Doncaster

‘It’s true – it’s really true,’ said the old man, his eyes grey and earnest.

I looked doubtfully at the shed standing in its nest of knee-high grass at the edge of the allotments.

‘The Babylonian brought it over long ago. I’m its keeper now. The Holy of Holies. The Ark itself. God’s presence – here, now.’

I probably looked sceptical – I can’t hide things that way. He screwed up his age-furrowed face in frustration.

‘You have to believe!’ he pleaded. ‘Someone has to. Otherwise it’s all lost.’

‘Can I go in?’ I asked, wanting to humour him just a little.

‘Only when you’ve proved yourself worthy,’ he replied, and I could see his hopes rising. ‘You have to make the pilgrimage.’

‘To where?’

‘Doncaster. But barefoot. All the way. And back.’

‘Why Doncaster?’

‘Because that’s where it was made.’ He pointed to the metal plate below the window. I could just make out the city’s name beneath the rust.

**

I returned six months later, my feet bleeding and swollen, and he let me see inside. It was empty – just a few cobwebs here and there. For a moment despair took hold of me. But then …

**

I think I understand now.