The Tumescent Golem of Prague by Aris Roussinos

(Like Stremnitza and The Secret Museum, The Tumescent Golem of Prague was originally written for a now-defunct literary porn magazine called Tea With Bernard)

The Tumescent Golem of Prague

In all the annals of the Holy Roman Emperor Rudolf II, there is nothing stranger- nor, it must be said, less well-documented- than the tale of the tumescent golem of Prague. The story begins, so it is said, when what remained of the Imperial armies limped their way through the great southern gate of Prague, leaving the best part of their comrades and equipment behind them on the plains of Hungary, to be slaughtered and looted by the victorious Turk. The militia were called up, for the first time in living memory, to defend the city- watchkeepers were posted on every pinnacle and spire- and as the bakers and clerks and shoemakers were drilled with the only rusty pikes and halberds left in the Castle's armoury, fear transmuted itself in mutters along the ranks into anger and suspicion... It was the Jews, of course. The Turks had no Jews, had they? Had they? Probably not: but we do, that's for sure, clustered like rats in their stinking ghetto. We've called God's curse upon ourselves, letting them live among us like decent folk. Something should be done.
An angry shout rose up amongst the ranks in the Castle courtyard, and wafted into Rudolf's council chamber.
"What are they whining about now?" asked the emperor, who was busy cataloguing his library as his generals shifted impatiently from foot to foot, waiting for his attention. "Do they want more pay? There's no more gold to be had, tell them. Go down and whip the ringleaders, someone."
"It's not gold, Excellency, it's the Jews," said an officer, stepping forward with a bow, "That is, the men blame the Jews for this calamity. They want to burn down the ghetto."
"Really? How typical of them." Rudolf wandered over to the great mullioned window and peered down at his ramshackle troops. "I suppose I shall have to let them. It'll be good for morale, won't it? And less mouths to feed in a siege. Just make sure they leave all the arquebusses and pistols at the Castle gate; I won't have them wasting powder, not with the Turks coming."
Though the impressive speed with which the ghetto gates were shut and bolted from inside spoke of years of practice, the mood within was not one of equanimity. Women wailed and tore at their hair and clothes, and mothers strove to conceal the attics and cellars in which their children were to be hidden, when the gate was breached. The elders held a council, fingering their long beards with agitation when silent, and with a self-conscious display of wisdom when speaking. The problem was that the Mahalah, the great rabbi Loew, was absent, combing the synagogues of Moravia for dusty and neglected books for his collection. Only he knew how to raise the golem, and scatter the furious goyim.
"All we can do is gather in the great synagogue and pray for our salvation," intoned one aged rabbi, raising his tremulous liver-spotted hands above his head like Ezekiel. "The God of Israel has come to our aid before, and he will again." The crowd looked at the floor awkwardly; the God of Israel seemed often otherwise engaged.
"You are wrong, Moshe, God helps those who help themselves," said a voice, and the crowd gasped as the speaker strode into the centre of the room. Gasped- and then tittered. The speaker was Simon Kürsch, a diminutive youth about whom the community was divided. He was either a genius or a simpleton, it was said- though it was only Rabbi Loew who thought he was a genius. Certainly, his taste in shockingly tight black hose and pointed, high-heeled boots did little to win him respect. Simon tilted his head upwards to meet the mocking gaze of the elders, looking at them each in turn before speaking.
"As you all know, I have been Rabbi Loew's apprentice these five years. I do not claim that he has taught me all the secrets of the Cabbala, but I tell you this: I know enough to raise the golem. Only the golem can save you, save your wives and daughters from the goys. And as only I amongst us can raise the golem, it to me you must entrust yourselves."
The crowd murmured anxiously. Though the ways of God were strange, they were surely not this strange.
"Though I ask a price," added Simon, his voice quavering slightly.
"A price? A price? What good is gold to a corpse in the gutter?"
"Not gold, but flesh. Tender, blushing… that is, I ask for the wife of my choosing from within our community."
Outraged laughter, at first. Schwartzmann the fishmonger offered his, along with all the carp in his shop.
"Thank you, but I do not intend Frau Schwartzmann for my bride. I wish to marry Rebecca, beautiful Rebecca, Moshe's daughter. She has given me tender glances in the street before, and I danced with her twice at Lussmann's wedding, and I believe my suit will not offend her."
"You offend me, idiot boy," droned the rabbi Moshe, pointing his withered trembling finger at Simon, "You offend me and bring shame upon your poor dead father and mother. Rebecca! I would rather a pig-faced Czech ravished her than give her to you"- though his certainty seemed to peter out rather as he spoke.
