Song of the Magdalene (15 page)

In the mornings I woke with Abraham's words in my mouth. But I was not the Miriam I had been. I swallowed his words. I was a proper woman.

I walked by the beggars in the street, dropping a coin in every open hand I passed. But I never looked in their faces, I never listened to their pleas. They had nothing to do with me. Nothing moved me but the instinct for self-preservation. I was a proper woman.

I woke each day with no hopes of anything new and I went to sleep tired of body. My soul didn't have the courage to fight. I was like the
men on the steps of the house of prayer, full of whispers and sighs. I was like the women at the well, preaching only to the converted, getting nowhere. Revolt was no more in my real plans than it was in theirs. If Abraham's uncle Daniel had died in Alexandria, his Zealot's spirit was surely buried with him, for none I knew breathed the spirit of rebellion in the air of this world.

Rachel never stopped expecting something new from me, though what I cannot guess. Some revelation of my past, perhaps. Or maybe she was more attuned than I knew — maybe she could sense the source of my fits in the deep nightmare hollows beneath my eyes. She watched me carefully, no matter how mundane a chore I performed. And it was her careful watching that finally brought about the change I lacked the energy to bring about myself.

I was hanging the laundry before dawn so that I could go to the house of prayer early. Just the day before I had heard the tail end of a story about a man named Jochanan, who preached repentance and welcomed the despised of society: the tax collectors, the rough soldiers, the prostitutes,
the cripples. I had to hear more. Oh yes, I had to hear more. The Pharisees of Dor, our most respected people, were planning on going to visit him. I wanted to know where this Jochanan was and what moved him.

As I hung each article of clothing, tension gripped my middle. If the Creator saw fit to ruin a woman's family — unless shelter was offered to her, unless work was extended to her, unless the community protected her — that woman, any woman, could become a prostitute. Any woman at all. Any one of us. If the Creator saw fit to wither our limbs, to crush our spines, to twist our bodies, we, too, would be cripples and, thus, beggars. Any man, woman, or child. Any one of us. This Jochanan welcomed prostitutes. He welcomed cripples. Did he understand? Was there finally a man speaking the truth? My fingers worked faster and faster. I was crazy to know more of this Jochanan. When I finished, I pressed my face into the wet cloth of Uncle's hanging shirt and breathed the comfort of damp air. In these dry days, damp air was as a treasure. My heart beat violently.

The sixth fit came. I knew because the knot in
the pit of my stomach compressed my insides painfully to a small chunk of marble. The light was exquisite. I clutched Uncle's shirt and in my spasms, I grasped the line. The clean wash fell, as I fell. In the dust.

•  •  •

I didn't sleep, unlike in the past. I lay quiet, spent, with the realization upon me that I was, indeed, still Miriam the Magdalene, the infirm — that no matter how I closed my eyes to misery, it still existed in this world. The beggars were there; their existence did not rely on my acknowledgement. The world was out there and I was in here and every little thing overwhelmed me. I was powerless.

And then I heard Rachel screech behind me.
“Shedim
! Devils! You are possessed!”

I hadn't pictured this moment, I hadn't prepared for it, yet I found myself speaking with calm authority, as I stood up. “Rachel, call my uncle. Quickly. Do as I say.”

The fear in Rachel's eyes would have wounded me if we had ever become friends. As it was, I was grateful — for Rachel obeyed.

I brushed the dust from my arms and hair. I
must have thrashed more violently this time, for my shift was rent.

Uncle came outside, pulling his shirt over his head, dressing as he walked. His face was wary. Disbelief struggled with fear. “What is it, Miriam?”

“What Rachel has told you is true.” I paused, to let the import of my words sink in. My uncle's face grew still. “I'm going away, Uncle. I will cause no harm to you or your family so long as you do one favor for me.”

My uncle's mouth hung open. He had never bargained with devils before.

Rachel moved slightly behind my uncle. “What favor?”

The urge to hiss, to howl, left my jaw clenched. I could have slit my wrist with the useful knife tucked in my cloth belt. I could have sprayed their mouths with my blood and told them they had drunk of an evil that would live within them forever. But what use was there in venting my anger on their withered souls? They were pitiful. If I had any pity in me, none would have deserved it more than Uncle and Rachel. I spoke softly. “Send a message to Father and Judith
and Hannah. Tell them I've gone south to live.”

Uncle lifted his chin. If he sent such a message, the money from Father would cease to come. He took a tentative step forward. “South? Where? Where will you go?”

Until that point I wasn't sure. I had thought of running away to Egypt to join the Therapeutae, a celibate society. I had thought of going to Jerusalem to trace the footsteps of the famous Huldah. I had even thought of trying to live as a hermit hidden in Father's valley. But now I realized I knew where I was heading, there was no doubt in my mind. When I was ten and the first fit came, I thought immediately of Qumran. The people at Qumran passed their days in prolonged prayer. They fasted and renounced the pleasures of this world. Those people would never take me in; I was not an Essene. But no one could keep me from the caves. And somehow I was sure that the caves themselves were holy. I would go to the caves at Qumran and live as a hermit. I was not brave enough to face the misery of this world, but I would no longer try to live within society and deny that misery.

Still, my family, Father and dear Judith and patient Hannah, none of them should know this. They would only mourn my loss and my choice. They might even try to find me. “Jerusalem,” I said, speaking the holy name with reverence. “Tell them not to come looking, for I am traveling with my husband.”

“Your husband?” My uncle looked so confused that for a moment I was sure he was a stupid man. He did not know that the lie of marriage was the only way I could bestow upon my family any sense of peace. “Who is your husband?”

“Belial, the spirit of darkness,” whispered Rachel.

My husband. My husband was not of this world. “Listen to Rachel,” I said loudly. “She has seen what you have not. Tell them, Uncle. Tell Father and Judith and Hannah.” And then I indulged in an empty threat — for I had no power to truly harm Uncle and I never would, even if I could have — but he had the power to harm the ones I loved, if he failed to pass on this message. “If you care for your family, if you care for your son Samuel, do as I say. Exactly as I say.”

My uncle nodded slowly.

“He will,” said Rachel firmly. “I swear he will.”

I went into the house and changed into the best dress I had, the one Hannah had woven for me when I was only a girl. I would not go in mourning any longer. Abraham and Isaac had both been dead for more than two years. It was time to begin the rest of my life, whatever it should be. I gathered my few belongings, tucking my now heavy box of money in a drawstring cloth bag tied to the belt around my waist and hidden beneath the folds of my cloak. My quieted flute graced that bag, as well. The day was hot, yet I wanted that cloak to surround me, as though it were my traveling home, my tent. As though I were an Idumean, like the ancestors of the tyrannical and pitiless Herod the Great himself. I would appear formidable to all eyes.

I left by foot, without looking back.

Walking across the country to the River Jordan was an undertaking for young, strong men. Yet I knew I could do it. All those years of lifting Abraham and wandering with him had enabled me. People in carts passed, some offering words of caution, some asking if I needed assistance, some silent. I kept my face covered with my veil and walked with purpose, eyes straight ahead. I had a destination and I cared for no one's help or interference.

But my destination changed. For the very first night on the road, I stopped at a small country home and begged lodging in their barn. I had money upon me. Yet I offered none. I realized that if I made it known I had money, I might soon find myself without it. I still practiced self-preservation.

The farmer and his family were gracious. They shared their bread and creamy soft cheeses with me. They had used no part of the calf to curdle those cheeses. Their strict interpretation of the dietary laws impressed me and I gave thanks for finding myself at a decent table. In the morning I helped the older daughter feed the animals and clean out their stalls before I went on my way. It was she who changed my path.

When she heard I was going to the river, her eyes opened wide. “Are you going to be immersed?”

I was taken aback. If I were unclean, if I were in need of the mikvah, I certainly wouldn't have asked for lodging in their home. And other than the unclean, the only ones who underwent total immersion in water were pagans converting to Judaism. But I was not a pagan. What had I done to make this child think I was? “I am a Jewish woman.”

The girl nodded enthusiastically, her wavy hair swinging about like fluttering wings. “A prostitute. You are, aren't you? Mother guessed that. She said your dress showed you were a woman of means, and since you were alone, it
had to be from your own earnings. She said she never would have allowed you in, but for your eyes.” The girl breathed hard. “I've heard Jochanan baptizes prostitutes all the time.” Her voice was rapid with excitement. Her eyes glittered wet. “Some would hate you. But I agree with Mother; your eyes look sad to me. The Creator be with you.”

I walked away, looking over my shoulder often. But the girl didn't follow me. I was on the road toward a man named Jochanan who baptized prostitutes. It had to be the same Jochanan I had heard of in Dor. The man who called for repentance and welcomed the dregs of society. So this Jochanan baptized the people who came to him. As though their purification was as drastic a change in life as a pagan's undergoing conversion. This Jochanan was dramatic. An extremist. I understood the forces that made one become an extremist. My step quickened.

By late afternoon, I realized the road did not lead directly to the river. If I wanted the shortest path, I had to leave the road and cross the wilderness. I had taken my fill of water a few hours before. This was the end of the second day of what
a more seasoned fellow foot traveler had told me would be just a three-day walk. I could certainly manage one day in the wilderness without water.

I left the road. Twilight was brief here; darkness overflowed the land almost as soon as the sun sank beneath the horizon. And with the vanishing of the light came the swift and piercing cold that loved the night. I walked deep into the blue-black air, hugging my cloak around me. It must have been midnight when I stopped to sleep. The stars filled the sky in every direction. They illuminated the immensity of this world. And if this world was so immense and wondrous, how much better must be the next. I sang that night, for the first time since Isaac's birth and death. I sang,

Whither is thy beloved gone, O thou fairest among women? whither is thy beloved turned aside? that we may seek him with thee.

My beloved is gone down into his garden, to the beds of spices, to feed in the gardens, and to gather lilies.

I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine: he feedeth among the lilies.

And I cried. I had never cried after Abraham or Isaac. But now, with the stars coming down to the earth all around me, I cried. The wilderness could give me no water, but I gave it my tears.

The stars waited just beyond my fingertips until I slept.

In the morning, I woke stiff and achy to the rosy dawn. I had slept solid. No nightmare had interrupted my regular breathing. My mouth was empty, wordless; the dream of Abraham, as well, had not come.

I knew I should rise, and quickly, too, for the sun would heat the earth mercilessly before long. Yet I stared at a small monitor who blinked back at me. I had slept in my shoes to keep the scorpions out and the warmth in. But now I looked about for scorpions, wishing to see them. I wanted to know the creatures that thrived here, so far from humans. I wanted to learn from them. And most of all, I wanted to see again that starry sky, wrapped in the silence of my cloak. I wanted nothing but starry nights alone till my
end should come. I sat with my knees bent to my chest and my arms holding them close. I was motionless as the monitor.

I waited.

The monitor left. A gray gecko came. Then went. I thought of Moses' forty days upon Sinai. I thought of the days when Elijah went to Horeb. I wished I had gone further before I stopped, south to the desert — where I could dry out and become like air. Yet this wilderness would do.

I thought of the noisy doves in Mother's terebinth tree. I thought of my blood and how it would disappear in this parched dirt. I thought of Abraham's soft, tawny beard. My scattered thoughts dusted the hours.

My eyes played along the tracks of a lynx that had obviously come close in the night. I knew the lynx from Galilee, of course. But I'd never actually seen one myself — just tracks. Mother once told me cats were Egyptian in spirit. These tracks looked only solitary.

After a long while I parted my lips. From deep in my throat came a clear melody. I felt its wholeness, but I could barely hear it. Among the stars last night my song had seemed to carry forever.
But in the sun it was lost. There was no wind that morning, none at all — yet my song was gone, absorbed in the ochre earth perhaps. Or perhaps I had fooled myself; perhaps I had produced no song now. I cupped my palms over my ears and sang again. Yes, there it was. Within me. It could not be heard in this wilderness.