Hand of Miriam
A Bayla and the Golem Novel
Book 1
By
Eva Gordon
A Victorian world of supernatural creatures, magnificent airships, a secret society, and one bluestocking adventuress who, threatened by evil seeks protection by awakening the golem.
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, places and locations portrayed in the story are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. In addition, Hand of Miriam is a story that takes place in an alternative steampunk universe. Real historical events and a few characters, including Queen Victoria, and Jack the Ripper were fictionalized to create the fantasy novel.
Hand of Miriam, A Bayla and the Golem Novel
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2013 By Eva Gordon. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from author.
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Cover art by Nicolene van Staden
Editing by Marion Archer and Karen Lawson
Discover other titles by Eva Gordon at www.ravenauthor.com
Dedication
To Estee and David
Prologue
The Arcana, long ago.
Avenging Angel, Gesher lay in a heap on the marbled floor. Bleeding. Broken. Defeated. Dread coursed through his core.
Archangel Michael's voice cracked with sorrow, "By returning the babe to her mother's arms, you have caused a disruption in the transmigration of souls. We must meet to ratify our next course of action. Until then, what do you have to say?"
On his knees, covered in blood from the gashes that once held his majestic silver wings, he lifted his head to look at his former master. "Let me die, for without my wings I cannot go on."
Azarael, the angel of death, glowered at Gesher. "I say we turn him to stone, never to return, but with clear memories he was once an angel of the heavens."
Gesher glared at Azarael. "You reek of envy, dark one. Was I not stronger than you? Am I not handsome compared to your hideous form? Once my wings were glorious and not twisted black ones that look like aged bat wings. Am I not favored by all the angels and the almighty, beloved by mankind? Not feared and despised as you are, dark lord."
Michael's voice echoed. "Enough. You have shamed me with your pride. I was moved by your sympathy for the grieving parents and have allowed the babe, now angel-touched, to remain with them. I will consider Azarael's recommendations."
Gesher begged. "Please, my lord. Was my sin so great that I am to be interned as stone for all eternity?"
The archangel slowly exhaled. "No. Nevertheless, you must endure punishment. I will send you back to earth as clay. To be summoned as a golem to do what you do best, protect." He produced a box. "This is the Gemmatridon. It will be used to give you life. Someday, a master might destroy the box, allowing you to return to your former angel form, one without wings but still meant to serve. I very much doubt any learned master will destroy the box."
"My lord, can I someday earn back my wings?"
Azarael protested. "He must not be given a chance, not ever."
Michael ignored the angel of death. "If your master lets you destroy the Gemmatridon and you learn humility, then yes, it is possible." He raised his sword above Gesher's head. "Farewell, my friend."
Chapter 1
Mt. Jebel Ideid, Negev Desert, Ottoman Empire, 1888
Bayla Gideon opened her parasol to provide shade from the unrelenting desert sun and strode for the main camp in search of her husband. Harsh whispers behind the equipment tent caught her attention. She stepped closer to eavesdrop, careful her booted footsteps over the stones did not reveal her intent. Her husband of six months, noted professor of Ancient Archeology, Isaac Gideon, argued vehemently with his colleague Professor Erasmus Hix. And it was not about which map to follow. Not again. It was always "Mrs. Gideon this" and "Mrs. Gideon that."
"I know you have modern ideas about women not being feeble, but my dear man, do you not realize the dangers out here?" said Erasmus.
"Bayla is equipped with a blaster and her aim with guns is..." Isaac paused for much too long, "getting better."
True, she had terrible aim with regular guns, but how could she go wrong with a blaster? Its steam-charger-propelled bullets in all directions. The danger was hitting everything and everyone in the vicinity. She winced. It was not her fault in regards to Professor Erasmus Hix's ill-placed laundry. Fortunately, he looked rather fetching in Bedouin garments.
"What of the other dangers a blaster won't protect her from? It's not too late to escort her back to the Ibis before it departs." The desert dirigible would leave for Cairo in a few hours.
