The Cloning

  “Yes, we’ll never forget you,” she echoed.

  “God bless you,” the priest said. “You have the map?”

  “Got it,” Marc assured him. He shook Mazursky’s hand heartily, then climbed behind the steering wheel, threw it into gear, and pulled away.

  As the jeep rattled into the distance, Mazursky instinctively crossed himself, and, seeing this, Abdul took the precaution of crossing himself as well.

  *

  By noon, they had only moved thirty miles across the Sinai. The jeep bounced wildly over the stony terrain, so rapid progress was impossible. The glare of the sun was unrelenting, adding to their discomfort and leading them to drink frequently from the goatskin. Once they stopped to enjoy an orange, which Father Mazursky had thoughtfully provided. And they had to pause several times to change Alpha’s diaper.

  By mid-afternoon, the landscape had become even more inhospitable, and the ride was so rough that Maria braced herself with one hand against falling out, meanwhile grasping Alpha firmly with the other. They were covered with dirt that clung to their perspiration. She shielded Alpha’s nose and mouth from the dust, then tied a sort of babushka around her own head to keep the sweat out of her eyes.

  “How much longer, Marc?”

  “Don’t even ask,” he replied. “We’re just a little over half way there.”

  “Are you sure we’re going in the right direction?”

  “Absolutely,” he replied reassuringly. “Don’t worry.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Suddenly, there was an ear-splitting scraping sound, and the jeep jostled even more.

  “What was that?”

  “I’m not sure,” he replied, pulling the jeep to a halt but leaving the motor idling. The sight that greeted his eyes underneath the jeep was the crowning blow: gasoline gushed from the ruptured fuel tank.

  “Oh, no!” he moaned. “We hit a rock. We’re losing gas.”

  Maria was silent for a moment, then said calmly, “Oh well, God has planned it out pretty well so far. He won’t let anything happen to the Holy Family now.”

  The motor gave one final gasp as it consumed the last drop in fuel in the line. The jeep lapsed into silence.

  “Oh really?” Marc challenged her sharply as he sat despondently on the rocky ground.

  “No. Trust me.”

  “A few minutes ago you were worried too,” he challenged.

  “I know. Sometimes I forget. But Mary and Joseph fled into Egypt with their baby too, with King Herod chasing after them, and they lived through it. Remember?”

  Marc laughed in spite of himself.

  *

  Three hours later the sun was approaching the western horizon, but the heat had not abated a degree. They had taken refuge in the meager shade offered by the jeep. Taking a cue from Maria, Marc too improvised a cover for his head in the mid-eastern fashion.

  He started to take a drink from the goatskin, but decided he'd better not. “I'm not going to drink any more until the sun goes down.”

  “I won't either.”

  “As soon as it cools down a little, we'll start walking.”

  “Stop worrying,” she urged him. “God will look after us.”

  “God looks after those who help themselves,” he replied with a sage look.

  “Shalom!” came a voice from behind them.

  They turned and saw an old Arabian man approaching. He was leading four donkeys laden with boxes and bundles of every possible size and description.

  “Hello,” Marc proffered as the man drew nearer.

  “You English man?”

  “No, American.”

  “Where you go?”

  “Nowhere,” Marc replied. “Our jeep is broken.”

  “Bad place for broken auto.”

  “My wife has a small baby. We need help. We're going to the monastery at Bir Sidri.”

  “Long way,” the old man observed sadly, shaking his head ominously.

  “Could you help us?”

  The man lifted his shoulders helplessly. “I go to Gaza.”

  Marc thought this over for a few moments before offering to pay the man to go to Bir Sidri. “My wife could ride on one of your animals.”

  The old man shook his head. “I go to Gaza. Business there,” he explained with a gesture to the goods heaped onto the donkeys.

  Still holding Alpha in her arms, Maria moved toward the man, looked him directly in the eyes, and informed him, “God has sent you to help us.”

  He was taken aback by her assertive tone and the look on her face. “Allah?” he asked.

  “No, Jehovah. I know He's not your God, but He has chosen you to do something very special for Him. This is the most important thing you will ever do in your life. You will be blessed, and your children will be blessed in every generation to come. You must sell us one of your donkeys. You cannot say no to God.”

  The astonished peddler looked to Marc for an explanation. Marc was as surprised as the Arab by her forcefulness, but he nodded his agreement heartily. Before the old man could reply, Marc reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills that the pilot had pressed into his hand just before he left them on the shore of the Dead Sea.

  “I only have Euros, but there are lots of them,” he said, thrusting the whole roll toward the peddler. The old man looked at the currency with amazement, astonished by the number of bills.

  “Yes, you have donkey . . . the strongest one,” he agreed, taking the money from Marc

  “Great. This one?”

  “Yes,” the man replied and began unloading the animal. Marc helped him while Maria recovered her bag and the goatskin from the jeep.

  *

  It took nearly a half-hour to transfer and tie down all the goods from the donkey onto the backs of the three other long-suffering beasts.

  “Are you sure they'll be able to carry all that?” Maria asked.

  “Most certain,” the Arab replied. “They very strong.”

  “We'd better get a move on,” Marc said.

  “You go far tonight. Cool. Light from moon.”

  “You think we'll be there by morning?” Marc asked.

  “If your God smiles on you. But you take more water. For your baby,” the old man insisted, handing them another goatskin, which Marc attached to the side of their donkey.

  “Thank you,” Maria said. “God bless you.”

  “Thanks to Allah,” the peddler replied with a happy smile. He turned then and led his three remaining donkeys toward Gaza. Maria and Marc watched silently as his figure began to recede into the distance.

  Then Marc turned to her. “I had no idea you could talk that persuasively.”

  “Only God knew,” she replied with a slightly enigmatic smile. He chose not to argue the point. Instead, he simply looked at her with mixed amazement and love.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  She nodded silently. Marc held Alpha while she scrambled onto the back of the donkey, then handed the baby back to her.

  “Comfortable?” he asked.

  “It couldn't be worse than the jeep.”

  As he took the reins and started leading the animal toward the west, the sun was beginning to sink below the horizon, streaking the sky crimson. Their figures moved quietly into the distance, silhouetted in the golden glow. In their cassocks and head coverings, they could indeed have been the Holy Family, fleeing King Herod.

  Marc looked up to Maria, and for a few seconds their eyes held each other's. The smile on his face told her better than words, “You've been right all along. Miracles do happen.”

  Their shapes grew smaller as they moved into the vastness of the desert.

  “You know, we could sure use that Ferrari now,” Marc commented.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A native of North Carolina, Wisner Washam received his BA with the Carolina Playmakers at the University in Chapel Hill, then studied at the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art in England. From there he went to New York, intent on an a
cting career. During four seasons at the American Shakespeare Festival his duties came to include stage managing, and this led to a number of years as stage manager for five Broadway shows, including Neil Simon's "Star-Spangled Girl," "Prisoner of Second Avenue," and "Plaza Suite." During the latter, he met his wife, actress Judith Barcroft. With her encouragement, he made a career change into the field of soap opera writing, fortunately at the right hand of daytime's doyenne, Agnes Nixon, where he stayed for nearly twenty years as headwriter of "All My Children." Subsequently, he worked on "The Guiding Light" and on development projects for Fox as well as French and German television. He’s won three Emmy Awards for his work in daytime. His screenplay, "The Cloning," was selected by the Writers Guild of America for a reading at Lincoln Center. He subsequently expanded that tale into this book. His second novel, “Edie’s Story” is available on Kindle. He and his wife live in Manhattan; they’re the parents of Ian and Amy, and proud grandparents of three girls.