"Do it, Moshe!" shouted a voice, to urgent agreement. The great wooden gates of the ghetto were creaking beneath the weight of the mob, and rocks, tossed over the dividing wall, were clattering on the cobbles of the narrow streets. "Better an idiot son-in-law than be crucified,
and your sons and ours with you."
White-faced, the rabbi nodded his agreement.
The rabbis and men followed Simon to the attic of the Altenschule, and crowded round a huge and ancient chest as Simon turned to speak. "I have followed old Loew up here before," he said, "I know where he keeps the key- look!- and I have heard everything he said over the golem. I know the incantation."
"You are sure?"
Simon nodded, though he looked away slightly, at the ceiling, as he did so.
"You must not witness the rite," he added. "Two of you, go to the graveyard and gather fresh clay. You understand? From the freshest mound- the golem will be dry after all these years. The rest of you, go to your homes and bolt the doors. Let nobody in until daylight."
"What on earth is going on now?" asked Rudolf over his midnight snack of jellied goose, as shrieks rose up from the town below, and soldiers and their wives clamoured, hammering on the gates, to be let back in the Castle. "These people are insufferable. Is it the Turks? Are they finally here? I was almost tired of waiting for them. Schauffnitz, tell me."
"Excellency, it appears- that is, it is said…"
"Spit it out, man, or I'll defenestrate you!"
"There is a monster in the streets, Excellency- a Jewish monster. It is said that the Jews opened the ghetto gates and it came rushing out- grey and horrible- and it scattered the militia back to their homes, killing everyone it saw, until…"
"Until, Schauffnitz?"
The old soldier blushed. "Until… Excellency, it violated a drummer boy, most horribly, killing the poor lad. And then it was observed to saunter back towards the ghetto."
"Good God! Find this thing, and have it hanged."
"Excellency, with all my respect, this thing cannot be hanged. It is said that it is the golem, come back again. In your grandfather's time, Excellency, it is said that the same thing happened. The Jews were suspected of killing some children for their Passover, and a mob went to deal them justice. But this golem of theirs did the same thing- except for the violation. That is… a new development."
"And what did Grandpapa do?"
"He did all that he could, Excellency. He sent a delegation to the Jews offering them his protection if they would put the golem back to sleep."
"And did that work?"
"It did, Excellency."
"Bugger. Well, Schauffnitz, that's what you shall have to do."
Simon's stock had risen within the ghetto, to an immeasurable degree. Even old Moshe accepted the chaffing that followed the formalities of Rebecca's betrothal with a sort of fondness for the lad. The goys were no longer at the gate, and the streets of Prague were- outside the ghetto- empty all that day, as the Czechs and Germans nailed their doors shut and drank their beer fearfully in their most defendable rooms. The Imperial decree of protection had been affixed to every house in the ghetto, and women flocked to Simon's garret- with chaperones, of course- to kiss his feet and bless him for saving their children. And the golem?
"He is asleep," said Simon.
"You mean deanimated?"
"Yes, of course. I think so. That is… it's hard to explain, you see. There is one incantation to raise the golem, and one to send him back to nothingness. But you see, you must whisper the second incantation in the golem's ear."
"You know it, of course?"
"Well… it was hard to hear what Loew whispered that time. I think I know. There are a few possibilities, um, and I've tried them all. It's probably absolutely fine, honestly, but we just need to wait and, er, check."
A great groan went up in the ghetto.
"Idiot boy! Fool I was to believe you could do such a thing!" thundered Moshe. "Fool! Fool! Fool!"
Simon shushed him urgently, and pointed at the crooked attic window of the Altenschule.
"Um, try not to shout," he said in a small voice, "you might wake him up."
That night, the Jews of Prague lay awake behind barricaded doors and windows as the golem's wet and muddy footsteps schlopped and schlapped their way along the cobbled streets of the ghetto. Round and round the ghetto he went- the Jews had forgotten to leave the gate open- moaning horribly, with a sound like the fart of a boot lifted from wet and sticky clay, and with increasing urgency, it seemed…
Simon lay awake all night, a bolt of thick cloth at the window concealing the candlelight as he pored over Loew's ancient books, desperately copying Hebrew and numerical symbols and all manner of unreadable patterns in search of the right one…
A long, wet bellow came from the street below, and then the crash of splintering wood and a woman's scream.
After dawn, a hammering at Simon's garret door woke him, as he lay sprawled across his books in a puddle of hardened wax. "Idiot boy! Get up, damn you!"
It was an angry Moshe, with an angrier crowd behind him.
