by Kim Fielding
The Golem of Mala Lubovnya
Kim Fielding
Copyright © 2014 by Kim Fielding
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
About the Author
Also by Kim Fielding
1
The first thing he knew was the touch of fingers. Later he learned the difference between a scholar’s gentle, hesitant strokes and a stonemason’s calloused caresses, but in the beginning there were only fingers rubbing lines into the clay of his chest.
He opened his eyes and discovered the world.
It was only a small piece of the world, as he also learned later. Great wooden beams over him, and between them, smaller slats of wood in neat rows. He studied the pattern for a moment and was pleased with it. But then he saw the sparkle of dust motes in a shaft of sunlight, and he was so delighted he reached up to touch them. That was when he discovered his hand, and it was a wonder. His fingers were long and broad and pale, and they moved as he willed them. He played with them, making them dance along with the dust. He heard a sound like rocks tumbling down a mountainside and realized it was his own laughter, and he was so happy to be able to make the sound that he laughed some more.
“Golem!”
He turned his head and was astonished to see a man standing beside him. But of course—those fingers on his chest must have belonged to someone. The man was small, dressed in dark clothing and a dark skullcap, and his dark beard was threaded with gray. His eyes were wide. “Stand!” he ordered.
The golem slowly rose to his feet. Feet! They were large, and the toes moved nearly as nimbly as his fingers. He curled the toes under and stretched them out, and he pressed his feet more firmly against the floor so as to feel the splintery floorboards.
“Look at me,” said the man.
The golem towered over him. Could easily have lifted the little man into the air and torn him in two. But the man glared at him fiercely and pointed at him with a finger still wet with clay. “Do you know who I am?” asked the man.
The answer required thought, which was also new for the golem, and clumsy. “My master?” he finally rumbled. He liked the way the sounds hummed and hissed in his mouth.
“Yes. I am Rabbi Eleazer of Mala Lubovnya, and I am your master. This means you will obey me in all things.”
The golem nodded. He was glad to have a master, because the golem knew nothing and surely Rabbi Eleazer knew everything. “Who am I, Master?” he asked.
The rabbi shook his head. “You are not a who but a what. You are a golem. I made you in man’s image, but you are not a man. Just as men are made in God’s image but we are not God.”
A heaviness churned in the golem’s belly as he looked down at himself. He had skin like his master’s, two legs, a thick soft penis, a heavy scrotum. His broad chest was hairless, and letters were carved into his sternum. He couldn’t read them. “I’m not a man?” he whispered, sounding like shifting sands. “Then what am I?”
“Golem.”
It wasn’t a nice word. The golem’s legs felt weak, and he collapsed to the floor. He gathered his knees to his chest and closed his eyes. He wasn’t real. He was nothing but an object made of clay and he had no family, no friends.
“What’s wrong with you?” asked the rabbi. “Are you broken?”
The golem shook his head mutely. He was everything a golem ought to be. He didn’t understand how he knew about things like family and friends, but various bits of knowledge rattled around in his head.
After a long silence, the rabbi sighed. “It’s nearly dinnertime. You stay here and keep quiet. Tomorrow I will test you.”
The golem’s eyes were still closed, but he heard his master’s footfalls on the floor, the creak and thud of a door, more footsteps descending stairs. And then he was alone in the silence. He sat until he felt cramped, and then he carefully stood. The light had begun to dim, and the air was chill on his bare skin. Remembering his master’s orders, he tiptoed to the room’s single window and peered outside.
The world was so much larger than he’d imagined! He nearly fell back in surprise. Peering through the rippled pane of glass, he saw the sky, huge and violet. Down below him—for his window was several stories up—were stone buildings. Most had red tile roofs and boxes of colorful flowers outside the windows. One structure was only partially complete, nothing yet but an open rectangle. The spaces between the buildings were paved with small blocks. Two cats, one orange and one brown, lapped at a small bowl. A trio of girls hurried by with their arms linked, a man carried an armload of wood into one of the buildings, and a black-and-gray bird watched from a nearby rooftop.
None of the other buildings were as tall as the one where the golem stood. He leaned his forehead against the dusty glass and watched all the activity, and he wondered whether there were other golems observing from other windows.
As the light continued to wane, several men approached the golem’s building. He couldn’t see them well from his angle, but he thought they entered through a door. He hoped they were coming to see him, to speak with him. They looked happy. But nobody came clomping up the stairs.
He padded quietly to the room’s door and leaned his ear against it. At first he heard nothing, then the soft rumble of many voices speaking at once. When the speaking stopped, it was replaced by chanting. They were praying. He didn’t understand the words, but he liked the sound of them—sometimes somber and sometimes joyous—and he liked the way the men’s voices joined together into one complex tapestry. One voice rose above the others, however, clear and strong. The golem wished he could hum along, but his master had told him to be silent. Besides, perhaps prayers were meant only for real people. Perhaps a prayer from a golem was an abomination.
