Hammer of Witches Read Online Free PDF Page A

on to tell me stories.
    “Bali, I told you not to leave the house.” I winced as he pressed a finger against my bruised face. “Another fight with Gonzalo, I see. What did he say about your parents this time?”
    “Nothing.”
    “I know it’s hard, Bali, but you mustn’t be ashamed of them! Your parents were heroes! They died for what they believed in.”
    Frowning out the window, I toyed idly with the cross hanging from my neck. My parents. Not long after I was born they’d converted and changed their name from Mizrahi to Infante, hoping to protect me from Palos’s anti-Jewish mobs. Then King Fernando and Queen Isabel introduced a new inquisition meant to free their kingdoms of false Christian converts. My aunt and uncle thankfully escaped trial and execution, but my parents were not so lucky. The Inquisition tried them and put them to death after they refused to publicly renounce their Jewish beliefs.
    According to Diego that refusal made them heroes. Heroes. The word always put me in a silent fury. If my parents were heroes, they would have forsworn their faith, gone to church on Sundays like they were supposed to! Heroes didn’t leave their children orphans. Heroes didn’t die.
    Diego and I were quiet for some time, and eventually I thought he might leave without saying anything more. But then he raised a bent finger and said the words I’d been dreading most: “You know, Bali, I know exactly what you need. A golem.”
    I moaned, knowing it was no use. Once my uncle started a story, it was unstoppable, like a volcano or a flood.
    “‘What is a golem?’ you might ask. One of my favorite stories. It’s a wonder I didn’t tell you about him sooner. The golem is a giant beast made out of clay. But the best part of the golem — to an old bookmaker, anyway — is that he comes to life through the power of the written word. Must have been an invention of bookmakers. They’re creative fellows, you know. Philosopher kings, if they wanted the power —”
    “But moving on,” I grumbled.
    “Now, to give a golem life, you write the word truth, which is ameth , like this.” With a finger, my uncle traced out some invisible runes on my quilt. “You write it on a tablet and put it into the creature’s mouth. And to stop the golem, simple enough. You erase the first letter.” My uncle covered the first invisible symbol with a veiny hand. “Now it says meth , which means death, and voilà — the golem stops.”
    “Please, Uncle. No more stories.”
    “But I haven’t even gotten to the point of it yet. You see, Bali, the golem is a protector. Brute strength, pure loyalty. In fact, he is the Jewish people’s greatest protector —”
    My uncle couldn’t have known that was the exact wrong thing to say, but he must have realized when I jumped up so our noses nearly touched. “I said enough, Uncle! You don’t know when to stop! I’ve had enough of you, enough of your Jews, and enough of your boring old stories! They aren’t real! They are a complete waste of time!”
    “Bali.”
    No. I didn’t want to hear it. I pushed my uncle away and stormed out of my room, past my aunt, and out the door.
    “Baltasar, come back!” my uncle yelled after me, and I heard his footsteps as he tried to follow me outside. But I was too fast for him. I ran up the hill that led into the lonely streets of Palos.
    I spent the rest of the afternoon storming through town, trying to force Gonzalo’s insults and my own shameful story out of my head. Coward. Traitor. Christ-killer. Foolish Cohen. No matter how much I walked I couldn’t escape those words.
    Eventually I returned to my friends’ hangout by Amir al-Katib’s house. Except for a few dragonflies, it was empty. A ceramic bottle lay on a barrel, dripping a small puddle of wine. Not enough, though. Not if I wanted to forget.
    The sun was starting to set now; the candle in the iron lamp on the wall beside me had already been lit. Fog was filtering up from the