A Story about Golems

Every space in the library not taken by a lantern, door, or window contained a shelf filled with books. Adal perused them at random. The first dozen he came across were on the raising of sheep, the next three were a collection of papers on farming, and the one after that was dedicated to the finer points of fishing. The next book was small, quite old, and bound in red leather. He found the title on the first page, Tales Guaranteed to Lure Your Children into the Clutches of Sleep: Youth Addition.

Adal turned the page and found himself presented with an index.

“‘Titans and Terrors’, ‘The Witch’s Curse’, ‘The Thumb Collector’,” he muttered, scanning the index, “‘The Child Snatcher’, ‘Hanz Meets Holda’, ‘A Story about Golems: Machinations of Terror.’”

Intrigued, Adal found the page and began to read.

Treacle was on his knees buffing the border of Glovedom with a stained cloth. Behind him the border glinted in the sun, polished to a glare. Ahead of him it smoldered dully from years of lying in the dust and ill ventured schemes involving washing and drying.

He was working with a particularly virulent stain when he heard Lord Glove’s boots striking the dust road.

“Welcome back, My Lord!”

“Thank you Treacle! It is good to be back. May I ask what you are doing?”

Treacle raised the rag in his hand and pointed to the pot of grease beside him.

“I’m polishing the border.”

Lord Glove chuckled, “Whatever for?”

Treacle pushed himself to his feet and drew himself up proudly, “It’s for their sake, you see.”

“Whose?”

“The intruders. This way they know when they’re intruding. Can’t have them walking past and getting arrested just because they didn’t see the border.”

“Is that a common problem?”

Treacle wiped some sweat from his brow with the cloth.

“Two days ago an old man entered the town. Claimed he had access to your libraries on account of him being a historian. I said you didn’t want people in there, but he was very persistent. My arms grew tired of his weight before he grew tired of the cobbles. He’s still there I expect.”

Lord Glove grimaced, “I’ll take care of it. And Treacle?”

“Yes my lord?”

Lord Glove handed him a handkerchief, “Your face is as likely to blind trespassers as you are to arrest them. You should see to cleaning it.”

Treacle scratched his brow and brought back a glistening finger. A light sparked in his eyes. He threw his head back in laughter, “Sooner rub it in than wipe it off. This old leather needs all the help it can get.”

Lord Glove was still laughing when he came across Î. She was sitting at the base of the village’s central watchtower, her dress billowed about her. Her face was scrunched up, as if in pain, and her eyes were closed.

The historian no longer felt so important. Lord Glove approached her quietly, but not so quietly that she couldn’t hear him. He stood beside her, waiting to be noticed. Î opened her eyes. Lord Glove offered her a reassuring smile. Strangely, her face fell when she saw him. Had she done something? He noticed her glance at the keep before quickly looking down at her bare feet.

“I already know about the historian,” said Lord Glove, “Don’t worry, I’ll deal with him.”

Î continued to stare at her feet. Lord Glove crouched beside her and raised her chin to look her in the eyes, “What’s wrong?”

Tears began pouring down Î’s face. Lord Glove reached out and embraced her. Î clung to him, holding on as hard as she could. She gasped several times, catching her breath, “Rebeka killed her family.”

Lord Glove slowly pressed together his eyelids. Î had to learn some day, “She did. They wanted her dead, and so she defended herself. There was nothing else she could have done.”

Î was now crying with her whole body. Sobs wracked her and her eyes and nose ran freely.

“That was long ago. We cannot change the past. We can only learn the lessons those hardships have given us.”

Î rubbed her eyes and wiped her running nose. Lord Glove released her. He stood and offered her his other handkerchief. Î blew her nose and returned it. Lord Glove offered her his hand. She took it.

“Let’s go meet the historian,” he said.

Î bit her lip, as if to say more, but was silent.

Adal sat on the floor with one hand pressed to his throbbing forehead. He was shocked, in disbelief. “A Story about Golems” lay before him, held loosely in one hand. How had the Reliquary of Medical Aliments fallen from the shelf, and why did it have to land on his head? In accordance with the laws writ at the beginning of the universe, the Reliquary had fallen open to the page on headaches and their causes.

“A Story about Golems” had not been nearly as stunning. Probably. He didn’t remember what it had been about. He shook his head in an attempt to clear the fog, but only succeeded in making it throb. With a wince, Adal lifted the Tales for our Youth to his wobbling eyes and read the wobbling text again.

Once upon a time, girls didn’t know what was good for them. Of all the girls, only seven of them were good, and only they reſpected their mothers and fathers. One day, the well ran dry and all the girls were thirſty. They withered and became ſhapeless and weak. They called out for help and a man heard their little piteous cries echoing into the night. The man was hunched and horrible, with one eye a ſickly green and the other a weak and watery blue.

