Part 0 Rabbi Lowe was far from the caricature of the Jewish scholar and teacher. He was young, boyish even, clean-shaven and with a dazzling smile. His hose and doublet were cut in the latest Parisian style. "Hey! Call me Reb," he told his bound captives, "Everybody else does." Who these everybody elses might be, Thomas More could only guess. Over by a distant wall stood two golems, their red eyes burning dully in their clay heads. Tied up in the chair beside him was More's companion and former teacher, Johannes Reuchlin. More had taken Johannes, rather than Brother Felix with him on this mission because of the German's knowledge of Hebrew. The only others in the room were Lowe and a hooded musician, playing a jangly theme on what appeared to be a flattened lute. Dum, dideedee dum, didee dum didee dum, didee dum didee dum, didee dum didee dum. Reb Lowe was now at the stage of explaining his master plan. "For years, the Jews of England have been forced to hide their identity. Those who live openly are expelled or killed. For those who hide their faith, the crypto-Jews, each year they become more crypto and less Jew." "But what would you do?" asked More. "A good question! I am a loyal subject of King Henry. I could not harm him, his family, or any of his lords, ladies or gentlemen. But if I set my golems to tear down the slums of South London the King will be forced to sit up and take notice. But the beauty is, no one will be killed save for a few no-accounts." "No accounts!" More exploded, "These commoners are still good Catholic men and women. What you propose is murder!" "Feh! What the English laws do to Jews is murder, a most sinister form of murder - murder of identity, of tradition, of religion. It is the murder of a whole people. What I plan is simply self defence. What matter when a few die, if the result is toleration? For after all, does a Jew not have eyes? Do we not have dimensions, senses, afflictions and passions?" Here we go again, thought More as the incidental music continued, didee dum didee dum. "If you prick us, do we not bleed?" was becoming as much a cliché for the anti-Catholic master criminal as "Before I kill you, Mr More, let me tell you of my secret plan." The Sheriff of London decided to speed the process. "The golems," asked More, "How can clay live? It seems most unscientific." "Ah, a rationalist," smiled Lowe, "You believe in your mystery of the Trinity and yet you doubt the evidence of your own eyes, that clay walks. Know you that there is a force that animates both man and beast - it is the same force that makes the lightning." More was still disbelieving. It was like he had left human history for the pages of a child's fairy story, a phantasmagoria. But Reuchelin seemed intrigued. "Those golemim," the scholar asked, "Is the Shem Tov, the holy name, written in paper inside their heads?" Reb Lowe laughed, "That is the schtick my grandfather would have done. But it is hardly rational. Oh no. Inside there is a card, punched with holes. Each hole represents a number and each row of holes adds up to a larger number that corresponds to a letter of the Shem Tov. It's all in accordance with the principles of natural philosophy." "And what is to become of us?" asked Reuchlin anxiously. "Well, you and More have been sent to oppose me," said Lowe, "Now when a Lutheran terroriser kills his opponents he strikes blindly, wildly, killing at random. Whereas in a few minutes when I give my golems their orders", he indicated at the pottery giants, "it will be exactly you two who die, my enemies and no-one else. I think of it as harm minimisation." Reuchlin nodded. More could see he was following Lowe's arguments, perhaps a little to closely. More also noticed the hooded musician had begun to remove one of the strings from his isntrument. And yet the occasional music still played. Didee dum didee dum. How did he do that? Then he glimpsed the face under the hood. Brother Felix! He better keep Lowe distracted. "Reb, those commoners of South London: While your faith is no doubt a holy thing, yet the most precious gift the One God - the Architect and Lord of the universe - gave to Adam and Eve and all mankind, was life itself. If you taken that life, that precious gift, whatever you win in return is desecrated and sullied - even religion itself." Didee dum didee dum. Reb Lowe's face - up until then composed, cocky and self-assured - fell, "Oh. For it is not written, 'Thou shalt not k... argh." Felix had his string around Lowe's neck. Dah-dah! Dah dah dah. Lowe choked out a few words of Hebrew then his lips move soundlessly for a few moments. Brother Felix pulled the cord tighter until he was satisfied then sprang to release More and Reuchlin. Dah! Dah! The brace of golems were creaking towards the threesome, arms raised and angry eyes blazing red. The men ran.

"A dead end!" exclaimed Felix. More looked back. The golems were slower than the men but they had nearly caught up. In the gloom of the castle's corridors More could hear their footfalls. Then, in the distant, pinpricks of red light from the creations' eyes. He turned to Reuchlin, "Old friend! These creatures, is there anything that can defeat them?" Reuchlin looked helpless, "The card in their head. It contains our Father's Holy Name. There is very little that can trump that." More pondered. Then he exclaimed, "Only liturgical dance can save us now!" He turned to the Dominican, "Brother Felix, can you play that new song of King Henry's?" Felix looked startled, "Greensleeves?" "No, the hymn. Me Tangere." "Si!" The monk unslung his guitar from his back as More and Reuchlin took up their positions. The two men faced each other, right palms touching. As Felix began playing. the pair began walking slowly clock-wise. The golems were now less than a chain away. As Felix sang, a change came over his voice. All trace of accent was lost and he sounded paradoxically more feminine yet deeper and huskier.       You're the one who makes me come running.       You're the Son who makes me shine.       When You're around I'm always laughing.       I want to make You mine. One of the golems had slowed done and was now trailing its twin, seemingly having difficulty keeping up. More and Reuchlin separated and turned to face each other. They raised their hands and swung them side to side, Reuchlin mirroring More.       I close my eyes,       And see You before me.       Think I would die,       If You were to ignore me. The rear golem stopped walking. Its eyes were extinguished and its arms fell lifeless to its side. But the other construction, still it came. Felix held up his guitar protectively as he desperately sang,       A fool could see,       Just how much I adore You.       I get down on my knees,       I'd do anything for You. More folded his arms and dropped down, almost to a sitting position. He began kicking his legs out one at a time. Reuchlin copied as best as his arthritic limbs would allow.       I don't want anybody else.       When I think about You...[1] It was then that the golem's head exploded. There was not a single punched card but a veritable shower of the things, some of which had caught aflame "By all the saints, that was close," breathed Felix. "And where did you learn those moves," wondered Reuchlin, "Towards the end you looked like a tailor Morris dancing!" "Just a little something I picked up in the Grand Duchy of Muscovy," said More modestly. He looked around at a tapestry smouldering against the wooden panelling. "These walls have started to catch on fire, we'd better go." The trio hotfooted past the now lifeless clay. [To be continued]

[1] Words (but not capitalisation) © Christina Amphlett and Mark McEntee