The golem curled up on the floor with his ear to the narrow crack under the door, and he listened until he fell asleep.
“You’re in the way,” said Rabbi Eleazar. He stood in the doorway, the doorknob still in his hand, and he looked down at the golem. He had a pile of fabric tucked under his arm.
“I’m sorry, Master.” The golem stood and backed away. Although morning light flooded his room, he rubbed his arms to chase away the nighttime’s lingering cold.
Rabbi Eleazer held the fabric toward the golem. “Put these on. Make yourself decent.” He shook his head. “I hope they fit. It’s not easy to find something your size.”
There were trousers, coarsely made and patched, too big around the waist, and falling barely below the golem’s knees, but it was real clothing, and that felt good. He put on an equally well-used vest, which couldn’t close across his chest and covered him only to the bottom of his ribs. But it had two shiny metal buttons, which the golem liked very much. He smiled at his master once he was dressed. “Thank you.”
“Next time I’ll bring you some rope to use as a belt. Can’t have your trousers falling down.” For the first time in the golem’s presence, the rabbi allowed himself a small grin. “You’ll be a shock enough to the congregation as it is.”
“The congregation? Will I be allowed to meet them?”
“Not yet. If I’m lucky, never.”
“Oh.” The golem’s excitement dimmed and his shoulders slumped.
If the rabbi noticed, he didn’t comm
ent. Instead he pointed to a jumble of empty sacks in one corner of the room. “You can clean those up today. Stack them neatly and place them on a shelf. And tidy the rest of the attic, so long as you can be quiet about it.”
“Is that why you made me, Master? To clean?” The golem liked the idea of having a purpose. If he was meant to clean, he would do a very good job of it. He would make his master proud.
“No.” The rabbi walked across the room to look out the window. He nearly had to stand on tiptoe to see outside. “There are… petty men out there. They’re not even truly evil. Just selfish and greedy and a little drunk with power. Some of those men would harm my people. As if we were not citizens too, hardworking and loyal and as good as anyone else. I am hoping their threats are empty. Perhaps clearer, fairer minds will prevail. But so often it seems as if people are eager to hear the worst words, the most dangerous ideas.”
Rabbi Eleazer fell silent and remained at the window for a long time, lost in thought, his brow furrowed. Eventually he turned to the golem, who’d been waiting patiently. “I fear my people are in danger, and that is why I made you. Tonight I will test you. If you are as strong as I hope, you will serve to protect us should the need arise.”
At these words, the golem stood very tall and straight. “I will do my best, Master.”
“Of course you will.” The rabbi patted the golem’s arm. It was the first time they’d touched since the rabbi had made him. The hand was warm, and now that they stood close together, the golem realized his master smelled of wool and fresh bread.
“Clean,” said the rabbi, not unkindly. “And be quiet.” Without another word, he left the attic. The latch seemed very loud when it settled into place.
There were a lot of bags. When the golem picked one up, bits of dried clay pattered at his feet, and he realized where the sacks had come from. They must have held the substance from which he was made. He imagined the rabbi digging at a riverbank, filling the bags, loading them into a cart and bringing them home, carrying them one by one up the stairs. Nothing but sacks full of damp earth that the rabbi had shaped and formed into the semblance of a man. Had he thought about the specifics of how his golem would look, or had he simply squished and smoothed until he decided it was good enough? The golem ran his fingers over his face, feeling his thick, dry lips, his wide nose, his hairless brow, his bald scalp. He must be very ugly.
He sighed loudly and began to fold the sacks into neat squares. He piled them on a shelf alongside a few dented tin boxes and a couple of chipped pottery bowls. When he found a broom tucked in a corner, he swept the clay dust into a little pile. But he wasn’t sure what to do with it, so he ended up gathering the dust into one of the bowls.
After that, he looked for more things to clean. In the rafters there were cobwebs, which he vanquished. A thin layer of dust lay over everything, and he used one of the bags to wipe it away, with some success. He wandered to the window and dusted the glass, then realized he would need to wash away the grime. He had no water. Perhaps he could ask his master for some later.
He was still at the window when some motion outside caught his attention. Several men were working near the half-built house. Two of them chiseled large blocks of stone, while two others carried the blocks and set them into mortar that a fifth man had spread. All five resembled each other, although one was a generation older. A father and sons, perhaps. The golem wrapped his arms around himself, wondering what it would be like to have a family.
The golem soon forgot his cleaning as he fixed his attention on the masons. He was particularly interested in the one who set the mortar. He looked to be the youngest of the group. He had a short beard, and his dark hair was very curly. He was a little less burly than his brothers, all of whom were big men, but not as big as the golem. The youngest mason moved confidently, deftly, almost like a dancer, and unlike his brothers, he rarely seemed distracted by passersby. When a stout woman in a gray sweater and gray head scarf appeared with a basket of food, the youngest mason sat a little apart from the others, staring up at the clouds as he ate.
