Part 1: The Professor

An exercise...what do you think? Should I start working on part 2?

Professor Jack Omondi had hit rock bottom. Everything had gone wrong, and the bottom seemed to have fallen out on his life; his marriage had fallen apart, his career had stagnated, and he was beginning to realize that he wasn’t going to live forever.

He took another swig from the bottle of Jack Daniels he always kept hidden in the back of a bottom drawer in his office for nights such as this one. He had stayed back after hours to grade a few term papers he had outstanding when the utter meaninglessness of his life had struck him mid-correction, like a baseball bat against his head. He’d tossed the papers aside, disgusted, and buried his head in his hands.

He remembered the days when he was young; idealistic, naive, and full of grand ideas. Life had stretched out before him like an endless horizon of possibilities; the threads of a thousand destinies were in his hand. He could’ve been, anything, anyone, anywhere he chose...then life had happened to him, and one by one the strings had wriggled out of his grasp, until finally he was left clutching at straws, at thin air...

How had he come to this? He had no friends, no family to speak of, no accomplishments to be proud of. How had he gotten this way? Had life stolen a march on him as he slept? He felt as if he had just woken up, startled, only to find that he had slept his life half away, like Rip van Winkle...

All he had now was his job - Professor of Anatomy; the title had once made him so proud...whenever he was introduced as ‘Professor Omondi’ his chest had swelled with pride. He remembered the day he had been invited to speak at his old high school - the respectful looks, the adoring applause...he had been held up as an example, a model to which any student should aspire to.

How very wrong they were...if only they knew the reality of his existence, they would realize that his was a fate that nobody would ever wish upon themselves.

‘Professor Jack Omondi’...now it sounded hollow in his ears, and seemed to him like an attractive gift wrapper over a pair of old socks.

Really smelly socks.

His wife had left a week ago - she had just packed up and left, and he had come home to an empty house, his announcement of his arrival echoing desolately through the house like a voice in a cavern. She explained in her letter that they had been strangers sharing a bed for years; they had drifted so far apart that all they were now doing was making each other more lonely...there were no children - the topic had never got past the casual reference in conversations.

He was alone. He had nothing.

Nothing but his job, and his obsession. He knew the real reason Irene had left him. None of that ‘drifting apart’ nonsense. No. She didn’t understand, nobody did. They thought he was crazy, out of his mind...obsessed. he had a hunger, an incurable thirst, for knowledge...ever since he was young, he had an inquisitive mind; an insatiable appetite for the knowledge of the mysteries of nature...by the time he was ten, he was asking his parents questions they could not answer; at thirteen even their priest was bamboozled by the young boy’s inquiries. At fifteen he discovered through the local library the wonderful world of books, and the treasure trove of knowledge they held...the immense wisdom the bore for those who would but open them, and read.

But as his peers were reading Harry Potter, he was reading Paracelsus and Hermes Trismegistus...thus begun a lifelong obsession with the occult, an obsession that had disgusted his parents and terrified his wife.

That was why she’d left. Despite the thousand promises he’d made to stop, to stay away from those ‘cursed books’, something kept drawing him inexorably back to that room in the basement; that dark and musty room lit only by a low, dancing candle in the corner that cast insufficient light over shelves with row upon row of old, frayed books; over strange and mysterious volumes; over ominous symbols chalked on the walls...

It was, indeed, an obsession, an addiction - he was always hungry for more. His mind yearned for it like cocaine, his hands itched for them like an addict’s for a syringe; how many times had he tossed and turned in bed beside a protesting Irene, thinking, always thinking, about the books?

How many times had he given up, snuck out of bed, down the stairs and into that subterranean crevice to light the flickering candle?

How many times had Irene caught his hand beneath the covers as he turned to go, whispering;

‘No, Jack, don’t...stay with me...’

And how many times had he shaken her hand off, ignored her whispered plea and descended the stairs to spend the night with his mistress?

‘The pursuit of knowledge,’ he had said to himself, over and over again.

‘It’s the pursuit of knowledge, of wisdom. Nothing else.’

Night after night he would pore over the books...and soon theory had turned to practise...he remembered the day Irene had come down to check on him, and found him chanting feverishly and drawing runes upon the wall.

‘My God, Jack, what -’

He could never remember the look in her eyes - the horror, the shame. He had tried to explain it was just an experiment, a harmless game.

‘You don’t know that Jack,’ she’d said, running her eyes over the wall. ‘This looks dead serious to me...’

‘Jack, what is all this? Explain it to me, if it means so much to you, I want to be a part of it.’

And he had tried. She didn’t understand. She flinched, visibly, several times at some of the things he said. He could see the fear in her eyes, hear it in the quivering of her voice.

