Emet (Part Three)

By Ari Peck

Rabbi Finder’s Bedroom

Finder rolled over in bed. Even in these early hours of the day, the sounds of construction filtered in from outside. He allowed himself a sigh of relief. Finder had braced himself for cries for blood, hundreds of Kievites flooding into the town to destroy what little still stood. None had come. Perhaps their bloodlust had faded when the rabble rousers fled or died. Perhaps they had heard stories from terrified survivors about chudovishche iz zhid: the Kikes’ Monster. His monster. His shame.

Though the two had never been seen together, the townspeople had of course linked the impossible monster back to the old Rabbi who was never seen without his unusual books, kabbalist tomes unknown in this country. Finder would have told them even if they had not assumed. There should be no shame in using the old books to work the prophets’ wonders. And yet there was. No matter the reason, one does not breathe life into dust. No matter the reason, one does not mimic the work of God.

Though the golem had not been seen since the night it appeared, the remains of butchered rioters had not let it leave the public’s thoughts. In the midst of the cleanup, many would stop for a moment and stare out into the woods, praying that they wouldn’t see a walking mud hill wander back out from the trees. He prayed with them.

It was not out of doubt or lack of purpose that Finder refused to face the thing, but out of fear, much as he hated to admit it to himself. He had made the creature to protect, not to slaughter. He’d expected it to wait for him, to take direction. Instead, the name had driven it to town. To the lie-spreader.

He’d known on some level that there would be many deaths if he created the creature.

. . .

The golem laid her back against a sturdy pine, bringing down a rain of needles as her weight dropped against the trunk. She ran her hands over her chest and legs, smoothing out the cracks that formed when she walked. Even days after the fighting she still occasionally found a bullet wound to smooth over or a piece of rubble to pick out. Even if they didn’t hurt, there was something unnerving about having something alien lodged inside oneself. Beyond that, there was her eternal fascination with her own shape. She knew more than she had seen. Though her mind was old, her body was new to her. Her dimensions, her weight, her blood-stained fingers. All were wondrous and new.

This time, she found a strip of wood coming up through her foot like the posts she had seen hunters use to pitch their tents. Unphased, she pulled it out and tossed it to the side. She scraped the wet ground for dirt and mounded it in her hands, then tenderly massaged it into the wound until the surface was unbroken. She flexed and felt her foot respond with the same motion it always did, as if there had never been any damage at all. Her brow furrowed, producing a small shower of dry earth. She rose and wandered into the brush, tree branches snapping off of their trunks against the force of her stride.

Her simplicity was infuriating. Why was no part of her essential? Why was there no discomfort in being torn, beaten, or pierced? Shouldn’t her body protest mistreatment the way the others’ did when she had subdued them? Shouldn’t there be some sense of loss that couldn’t be fixed with wet dirt? How much could she be cut apart and put back together before she stopped being her? If her body was nothing more than a mound of dirt, then where or what was really her? She stopped walking.

The stream. Though she hadn’t seen it in daylight before, she instantly recognised her birthplace. The earth beneath her feet was the same color she turned when the rain seeped into her. She kneeled, half expecting the ground to leap up and embrace her. Yet aside from the water, all was still.

The golem lay down on her back and let her mind wander. “When one has questions,” she decided, “there’s no better place than home.”

. . .

Finder leaned on his walking stick, twisting the fringes on his shirt around his finger. Of course it had come back here. It knew so few places. Why not go back to where it was made?

He hadn’t brought his students. It seemed wrong to bring them when he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing here. Considering the golem was looking at him, there wasn’t much time to figure it out. He stepped into the water.

“Golem. Do you understand me?” It nodded. “You did what you were made for. Now you’ll come with me.” He turned and started on his way back to town. There was only silence behind him.

“Golem. You will listen.”

The golem had sat up, but had made no effort to stand. “I will hear, Rabbi. I may even listen. Don’t assume that means I’ll obey.”

Finder did his best to hide his shock. He hadn’t thought the mound of dirt before him could think. Let alone speak.

“Golem. You were made by my hand. You are a watchdog for my people. Your… existence is ours.”

“My life is mine, father. ”

Father. Finder could feel the world pound into his gut. “I… I am not your–. Don’t use that word. I am your maker.”

“Then I am a tool to you. This tool, my body, it now belongs to me. Make another if you wish, maker.”

Finder raised his voice. “Enough. If you think of me as a father, then see that you are a willful child. Know your place. You were made by the power of my God!”

“As were you. We are equals. You want me to come back with you to that town, no? Who else will I kill for you? I know you’re ashamed of me. I am your nakedness.”

Finder was too shocked to speak. The creature spoke of things no one could have taught it.

“You make the same mistake as your maker before you. You allowed me to roam, and now I know what I am. The error of a man who thought to play God.”

“Enough!” He grabbed the golem’s arm and pulled. The river-softened clay ripped at the joint, leaving the golem with a stump ending at her elbow. Finder couldn’t tell who was more surprised.

The letters on the creature’s head warped as she furrowed her brow. She lashed out with her remaining hand and Finder flew backward, colliding with a tree at the shore.

He hurt everywhere, but the rib that had taken the most of the blow crumbled to almost nothing. He tried to stand, using the staff for support, but collapsed with a groan. It was coming toward him.

She stood and rushed to him, ashamed. She didn’t mean to hurt him.

He clutched his cane and screamed. He didn’t want to die.

She reached out a hand to comfort him.

He swung with his staff to save himself. He struck her in the head.

Emet became met. Truth became death.

Shape became rubble. The Golem became nothing.

. . .

Finder lost track of time. The pain from a dozen shattered bones replaced his thoughts. He could taste blood and bile. Whether from exhaustion or injury, he couldn’t move his legs.

Finder’s stared blankly forward, half at nothing, half at the current slowly eating through the mound of clay that sat in the water.

He raised a muddied hand to wipe water from his brow, noticing too late that he was dirtying his face. He smiled. He scraped more dirt into his palm and worked it into his skin, marveling at the texture, the color, the feel. He laughed. Finally, a likeness with his child. A family moment before the end. He hoped he rotted before a scavenger found his corpse. A dead man’s bones should stay together.

It would take weeks for maggots to work their way through his body in the cold, he thought mournfully.

A shame. He was anxious to rejoin the dirt.