a word to the wise page 2

‘I am the Doctor. A traveller. A wanderer.’ 

‘From where?’

‘No time, or place,’ he replied, enigmatically. 

‘When we met, you recognised my name.’

‘Yes.’ 

‘But you had never seen me before.'

‘I had not.’ 

‘You knew of me. My sister also.’

The Doctor nodded. His expression was utterly serious now. 

‘How?’ I felt strangely certain that the answer would be no ordinary one.

‘Come and sit by me, my dear. No, wait. Perhaps you’d better pour us both another measure of that rather impudent little wine first.’ 

I did so, feeling deeply apprehensive suddenly.

The Doctor’s explanation did not waste words, and when he had finished speaking I stared at him, partly disbelieving, but also remembering that strange blue box fading up from thin air. If that was possible, then… 

‘You say the tales within this…Bible…will be read for countless years to come, and that the events described and commandments conveyed therein will influence the way in which many people of future generations live their own lives?’ I said, to make quite sure.

‘Indeed.’ 

‘But much of what is written will be open to interpretation by individuals, whose views will vary according to the kind of people they are and the circumstances they find themselves in?’ 

The Doctor nodded in confirmation.

It sounded a terrible idea to me, and it still does. A lot of trouble could come from all those different opinions, if you want to know what I think. There’s nothing like an absolutely clear set of instructions to keep things well organised, after all. My mother always said so, God rest the old crone, and she was right in that, if not in very much else. 

‘You, my dear, through your sons, who will be the progenitors of six of Israel’s twelve tribes, will become the ancestor of many of the people who play such prominent roles in those inspirational tales.’ The Doctor’s manner became faraway. I think he had almost forgotten that I was there. ‘Of Moses, of course. King David. John the Baptist. Even, through his mother Mary, of Jesus Christ himself.’

Jesus. The name I had heard the Doctor’s granddaughter mention with such awe. 

‘It would distress me greatly to think that you might be remembered for committing a deed that you yourself would soon come to regret. Do you follow my drift, hmm?’

I did. Of course I did. 

But my purpose remained unchanged.

Yes, it’s true. 

My feelings were too strong to be swept aside by any concern over how future generations might perceive me.

‘I haven’t convinced you to abandon your course, have I?’ The Doctor was looking away from me as he spoke again, his chin jutting forward, his eyes stony now. 

I stared down at my hands. ‘You must leave me to dig, in a manner of speaking, my own grave,’ I said quietly.

Silence. For some time. 

The Doctor rose and paced about the tent. He seemed to be trying to come to a decision, and it was obviously proving a difficult task. Finally, he stopped dead, grasped the edges of his black coat very firmly, darted a penetrating glance at me, then resumed his seat at my side.

‘Your sister will bear Jacob a son,’ he said bluntly. 

It was like a knife in my heart. I looked at him angrily. ‘I wonder at your words, for they can only strengthen my resolve.’

‘Two sons, in fact.’ 

I rose. ‘I think it is time you were on your way, old man.’

‘Your family will be travelling once more, this time to Bethlehem, when Rachel gives birth, with great difficulty, to the second child. She will name him Benjamin with her last breath.’ 

I sat down again abruptly. ‘Her last?’ 

‘In his grief, Jacob will raise an impressive memorial to mark her grave,’ the Doctor said sombrely. 

A few moments of silence. Then, ‘What about me?’ I asked. 

‘My good woman,’ he replied testily, ‘I have said quite enough already.’ 

‘Please. I want to know. Whatever is to happen.’ 

‘You will assume the care of Rachel’s children,’ the Doctor told me, reluctantly, ‘and will survive your sister by some years before Jacob buries you as well, in the cave of Machpelah, in Hebron, where, in accordance with his dying wish, he will eventually be laid beside you. Are you satisfied now, hmm?’ 

Jacob to lie beside me, at his own request! I turned this surprising yet touching information over in my mind. Strange, how it never occurred to me to disbelieve the Doctor. 

‘So Jacob survives us both,’ I murmured. 

‘To become a very old man, though his sons will bring him much grief. Now that, my dear, is absolutely all I intend to say.’ He looked me straight in the eyes, almost fiercely. ‘Tell, me please, that the indiscretions I have just committed are to do some good.’ 

Issachar and Zebulun chose that moment to return with the Doctor’s grandchildren. 

‘Ah, children,’ said the Doctor, with a benign smile at John and Gillian. ‘I rather think it’s time we were on our way.’ 

I didn’t want the old sage to go. I was fascinated by his words now. I wanted to hear more, to know more. The thought of resuming my everyday life depressed me unutterably. 

But I had to resume it. Had he not told me how my story was to continue? I had not the slightest doubt that the events he had told me of would come to pass. 

Rachel was destined to die young. 

Now that I knew her fate, I even began to feel sorry for it. 

That was when I pulled myself together. 

The Doctor turned to look at me as he ushered John and Gillian from the tent. The question was in his eyes. An appeal, too. 

I smiled, just faintly, and nodded, almost imperceptibly. 

They were gone. 

The last words I ever heard from them were Gillian’s. She had a high, clear voice that penetrated my tent. 

Something about a coat. A coat of many different colours. 

I shrugged to myself. Such a garment would surely look somewhat garish? 

There’s no accounting for taste, is there? 

We’ve been on our way again for a few days since then, and I’ve thought over the Doctor’s words many times, as you might expect. 

But it was only this morning, when I pictured Jacob standing by Rachel’s grave marker, that I understood, and for the very first time, an inescapable truth. 

The real Rachel, that jealous, malicious, frustrated, grasping sister of mine, would vanish with her death. Rachel the lost, the mourned, the unattainable, would assume her place. Jacob would love this angel, this elusive goddess, even more than my sister. 

My place in his heart, such as it was, would become even smaller. 

You, whoever you are, who read my words, remember this: love as you will, but if you receive nothing in return, never believe, for a single moment, that any effort you may make, any guile you choose to employ, can penetrate a wall of pure, and total, indifference. 

Enough of this. My eyes begin to sting, and I have much else to do. I must lay down my pen. I feel, indeed, no urge to write more. 

But I do feel some satisfaction in the hope that I, Leah, if my manuscript survives, might be seen, in the far future the Doctor spoke of, as a real woman, and not just as a character from a volume of religious homilies that will, I firmly believe, do as much to divide people as it does to unite them. 

Now, my unknown friends, whom I shall never meet on this earth, I really must bid you farewell. 

written by 
MICHAEL BAXTER 
copyright 2013 

artwork by 
COLIN JOHN 
copyright 2013
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