The Golem

Written for Myth and Lore's 9th Issue: Cryptids of the World. In this piece, I delve into a moment of intimacy and creation as the protagonist crafts a golem, imbuing it with herbs and symbols typical of Jewish folklore. The bond between the creator and the golem transcends human connection, as the creator navigates the challenges of expression in a language inherited from ancestors. My main goal was portraying a true, deep love for the golem, playing on the golem's traditional role of being a protector and caretaker, rather than the destructive force they are often portrayed as.

You.
Little clay you. Thing of dust, borne of earth, gently prodded into shape by my urgent fingertips.
Will you see their curvature? The marks of me, embedded in you, birthmarks that swirl a path to lead you back home after you, little creature of clay, have fought the battles I cannot.
My bones are weak, but you have none. My joints click and groan, but yours are made to last until they shatter. It’s better to go out that way – to be broken all at once, instead of watching your own flesh decay; once supple, now wrinkled, now wrought with unsightly marks.

You, little clay you, will be perfect forever. Mine after I am gone. Strong even once you can rest.

I anoint you with herbs, sliding cool oil over your hollowed-out face. I regret the smile I wiped off your mouth before baptising you in flame – you’re damned to frown for eternity. I’m sorry. It’s the way my parents made me, too. I want to be a delicate mother to you, but you splutter and choke as I shove barbs of holly into your throat. I’m sorry. I thank HaShem you cannot bleed, cannot paint my fingers red as I push juniper down your tiny, clay gullet.

You, little clay you. Let me light the candles before it gets dark, and whisper softly words in a language that falls heavily off my tongue. It’s the language of my grandmother, already swollen like marbles by the time it passed to my mother’s mouth. Now in mine, it’s chewy, sticky, mal-formed, but powerful enough. I see you twitch in the candlelight, your eyes open and somehow seeing me through twin voids. I wonder if you love me already, or if your servitude is inherent – a favour granted without knowing the terms. I wonder if you can adore me even without a heart.

You. Little clay you. Rise to your feet, find the ground unyielding beneath you. Help me snuff the candles, hold my hand as I shuffle to my bed. You have strength in you enough to bring the world to its knees, to be a saviour to the needy – but for now, you exist as a solid thing beneath my palms, guiding my fragile body to rest its bones, weary with the weight of creation.