It Stood at the Gate

Under the full moon, the rabbi walked to the river, and Reb Shmuel followed.

Night devoured Zokrev, a black void that consumed everything except the meager pinpricks of lantern light from the distant shtetl. Wind breached the cottages, forcing creaks from their wooden frames that mimicked the snap of brittle bones.

With only their own lamp light to guide them, they pressed through the forest until they met the tributary of the Western Bug. The moon's pale eye glinted off the rapids, ending at their feet.

The rabbi knelt at the bank, pressing his fingers into the mud. It clung to his skin, wet and heavy, rich with something ancient. Something waiting.

He flexed his hands to keep them from trembling.

There were words to be said: names that should not be spoken, lines of breath and fire drawn. He whispered them now, deliberately letting each syllable seep into the clay.

Behind him, Reb Shmuel stood silent, holding his breath. His lantern dragged jagged shadows against the trees looming over the river's edge. But the rabbi turned over his shoulder and nodded.

"I don't like this, Rabbi," he said. "This is wrong. We should not be doing this. Only God creates life."

"This is not life, Reb Shmuel. This is a tool." He squinted at the young man, now weathered with terror and angst. "We must protect our people at all costs."

Still unsure, Shmuel took a knee and joined the rabbi in the mud.

Together, they shaped it:

First, the feet — thick and unyielding — to hold firm in the face of all threats.

Then, the hands — broad and rough — to strike down enemies and those who would bring harm.

Next, the chest — deep and hollow — a cavern where no heart would ever beat.

Finally, the head — two holes for the eyes and one for the mouth — waiting for the name that would give it purpose.

The rabbi, his old heart pounding, wiped the sweat from his brow. His breath rose curled in wisps from his lips. His fingers ached, mud dried under his fingernails, and skin flayed off his knuckles. But the work was not yet done. He reached out, and Shmuel placed a carving knife into the palm of his open hand.

The rabbi carved the letters into the forehead, between the empty eyes:

אמת

Emet. Truth.

He sat back on his heels to examine his work. His fingers traced the letters, pausing on the first letter -- the aleph.

"Truth transforms to death in an instant," he muttered to Reb Shmuel. He drew a deep breath, the word crushing him with its weight like divine knowledge. Had Hashem crafted Adam this way, infusing him with wisdom through breath? Or did Adam exist as formless clay until the forbidden fruit granted him shape?

Then he exhaled into the figure's mouth.

For a moment, there was nothing. The wind died. The lantern flame dimmed. The stream stilled like a sheet of black glass.

Then. It moved.

Its limbs tremored, its shoulders shuddered, its chest exhaled though it had no breath to give. It blinked its depthless eyes.

The rabbi stumbled backward. He stared into something obscene — beyond comprehension, creation, and imagination. Bile rose in his throat. He covered his mouth with his filthy hand and swallowed it down. He would not lose control. The creature was only a tool, nothing more.

Behind him, Reb Shmuel moaned, "God, help us! This is an abomination! This is sin!"

The rabbi composed itself to command it.

"Rise."

The creature obeyed.

It lurched forward and stood, towering over them both, the damp clay of its body steaming in the cold. Its hands flexed, slow, uncertain, as if testing itself, its strength.

It gaped at the rabbi, waiting for its next command.

"Protect us," he said.

The creature blinked its sightless eyes.

The rabbi broke his gaze first. A chill gripped him—the creature stalked them toward Zokrev, yet its eyes fixed on something beyond them, something invisible to both him and Reb Shmuel.

Had he been a less tired man, had he been less burdened or afraid, he might have noticed its lumbering arm rise and touch its forehead, where he had engraved those three crooked letters.