"You know what that golem of yours has done? No? Then you must come and see, damn you!"
There was a thick trail of mud outside the widow Bronstein's house, and a thicker splattern of mud and clay across her shattered window shutters.
"No," groaned Simon, "She is a cousin of mine"- though in the Prague ghetto, that went without saying.
"Look at your cousin, then," said Moshe with a thin little smirk.
Inside the small house, clay was smeared everywhere- blood too, but mainly clay. The widow- she was about forty, a blowsy red-haired woman- lay spread-eagled on the floor, with mud around her mouth like chocolate round a fat child's mouth. The white skin of her legs- open, like a criminal's on a dissecting table- was visible only at the bottom. The higher up her thighs one looked, the more mud and clay was smeared about.
The men muttered prayers and fingered their beards nervously.
"Is this better than the goys?" one shouted, "Kürsch, you fool, is it better than a goy, I ask you?
Even if they take a woman, they do not usually kill her- better to have a bastard than this!"
"I'll think of something," said Simon, staring at the wall, "this will not happen again, I swear to you."

"Any news from the town?" asked Rudolf that night, tinkering with a gold screwdriver through the bars of a golden cage at a golden mechanical songbird that refused to sing. "Schauffnitz?"
"Excellency, I am Rosenberg. Schauffnitz was sent to fight the Turks."
"Oh yes, I remember. Rosenberg, then, what's the latest news? No gossip, no disturbances? It all seems quiet again now, thank God."
"Excellency, the people are all abed, save for the watch. The taverns are locked and even the whores are praying at their bedsides."
"They're not turning Protestant again are they? Don't tell me I have to burn more of them in the square?"
"Excellency, it is fear of the golem rather than love of heresy."
"Oh, for Christ's sake! The only thing people ever talk about in this fucking town is golems. It's gone, isn't it? What more do these people want?"
"Excellency, the Jews are in hiding. They are barricaded into their nests, and haven't answered to the watch. But the ghetto gates are open- in fact, they have been removed, and hidden somewhere. The golem may yet walk tonight."
"What about the Castle gate?"
"Firmly shut and locked and bolted, and a strong guard placed on it. Cannon too."
"Well, then there's no problem, is there? Could you pass me that screwdriver- no, the smaller one."
That night, no-one, Jew nor Gentile, dared to even peer from their shuttered windows or through the gaps in the roof tiles as the golem's wet footsteps spattered their way around the town. All was silent in the darkness cast by the overhanging gables and narrow streets, save the golem- even the Astronomical Clock in the Old Town Square had been muffled, in case it woke the creature. But the creature woke, alone. Families kneeled together in darkened rooms, silently telling their rosaries, stilling their heartbeats, repressing their whimpers as the golem stamped its wet feet along the cobbled streets outside, moaning horribly in that way that no one who heard it would ever forget. Moaning, and searching for a mate. If one dared to sneak a glance at the golem as it made its way to Charles Bridge- and who can say if anyone did dare, after all these years?- perhaps one would have seen in the white moonlight, as it made its way along towards the Castle, trailing a smear of clay behind him like shit in an old pair of hose, across the shadows of the statues on the bridge, the shadow of the golem itself. Yes, the shadow of the golem: the shadow of its awful hands raised before him as he slid and stomped his way toward the Castle, and the shadow of its cock outsized- but perhaps that was a trick of the light?- no, a huge cock, and cold and wet and dripping graveyard clay as the golem dragged itself to the citadel of Prague.
The crackle of musketry made the Emperor Rudolf take his wine glass from his lips; the splintering of the Castle's outer gates made him drop it on the floor.
"Rosenberg! What is happening outside?"
"Excellency, the golem has come!"
"Then stop it, damn you! Why aren't the cannon firing?"
"Excellency, it has breached the outer gate already, and is in the courtyard as we speak."
"Holy Mother of God," said the Emperor, crossing himself as he ran to the window. "Where is- Oh- I see it. My God! What does he want, damn you? Why is he circling around like that? What is that thing he is waving at us?"
"Excellency, it is his member. And that accounts for what he wants, Excellency. I have an astrologer in my retinue, he can explain better than I. Dee!"
Dee, if that was his name, came in, looking like a thoroughly senile old wizard. He bowed his bald head towards the Emperor and fingered his white beard as he mumbled some salutation.
"Yes, yes, enough of that! What is this thing in my courtyard, with that thing in his hand, here for? Answer me quickly, for your own sake."
The old wizard mumbled his answer, in good Latin spoilt by a heavy English accent.