Bayla edged closer. Other dangers? Professor Hix was starting to sound like Aunt Fannie. Orphaned at age nine, Bayla was raised by her overprotective aunt and uncle in a religious Jewish household.
"My Reina, your place is at home not gallivanting around the world," Aunt Fannie had pleaded. She fretted Bayla would be stolen and sold as a harem slave. Such was the fate of many unwary young European women. Truth was, the biggest danger to her person were the venomous scorpions and cruel desert heat.
Isaac laughed. "My wife would no more board the dirigible to return than you would. Besides, I need her assistance. She has proven invaluable on dating artifacts."
"I'm not arguing with that. I myself have never seen a better chronicler of antiquities but she is unaware of our true purpose."
She lifted a brow. What, pray tell, are they talking about? Was it related to their membership in that men's only club? Isaac said she should never question his loyalty to his secret brotherhood. Not old-fashioned, but for the one men's group, she relented to not pester Isaac on his one private pastime.
"Balderdash! We're here only to test my theory, nothing more. And, I dare say, I've grown accustomed to having her radiant beauty around. Come now, would you rob me of a magnificent sunrise?"
She sighed and smiled. Well put, husband. To think Aunt Fannie sent her to a matchmaker to find a traditional husband. Despite her aunt's best efforts, Bayla had found her future husband, not from potential prospects presented by the matchmaker, but at her job as assistant curator at Goff's Manor. She had become enamored with the professor while assisting him in organizing his vast archives of antiquities. Isaac was not religious, but a scholar who was always traveling to far-off countries. Not a good matrimonial prospect, conducive to a stable family life. After much pleading and threat of spinsterhood, they finally accepted Isaac's request for her hand in marriage. He was Jewish, after all.
"Very well, just remember I warned you." Erasmus opened the tent flap.
Bayla dashed to the other side of the camp and took out her journal, pretending to write. She put her pen down and threw him a smile. Erasmus Hix gave her a brusque nod as he passed before ordering his porters to ready his camel for his detour to the market. She stood. "Professor Hix."
Erasmus stiffened and turned. "Yes, Mrs. Gideon?" He took his pith helmet off and brushed dust off.
"How soon will you be joining us at the expedition site?"
"If all goes well, by the end of the week." His brow pinched and he stared at his pocket watch as if concerned about time, an irrelevant concept in the desert, since there were only two times, day and night. "Is there anything in particular you want from the market?"
"Actually, come to think of it, I'd love halva with pistachios."
Erasmus chuckled. "I shall bring you several blocks of the confection."
"Most generous indeed." His camel was brought, and he mounted the bellowing beast and bid her farewell. She returned to her tent to pack her journal. Tomorrow at sunrise they would cross the sandy wasteland toward Mt. Jebel Ideid, which Isaac believed to be the real site of Mt. Sinai.
Above the path, a large dark-winged creature shadowed a boulder. Bayla raised her goggles. Gone. What was that? Hmm. Too big to be an Egyptian vulture. She dabbed at beads of perspiration on her brow. Likely a mirage. Especially, in light of the fact, that her camel had remained calm. Though by nature, dromedaries were less nervous than horses. She stopped her camel and looked again. Nothing. The shadow must have been a hallucination brought on by the heat and dull landscape.
Bayla twisted in her saddle and regarded Isaac. He was sunburned and his lips were cracked, but there was a sparkle in his eyes. He was fiddling with his pocket compass sundial and then took notice. "Are you in good health, my dear?"
Bayla was hot, dusty, disheveled, and smelled like the camel she rode. Nonetheless, she was splendidly content. Convention, so prevalent in gentlewomen, was not her cup of tea. Adventure and the search for antiquities were her passions. Best not to mention the odd hallucination. She didn't want to cause him to worry that the expedition was taking its toll on her. Four days in the torrid heat was indeed a physical challenge, but certainly her mind was spared, mirage or not. "I'm quite well, indeed." She enjoyed leading the caravan and nudged her camel on.