He ſtared at them a long moment with his ugly eye, then a long moment more with his watery one. Then he let out a low chuckle and clutched his ſtaff to him, ready to walk away. One of the good girls, a brave little knave girl, ſtepped forward. He ſaid pleaſe could he and the other girls have ſome water, for they were very thirſty. The man nodded to the little knave girl, and then geſtured behind him where a great ſtatue stood.

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The man told the girls that the ſtatue would dig water for them and they could drink to their heart’s content. The good little girls, all ſeven, knew at once what the man was. They warned the others to not be lured over to the Kineſer, but they did not liſten. The golem led the bad girls to a hole it had dug, and the hole was filled to the brim with clear water.

The naughty girls let out whoops of laughter and jumped into the hole. Soon all the girls were drinking and bathing merrily. So merry were they, the naughty little girls did not Å¿ee the golem approach the hole and drown them, one by one.

The good girls were horrified, and they all picked up ſtones. Raiſing the ſtones high, the girls caved in the head of the bent ugly man. When the dreadful Kineſer died there was a great ruſh of blood and the blood turned into water and all the good little girls were ſaved.

Thus all Kineſer found ſhould be killed and all parents ſhould be obeyed.

“Excuse me, but what are you doing in my library?”

Adal leapt to his feet, wincing as blood rushed to his head, “Lord Glove; ruler, slaver, general, slayer of a people, and Conor to King Otto. It is an honour to make your acquaintance. I’ll not let you keep the advantage of not knowing who I am. I am Adal the historian: writer of books and master of the arcane. I have much to ask you, and you have much to account for.”

“I shall do my best to answer. One second.”

The request was so polite Adal found himself stopping mid rant. It wouldn’t do to let Lord Glove think he could order Adal around. He crossed his arms and tried to look cantankerous. Or cankerous. Whichever one didn’t involve sores. Lord Glove leaned out the door, “Gar! Ah, there you are. Come here.”

A large man entered the room, followed by Alisa. In one hand he clutched a spear, in the other, a carving.

“What is that?” Lord Glove asked. He wasn’t even paying attention to Adal’s arms. Adal decided to tap his foot for good measure.

“I just came back from the new shack. Alisa here was helping me varnish it,” he gestured with the carving, “and once we were done there was a bit of varnish left over. Well I thought, thing is, Î and I were carving horses together and I lost hers. I thought I’d put a coat on this one and give it to her. As a replacement, you know?”

Gar held it up for inspection. It was made from linden. The varnish had thrown Gar’s lines into relief rather than darkening the creamy-brown wood. The horse was carved standing, all legs on the ground with its head to one side, looking back. The detail was fine; every hair could be counted and you could even see the lines in its irises.

“Beautiful,” said Lord Glove, “I had no idea you were such an artist.”

Adal coughed.

“I like to think myself an amateur carver. It’s a fine thing to do after a day’s work. Passes the time better than anything.

“It’s not just a carving though,” Gar hastened to add. He ran his thumb along the horse’s belly. A thin piece of wood slid out of a cleverly hidden groove. The horse was hollow, with enough space inside to fit something the size of a finger joint.

“I thought Î could make a golem out of it. The girl, not me,” Gar said gesturing to her.

Adal coughed again, more loudly. What did he care of girls and golems? Golems? Actually, now that he thought about it, he’d quite like to see a golem getting made. Perhaps after he was done speaking with Lord Glove he’d go take a look.

“That works perfectly,” Lord Glove smiled at him, “Can you take Î and her new horse somewhere to play? Meet me back at the dinner table in a few minutes and we’ll all have it together, our guest included.”

Adal wouldn’t say no to dinner. Unless it was poisoned. Lord Glove had been an assassin hadn’t he? Or maybe that was someone else. He wouldn’t be a very good assassin if everyone knew about it.

Gar handed Alisa his spear and took Î’s hand. Alisa closed the door behind them, leaving Adal and Lord Glove on their own.

“I am ready,” said Lord Glove.

“Young people these days! They’re up to something I tell you. Going on and carving. Doing the arts. It’s not natural is what it is. Like the Kineser. Building golems left right and center. Not in my back yard! It’s no wonder Stalwart sought to eradicate them. Best to get rid of what you don’t understand. Keeps things simple. Or maybe it was his rule he was worried about. My studies suggest he was afraid of them. The Kineser’s mind, not the young folk, though I’d wager there was nary a difference. King Stalwart, afraid of anything, can you imagine? Genocide they called it. Stalwart’s Legacy.

