Changes from Clay

Clay eyes opened, and the golem looked across the sedan.

Its maker was smiling, then the woman glanced in the rear-view mirror. The brown curls all bound in the bun atop her head were white at their roots, but the tips were gold. She held a leather case on her lap and wore a knit emerald cardigan, a floppy fisherman’s cap, and black sunglasses. Her lips were pursed with impatience.

Two strips of paper and a plastic debit card printed with a purple sunset lay on the case. The car otherwise was empty, though a scattering of copper and quarters filled the coin tray.

“Now, listen,” she began, and the golem gazed at her in silence. “My name is Ptoko, and I made this body for you. It has eyes and fingers and all the parts you need to walk and talk and be real. I can explain later; you don’t really need to know anything except that I can’t be seen in public. I’m a sorcerer--all my friends live too far away to help, so I made your face, because it isn’t on every television and newspaper in the city.”

She paused a moment, then frowned and looked almost afraid. “You’re not talking. Do you know what I’m asking? Let me borrow the body I made, and I promise I’ll give you control again--you can trust me; nothing I do will hurt you. Will--will you let me in? You’ll keep the memories. Is that fair?”

The golem nodded. Its maker grinned.

“Fantastic! I’d really go myself, but people would recognize me--I’m happy you don’t have a thousand questions.” She shut both her eyes. “I can explain a little while it starts--someone found out that my husband and I do magic, and they thought that meant we could make infinite money. They’re connected in important places, and they wanted nine million dollars.”

Her fingers drummed against the wheel. The golem nodded again.

“We sold everything,” she continued, “our house, our boat, everything, and we got all but six thousand after we moved our essentials into a little apartment. We only had our clothes and our family heirlooms, and we thought we’d given enough, but then they took my husband.” She shook her head. “Now I have five hours to deliver the rest of the ransom, and I’m nervous.”

Its maker smiled sadly, and the golem mirrored her. She laughed, then picked up the things in her lap.

“You can take these, after,” she said, holding up the papers, “and other eyes will see what you need them to, like a birth certificate. You can start a life with them and this credit card. It lets you buy whatever you need, but,” and she snorted a laugh, “you can’t use it at an ATM. Magic is nonsense sometimes.”

Her eyes flicked open then, and they were glowing blue. The radio started itself, humming something playful but insistent, and the sound lulled the clay eyes closed.

Ptoko opened them.

Her body felt thicker, heavier, but normal. She took the case from her unconscious body with the golem’s hands and set the rest in her lap, then opened the passenger door--tried to open the passenger door, but the new arm was longer and stronger than hers. The golem’s fingers fumbled across the window controls, but she found the door handle and didn’t stumble as she hauled herself into the sunlight.

She shut the door of the old silver Beetle behind her, then looked across the street. The pawnshop was a red brick building with a sign that the world had weathered away, but the orange door looked newly painted.

Cars sped along either side of the street as blurs too fast to see, but Ptoko saw her chance and she took it. A red Jeep whizzed past, and she sprinted onto the asphalt with the case tucked tight against her chest.

More cars were coming, but she was safe again on sidewalk before the blue pickup ramming toward her could twin her with the flattened squirrel beside the gutter grate. Maybe she was a little dizzy, but she’d made it.

The store was open. Neon signs in grimy windows never lied--the bell above the counter tinkled as Ptoko pushed the pawnshop’s door ajar and stepped inside.

“Can I offer you some popcorn, sir?” asked an old man with a name tag that read John, standing behind a glass and wood counter, smiling as he looked up from a thick book. An old red popcorn machine with a yellow bulb light sat on and ready behind him.

“Oh, no, but thank you,” Ptoko said, and she held up the case. “I heard you might buy swords.”

The old man squinted at her and the box, but then he nodded. “I do when there’s a sword worth buying. Why don’t you put it on the counter, and we can see what we have to work with.”

Ptoko nodded, and she set the case on the glass, which seemed mostly full of old games with broken cardboard, or Jack-in-the-Boxes with too many dents for the five hundred dollar asking prices printed neatly on the labels beside them. Everything in this store seemed old, useless, and expensive, so it probably was the perfect place for good swords to die.

The sword case’s leather was peeling, and the brass bits pinning the upholstery all were scratched, but the latch worked like new. Both bigger blades gleamed under the foggy fluorescence of the store’s tube lights, and the stone knives in the lid shone.

John put out his lower lip, and he seemed impressed, but then he hesitated. “Where did you get these?” he asked. “These--I can’t be buying things you stole.”

