He walked over to it and folded his arms.
"What is it?" he said.
The golem bent its head slightly and looked him in the eye. It was
man-shaped, but baggier, muscles like frozen mud. An overhang of belly
covered its smooth crotch like a kilt. Its chisel-shaped teeth clacked
together as it limbered up its jaw.
"Your father is sad," it said. Its voice was slow and grinding, like an
avalanche. "Our side grows cold."
"I don't care," Alan said. "*Fuck* my father," he said. Behind him,
perched atop their mother, Davey whittered a mean little laugh.
"You shouldn't --"
Alan shoved the golem. It was like shoving a boulder. It didn't give at
all.
"You don't tell me what to do," he said. "You can't tell me what to
do. I want to know what I am, how we're possible, and if you can't help,
then you can leave now."
The winds blew colder, smelling now of the golem's side of the mountain,
of clay and the dry bones of their kills, which they arrayed on the
walls of their cavern.
The golem stood stock still.
"Does it...*understand*?" Marci asked. Davey snickered again.
"It's not stupid," Alan said, calming a little. "It's...*slow*. It
thinks slowly and acts slowly. But it's not stupid." He paused for a
moment. "It taught me to speak," he said.
That did it. He began to cry, biting his lip to keep from making a
sound, but the tears rolled down his cheeks and his shoulders shook.
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