‘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
written by
MICHAEL BAXTER
copyright 2013
artwork by
COLIN JOHN
copyright 2013