The golem watched the masons all day. When the sun angled low, the men packed up their tools and walked out of sight; the golem felt oddly lonely. He turned back to his own work, setting some broken chairs into a neat pile and folding wads of worm-eaten woolen fabric. When he couldn’t find anything else to do, he hurried to the window again and was rewarded by the sight of the masons approaching his building. They were dressed in nicer clothes, and he could hear them laughing as they walked up the pavement. All except the youngest one, who trailed the rest and looked somber.
Not long afterward, the praying began. The golem loved it as much as he had the first time. He again sat very close to the door, not quite daring to open it a crack. But even through the heavy wood, he could hear the voices chanting together and the one voice that rose above the rest, soaring like a bird. The golem smiled.
Rabbi Eleazar came up the steps not long after the men had left. He carried a candle in a metal lantern. “Did you clean?” he asked, holding the lantern high. The light didn’t creep very far into the room.
“Yes, Master. Except for the window.”
“The window can stay as it is. Follow me.”
If the golem had a heart, it would have raced as he trailed the rabbi. They went out the door—the golem had to stoop to fit through—onto a small landing and to a steep stairway. The stairs were so narrow that the golem’s shoulders nearly brushed both sides. He had to concentrate on his steps as he descended; he didn’t want to tumble all the way down. He might shatter, and he didn’t know if the rabbi could repair him.
There were a lot of stairs. The golem didn’t know how to count well, but the stairway twisted and turned several times until finally the rabbi opened a door and led him out onto the ground floor. They were in a large vestibule. It was too dark for the golem to see the details. But he could easily see a pair of double doors that stood open to a very spacious room filled with padded chairs. More chairs were arranged on a mezzanine. And in the center of the room was a raised dais with a large candelabra, a carved podium, and a painted and gilded cabinet with richly embroidered fabric covering the front.
“What is this place?” asked the golem in a whisper, because he wasn’t sure whether he had permission to make sounds.
“The shul,” Rabbi Eleazar answered.
“Do you live here?”
“Of course not. This is a house of worship. Nobody lives here.”
Nobody except the golem. But he didn’t count.
The golem was disappointed when they didn’t enter the sanctuary. He would have liked to examine its details more carefully. Instead, the rabbi took him down a short corridor and out a door so small even the rabbi had to duck slightly. They were in a fully enclosed courtyard formed by the synagogue on two sides and two-story wooden buildings on the others. A cistern sat in the center of the cobblestone paving, and some small trees and shrubs grew near the walls. It was very quiet, although the golem could hear snatches of voices from somewhere else. Maybe inside the houses. The golem stood in the center and looked up at the deep black sky, wondering if it were possible to fall upward. He liked the way the breeze tickled the bare bits of his skin, bringing tantalizing whiffs of food and animals and growing things. He liked the feeling of the pebbly pavement under his bare feet. He wanted to touch the leaves of the trees, to taste the little puddle of water at the edge of the cistern, but he didn’t dare.
The rabbi crossed the courtyard to a large wagon. “Can you pull this?” he asked.
The golem placed himself between the shafts and tugged. The cart came easily behind him, its wheels clattering on the pavement.
“Enough, enough!” said Rabbi Eleazar. “So you’re as strong as an ox. But how much can you lift?”
The golem thought for a moment. Then he stooped to place his arms under the front of the wagon and straightened his knees. The cart rose into the air—a bit unsteadily because of its awkward shape, but wit
hout a great amount of effort on the golem’s part.
The rabbi uttered an exclamation in a language the golem didn’t understand. A brief prayer, maybe. The golem set the cart down again, taking care not to make too much noise. He looked at his master expectantly. He was enjoying this work—it felt good to be so useful.
“I have one more test for you. Come here.”
In the corner where the walls of the synagogue met, there was a boulder nearly as tall as the rabbi. It was covered in moss and lichen. The golem wondered whether a stone could itch. His shoulders twitched in sympathy.
The rabbi picked up a hammer with a long wooden handle and a large metal head. He handed it to the golem. “I had to borrow this from Yitzak the smith, and I believe he was almost overcome with curiosity about why I might need it. Use it on the rock. Bring it down as hard as you can.”
The golem hefted the tool in his hands. The shaft was smooth and solid. It felt good, but even better was when the golem lifted it high over his head. He wanted to utter an apology to the boulder, which had done him no harm, but he was afraid his master would be angry. The golem bunched his muscles, and with a satisfying grunt, he swung the hammer down with all his might. The head hit the stone, sparks flew, and the rock cracked apart like a great egg. The crash echoed off the walls.
This time there was no question the rabbi said a prayer. In the flickering candlelight, he looked equally gratified and horrified. “A mighty weapon indeed,” he said to himself. “Let us pray we shall never need it.”
He didn’t say another word as he led the golem back indoors. The golem was deeply disappointed—he’d hoped to have more chance to investigate the world. But he didn’t complain as they plodded up the stairs to the stuffy, dusty attic.