Her attention returned to the barren sandstone desert at the foot of Mt. Jebel Ideid. Could it really be Mt. Sinai? She imagined thousands of harried Jewish refugees attempting to settle in such a foreboding desolate land. Men, women, children, the old, and the sick, tasting the difficult task of freedom.
Isaac's camel lurched forward and raced past her. "That's it." He dismounted and stared at the nondescript ordinary-looking mountain. From his leather satchel, he drew out a mechanical tripod and locked his camera obscura on to it. Like a pet monkey, the mechanical gadget followed him.
Bayla tapped her camel. "Tut tut." It bawled and broke into a gallop.
She brought her camel to a stop and their Bedouin porter guided her camel to its calloused knees. Isaac came to her side. "Would you like a hand, my love?"
"No, but thank you." Bayla twisted to one side and dismounted. She turned back to the boulder where the shadow had appeared. Still nothing. She lifted her goggles above her brow and rubbed her sore hips. Camels were a smooth ride over sand, but the terrain here was mostly small pebbles, and after a week her hips were suffering. "An oasis pool would be nice to bathe in."
"Indeed. According to my map, there's a pool about a half mile from here." He drew her in and wrapped an arm over her shoulder. "Stand still my dear, and smile."
The automaton camera obscura he named Gizmo, faced them. It chirped three times. Pop and smoke. Their picture was taken. Gizmo adjusted its lens, ready to take the next photograph.
"Now then, let's make camp."
Bayla admired his enthusiasm as he ordered the porters where to unload the equipment. It was hard to believe he was twelve years her senior. You would think that at her youthful age of four and twenty years, it would be she running around. She stretched, removed her pith helmet and shook out her dark hair.
Isaac turned and smiled. "Bayla, you look like Queen Bathsheba."
"I suppose that makes you King David?" Like the great legendary king, Isaac had a mane of red hair. Her King David was short and thin, only an inch taller than she. Though a small man, he conveyed great authority and never lost an argument. Of late, his fellow scholars had scoffed at his latest theory and she worried if they didn't find evidence, he would return discredited. She raked her hair with her gloved fingers, lifted her head in regal poise and mewed a seductive purr. "I demand you rid the palace of all concubines and share only my bed."
Isaac laughed and took a swig of water. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Bayla, you were meant for the theatre, but I'm happy you like digging in the sand. Drink and put your hat back on."
In the desert, Isaac had two rules: drink water every twenty minutes and wear a hat at all times. He would not lose his wife to dehydration. She pointed to the sky. "Look at the clouds. Do you think we might get a storm?"
"Most unusual, rain is a rarity, but a blessing nonetheless." He patted his brow and shot her a frown. "Hat."
"Oh, very well." She donned her pith helmet and followed him down the rocky path. Would a younger husband be less protective? She followed Isaac's gaze and gaped.
They ambled into an immense assemblage of rock art and stones. Isaac pointed to a rock engraving of an ibex. "Definitely a Paleolithic cult from the Bronze Age."
Most of the depictions were of animals such as scorpions, snakes and other desert creatures.
Ahmed, their Bedouin guide, waved. "Professor Gideon, come look."
Isaac grabbed his equipment carrier and dashed over. She grabbed her collector's satchel, lifted her skirt and ran to join them. She blinked to assure herself this was no mirage. "Twelve standing stones."
Isaac stood in the middle of the circle awestruck and uttered, "Exodus 24: 4 'And Moses got up early in the morning and built at the foot of the mountain an altar and twelve pillars, for the twelve tribes of Israel.'"
Bayla moved to the next set of stones but her eyes caught a familiar picture beyond the circle. "Isaac!" She bent down. "A menorah."
He rushed to her side. "Yes." His eyes widened as he glanced on another stone. "A serpent and staff." He turned to Ahmed and spoke in Arabic. The Bedouin nodded and the porters dashed to bring their equipment and tents closer.