“Of course, you have your own legacy. Finishing the job Stalwart started. You killed every last kineser but Rebeka herself—whoever that was--did you know that? And let us not forget Tatenhiem. Most try to forget the past, but I remember. I was there. The Burned City. Well, I was there a few days ago. I was a young man when you razed it, but I didn’t serve in the army. I lived in a neighbouring dom you see, but it was all anyone would talk about. Lord Glove burned this, Lord Glove burned that. Nobody praised me when I set those ants on fire!”

“I did everything you said and more,” said Lord Glove, “What of it?”

“Don’t deny it!” Adal shouted, “I—oh. Terribly sorry.”

He had expected Lord Glove to defend himself. To shout at him. Adal was out of sorts when people were shouting. He decided to start, just to get his feet under him.

“Immortality! Sure sounds tempting! Even ageless don’t last forever do they? And King Otto isn’t ageless at all. He’s a young—old—middle aged? man by now… Matthew, how old is Otto?”

Adal cast about for the boy, “Never around when I need him. Oh, that’s right, he abandoned me. I must have been trying to forget. Where was I?”

“King Otto. He’s fairly old by now, though younger than either of us.”

“Right, right, thank you.

“Immortality!” Adal shouted again, brandishing the small red book like a rolling pin, “You want to kill all the kineser, don’t deny it. This story has it all laid out. Kill the kineser, and King Otto can claim he completed the legacy of the greatest ruler in history.”

Lord Glove plucked the book from Adal’s fingers, “The Dourr Sisters wrote this collection. These are stories for girls. Do you truly believe they guide my king’s hand?”

“Ancient stories contain far more truth than you would suspect. Remember “The Glass Coffin”? There’s a story all nobility wish was buried. Unlike corpses, those are for kissing! Never looked at a prince the same way twice. Lips as red as roses? Bury it, bury it! It’s just a story. Honest. Nobles have always been insecure about their rule…”

Adal trailed off. A thought had struck him. Only a handful of villagers knew about Î. If Otto wanted to claim Stalwart’s Legacy he would have done so by now and no one would be the wiser. Adal was wrong. Î had been wrong. Otto wasn’t a narcissist, he was afraid. Tatedom had been eradicated and it had only taken a single kineser to do so. Stalwart’s purge had failed, but Otto’s wouldn’t. He would learn from Stalwart’s mistakes. Î would be killed the moment her usefulness ended. People who knew the ancient runes would be next. Lanet, who Î had mentioned, was probably already dead.

A second thought struck Adal. He knew the ancient runes. His heart began to pound and he felt sweat beginning to form on his forehead.

“Are you alright?” asked Lord Glove.

“What? Yes! Yes. Yes yes yes. It’s the heat. I… I get hot when I’m hungry. Is it supper time yet? As the great philosopher Stillow once said, ‘I’m so hungry I could eat everything in a hippodrome but the bleachers.’”

“Yes. Let us eat. But first let me assure you that if Otto wishes to be remembered for anything, it will be for uniting the doms. A King Stalwart for our times, true, but not one who is murderous.

“Anyway, do I not employ a kineser?” Lord Glove laughed, “Should I execute the healer who stitches my wounds?”

Adal thought it wouldn’t be a bad policy, given what he had suffered at one’s hands. Stillow had gotten the entire bottle of wine, and then the healer had washed it. She had not even left its smell to sustain him. He swallowed loudly, partly due to fear, and partly due to thirst, “Yes. I mean no. I mean, quite right. My earlier slander may have been a little hasty. I don’t know what came over me. Hunger most likely. Shall we eat?”

“There was no slander, for nothing you said was untrue. You know the war as well as I do. I only wish you had not spoken in front of Î. She already worries too much for one her age,” Lord Glove sighed, “Come, let us go and speak of nicer things.”

“I look forward to it my lord,” said Adal, “May I speak with your historian after dinner?”

“We have no historian,” said Lord Glove, “Whom do you speak of?”

“No historian? Can’t trust her to get anything right—not that I mean anything by that. Î mentioned someone by the name of Emet.”

“Ah… I see. I am afraid Emet is indisposed, and generally refuses to talk to strangers.”

Î hadn’t mentioned anything of the sort. Lord Glove was hiding something. Adal would feign ignorance for now, but he needed to slip away as soon as possible.

“But enough of the past. To supper!” said Lord Glove, “And afterwards you shall sleep in the guest bedroom. I insist.”

Adal clasped his hands behind his back to hide their trembling and bowed, “It’s an honour Lord Glove.”