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The woman sits alone, her back against a rock, her dress torn at the hem, tear tracks still on her face, which is marred by some sort of flaking skin. Slowly, a man approaches her from where she can see him. She raises her head and calls out, her voice sure and steady despite her ragged appearance. “Come no further.”
The man ignores this instruction.
“Miriam.”
“You know my name, stranger, though you are not of our People.” She tilts her head. “Know that I am shunned, and you should stay away.”
“Shunned by your People and punished by your God.” The Doctor replies, neutral-voiced. “I am neither.”
“Destined to languish until I’ve done my penance.” She sounds tired but not despondent. “Until my brother decides I’m no longer a threat to his dominance. Until I’m forgotten.”
“Oh, Miriam.” The Doctor’s eyes twinkle. “You are never forgotten. I’ve come to show you.” He holds out his hand. “Come. Let me show you.”
She comes. Of course she comes, she is used to Prophecy. Today, Prophecy wears odd garments, a coat of many colors that is nothing like Joseph’s, but she recognizes it all the same. She follows him into the blue hut.
Their first stop is almost familiar to her, she can still see the family resemblance in the faces of people flocking up to a large stone building. “These are…our People?”
“They are. They have a king now, and he leads the celebrations at the temple dedicated to your God.” She can see the king, surrounded by priests, performing the sacrifice. “They celebrate the salvation of the exodus from Egypt, of freedom and victory, of gaining the Promised Land.” The man tells her. “Listen.”
She hears a choir of women singing. The music is unfamiliar, but the words are her own, the ones she sang when her brother parted the sea and let the People cross.
“Bechol dor ve’dor.”
A group of old men lounge around a table, talking. Miriam understands their speech, though she should not, but such is Prophecy. They speak of her brothers, of her, of the exodus from Egypt. As dawn starts to break, younger men come to call them to prayer, ending the discussion, and the elders laugh at having told the tales the whole night through.
“Bechol dor ve’dor.”
In a building grander and more beautiful than even the palaces of Egypt, men and women sit together at a great feast. They read from leaves of paper gathered together, not from a scroll. Their garments are only vaguely familiar, and the foods they eat, but the story is the same, and the song, her song, rises to the roof.
“Bechol dor ve’dor.”
It is colder than she can recall ever being, and raining. A wooden hut among many other huts is filled with smoke but also with the laughter of children. A woman sits with four children at her feet, shares out food and tells the story. She doesn’t need a book to do it, it seem. The music is different, but the words are the same.
“Bechol dor ve’dor.”
“What is this?” White and cold, and the people celebrating in the hall are wrapped in furs such as Miriam has never seen or imagined.
“Snow. We’re in Poland, and in the Little Ice Age. Sometimes it still snows in spring.” The man points to the sky, “But always under a full moon.”
His words mystify her, but the moon, at least, she’s familiar with. Its white, full face follows them through this Prophecy.
“Bechol dor ve’dor.”
In something that may be a city, families gather to tell the tale.
“Bechol dor ve’dor.”
In a great vessel on a greater ocean, people huddle together, sick and miserable. A man begins to tell the story, another picks it up and continues. They need no books. A woman starts to sing, and a girl and a boy continue. After a brief search, a small child sings out questions, and the crowd answers.
“Bechol dor ve’dor.”
In homes great and small, in fields, on strange and wonderful moving engines, Miriam’s People carry the tale with them to the Promised Land and away from it again, to other lands promised. They become stranger and stranger, but the tale remains, mostly unchanged.
Miriam’s song, again with strange music, comes from the mouth of a moving painting shown on a wall. The voice is beautiful.
“Bechol dor ve’dor.”
Finally, a last gathering. The People wear the strangest garments yet, and the food they share - well, Miriam can only assume it’s food. She looks up and frowns.
“Where is the moon?” There is no full face above them, only stars she is unfamiliar with, and a blue distant orb.
“Right here.” There is a soft smile on the man’s face. “This is the moon. It shows its full face on Earth, and your People are here, celebrating still. They carry the story of your courage and wisdom to the stars, Miriam.”
There are new tear tracks on her face.
Prophecy returns her to the desert, where Moses and Aaron come to collect her, having decided that she’s paid her dues. Prophecy has also cleared away her leprosy, very kindly.
The People say there is a new light in Miriam’s eyes, a smoothness to her step. She doesn’t speak her Prophecy, but she remembers.
