Waiting in an attic in Prague

Note: this is a version of the Golem of Prague story and thus contains descriptions of violent antisemitism.

Humans do not remember their creation. They do not remember a soul entering their tiny bodies, they remember neither the comfort of the womb, nor the sudden shock of first breathing air, and so they have become obsessed with their ultimate creator. They worship Him- they have declared it a Him despite the circumstantial evidence -; they live their lives according to His rules, shared through His few special men; they see Him in their dreams, in nature, in stains on walls. For many, this gap in their memories becomes an object of obsession, some devote their lives to studying what may come after, circularly the same as came before, life itself just a passing phase.

I do remember my creation, it was revealed to me all at once as my maker precisely carved a word I have never seen into my forehead and suddenly I came to life. I was scooped from the river, far from the centre of town where my harvest might have been seen, and transported in small barrels marked as wine in the pink evening sun to the home of a congregant of my master, a potter, devout and of good character. My master and the potter made me together, and the marks of both their tiny fingers cover my body, the potter’s faint and expert where he sculpted me from nothing, and my master’s perfectly swirled prints firmer and more defined on the fine details of my hands, feet and groin. Satisfied with their night’s work, I was left to dry in the day, hidden in the small courtyard shed he kept for his private purposes, and then fired. I do not know if I was fired alone, or if the potter made the most of the heat by placing bottles and bowls at my feet. If I were human, I might feel sentimental about these stillborn siblings, created just like me but never imbued with life. Once cooled, the carving of the word, slow and precise - a being of flesh would have found this an excruciating birth, for me it was simply an awakening from a sleep of which I had not been aware.

The first thing I saw was a man’s eyes, level with mine, and for a moment I thought I had been created by a giant or a god, and I was to be a second Adam. Shortly after, I saw the short stepladder. I was brought to life with knowledge enough to recognise the man on the ladder as my master, and without the curiosity to want anything more. I lacked many of the things my protectees had. Anatomy was the easiest to understand - hair, patterns on my fingers, eyelids, lips, a tongue. I also lacked their shame in nudity, though I now understand I also have none of the things about which they feel shame. It took longer to understand what else I lacked.

Most of my protectees, and everyone from whom I was protecting them, believed me to be an ill-advised work of art. I was ugly, insufficiently symmetrical, too large for the narrow mouth of the street where I was sentried. They had no way of knowing what was to come, and I had no desire to be loved or beautiful. My duty was not to their eyes, but to my master, and his command was to keep them safe, bodily, from spears and rocks not from aesthetic offense.

I waited without impatience, day and night in post, never becoming tired or distracted like a human would. I became more familiar with their languages as they spoke freely around me, and soon learned to discern the two, then to understand both. Those I protected spoke from the back of their mouths, loud and varied, and so freely gesturing and emoting that even the others could usually grasp the basics of their disagreements. The others spoke calmly, even and soothing, from the front of their mouths with air pushed between their teeth- another thing I lacked. I became familiar with specific humans as I learned, too, to discern faces and voices. I came to know their names, their relationships, their struggles, from time to time even finding I cared about hearing the conversations. I came to welcome the morning not for light, but because I would see that all the boy children had survived the night as they were hurried into school; the midday sun brought a new flurry of life, happy faces eating much waited for meals, outsiders buying from my protectees with smiles and clumsy conversation; lamplit nights confirmed rumours as couples crept away from taverns, parties and dinners, confirming their love only to each other and me. Seasons passed, bringing jackets then scarves, and new fashions of hat and new favoured colours of gloves, I could feel neither cold nor heat myself but could sense in the humans that too much of either was no good at all. Through all, I was undiscovered, a tolerated eccentricity of a holy man, occasionally defaced or pissed on but neither moved on nor badly damaged.

The night they realised I was alive, outsiders came, and not ones I recognised. None of the men who bought jackets or collected dues from my people, none of the women who brought their children to play in the cleaner streets, none of either sex who came for dancing and drunkenly declared their love and newfound faith. Not many, either, fewer than were here even on a cold wet day, but armed and angry, men with fire and blades and permission to use them. When I first lifted my foot I was sure I would shatter, I felt the years of debris and growth cling to it, trying to keep me attached to the cobbles and acceptably placed. But it moved, and so did the next one, and both of my arms without so much as a chip of my thick clay skin. And I moved fast towards them, surprised by my own speed, and then surprised by my strength as the first one I hit fell to the floor, cracked like an egg and never again to rise. The second, I was not surprised, though his death was slower and less painless, his neck first twisted to the side and then his chest crushed beneath me.

I cannot remember the third, forth, or which of them pleaded for his life and told me who had ordered them to cleanse the city of my protectees, of their dirty blood and heathen magic, of the children I had known from babies and the young lovers still to build their homes. He died too, in whichever order, and his death relinquished to me a printed warrant, which I took to my master.

He was horrified by what I had done. Though I protested it was only in defense of my protectees, he spoke of things I did not then understand. Warrants, royal orders, the importance of obeying those with larger armies, that his people were cursed and must periodically allow a few to die to sate the anger of outsiders who would otherwise massacre them all. He explained, and I accepted, I was to stand in lieu of the traditional sacrifice.

My last instruction was to walk up to the attic above his temple, and lay down. There my maker carved a letter from the word on my forehead- again, I could not feel the pain, but I could imagine the pain of those who would succumb to fire next time, without my defense, and I could see in my mind an image of Adam weeping. Together we were in silence as he said apologetic goodbyes to a son he believed he had killed, and I remained still. He did not look back as he closed the door.

Generations have passed with my unmoving body above them. My master has died, and the sons of his sons of his sons have succeeded him. None have made me a brother or sister, though not all have accepted the bargain. They have fought, died, defended, appeased, allowed, and every year there are fewer voices in the congregation. Unsleeping, unmoving and untiring, I wait and listen.