Story 107: "The Thirty-Sixth" by Jess Mabe
As a follow-up to "Kevin," I thought it would be interesting to post a story that deals with Mulder's spirituality. "The Thirty-Sixth" is an excellent story, which Jess said is "about faith, religion and sainthood." It's also about love. And knitting.
If you like, you can read a short excerpt:
"I have been given your name by someone in my community. They thought you might be able to help me. You see," she said, stretching out one hand against the light-absorbing blackness of her leg, "my sister is missing."
The ache, so familiar it might have been an actual wound, spread through his chest and clutched his heart like a vice. Mulder nodded and waited for her to continue.
"She is... well, Esther is special," Leah said. She had a soft voice, like the velvet, like the wool of her coat. There was nothing sharp about her, nothing to offend or cut or stab. In another lifetime, he might have found her comforting, before he learned to crave the little slices. "She is what the medical community calls disabled. Mentally challenged. Retarded," she said the words contemptuously. "And that's all perfectly true. But Mr. Mulder, she is much, much more than that. She is holy."
"Holy?" he asked quietly.
"Yes. I understand you are Jewish."
Mulder was surprised and didn't bother to hide it. It always amazed him when anyone asked him. He didn't believe the bigoted assumptions about looking like a particular religious group. After all, did Ethiopian Jews "look" Jewish? Did his grandmother, with her blond hair and green eyes, "look" Jewish? So what it was that occasionally gave it away, he didn't know. After all, the nose came from his mother's side of the family, who were French, long ago. "No, not really," he said. "My grandmother on my father's side was a Russian Jew, but that doesn't make me much of anything, does it?"
Leah regarded him for a moment. "No," she said, "not technically. But it may make you sympathetic, and that may be enough to understand."
"I don't need to identify with your religion to sympathize," he said.
"Ah yes," she nodded. "I have heard about your loss. I'm sorry, of course that too makes you particularly empathetic. But I don't need someone to understand what it is to lose a sister. I need someone to understand what it means to lose this particular woman."
"Go on," he said, not fully following her.
"Are you familiar with Jewish mythology, Mr. Mulder?"
He shrugged. "Some aspects of it."
"Have you heard of the lamed-vovniks?"
He shook his head and she looked at the ceiling for a moment, like she was trying to find her thoughts there. She had a graceful, easy way of moving, as if she didn't want to disturb her own joints.
"At any given time, according to legend, there are thirty-six lamed-vovniks on earth. In fact, lamed-vov means thirty-six in Hebrew. These people, men and women, are designated by God as the... how can I put this... they are the hearts of the world. They receive the burdens of our sins, of our worries, our angsts. Collectively, they make our griefs bearable. Without any one of them, we would be overcome by pain, unable to survive. Not all of them are aware of who they are, of what they do. They are often what we would call 'simple' or crippled in some way. This is, perhaps, to help make their lives livable. It isn't easy to ease the pain of the world. If any one of them should die before they can be replaced, the apocalypse will begin." She was stroking her own leg, touching the dark fabric there. She seemed to have dissolved into herself, like a black hole, drawing in his energy with it. He slumped next to her and listened. "We believe my sister is a lamed-vovnik. Our Rabbi thought she displayed indications at a very young age, though of course there is no way to be sure. We have tried to shelter her, to protect her, but she is incapable of inaction. She laughs... even her laugh, Mr. Mulder, would take away some of your unhappiness, whatever it might be. It's her job, you see, and she must do it as surely as a fish must return to the river where it was born."
Or you can just go straight to the story. It is rated R for sex and violence. Jess Mabe left the fandom long ago and I have no working email for her. If anyone out there does and feels they can share it, I'd love to send her feedback. Please let us know what you thought, whether it be good, bad, or indifferent. You can make your suggestions for next time at the nomination post.
The Thirty-Sixth
If you like, you can read a short excerpt:
"I have been given your name by someone in my community. They thought you might be able to help me. You see," she said, stretching out one hand against the light-absorbing blackness of her leg, "my sister is missing."
The ache, so familiar it might have been an actual wound, spread through his chest and clutched his heart like a vice. Mulder nodded and waited for her to continue.
"She is... well, Esther is special," Leah said. She had a soft voice, like the velvet, like the wool of her coat. There was nothing sharp about her, nothing to offend or cut or stab. In another lifetime, he might have found her comforting, before he learned to crave the little slices. "She is what the medical community calls disabled. Mentally challenged. Retarded," she said the words contemptuously. "And that's all perfectly true. But Mr. Mulder, she is much, much more than that. She is holy."
"Holy?" he asked quietly.
"Yes. I understand you are Jewish."
Mulder was surprised and didn't bother to hide it. It always amazed him when anyone asked him. He didn't believe the bigoted assumptions about looking like a particular religious group. After all, did Ethiopian Jews "look" Jewish? Did his grandmother, with her blond hair and green eyes, "look" Jewish? So what it was that occasionally gave it away, he didn't know. After all, the nose came from his mother's side of the family, who were French, long ago. "No, not really," he said. "My grandmother on my father's side was a Russian Jew, but that doesn't make me much of anything, does it?"
Leah regarded him for a moment. "No," she said, "not technically. But it may make you sympathetic, and that may be enough to understand."
"I don't need to identify with your religion to sympathize," he said.
"Ah yes," she nodded. "I have heard about your loss. I'm sorry, of course that too makes you particularly empathetic. But I don't need someone to understand what it is to lose a sister. I need someone to understand what it means to lose this particular woman."
"Go on," he said, not fully following her.
"Are you familiar with Jewish mythology, Mr. Mulder?"
He shrugged. "Some aspects of it."
"Have you heard of the lamed-vovniks?"
He shook his head and she looked at the ceiling for a moment, like she was trying to find her thoughts there. She had a graceful, easy way of moving, as if she didn't want to disturb her own joints.
"At any given time, according to legend, there are thirty-six lamed-vovniks on earth. In fact, lamed-vov means thirty-six in Hebrew. These people, men and women, are designated by God as the... how can I put this... they are the hearts of the world. They receive the burdens of our sins, of our worries, our angsts. Collectively, they make our griefs bearable. Without any one of them, we would be overcome by pain, unable to survive. Not all of them are aware of who they are, of what they do. They are often what we would call 'simple' or crippled in some way. This is, perhaps, to help make their lives livable. It isn't easy to ease the pain of the world. If any one of them should die before they can be replaced, the apocalypse will begin." She was stroking her own leg, touching the dark fabric there. She seemed to have dissolved into herself, like a black hole, drawing in his energy with it. He slumped next to her and listened. "We believe my sister is a lamed-vovnik. Our Rabbi thought she displayed indications at a very young age, though of course there is no way to be sure. We have tried to shelter her, to protect her, but she is incapable of inaction. She laughs... even her laugh, Mr. Mulder, would take away some of your unhappiness, whatever it might be. It's her job, you see, and she must do it as surely as a fish must return to the river where it was born."
Or you can just go straight to the story. It is rated R for sex and violence. Jess Mabe left the fandom long ago and I have no working email for her. If anyone out there does and feels they can share it, I'd love to send her feedback. Please let us know what you thought, whether it be good, bad, or indifferent. You can make your suggestions for next time at the nomination post.
The Thirty-Sixth