Isaac whipped out his magnetic surveyor's compass. "Bayla, tomorrow morning you will be photographing. Start with the twelve anthropomorphic stones."
Bayla nodded, but her attention moved to another massive rock engraving of a large knowing eye, so common throughout the Middle East to ward off evil. How can this be? It was blue as if painted just recently. Below the rock, the ground was littered with artifacts of pottery, many with inscriptions. She gathered a few samples and dropped them in her satchel. Was Isaac right? Had Moses and the ancient Israelites settled here? Something sparkled near her boot.
Bayla lifted it. "A small hamsa." The amulet was common throughout the Middle Eastern cultures as a defense against the evil eye. It was the size of a pebble and she set it on her right palm. It heated and a sharp tingle scaled her spine. Odd. Perhaps holding it caused a static electricity charge. The tiny hand, with a blue eye in the center, was surrounded with Hebrew letters. It was beautifully illustrated with exquisite intricate lines that reminded her of a henna tattoo. "Isaac, look what I found."
He joined her and she held the piece up. "The Hand of Miriam. Hmm. No rust. Must have been dropped by someone."
"But who?"
They turned to Ahmed who darted a glance toward the terrain and then shook his head. "I don't see camel and sandal tracks. No one has been here." He took a closer look. "The Hand of Fatima, but this one belongs to your people." He frowned. "Only Bedouins travel here."
Still holding the trinket Bayla said, "Perhaps Professor Erasmus Hix will know." Erasmus, who would join them in a few days, was an authority on local superstitions and artifacts. The second caravan had been delayed while the professor met with a local tribe to purchase additional provisions.
Distant thunder drummed. A porter screamed and pointed behind them. Bayla gasped. A wall of red dust was rolling in with lightning striking above it. With each electrical jolt, the ground shook. A howling wind took hold. Her hair whipped about her face as if she was in the middle of an English North Sea storm. By the look of the frightened faces on their porters, this sudden phenomenon was unusual.
Ahmed yelled, "Haboob." The men forced the baying camels to sit down.
Bayla donned her goggles and covered her mouth and nose with her keffiyeh scarf. This was not her first sandstorm, yet she had never been in one with lightning. The hair on her skin stood erect, charged from the ambient electricity around them.
"Bayla, here!" She joined Isaac on the leeward side of his camel. She pressed herself against the animal, its body providing a protective shelter over hers. She still gripped the hamsa and felt it sear her palm. She grimaced and opened her hand to drop it but it embedded into her skin like a brand. She dug her fingers into her palm to get it out. Useless. The incoming dust storm roared like an awakened demon. No time to worry about the trinket now. She braced for the impact of stinging dust particles and dense darkness, but there were none. She and Isaac braved a look.
Instead of washing over them as expected, the cloud changed into a red dust funnel with lightning emanating from within, a most strange phenomenon swirling toward them like a beast, hungry for prey. Their camel spooked and ran. With no luck, the men did their best to hold onto their camels. The men panicked and ran as well.
Her heart raced. "Isaac, what is that?"
"I don't know. Let's run." She stood and he dragged her by the hand. "I see a cave. There!"
The red bellowing twister grew bigger. Behind it, the winged shadow she saw earlier hurled dagger-shaped bolts, striking their men and the galloping camels.
They leapt behind a large rock, as a lightning bolt struck not two steps from them. Bayla screamed as her eardrums nearly burst from the loud clap. Stunned, but still able to hear, she heard a bellowing voice from above. She tried to look but Isaac pulled her back. "Stay down."
When the coast looked clear, they raced toward the small cave a short climb away. Like a relentless cat with its mouse prey, the funnel gave chase.
At the cave entrance, the howling wind pulled her up as she held on to Isaac's hand. She drifted like an airborne kite. Her scarf flew off. "Isaac!"
A voice from within the belly of the funnel reverberated. "Shoshanna bat Malka."