“They were my uncle’s,” Ptoko said, pulling the khopesh up out of the case. The curved bronze blade gleamed from this morning’s oiling, and she pointed at the little lines cut into the blocking edge. “These holes, they make the sword sing when--”

“I know about swords, my friend,” John said, though he couldn’t have known, because Uncle Akademos had made modifications, but she passed it to him and let him stay ignorant. Maybe he would give her more if he didn’t know about the flaws.

Everything online said antiques like these could be worth up to eight thousand, and that would be enough. John couldn’t give her the full eight so he could sell them for their value, but she only needed six.

The pawnbroker lay the curved khopesh back in its place, picked up the steel arming sword, sniffed its leather grip, then tapped on the blade with his fingernail, but everything was perfect, and so was the sound. Ptoko knew her way around swords too.

He turned to her, nodding. “How old are these; do you have any idea?”

“If you believe my uncle,” she said, smiling, “that arming sword was used when Rome was sacked, in 1527.”

“I never believe family legends,” the old man said, running his little finger lightly along the edge. “There would be notches if this had seen use.”

“Arming swords were secondary weapons,” Ptoko said, and John squinted at her. She grinned with the golem’s thick man face. “I just mean it probably wouldn’t have been used much.”

She almost asked what he might give her--almost, but he would give more to a man selling antiques than to a scared girl wanted by the police and ready to lose everything. The golem seemed like some man in his thirties selling what he didn’t need anymore, and Ptoko could keep pretending.

This golem could stand still, stay quiet, and negotiate, if the old man would give her just six thousand. Six thousand dollars, and she would have the love of her life back.

“I like these all,” the pawnbroker said, examining everything slowly and carefully, but his eyes flicked back to Ptoko when he thought she wasn’t looking. “The stone knives look ancient; the khopesh I can probably get my guy in LA to give me a good bit for, but this arming sword might be the best, if it’s really as old as you say.” He smiled. “I might keep it for myself.”

“How much do you think?” Ptoko asked.

John sighed, then looked down at everything again. “You don’t want to pawn?”

She nodded.

“Twenty thousand dollars.”

Ecstasy erupted in her chest, and Ptoko almost cackled, but she crossed her arms to stop herself. She just smiled, and she kept nodding.

Twenty thousand dollars would do more than buy back her husband. They could change their names--they could live on magic and be happy.

“That sounds perfect,” was all that she could say. “I--yes, that sounds perfect.”

The old man nodded, then he bent below the counter and set a black notebook down on it when he rose back up again. Ink showed on almost all the pages, but he flipped to a place near the middle marked with a purple Post-It note like a bookmark.The only words there were thick, bold letters:

I AM NOT SELLING STOLEN PROPERTY

A blank box waited under the oath for a signature.

John clicked a pen as he offered it and the black book. “Sign,” he promised, “and I’ll get you your money.”

She took the ballpoint and accidentally scribbled her real name, but it wouldn’t matter. The police wouldn’t be searching in a pawnbroker’s receipt book. She handed John back the pen, but the old man was still staring at the page.

Ptoko looked back down, and the signature vanished. The old man smiled as he turned to her, nodding and snapping his mysterious little black notebook closed. “I do like honesty,” he said. “Is a check fine?”

She nodded, and then she was grinning again. They would be able to find somewhere nice near their friends--twenty thousand dollars was enough to lease somewhere with rooms for everyone.

“Here you are,” John said, sliding a check across the counter. Maybe she was being rude, but Ptoko’s eyes scanned the fresh ink, and the numbers really all were there.

“Thank you,” she said, looking into the old pawnbroker’s eyes. “Really, I--thank you.”

“Have a nice day,” he told her, and shut the case. “I hope this helps.”

Ptoko nodded, and she walked outside with her ticket to a new life in hand, then jogged across the street to where the Beetle waited in the almost empty parking lot. Her mindless body looked drunk or dead, but no one had noticed yet.

The golem fit back into the passenger seat, and then she shut its eyes. “My name is Ptoko,” she said, and the golem had sight again as the spell stopped.

It coughed, then looked at her. “What,” it asked, and its voice was scratchy but deep, “is my name?”

“You can be whoever you want to be,” Ptoko told it, and she picked up everything in her lap. “Here--you take these, and give me that.”

“Thank you,” it said, and accepted its identity from her as she got the check.

“Listen,” she said, then took off her sunglasses and looked into its eyes. “You--you can take that and go, but I feel--responsible for you; I made you. Do you want to stay with me until you know what you want?”

“I want to stay,” it told her, and nodded. “I--I am a man?”

“You look like one,” she said, laughing.

“John helped you,” he said, looking at her again, and he nodded. “He was a man. I will be John too.”

Ptoko put the keys in the car, and then she bucked her seat belt. “Well, John, I’m about to save my husband. Are you coming?”

He smiled. “Let’s go.”