Golem II
Golem II
Beneath the crowds of the busy street, beneath its flashing neon lights directing you every which way, beneath the hover-cabs displaying loud, flashing advertisements on their windows, and beneath the torrential rain beating down on the umbrellas of men holding them with cold, steel hands lies a place that should not exist. The only people who know of it still are old and decrepit, not made for this world.
You will know where to find this place, if you look. Follow the mourner’s procession coming from what’s left of the old-city, or follow the faint sound of an ancient melody emanating from below the sewer grates. On Saturday nights, tune out the smells of the savory street food and the stench of the rotten garbage in the street, and feel the faint aroma of cloves and cinnamon. They will be new to you.
Regardless of which you follow, you will arrive at the same place. A wide staircase made of old stone will lead you down towards the song and spices. It is dark and steep if you do not know the path—but I trust you will not stumble.
At the bottom of the staircase, you will find a small room, much longer than it is wide, flooded with the warm glow of wax candles which reveals faded brick walls. Step past the yellow line and into the steel tube. It moved people across the old city once, but this was long ago, though it has long since dented and rusted. It wears its age well, all things considered—better than I do.
Inside the steel tube are rows of seating, and, at the very front of the room, a large wooden cabinet, once elaborately carved and beautifully painted, now chipped and scuffed. It was made to hold something now lost.
If, when you enter, there are people inside—many of them—their heads bowed east, take a seat in the back and join them. Stand when they stand, and bow your head when they do. At the end of the rituals, they will ask you who you are, and you will answer them honestly. Tell them that you followed the smell of cinnamon or the sound of their prayers, and they may shake your hand and greet you with smiles and blessings they will mean. They were dishonest once too, but those games are tiring to old people such as ourselves. Eat their bread and drink their wine—it’s finer than anything you’ve ever had—recipes from the old world. Many think that place dead, and they’re right. But some piece of it lives with us, as long as we’re still here.
No matter.
Go there, and see this place and these people for yourselves. See their liver spots, and their white hair and the poorly sewn patches on their old, tattered prayer shawls. Hear their songs before they die.
But do something for me, too, if you will. Stay when they leave. Go to the front of the steel tube, and carefully push aside the wooden cabinet—carefully. It’s lighter than you think, with nothing in it. Push it aside, and climb down, out of the tube, from the door that was behind the cabinet. You’ll need something to light your way with. Take one of their candelabras if you must, but return it when you leave.
You’ll be met with a long tunnel, with a walkway on the side. Do not be afraid—these tunnels have seen no movement since the old world died all those years ago. I don’t know how far down it is, but, eventually, you will find a door on the side of the wall, and in the room behind that door you will find him. His body, rather. You’ll know him when you see him. A pile of clay. I do not know what condition it will be in, but I imagine it will be cracked, discolored. Another victim of time.
By the dim light of your candle, carve into the clay these letters, in this order, from right to left: Aleph (א), He (ה), Vet (ב). They used to mean something together, in some old-language—’to be,’ perhaps. I used to know, but no matter. Write those letters on his forehead, and the Golem will rise. Although he is like the metal men of the new world in some ways, never have I seen such care in the movement of their hands, nor such profound sadness in their eyes. Yossele—the Golem—he cannot speak. He is a good listener, the best I’ve known in all my years, but he cannot speak.
Past that—the future is a mystery to even me. He has been gone for a long time, and the world has changed much since he was last awake. Lead him back to the tube for me, please, up the staircase, up to the neon streets and the flashing lights and the rain, the men with their cold, steel hands, to the smell of savory food and rotting garbage. Tell Yossele that the world thinks it has no need for him. Tell him that it does. It always has. Tell him that he is to act of his own accord now—tell him I am to die soon, unless I already have.
Tell him that I am sorry.
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