"Well, your Highness, you must know that I have studied the philosophy of Hermes Trismegistus, and learnt the language of the angels- using original research, I might add- I have studied the Cabbala-"
The golem moaned horribly, a long wet bellow- Rudolf could see him in the courtyard, rubbing his huge and muddy prick and staring at the window.
"Tell me what he wants or I'll throw you down to him."
"Highness, only the great Mahalah Loew can raise the golem of Prague. He is a friend of mine, and I know he is in Pressburg as we speak, searching for manuscripts. But I know how the golem is raised, for the most part, and how he is put to sleep. But you see that the golem is – Highness, he is engorged, and seeking satisfaction. He has been inexpertly summoned- Loew was clear on this possibility, Highness. The golem, if he has been stored away for long years, must be refreshed with graveyard clay- but the character of those interred affects the character of the golem. Highness, this golem must have been refreshed with the clay from a sexual deviant- a violent sexual criminal, no doubt- and he has taken on this deviant's urges."
"Excellency," Rosenberg added, "I have had the roster of the assizes studied, and the last burial in the ghetto that we know of was Kransky, the sex murderer."
"What does this mean? What does he want then? He wants sex? Give him someone!"
"Highness," muttered the Englishman into his beard, "The golem needs a virgin. Only then will he be sated."
"A virgin? In Prague? That's unlikely!" said the Emperor, "especially in the Castle."
Someone in his retinue tittered obsequiously, and was silenced with a glare.
"What about the nuns?"
Everyone looked at the floor.
Two guards ran to fetch him, and dragged him into the chamber, where he collapsed on his knees in front of the Emperor like a silken flower.
"Bishop, you must sacrifice yourself for Prague. You will become a saint and a martyr, and I will build a fine cathedral for your relics."
"Excellency- once, at the seminary, there was a beautiful altar boy…"
"For fuck's sake. Take him out of my sight."
Someone screamed horribly in the courtyard- no-one dared to look- but still the thing could be heard pacing around, squelching and moaning.
"Excellency," said Rosenberg blushing, "There is the Princess Elizabeta."
The princess Elizabeta sat in front of her huge carved gilt mirror, as ladies-in-waiting combed her golden curls and cooed. She was sixteen, the Emperor's only daughter, and the most beautiful girl in Christendom, it was said. And if her brains did not quite match her beauty, well, the struggle was unequal from the start. Her golden hair reached all the way to her little silk-slippered feet, and her little mouth and rosy cheeks swam as distinctly on her ivory face as three strawberries in a bowl of cream. Her slender neck, and wrists… but I digress. All that need be known is that she was very, very beautiful, and deeply, deeply dim. Her simplicity was as much a work of nurture as nature, though; the Emperor had kept her almost encloistered in her apartments in the North Tower, fearing that her virginal purity would be sullied by thoughts of oafish grafs and herzogs clustering in their armour and vying for her attention. She knew nothing of men, save her father and her brothers, and nothing at all of sex.
There is no need to ask, then, what thoughts went through her mind when the Emperor forced his way into her boudoir, scattering the ladies-in-waiting into kneeling heaps; the answer is, none at all.
"Why Papa! How late it is! Have you come to tell me to go to sleep, Papa, for you look so cross!
My ladies were just combing my hair for bed, I swear it, and look, I am already in my nightdress!"
"I know, Poppet, and I am not cross with you. There is no time to explain, and I am sorry for what I must do. This is for your own good, Elizabeta, and I want you to understand that."
"My own good, Papa? Am I to be scolded? I am not a child any more, Papa.""Indeed you are not, Elizabeta, as I can see."
And indeed, as she rose to greet her father, the candlelight behind penetrated her thin gown, revealing her slender white limbs and soft jutting fistfuls of breasts to the Emperor's gaze- What a terrible burden for a father to bear, he told himself. But if it must be done, it must!
"You must hurry, Excellency," shouted Rosenberg, "he is hammering through the gate!"
"What, Papa? Is there a man here?""Only I, Poppet, and the Bishop your confessor."
The bishop walked in, blushing.
"Am I to be wed, Papa?" "Wed, my dear? Why… Yes, you are to be wed. I have sheltered you from the ways of the world for too long, my sweet. Do not be afraid, and close your eyes. The ceremony is to begin, and though it may seem unusual, it is all as it should be, as the bishop will confirm."
"Close my eyes, Papa? How exciting this is! But where are you now? Papa!"- this last said as the Emperor, shutting his eyes as well, lifted his daughter onto her dressing table and deposited her with a bump, and a squeal of excitement on her part.
