The buzz of the cicadas filled the air in a way Rabbi Feinstein had never heard. The rice paddies were a cacophony of frogs croaking, cicadas humming, and the distant thrum of diesel engines sitting in the heart of worn tractors.

No one would look for him here— let alone golems.

His gnarled hand rested on the smooth dome of his latest and only (intact) creation. He’d name him Malachi. His brother would have liked that. If not the dimensions he was giving to his namesake.

This new Malachi would be a guardian golem. While a fugitive from the order, Feinstein no longer had to run. Not if anyone couldn’t find him.

Who would look in the wilds of Kyushu? He stayed away from Nagasaki, knowing the port to be alive with Portuguese and Dutch traders. The kind of men that didn’t hesitate to add to a trips profit by passing along his likeness on a handbill.

No need to worry now— Feinstein would soon have Malachi at his disposal. Even if it did mean relinquishing his attendance to the world at large.

But in truth, that had been done years ago.

His brother made sure of it.

The Circle hadn’t approved of his brothers work. Their family had been a tolerated presence, but the rest of the keballists were worried about the power and influence the Feinstein family could wield if they became more politically and financially discerning. Gregor hadn’t taught Aaron how to just build golems, but how to build alliances. Gregor proved to be the justification the Circle had been looking for. The Feinstein house lay in ruins. The people of Vienna looked on without much interest. Fires were common enough. At least in this corner of the city.

Gregor took his brother Aaron into hiding. The rest of the family had fled to the America’s. A choice Gregor was reluctant to make for himself or his brother, knowing that the power still resided on the continent. Aaron would later realize his brother’s mistake in this. But by then he’d be stowed away in a cargo ship for the port of Nagasaki. Thousands of miles away from Vienna— thousands of miles away from his brother’s final resting place.

“You know there are six different types of Jewish sorcerers? We’re only one of them. Isn’t that incredible?” The echo of his brother’s marvel kept Aaron awake at night. Lost in the humid hours of a long night and resistant morning, he would reimagine all the conversations he had with Gregor that led them both to ruin.