by Kim Fielding
“Jakob? Where’s Jakob?” Emet asked.
There was no lucidity in Mr. Abramov’s eyes. “They’ve killed my Rivka. My Rivka’s gone.”
Emet had no time for sorrow, not even for the woman who’d made him a cloak and a quilt. “Where’s Jakob?” he repeated, shouting.
Mr. Abramov didn’t answer.
A beardless young man lunged at them out of the chaos. His face and collar were splattered with scarlet, and he held a hatchet high over his head. But Emet plucked the hatchet easily from his hands and buried the blade deeply in the man’s face. Emet viewed the world through a haze of red. Even his thoughts were red, his mind no more rational than Mr. Abramov’s.
Several men charged Emet at once. As he broke one attacker’s neck, he was pierced by sword and spear. He yelped at each fresh spot of pain—it seemed his body was nothing but pain now—but he killed them all. And then he cast around, desperate for Jakob. He would simply murder everyone until he found his lover.
Two figures lurched out of a burning house. Emet reached for them, intending to bash their heads together. As his hand touched one man’s shoulder, however, his sensibility returned just enough for the familiar face to register. “Jakob!” he sobbed.
Jakob’s face was sooty, streaked with tears and blood. His left arm hung at an unnatural angle; a gaping tear near the shoulder of his coat revealed a terrible wound. But with his right arm, he supported a nearly unconscious young woman. “Emet! Please! Inside.”
So Emet plunged into the house and found more people—a crying baby, a man and a woman nearly overcome with smoke—and shepherded them to the door. He also found bodies, which he carried out without pausing to identify them.
The roof of the house collapsed, and the flames were too fierce even for Emet. He saw Jakob moving slowly around the street, trying to tend to his injured family. Emet was going to help, but more men came rushing into the street, each holding a weapon. Maybe they were coming for Jakob. Maybe not. Emet didn’t wait to find out.
He raged through them as ferociously as the fire raged through the houses. He picked them up and dashed them against the ground, stomping the life from them. He snapped their backs. He tore their limbs from their bodies. He brought his fists down on their skulls, crushing them like stones.
He stopped only when his weapon-ravaged legs gave out, and he collapsed heavily onto his back.
“Jakob,” he whispered when he saw who crouched over him a moment later. “You’re hurt….”
“I’ll live.” Jakob settled his rough hand against Emet’s cheek. “Oh, Emet. You’re—”
“Golem.”
Emet blinked to clear his vision. Rabbi Eleazer had somehow appeared beside Jakob. His hat and clothes were askew, his face and hands were covered in as much blood and soot as Jakob’s. And his eyes were deep pools of sorrow. “So many dead,” the rabbi said.
Jakob shook his head. “He was doing his job! He was saving us.”
“I know. Ach, I am such a great fool! I should never have done this.”
Emet didn’t understand. Oh, he was so weary and he hurt so much. “Jakob?” he said. His voice was like pebbles shifting under a foot.
Jakob was looking at the rabbi. “Oh, no, please, Rabbi! You can’t! He loves—”
“I know,” the rabbi interrupted. “I know, my son.” He shook his head slightly and reached forward to unbutton Emet’s vest. Those buttons had been the first belongings Emet treasured. He always kept them well shined. The rabbi’s fingers were very thin and soft compared to Jakob’s. Emet remembered the feel of them at his first awakening.
Jakob was crying. Emet wanted to cry as well, but he wasn’t able. There was no moisture left in a body of dried clay.
“Emet means truth,” Rabbi Eleazer said. “But if we remove the aleph, the word becomes met. Dead. I should have known from the beginning.”
Emet hadn’t known either. He’d never had the chance to learn to read. “Would you sing to me, Jakob?” he rasped.
As tears continued to course down his face, Jakob nodded. “Is there a blessing for this, Rabbi?”
After a brief pause, the rabbi sang. His voice was reedy, slightly off-key. But Jakob immediately joined him, and the prayer soared so high that even a broken creature made of clay could feel momentarily buoyant.
As Jakob continued to sing in Hebrew, the rabbi whispered the words so that Emet could understand them:
My flesh and my heart may fail,
But the rock of my heart and my portion is God forever.
When the dust returns to the earth that it was,
The spirit shall return to God who gave it.
Emet smiled at his beloved.
Rabbi Eleazar smoothed his palm over the aleph on Emet’s chest, rubbing the inscription away.
The world crumbled to dust.
9
Fingers traced across his chest over and over. Rough fingers—not a scholar’s, but those of a man who worked with his hands. And the voice that chanted the blessings was rich and deep. “Blessed art thou, Lord our God.” Emet knew those words even in Hebrew, because Jakob had explained them to him. He didn’t understand the words that followed, but then the singing stopped, replaced by a hoarse murmur:
The Lord sends death and life;
He brings down to the netherworld and brings up from it.
He heals the brokenhearted
And binds up their wounds.
He will utterly destroy death forever,
And the Lord God will wipe away the tear from every face.
He opened his eyes to see wooden beams and smooth plaster. He recognized those beams. He’d hauled them up the hill and held them in place.
“Emet?”
Emet turned his head slightly. Jakob had new lines on his face, new depths of sadness in his warm brown eyes. But he was smiling hesitantly. “Maybe we should change your name. The word is different.” He settled his palm on the center of Emet’s chest.
“What does it say?” Emet was surprised when his voice was smooth instead of jagged.