It was calling her by her Hebrew name. She squinted into the eye of the twisting dust cloud. A blue light was radiating out. Her hand felt like it would break as she held on to her lifeline.
"Hold on, my darling. Hold on."
"I can't." It had her and called her by name. The angel of death. She would die. She must not let it take Isaac. He must live. Bayla let go and felt her wedding ring slip away as he struggled to reach her.
"Bayla!"
Above her, the large full moon provided ample light. Bayla lay on her back in the center of the twelve standing stones. She must have fallen and hit her head on a rock. She had a horrible nightmare about being swept up by a dust cloud that addressed her by her Hebrew name. She sat abruptly and ripped off her goggles. "Isaac?" She fumbled around. "Isaac!" As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she spotted a broken crate with all its contents out. She scrambled toward a lantern, lit it and held it up. "No."
The camp was ransacked, but, not by bandits. Nothing was taken. Only broken. Her eyes widened. The tents were torn to shreds and their provisions strewn about. Smashed. Men and camels lay dead as if killed in battle. She looked everywhere for him and her heart drummed in insurmountable panic. "Isaac."
The cave. How did she get so far? Had she really been taken by the twister? She followed the path and just as she reached it, her heart stilled. Isaac was several feet in front of the cave on his back with one hand out as if reaching for her.
Bayla rushed to him and knelt by his side. His eyes stared at the night sky. He is stunned, that's it. She patted him on his cheek. "Isaac. Please, my darling." She took off his smashed helmet and set his head on her lap. She smoothed back his hair. With trembling fingers, she felt for a pulse. Nothing. No. She held him against her bosom and rocked him back and forth like a mother soothing her sick child. The way her aunt Fannie had held her on the news of her parents' deaths. He was gone. Her Isaac was gone. Tears streamed down her face and she sobbed, stealing the night of its heavy silence. Spent, she rubbed her smarting eyes and gazed at Isaac. Her lips gentled a kiss on his forehead and she uttered prayers of mourning.
Bayla knelt at Isaac's grave where he was buried in the Mount of Olives Cemetery in Jerusalem alongside members of the Gideon family. Rabbi Ben Zion, a local cousin, had arranged the traditional burial service. Erasmus Hix attended the funeral along with a few mysterious men she had never met. She'd spent the last week with the rabbi's family. Not even the rabbi could explain what had happened. Physically she was well, yet her eyes were no longer dark brown but a rich deep blue hue, like the sapphire eyes of a Siamese cat. She'd kept her palm with the Hand of Miriam brand hidden from everyone. Was it fear of the unknown or shame? Was she responsible for Isaac and the porters' deaths? An illogical notion, but her survivor's guilt remained. Or, was it that she sensed people's evil intents now?
The sunset over the old city and the Dome of the Rock Mosque added to her grief, reminding her that she couldn't share the view with Isaac. Years of expeditions to come were dreams now buried with her husband. Bayla placed a pebble on top of his grave. It was the seventh stone and her last, for tomorrow she would return to England. "Oh Isaac, I'm at a loss without you beside me. I'm afraid I'm no longer the Bayla you knew. I've changed. A grieving widow, yes. But, also in ways that defy logic and reason." She gazed at her hand, slowly rotating it. "Why was I branded with the Hand of Miriam?" Why was I spared?
Always spared. During England's worst small pox epidemic Bayla had been the first in her household to contract the disease. The doctor had told her parents there was little hope. It was best to keep others away from the house. A dark looming figure stood at her bedside. Waiting. Wanting. Father and mother never left my side. Like stalwart angels, they guarded me against the shadow of death with a powerful weapon, love. I survived. The angel of death would not leave without payment. Death took my parents.
Bayla had so many questions back then. Why was she allowed to live when the two most important people in her life were taken? Not knowing she was now immune, she exposed herself to the pestilence, hoping the shadow would return and take her to her parents. Aunt Fannie called her brave for tending to her pox-ridden cousins. They survived. Was that her purpose: to help save others?
