The Golem Goes To The Well
The sun is shining through the lace curtains of the bay window. The Golem, normally content to survey the scene in our living room from his crystal enclave, expresses a desire to be out and about. And who am I to argue with him?
And so it is that he accompanies us down a long, tree-lined avenue, away from the busy main road, until we reach the centre of this popular local park. He admires the Hall, the fish pond, and the fountain. The ornamental plantings catch his eye, even though they’re only a pale shadow of the floral glories of former days. I don’t take him up to where the rather wonderful music pavilion once stood; like other features of the park, its decayed remains are disappearing into the undergrowth. Instead, we head along a path to a nearby area of woodland.
It’s quieter here. There are wooden sculptures, shallow streams and small bridges, an abundance of bird life, and squirrels so used to being fed that they run towards us instead of away. Down a side path, I point out the Monk’s Well. While our grandchildren sit on a bench carved from a fallen tree and eat packets of cheesy biscuits and drink orange juice from plastic bottles, the Golem surveys the Well from several angles. “Not much of a well, and no monks,” he observes.
He is correct. It’s possible that the name was given to it in the 1930’s, when it was the fashion to find heaps of stones and give them fanciful histories. I tell him what little I know, that it probably started off as a spring, to which was added a stone trough and a cistern to provide water for young trees and shrubs, as the then landowner’s estate was developed from the 1800’s onwards. Later, a chapel-like structure was built around it; that fell down and was rebuilt and then fell down again and is now - as you can see from the photos - partially rebuilt.
The Golem wonders why it matters to me. “It reminds me of my father. In his old age, after my mother died, he often walked around here - as he did with us, when we were children. He was one of the many people who campaigned for the clearing of the area and the repairing of the Well.” The Golem looks across at our grandchildren. “You have their photos in your house, but none of your father and mother.” “I don’t need them. They’re in my heart.”
The Golem is interested in religion and philosophy and a variety of arcana - which is unsurprising, considering his origins. I’m expecting him to mention the woman of Samaria. But instead, he asks: “Was he a good father?” “Yes; my sisters and I differ on a number of things, but we agree on this: that we were blessed with the mother and the father that we were fortunate enough to have.” “And was he instrumental in bringing you to the faith that you have today?”
Our grandchildren have finished their snacks, and are looking for the carved figures that are hidden nearby. My eyes follow them for a few moments. Then: “As a good father, I suppose he modelled for me - in a very small way - the good God that I believe in.”
Perhaps the Golem will let it go at that.
But, no. “Did he believe what you believe?”
When asked why I don’t travel by plane, my answer is “Don’t, won’t, can’t…” I don’t answer the Golem’s question. And then my grandchildren are wanting to move on and see what else there is to see.
Before we go, the Golem takes a last look at the Monk’s Well. I feel I ought to say something, and so I fall back - as so often - on the question that Abraham asked: “Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?”
And perhaps the Golem nods, or perhaps he doesn’t: it’s hard to tell, when a man is made of clay.
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