‘Jack’, she had said, taking his hands and staring deep into his eyes. ‘ this all sounds so...strange...it makes my skin crawl, honestly...Jack, do you know what you are doing?’

He’d pulled away, and broken her gaze.

She didn’t understand. She simply couldn’t. Her mind couldn’t cast off the restraints of conventionality and explore new frontiers, he told himself.

‘Jack, why are you so into this stuff? Do you believe it’s real?’

He couldn’t answer her.

* * * * *

‘Hello, can I help you sir?’

‘Yes, I’m interested in any mystical works you might have...you know, books on alchemy, the occult, anything.’

The man looked at him, a puzzled expression on his face.

‘The occult?’ The Professor repeated. The man still looked blankly back at him. ‘Magic?’ he added helpfully.

‘Ah, yes, yes...we have books on that. Nice clever magic tricks, great for parties, very impressive. Take this one, for example -’

The Professor tried to explain that that wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind.

‘No? OK, no problem, Harry Potter? I have the latest one...or perhaps you want children’s book?’

Excitedly he hustled out from behind the counter and reappeared, clutching a small bright book. He extended it, an expectant smile on his face.

The Professor stared at the bright red cover -

‘Folk of the Magic Faraway Tree.’ by Enid Blyton.

‘Never mind,’ he muttered, and was out the door leaving a tinkle of little bells and a flummoxed

bookseller in his wake.

* * * * *

They had met a few months previously; The Professor had been prowling through town, looking for books of a curious genre.

He had passed through the strangest bookshops in the city; finding books on topics that would have made Irene swoon. He had stumbled upon the little curiosity shop owned by a small, bearded man with a tight-fitting skullcap.

They had hit an instant rapport. They were, in so many ways, kindred spirits; men who were alone, walking the desolate road of Knowledge...men who shared that overwhelming, all-consuming hunger for deep, dark things.

They met almost every week - discussing their books, their experiments, in hushed, low voices for fear of eavesdroppers; for they spoke of dark and terrible things.

It was Avram who had ignited in him this fire that burned within him so hotly. The passion - more powerful than any other curiosity he had ever experienced. Even now his mind turned to it hungrily, like dogs setting upon a feast. Ever since Avram had told him about it, he could think of nothing else; he could dream of nothing else...the ultimate creation, his wildest fantasy -

The homunculus.

* * * * *

Avram had sat, that day, in the very back of the dimly-lit bar, in a booth beside their usual one, which was now occupied by a young couple passionately kissing over their bottle-strewn table. The speakers boomed out a slow, almost lascivious rhythm. It had an intoxicating effect on its listeners, giving them a heady high that left them zoned out for minutes before they shook their heads and broke its spell. The bar was full of teenagers and young professionals. The fat, middle-aged man sitting all alone in the corner stuck out like a sore thumb. It was the one place they were unlikely to bump into anyone they knew, or attract unwanted company.

It sounded like the beginning of a joke

‘See, a Bookseller and a Professor of Anatomy walk into a bar, right? -’

The Professor came in and took the place opposite Avram, settling down heavily in his seat. They exchanged a cursory greeting, and quickly their conversation turned to weightier matters.

‘I came across something interesting, the other day.’ The Professor began. ‘I couldn’t get much information about it. What can you tell me of the Golem?’

Avram nodded, sat back, and surveyed the Professor appraisingly through his old-fashioned half-moon spectacles.

‘Ah, yes. It’s natural that a man of your inclinations would be interested in such matters...where to begin...the Golem...’ he sighed, and took a long, contemplative sip from his glass.

‘It is said to be possible - with the right protocols - to create, as it were, life in an inanimate object. The ultimate power.’

The Professor scoffed.

‘You refuse? Anyone can kill, but how many can bring to life?’

Silence.

‘The Golem, traditionally, is a human figure made out of clay, then brought to life - quickened - through the power of the Adept. In this context, Adam can be said to have been the first golem. But such power is, of course, beyond human capability.’

‘Why?’ the Professor asked.

‘Simply because we know that for life to exist, certain processes must take place - respiration, circulation. We know that for locomotion to occur, for example, there must be transmission of electrical impulses between the brain and the nerves of the limbs. In a clay figure, no such systems exist, hence the idea of quickening a dead lump of dust, and hoping to make a coherent organism out of it is nothing but a fanciful notion.’

‘So it is impossible?’ the Professor asked, downcast.

Avram just smiled.

‘You have heard, undoubtedly, of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein? However the earliest reference to the golem is seen in the text that allude to the homunculus that the prophet Jeremiah created. The most interesting, however, is that of Loew bin Bezalel.

‘Bezalel built a Golem to protect his people in Prague during the Time of Trouble. Those were dark ages, and people still believed in blood libel. But as with any creature which is both powerful and unintelligent, it soon became a curse to its creator, running amok and destroying innocents. bin Bezalel was forced to deanimate it.’

He sat back and studied the Professor’s face, enjoying the effect his information was having upon him.

‘It is said that it lay for years in an attic in Prague, waiting for the day it would be needed again. A Nazi agent tried to stab and destroy it, but he died instead.’

Avram laughed. ‘A fantastic story.’

‘Story? Only a story?’

‘What is history, but a collection of old wives’ tales? Every myth has a modicum of truth behind it, embellished and exaggerated over time into fantastic tales of gods and monsters.’

‘Is there any truth in this one?’

Avram shrugged. ‘The ancients certainly believed it.’

‘But what you said - about the systems and processes and everything...’

Avram frowned. ‘Well, if one was considering such an undertaking, then obviously he would seek a...situation...where such systems are already in place. A situation where all that is lacking is...the spark. Like an electronic device waiting to be plugged into the mains.’

‘You mean a cadaver? You mean reanimating a corpse?’ the Professor said excitedly, his eyes lighting up.

Avram remained silent, studying him. The Professor noticed his friend’s inquisitive stare and smiled.

‘Sounds interesting.’

Avram shook his head.

‘Frankenstein, bin Bezalel, Jakob Grimm...in all these cases, the golem brings more harm than good. This is the thread that runs through all these stories. In any case - even if it were possible - the creation of a golem is an abomination...a sacrilege. It is a branch of knowledge that man is not supposed to dabble in. Some things are better off remaining as mysteries.’

‘True,’ the Professor nodded his agreement, toying with his empty glass of whisky. ‘Purely for academic purposes, however, I am sure you have material on the subject?’

Avram had reluctantly admitted that he did. When the Professor had passed by the shop later that week to pick them up, he handed them over with a suspicious glare, and another lecture on the implications of attempting such a creation.

His concerns had been laughed off with a nonchalant wave.

‘I need somebody to lecture those hapless first-years. He only needs half a brain!’ he’d joked.

Avram was dead serious. So much so that when he got home he had found, wrapped among the ancient cloth-bound volumes with yellowed pages, a glossy new book with the price sticker still on;

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.

* * * * *

Over the next few weeks the trips to his subterranean study became the highlight of his day. The low, flickering candle in the corner was replaced time and time again.

The glint in his eye as he perused the yellowing pages was not the reflected light of the dancing waxy flame - it was a spark of fascination as he dared dream the undreamable and think the unthinkable.

Reverently, lovingly almost, he turned leaf after leaf of the Book of Creation, his mind full of the unspeakable mysteries it contained. He could only half-understand the wonderful words, but he finally pieced an idea together... however, throughout the book, reference was made to a magical ‘word of power’ that had to be written on a piece of paper and inserted into the homunculus’ mouth as the final part of the animation ritual.

Try as he might, look as he would, he couldn’t find it anywhere. Avram was obstinately refusing to help him any further, alarmed at his friend’s obsession in spite of his many warnings.

The Professor was adamant that his interest was purely theoretical, and was irritated by the constant admonitions.

He had returned, unopened, Avram’s copy of Frankenstein, claiming that he was of a scientific persuasion, and the genre of fiction had never much appealed to him.

* * * * *

He sat, contemplating all these things on that lowest of low nights, cradling the now empty bottle in his hand.

The desk lamp only half-illuminated his office, casting long, shadowy fingers against the opposite wall. On the wall hung a smiling portrait of his wife along with his doctorate and several other awards he had earned.

Professor Jack Omondi.

He spat, hurling the empty bottle at it, shattering the glass frame at the centre. Long, jagged veins spread out throughout the rest of the face like a spider’s web. The bottle fell to the carpeted floor with a dull and uninspiring thud.

His wife continued to smile at him, half-mocking, half-pitying. He hated himself for never taking down her picture.

What was he, if not weak? He was too weak to keep his own life together, too weak even to follow his heart’s desire.

His heart’s desire -

He shuddered to think of what lay in that cold room, upon a long, cold metal slab. He did not want to think of it.

He had done...terrible things...things he was ashamed to even think of to himself. Avram’s voice rang in his head accusingly -

‘Abomination...’

He was nobody, he was nothing. He had nothing. He would die, and leave as the only mark of his existence upon this earth a tombstone with some dates and a borrowed quote chiselled upon it, as he slid into oblivion...the world swam before his eyes as the alcohol kicked in. Perhaps he should just end it all...or maybe kill everyone who had made his life so miserable.

