The Handmaid and the Carpenter (3 page)

“Such grandchildren I will have!” Anne said. “I pray that I may live to see them have children of their own. All seven of them!” She laughed, but there was a sadness in it. Anne was elderly, and grew every day older. She rose with difficulty from her sitting position onto her knees. “We shall speak of this again in the morning. For now, know that I hold in my heart the wish for your great happiness, as I always have.” Again she kissed her daughter, and then she made her way quietly across the room and extinguished the lamp. Mary heard her mother adjusting herself on her pallet, and then all was quiet.

Mary closed her eyes and lay still, thinking of how, outside, the stars glowed in the sky, silent yet revelatory. She wished she could read them, as could the wise men from the east she had heard about. What was her destiny? She knew her mother thought it had to do with Joseph, that she had witnessed tonight the beginning of the fulfillment of the angel’s promise. But Mary did not share this belief. Something in her pushed against the notion.

Still. She closed her eyes and saw again Joseph’s handsome face. Felt again the thrill she’d experienced when they’d brushed hands, eating from the common bowl. In becoming his helpmate, in helping him to achieve all he was capable of, could she not find her own glory, and be as well in her proper place? She closed her eyes and forced her thoughts to sleep.

CHAPTER THREE

MARCH

Joseph

OSEPH FOUND MARY AND HER MOTHER SITTING
out in their courtyard with other neighborhood women, doing laundry. Hidden beneath his girdle was the gift he had finished making for Mary that morning, a small wooden box with an intricate design on the lid. She knew already of his skill as a stonemason; now she would see his talent as a carpenter and woodcarver. “Come for a walk with me,” he told her, after he had wished both her and her mother peace.

Mary looked at her mother for permission, and Anne said, “It is for Joseph to decide for you, now.”

“According to your will,” Joseph told Anne. It would not hurt to move further into her favor.

“You may go,” Mary’s mother told her. “But when you return, you must pound the wheat, gather herbs, and milk the goats.” She returned to scrubbing the laundry, and even with her head bent low, Joseph could see her smile.

Mary rose and dried her hands against her tunic. Then she began to walk with Joseph, gently steering him in a direction that would have them go past Naomi, who sat with her disagreeable mother near the olive press. “Shalom, Joseph,” Naomi said as they passed by, and in her words he heard the rest of her thought:
Why her and not me?
He greeted Naomi, then turned to wave at Anne. She waved back, then watched them go, her hand shading her eyes against the already hot morning sun.

It pleased Joseph to know how much Anne liked him, Anne and her husband, Joachim, too. And Mary, who now walked proudly beside him—there was no doubt she liked him! He had seen it even at the wedding party where they first met, but each time he had seen her since, his confidence had grown. He knew that she now cared for him deeply. Two months ago, in a ceremony before family and friends, they had been betrothed according to their parents’ will. Joseph had written the ketubah, assigning Mary money in the event of his death. They were now legally man and wife.

On their wedding day, one year after the betrothal, they would enjoy a feast the likes of which had never been seen in their village, said his mother. Already Rachel made herself dizzy every day, talking of how everyone would praise Joseph and Mary’s wedding. For years to come they would speak of it! About the handsome groom, the beautiful bride, and she herself (not to take away from the bride, of course) dressed in finery procured in Jerusalem. About the festal fire of brush and tamarisk branches that would light up the sky. About the beauty of the tables laden with food so artistically arranged it would be a shame to eat it. About the fine musicians who would entertain the guests. She spoke of the procession of young women who would escort Joseph by torchlight to the wedding feast, how they would all be weeping and beating their breasts that such a prize was no longer available.

Joseph walked smiling, his heart light. Now he was fully a man. Now his life was rich with purpose and had truly begun. Every morning when he rose from his pallet, a thought came to him like the sun:
Mary.
This winter, she would move in with him and they would live together. And then he would know her. He felt a stirring in his loins and directed his thoughts quickly to the design of their stone house.

Already he had very nearly finished it. And already his skill as a carpenter was becoming well known. He had been asked to join the workers who were putting up new buildings for Herod in Sepphoris. The city was being totally rebuilt, even as was the great temple in Jerusalem—for nearly twenty years men had labored on it, and it was said that it would be well over twenty years more until its completion! He would profit well from his work there. Joseph hoped it brought Mary’s parents great joy to know that he would be able to care for their daughter; that she would not want for anything. What went unspoken was that they could now die in peace.

He sneaked looks at Mary as they walked slowly along. It was unusually warm for this time of year, and he didn’t want to tax her. She was his prize, his pearl. Mary’s great beauty mixed with his own pleasing looks meant that his sons would be handsome. It mattered to him that his sons be handsome and strong, though naturally the strength would come from him.

After a time they came to a creek, and they stopped to rest on its bank. Joseph wiped sweat from his brow and smiled at Mary, who was flush-faced and beautiful in the heat. “I never knew of this place,” she said.

“It is a tributary from the Jordan that runs rarely,” Joseph said. “Only when we have had a wet winter such as the one that just passed. It will last but a few weeks more. Today it runs harder and faster than I have ever seen.”

“And it is loud!” Mary said. “I can scarcely hear the birds.” Overhead, they twittered in the trees. Mary watched as they flew from bough to bough.

“You like birds, and indeed all animals,” Joseph observed.

“Yes. As does my father.” She told Joseph the story of the little boy and the sparrow, and the words her father had spoken.

“I wish you had known me then,” Joseph said, “that I might have built a cage for the bird. A pity to disappoint the child.”

Mary looked at him, surprised. She started to speak, then said nothing. Instead, she stared into her lap, looking troubled.

What had just happened? Joseph wondered. Whatever it was, it was easily remedied. From his father, he had learned of the power of gifts to a woman. Jacob quieted with great skill Rachel’s occasional emotional storms by offering her bits and baubles. It was a weakness in women, the way they were moved by their feelings. A wise man knew how to control this in his mate.

“I have made something for you,” Joseph said.

There, the corners of her lips moving up. “Have you?”

He pulled the box from beneath his girdle and presented it to her.

She gasped and traced with her fingers the ornate design on the top. “It is magnificent, Joseph! How are you able to carve these small leaves, these beautiful flowers?”

He leaned back on his elbows and did not answer. She did not want an answer anyway—she merely wanted to express her gratitude. He was deeply satisfied; it was the reaction he had longed for and indeed imagined, down to her touching the images with great wonder and appreciation. In his next carving for her, he would put in a bird.

“How
did
you do it?” she asked.

She really wanted to know! He sat up, amused. “Well, there are tools for such things. And one develops a skill for carving, after a time.”

“What tools?” Mary asked. “And how is it that you develop such skills? With what did you begin? Did you first make something for your mother?”

Joseph moved closer to her. “You are full of questions, my wife. Will it ever be so? Will a man never have rest from working when he is with you?”

She blushed. “Forgive me. I am inspired by your talent. I thank you for my gift, my husband.” She smiled then, and he took her hand, and together they enjoyed the breeze that passed over the water and cooled them.

After a few minutes, Mary removed her sandals. She slid closer to the edge of the creek and dipped her feet into the water. Joseph put his feet in, too, but pulled them out immediately, howling from the jolting cold. