Magdalen Rising (9 page)

It was after one of these moon-lit wanderings that I returned to the shelter to sleep and had what you may believe is a dream. To me it was more real than much of what passes for reality. There are times when the rules of the universe are bent out of shape. I believe I passed through, perhaps not a gateway between the worlds, but a gap in the fence or a minute tear in a tightly woven cocoon.

F
OR THE SAKE OF convenience, we'll call it a dream. Maybe you remember dreams of your own that took you to places you have never been, showed you things completely outside the realm of your experience. As you know, I had lived all of my life in a wattle and daub hut on an isolate island.

Now I see a huge space, open to the sky, but enclosed by massive columns that look to me like impossibly straight tree trunks stripped of branches. This vast wall of what you would call colonnades surrounds latticed inner walls. Through various doorways more people than I've ever imagined come and go in an unceasing flow. Within the inner walls, I glimpse a roof made of solid gold, vying with the sun for glory.

But it's the people that amaze me most. They crowd closer together than trees in a forest; they cluster like stars. But stars and trees are still. The courtyard is more like an amplified anthill, full of motion and commotion, the rumble, murmur, and shrill of many voices, male voices, issuing from lips obscured by alarming facial hair. (I keep a sharp eye out for a fox-colored beard.) Some of the people have animals in tow: sheep, goats, birds in cages. Now and then, over the human roar, I hear an animal scream. When the hot wind blows across the outer courtyard from the inner one, it carries the scent of blood and offal.

Where am I in all this? I do not seem to have a visible presence in this world. I see from atop one of the columns. Now my vision, which has been sweeping the courtyard, narrows. Bellow me in a shaded portico something is about to happen. Two men with astonishing beards almost to their chests, the hair on their head covered with round caps, sit on chairs facing one another. A crowd gathers, and the men begin to speak, not only to each other but to their audience.

At first I am too fascinated by the rhythm and tone of their voices to pay any attention to content. I know nothing of formal discourse or public speech. In contrast to what I'm used to—my mothers' free-for-all fights with everyone talking at once—what I hear now sounds ponderous, an argument, yes, but in slow motion, with more weight given to
each point. It is some time before it dawns on me: the men are speaking Aramaic. Then I give all my attention to understanding. But even as I catch more and more words, much of the meaning escapes me completely. Here, listen for yourself. And please excuse my crude—in every sense of the word—translation.

“If three women were sleeping together and blood was found beneath the middle one, all are considered unclean.” The man with more grey in his beard and a slightly rounder belly is holding forth, his forefinger dancing in the air, keeping time with his speech, as if it's a second tongue. “But if blood were found under the one sleeping next to the wall, the two on the inner side are considered unclean, and the outer one is clean. If blood be found under the outer one farthest from the wall, the two on the outer side are deemed unclean but the one next to the wall is clean.” He furls away his forefinger and folds his arms.

In case you are wondering, this is not an obscure math word problem you're hearing (if you have three women and one blood stain, how many are menstruating?) It's a
Mishnah,
an oral teaching on the Law of Moses. These disputations on the fine points of the Torah have since been written down. If you don't believe me that debates like this actually took place, go read
The Mishnayoth.

“As always, Rabbi Meir, your sound wisdom resounds in this holy place and the very stones rejoice to hear you, but—” The second speaker, a leaner man with a sparser beard, perhaps because he tugs at it so impatiently while waiting his turn to speak, brings his forefinger into play. “This proposed ruling of yours can only apply if,” he pauses dramatically, almost caressing the air that will receive his words, “and only if the three women came into bed by way of the foot of the bed. For if blood be found under the outer one, and all had passed into the bed across it, then all of them, I say all—dispute me who will—all are unclean.”

From the audience there is a murmur of ascent and acclaim for this speaker's cleverness, his attention to the all-important detail. But his opponent is neither daunted nor done with what he has to say.

“I congratulate you, Rabbi Judah, from whose mouth wisdom burbles like pure water from a deep spring, on the fine point you have made. But are we not both overlooking the matter of test rags? Consider: if one of them made examination and found herself clean, she alone is clean but the other two are considered unclean. If two examined themselves and found they were clean, then they are clean but the third one is not.”

“Now wait just a minute, Rabbi Meir,” the other one interrupts,
leaning closer to his opponent. The tips of their beards brush each other and threaten to tangle. “You are blatantly contradicting what we just agreed. Didn't we just agree?” He appeals to the crowd. “If the outer one is unclean and they crossed over the bed instead of coming in by way of the foot of the bed, they are all, therefore, unclean.”

“But that, Rabbi Judah, was before they used their test rags.”

“Test rags,” Rabbi Judah fulminates. “Who said anything about test rags? How do we even know they had their test rags with them, seeing as they were sleeping together and not, clearly not, with their husbands?”

Perhaps you are not following this discussion any better than I am. I do not even know that they're talking about menstrual blood (or, as it's called in English translation of
The Mishnayoth,
mentruous: a combination of menstrual and monstrous). Let me explain. Nice Jewish women test themselves with a rag before they fuck their husbands to make sure they're clean (i.e. not menstruous). Otherwise, God forbid, contact with her blood would make him unclean, too. For seven days.

“Of course they had their test rags. Or they got some when they discovered there was a stain on the bed. It goes without saying. We're not talking about those dirty Samaritan women, who think nothing of bleeding in public. Rabbi Judah, please! Be gracious enough to let me finish my point. I think you'll like it. If, I say if,” he resumes, “if they all examine themselves and all find themselves clean, then all three of them are unclean!”

Rabbi Meir sits back, immensely pleased with himself. Even his opponent looks impressed, nodding thoughtfully and tugging at his beard.

“Dispute me who will!” says Rabbi Meir, opening his arms and gesturing magnanimously to the audience.

Suddenly the crowd stirs as someone pushes his way forward. The two rabbis shift in their seats and confer. Perhaps because I have been magically transported here, I can hear their off-the-record remarks.

“Look! It's that smart-ass kid from Galilee again,” says Rabbi Judah. “I can't think why his parents give him such a free rein.”

“I doubt he has his two hairs yet.” Rabbi Meir is referring to the two pubic hairs requisite to prove a man or woman of marriageable age. “Shall we put him to the test before we let him speak?” he chuckles.

“His virgin ears should not even be attending this debate. It's unseemly. Besides, educational standards are so poor in the countryside, it's not clear to me that he's even literate. The way he mangles the scriptures! He makes a fool of himself.”

“Untutored he may be, but he has a quick mind. Admit it, Rabbi Judah. What really worries you is that he might make fools of us. Let the boy have his say.”

Then I see him, surfacing from the crowd like the salmon of wisdom, leaping from the water: my own Appended One. His body is longer than when I saw him last but still without a grown man's height or girth. On his face, a few hairs straggle awkwardly in twos or threes like guests who have arrived too early at a party. Despite his gangling youth, he carries with him an air of authoritative, energetic calm that makes him the instant eye of this and every storm. His eyes are just as I remember them: dark, curious, intent. They are trained now on Rabbi Meir.

“Worthy Rabbi, I don't understand,” he begins, speaking Aramaic with an accent. A twang. A sort of cowboy Aramaic. Though I detect the difference of pronunciation, it's the voice I hear. I know this voice. I have heard it before, in the dark, in the chamber beneath Bride's Breast. Then the words were rounder, more rhythmic, the deep source of this flatter, more prosaic tongue. But the voice, even with the comic breaks in range that marked the change from boy to man, is the same.

“What don't you understand, my son?” From his tone, he might as well have said sonny boy.

“If they have all examined themselves and all found themselves clean, why then are they not all accounted clean no matter which way they got into bed?”

“Why, the answer is obvious, boy,” says Rabbi Judah. “They must all be accounted unclean by reason of doubt.”

“Quite so.” Rabbi Meir isn't about to let Rabbi Judah expand on his point. “Now, to what might we liken this matter? It is like to an unclean heap that was confused with two clean heaps. And they examined one of them and found it clean, but the other two are deemed unclean. If two were examined and found clean, they are clean, and the third one is unclean. But if all three were examined, and they were found clean, all of them are unclean. For as I always say: Whatsoever is under the presumption of uncleanness continues in uncleanness until it becomes known unto thee where the uncleanness is. And so you are answered. Be satisfied.”

This was such a broad hint that even I understood it: You've had your moment. Get lost, kid. But my foster brother just stood there, brows knit, chewing his cheek. Adorable.

“Esteemed Rabbi, we are not talking about three heaps,” he objected. “We are talking about three women, who have examined themselves and found themselves clean. How can it be right that they should be deemed unclean and bear all the extra work and care and shame of uncleanness?”

“My son, you are young and unschooled. Clearly, you do not understand the use of metaphor in illustrating a point. Also, whether we are talking about heaps or women, the important thing to remember is that you can't be too careful when it come to determining cleanness and uncleanness. If you err, err on the side of caution. Remember that, and you will prosper and live a long life.”

“But how do you know,” my foster brother presses on in pursuit of justice, undeterred by the wisdom of his elders, “that the stain was menstruous? If they have all examined themselves and found themselves clean, isn't it more likely that the stain was caused by spilled wine? Or perhaps it was an old stain that had set, even though the bedclothes had been washed?”

There is great shaking of beards; four hands are thrown up.

“Show a little respect, youngster,” scolds Rabbi Judah. “Learn the rules before you presume to interrupt. You cannot change the premise of a debate. Of course the stain is menstruous! This is not a question. Besides, how could there be an old stain in the bedclothes? The sages teach, and everybody knows, there are seven kinds of material used for treating blood stains. Now pay attention and maybe you'll learn something here: tasteless saliva, water from chewed grits,” he begins reeling them off, “urine, natron, lye, Cimbolian earth, and wood ash. If the cloth—”

“Worthy Rabbis, forgive my ignorance and my ill-manners,” my foster brother interrupts again, “but even if the stain is menstruous, as you say, if all have examined themselves and found themselves clean, must not yet all be accounted clean? For is it not true—metaphorically speaking, of course—that search must be made until hard rocky ground of virgin soil is reached?”

This, to me, obscure turn of phrase causes a ripple of wonderment in the crowd and frowns to crease the faces of the rabbis. If you read
The Mishnayoth,
you will find that my foster brother's words were eventually approved by the Sages. At the time, his point escapes me completely. I only know that he is my twin. We are two of a kind. I yearn for him with all my might, and—

Suddenly I am hurtling towards him, flashes of brilliant white on the edges of my vision. Then I am settling on his head, folding my wings and fluffing out my feathers. My feathers? Yes, it takes me a while to notice that I'm a bird—a white dove to be exact—because when you're a bird it seems perfectly natural to plump your feathers when you alight and fold your wings.

But everyone else notices immediately, and my choice of a perch causes quite a stir. Rabbi Meir smothers a smile, while Rabbi Judah is further incensed.

“You make a mockery of this Holy Place,” he hisses.

The crowd is going wild. I catch a few words here and there: “A sign. It's a sign. Shekinah. Sophia. The Dove of Asherah.”

Through it all my foster brother stands still, as still as a tree in the middle of a dense forest where no breeze stirs. I, on the other hand, trapped in an unfamiliar form, the sudden focus of a huge crowd of male beings, am becoming increasingly flustered. I struggle to muster my command of Aramaic, thinking to speak a few words on my own behalf. But from my throat came only a few panicked coos.