It was their fault.

His wife, his parents, everyone. The Dean, who’d stonewalled his career and stood in the way of his advancement. He was due to retire soon, and had been asked to nominate his successor. Apparently he, the Professor, was too narcissistic and self-centered for the job. So he was overlooked, in spite of his superior intellect and aptitude.

He, the Adept.

In a drunken rage he jumped up, sending half-graded papers flying.

No, he would not die a nobody.

No, he would not be remembered as an almost-man.

No, they would remember him, and speak his name with reverence.

He, the Adept.

If one cannot be remembered for good, then one might as well be remembered for evil, anything is better than oblivion.

Al that remained was the final part - the golden capstone to complete the pyramid of his genius.

He had found it, you see...buried deep and dark.

The Word of Power.

The time had come to put away fear, the time had come for action. He staggered out his office and made his way to the lift.

* * * * *

It was a cold, foul-smelling place haunted by the stench of death, and the uneasy, malevolent silence of a hundred John Does.

The city mortuary, right next door to the Faculty, where the doctors learn their trade.

‘Professor Omondi, I-I wasn’t expecting you here...er, now!’ the attendant said, genuine marvel in his eyes. ‘What brings you here?’

He caught the whiff of alcohol and stepped back, puzzled.

‘471.’ The Professor growled, already staggering down the corridor to the cold room, the flustered attendant waddling in his wake.

The attendant caught up with him as he stopped beside the box he wanted. There was row upon row of little numbered doors lining the walls, almost like a bank vault.

The deposits made here, however, were beyond saving, by any account.

The attendant fumbled with his keys and slid open the tray, revealing the body bag that covered the cadaver.

‘Leave us.’

The attendant positively ran out, bobbing from side to side like a lifebuoy.

The Professor unzipped the body bag slowly, the hunger back in his eyes, like a kid unwrapping gifts on his birthday.

It was the pallid corpse of a middle-aged man who had died from pneumonia; he was well-built with a magnificent torso and big, strong arms - strange symbols had been painted on his chest, and numerous incisions had been made upon his body. None were of a medical or instructional nature, the Professor had been here before.

He set the body in the middle of the room on a long examination table, lighting the fluorescent light that hung above it. The pallid skin glowed eerily in the dark.

He walked around the body, wondering if he had the heart - and the stomach - to see this through. With an enormous effort, he began.

He spoke incantations in languages not heard upon the earth for a hundred years. Things that should not be spoken of...

The ritual was complete. He stood over the head of the homunculus, staring down at the body, and opened the mouth with his hand.

Slowly, deliberately, he took out the piece of paper he had prepared - it was a blank paper torn from the Book of Creation, and the Word of Power was written upon it carefully in red ink. For what seemed like an eternity he paused.

He put the paper in the mouth - quickly, before his nerve should fail him, then sprang back as if its skin had become red-hot.

For seconds all he could hear was his heartbeat. He watched the corpse carefully for any signs of movement.

Nothing.

For ten whole seconds he stood there, holding his breath. Then he kicked himself. What had he expected? Such foolishness! What had he really expected to achieve with gibberish incantations and nonsense ‘magical’ words? All that he had done...the shame and horror overwhelmed him, and he couldn’t bear to look at it.

Quickly he zipped up the body, and sprinted down the hallway.

‘Are you finished, sir?’ the attendant began, but the Professor was already out the door and disappeared into the night.

The strange, strange things I see in this job! He muttered to himself.

Outside, the half-moon shone desolately in the sky, deserted by her sisters the stars, like a disgraced and exiled daughter. The moonlight cast silver rays upon the land, lending a silver coat to everything, and sparkled like diamonds upon the waters of the pool in the courtyard. A wind was blowing, whistling shrilly, and the trees swayed gracefully to its rhythm.

The night, it seemed, had come to life.

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TLK

I am finding it hard to generate much sympathy with the Prof's plight. This is because you use the opening exposition to make him so thoroughly failed that the reader can smell his desperation (much like the socks). Then you add in the facts that add up to it essentially being down to his own intrinsic dislike of other people (this might be coloured by my own preconceptions, though).

I think you need to go for danger here. Show us a person who we suspect of being able to only hurt himself (to be honest, I read this and think that he HAS hurt people, and they don't like him). Then show his madness turning like a key to unlock the potential for him to cause harm to others. THAT is the kind of character shift that would keep me interested in the Prof, and make the invention of a Golem captivating.

I was wondering for a second whether the twist could be that HE is the Golem already, but I don't think this makes any sense...