. Then the whistling moved outside, the wind retreated. She gulped in a breath of air. It stank of burning flesh, but it was not full of smoke.

  Something large thumped to the floor.

  She took a breath. And another. She was alive. That in itself was a miracle. She brushed sand from her face and eye lashes. When she opened her eyes, the golem was lying on the floor. The volhov was gone.

  Braslava rushed to the golem. The red clay shone in places like porcelain. In others it was black.

  "Golem?" she said. She touched its shoulder, its arm.

  "It's dead," said Anja.

  Braslava looked up. Anja was holding her jaw in obvious pain. Her hair was almost all burned away. Anja motioned at the golem's legs. "It's nothing more than baked clay now."

  Braslava looked back down. The leg was cracked open down the middle like a loaf of bread. The stomach, chest, arms -- the whole body was spidered with fissures like poorly fired pottery. She touched its handsome cheek and the head rolled to its side, free of the body.

  "Golem," she said.

  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.
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  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.

  The Frankenstein Diaries

  by Matthew S. Rotundo

  Artwork by Kevin Wasden

  * * *

  Part One

  (Part two will be in issue 9.)

  I

  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.

  The drive back to the house was quiet. John guided the car on manual, even though the route was preset. He needed the distraction. He stole glances at Paul in the rear view mirror. His son scowled the entire way, staring straight ahead with his arms crossed. John hated that look, the way it twisted Paul's angelic features into something unrecognizable. In such moments, Paul looked nothing like Steven.

  "Did the other boy really call you Frankie, Paul?"

  "They all do. All the time."

  For what must have been the hundredth time, John wished he had never told Paul that he had been born of cloned cells. Paul had blurted out the fact on his first day of daycare. "Are you sure? Mrs. Simmons said she didn't hear anything."

  "She's a liar."

  "Paul, we've talked about this, haven't we? You can't just keep picking fights with the other kids."

  "You never believe me."

  A prolonged silence fell as John turned into their neighborhood. The streets wound past houses bedecked with holographic flying Santas and flashing icicle lights. Despite his best efforts, John couldn't stop thinking about Bonnie's words: special needs. His jaw, clamped tight since he had left the daycare center, ached. The woman had stigmatized his son -- as if the boy didn't have enough problems.

  "Sometimes they don't have to say it," Paul said. "But I know they're thinking it. All the time."

  John took a long look at Paul in the mirror, wondering at his small, tense form, his twisted scowl -- wondering how a four-year-old boy had become such an angry person. "How about if we read a little when we get home? Would you like --"

  "I hate reading."

  John's temper flared; he put it down quickly. "We've talked about that, too, remember? You haven't really given it a fair chance. You're not trying --"

  "I don't want to try! I hate reading! I hate it, I hate it!"

  John flinched.

  Tears spilled fro
m Paul's eyes. He wiped them away disgustedly.

  "Paul --"

  "I hate you, too."

  John slammed on the brake. His harness locked. He turned in his seat. "That's enough, young man. You apologize right now, or you'll spend the rest of the day in your room. No toys. Understand? Apologize."

  "I hate you! I hate you!" Paul flailed, held in place by his own harness, too consumed with rage to even think about unbuckling it.

  "Paul, stop it! Stop --"

  "Hate hate hate hate . . ."

  Shaking, John drove the rest of the way home as quickly as he could, working to ignore the shrieking thing in the back seat. When he finally got back to the house, he had to carry Paul inside, kicking and thrashing all the way. John could only imagine how it looked to the neighbors.

  He deposited Paul on his bed and then carried his toy box out of the room, all the while being treated to a litany of hatred. No sooner had John closed the door behind him than he heard a familiar thumping and crashing. Paul was attacking his bookcase again. Soon every volume would be scattered about his room.

  John shouted through the door. "You won't be allowed out until you pick them all up, do you understand me?"

  The thumping and screaming continued unabated. John carried the toy box downstairs and set it in his office. He closed the door to muffle the din from Paul's room.

  August 23, 2025

  Today the pediatrician diagnosed Paul as having colic. Terrific.

  I think colic is a doctor's way of saying that he has no clue what the problem is. Paul cries for hours at a time, for no reason Marie and I can fathom. It isn't hunger, it isn't diaper rash, he isn't sick, and he's too young to be teething. Yet he cries. Holding him helps sometimes, but it's a hit-and-miss proposition. And as much as you may want to, you just can't hold a child continually. Simple things, like answering the phone or heating up dinner, have become crisis situations. At first it was puzzling, then unnerving, then alarming, and finally exhausting. Marie handles it better than I.