"He is through the gate, Excellency!" came Rosenberg's voice.
The Emperor parted Elizabeta's legs, placing one of her feet on each of his shoulders; he lifted the thin muslin of her gown, unveiling her virgin parts, pink, and haloed with a soft and golden fuzz.
"But Papa…?"
"Hush, dear, there is no time"- though even in his urgency, he found time enough to gaze at her. He rubbed her a little, embarrassedly, and when she moaned he told her not to speak. The Emperor inserted a finger as far as it would go- which was not far. Though she bit her lips shut according to his order, she could not prevent herself breathing harder- nor could she stop her hips swaying on the dressing table, wider and wider as the Emperor pushed another finger in, while rubbing her with his thumb. Pistol shots rang out on the spiral stairs outside, and screams and the clattering of armoured men falling on stone. But now the Emperor was hard.
"Pray, Elizabeta," he whispered as he pulled out his stiff cock, thick in his hand, and rubbed her soft and wettening pinkness with it until he glistened with her excitement.
"Our Father… Father…Ohh. Ohh, Papa…"
"Is it in, Excellency?" pleaded the bishop.
"It is," he grunted, swaying his hips as he pushed deeper and deeper inside.
"OH PAPA!"
"Hush, Elizabeta, it will be over soon."
"Will it, Papa, oh don't let it, please!"
"Excellency, the golem has stopped! It has turned round and is going down the staircase again!"
"Papa, squeeze my titties hard, oh please! Yes, and suck my nippets too!"
"Elizabeta! I order you to be quiet!"
"Excellency, you can stop! The golem is crossing the bridge again, towards the ghetto and the town. Excellency, you need not continue!"
"Thank you, Bishop, but I think it's probably best if I…"
"Fuck me, Papa, like that!"
"Bishop, go downstairs and give the last rites to any of the… of the… shut the door behind you, Bishop."
"Harder, Papa, harder, harder!"
The bishop did as the Emperor commanded. The Emperor did as the Princess commanded.
Back in the ghetto, Simon had hit upon what seemed to be the magic formula. It was all a question of working out what vowels should go between the Hebrew letters, he muttered as he rushed across to Moshe's house, but now he had the answer.
"Moshe! Father-in-Law! Open up, I tell you, it is Simon here!"
"Stop clattering at my door, idiot boy," hissed the rabbi through a crack, "Or do you want that the golem does to all of us what it did to your cousin?"
"I have the answer! Chemavech!"
"What nonsense is this? Chemavech? That is not a word, boy, now go away from here, I tell you!"
"But Moshe! Oh, shit, Moshe, open the door! Moshe! Open the door, open the fucking door!"
Instead of opening the door, the rabbi Moshe was observed by his daughter to spring back from it shaking. A sound like a swallowed yelp came through the thick shutters, and a smell of earth and damp clay sidled through the cracks. A squelching noise, like something being swallowed, and a low moan of semi-human contentment, rising in pitch. The rabbi trembled. Rebecca, who was as brave as she was beautiful, peered out through a crack, froze for a long few seconds, then sat back shaking. It is probably not irrelevant to tell you that she never married, nor spoke of what she saw.
When morning dawned, the Emperor Rudolf resolved not to speak of what had passed, either. It is assumed, that is. For neither the Emperor nor the Princess Elizabeta were seen until the afternoon, and neither were inclined to confess to the Bishop the odious sin they were forced into against their will; though for the Bishop, who had, along with Rosenberg, the ladies-in-waiting, and the Spanish ambassador spent the night and all of the morning outside Elizabeta's door straining his ears for each creak of her bed and abominable cry of encouragement to her father, a spoken confession was perhaps superfluous.
And in the ghetto, when the sun dawned and cleared the river's mist from the crooked dirty streets, doors creaked open slightly, and then all the way. In the street lay Simon, dead- and killed in an unspeakable way- and the remnants of the fearsome golem piled about him- and inside him- as if he had been sandwiched in a pile of horse dung. Simon had saved himself for his Rebecca, and in so doing had perhaps saved her from the golem. And now this thing, sated and defunct, was thrown with Simon's mangled, bloody body into the Vltava, never to be seen again. Yes, in his purity, poor Simon had saved his beloved Rebecca from the golem, as in his sin Rudolf had saved Elizabeta. But the effect on both girls was ultimately the same: Rebecca shunned the marriage bed; and poor Elizabeta, after a few months of fevered consultation with her now white-haired and exhausted father, was packed off to a nunnery high up in the Alps. Of course, that may not be quite how it all happened. But after all these years, who can really say?