She sighed, remembering how her father quoted rabbinic literature: "He who saves a single life, saves the entire world." She glanced at her palm. The knowing eye blazed. Even now, she had the sense of being watched. Was she chosen to stop evildoers from killing the innocent?
She dug out a note from her small purse and braved a smile. "Dear beloved, tell Mama and Papa I love them." She swallowed and blinked back tears. She folded it and placed it beneath the seven stones.
On her lounge chair nestled beneath a wool blanket, Bayla gazed at the vast ocean as the slow moving ship headed back to England. Happy to be alone on the balcony. Alone from the voices. Inner voices. Since she'd been taken into the mysterious funnel cloud, she could read thoughts. Not nice thoughts, at least that would give her some consolation, but only ones concerned with evil intent. Even visions as horrible as nightmares. Had she gone mad because of the death of Isaac or had she become something else? Cursed? An abomination?
Erasmus Hix walked over and sat on the lounge chair next to hers. His voice was gentle, cautious. "Mrs. Gideon, how do you fare?"
"The ship's physician says there is nothing physically wrong with me. Only that I'm suffering from a slight bout of hysteria on my loss. He prescribed laudanum." She met his eyes with her new cold blue ones. "He said the bright sun might have caused my eyes to turn blue. Or perhaps exposure to an unknown poison."
"Once we're back in London I'll find you the best eye doctor."
"And, there is more. Something I have not shared with anyone." Erasmus had known about the funnel cloud and how it lifted her away from Isaac. He believed her and had told her supernatural phenomenon existed, and was yet to be explained by science. She turned her face away. How could he believe such rubbish?
"What, pray tell?"
She took off her glove and lifted her palm. "This." She hoped he would tell her there was a scientific explanation.
Erasmus gaped and his eyes widened. He shook his head and his tone now scolding. "When did you get a hamsa tattoo?"
"I did no such thing. Tattoos are against my religion." She covered her palm with her shawl. he"I found a perfect Hand of Miriam piece of jewelry near the ruins. It appeared to have been crafted recently, yet according to our porter, no one had ventured into such a desolate area." Her breath hitched but she continued. "It embedded shortly before the cloud called to me." She paused. He nodded in belief. "Somehow, it's related to my new sense."
He stared at the knowing eye. "Oh?"
"I was tempted to tell the doctor but..."
"Tell him what?"
She let out a deep sigh. "What he was thinking."
Erasmus swallowed. "And what was that?"
"That a comely woman should be at home tending to a family. Yet he wanted to touch my...never mind."
Erasmus blushed and arched his bushy brown brows. "Indeed. What am I thinking?"
"I can only read such thoughts when I face the knowing eye toward the person." She raised her hand. "Like this." She was ashamed to voice what she read. Erasmus had been Isaac's best friend. "I'd rather not say."
He stiffened. "I insist. It's the only way to know if indeed you can read thoughts. Let me think of a color."
"I only read disturbing thoughts."
Again, he flushed a deeper crimson. "I must know."
"Please forgive me. You think now that Isaac is gone you have a chance to be with me and ..." She bit her lip.
He stood. "Enough." He paced. "Dear Mrs. Gideon, it's shamefully true. I've had improper thoughts but I promise you I would not do that to my dear Penny." He referred to his wife. "For goodness sakes, you're my best friend's widow."
"Professor, I understand. We all have such fleeting thoughts. Our evil inclination is always in battle with the good. What I need is your help."
"When you cover the knowing eye can you still detect evil thoughts?"
"No." She donned her white gloves.
"I believe you have been chosen for a special purpose. The hamsa protects against the evil eye. The blue color, in addition, is all seeing and is a powerful deterrent against malevolence." He slowly sat back down. "Tell me more."
"The last few days I've been experimenting with it. Do you realize that one of our servers killed his fiancée before he left Plymouth?"
"Are you certain?"
"I know why and where she's buried."
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