“Ahava. It means love.”
Emet looked down at his chest—and discovered a dusting of dark hairs and two pink nipples. He reached up to his scalp, where he found more hair, thick and soft.
“Jakob?”
“Can you stand?”
Emet could, although with some difficulty. He felt slightly dizzy, so Jakob helped hold him steady. And it was very strange, because although Emet was still taller than Jakob, he no longer towered over him. There was a strange thudding in his chest as well. A heartbeat!
“I don’t understand,” Emet said.
“Look at yourself, my beloved.”
Taking a few moments to explore his remade body, Emet found more hair at his groin, on his arms and legs, and a coarse stubble on his cheeks. He had a navel now, perfect and round on his flat belly. “I’m… I think I’m hungry.”
Jakob laughed. “Good! I have food to share.”
“But I don’t—”
“I didn’t make you to protect anyone, Emet. I don’t care how strong you are, and God forbid you should ever need to fight again. I made you this time, and I made you for love, from love. Not to be a golem, but to be a man.”
Emet’s legs collapsed and he fell to the ground. Jakob knelt in front of him. “Are you well? Have I made you properly?”
“I think so.” Emet reached up to touch Jakob’s left shoulder. “You were hurt….”
“I was,” said Jakob gravely. “And I lost…. Oh, Emet! Mama’s gone, and two of my brothers, their wives…. But I am alive, and now so are you.”
Jakob rose, held out a hand, and helped Emet stand. Then Jakob picked up a patchwork cloak from his bed and settled it on Emet’s shoulders. It was a little too big now, but Emet didn’t mind.
“Mala Lubovnya?” asked Emet.
“Come see.”
They walked across the room and out the door, onto the tidy front porch. The sky was a soft blue and the air was balm
y. Inside the town walls were a few gaping holes among the buildings. But most of the town still stood, and the only smoke was friendly little wisps from fireplaces.
“Mala Lubovnya is still there,” said Jakob. “You saved us. Almost everyone in town lost someone they loved. But the shul is still there. The minyans pray every morning and evening; the congregation gathers every Shabbos. And the gentiles have mourned their dead as well.”
“I killed…. Jakob, I killed so many.”
“A great transgression, for which we will pray forgiveness. But here beats the heart of a righteous man.” Jakob turned to press a hand against Emet’s chest.
Emet stood silently for a long time, thinking about this. His body felt far weaker than before, far more pervious to damage. Yet he felt more whole. “What did you do?”
Jakob smiled. “I told you. I made you with love. It says so, right on your chest. I took your dust and I moistened it with my own blood and tears and seed. I made you to be a man, not a tool or a weapon. I sculpted you far more carefully than ever I’ve shaped stone. And I shared myself with you to bring you back to life. Can you feel it?”
“Your soul,” Emet said with wonder.
“Our soul now. Bound together.”
With a throat-wrenching cry, Emet threw his arms around Jakob. They embraced so tightly neither could breathe well, and perhaps they each shed a few tears.
After they’d parted—only a little; never far again—Emet smiled. “Can we eat now?”
“We can! And then we will have to pack. Are you ready for a journey?”
“A journey?”
A shadow of unhappiness chased a little of the joy from Jakob’s face. “We can’t stay here. Not with what you’ve done, and not with what we are.”
“But your house! Your beautiful home!”
Jakob shrugged. “We can build another. Perhaps not so easily, now that you’re only human, but I haven’t lost my skills, and you’re still strong. I’ve nothing much here aside from sad memories now. We can go anywhere, Emet. We can see the world. And my true home will always be here.” He returned his hand to Emet’s chest, which felt perfect.
“Will you teach me to read and to pray?”
“I will teach you everything I know, and we can learn the rest together.”
Jakob took Emet’s soft hand in his hard one and led him back into the house. As Emet watched, Jakob gathered the ingredients for a feast. And when the meal was ready, together they sang their thanks.
About the Author
Kim Fielding is very pleased every time someone calls her eclectic. A Lambda Award finalist and two-time Foreword INDIE finalist, she has migrated back and forth across the western two-thirds of the United States and currently lives in California, where she long ago ran out of bookshelf space. She’s a university professor who dreams of being able to travel and write full time. She also dreams of having two daughters who fully appreciate her, a husband who isn’t obsessed with football, and a house that cleans itself. Some dreams are more easily obtained than others.
Kim can be found on her blog: http://kfieldingwrites.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/KFieldingWrites
and Twitter: @KFieldingWrites
Her e-mail is [email protected]
For a complete listing of Kim’s titles, visit her website: http://www.kfieldingwrites.com/kim-fieldings-books/
Coming soon!
Refugees
When World War II ended and army medic Walter Clark returned to Chicago, he discovered that although home remained the same, he had changed. Unable to fit comfortably into his old life, he spent a year gradually making his way west. Now he’s gone as far as he can—the shore of the Pacific—but old memories make ocean views intolerable. He turns inland and finds himself in the hidden hamlet of Kiteeshaa, Oregon, where the locals are surprisingly friendly and the café serves food exactly like his grandmother used to make.
Martin Wright runs the Kitee Motor Court Inn and offers Walter a place to stay for a few nights. Later, Martin offers him a great deal more. But while Martin is a delight, he also harbors secrets; and there’s something not quite right about Kiteeshaa. No matter how far the two men have traveled, they can’t run away from their pasts.
Releases May 12, 2020
Preorder now!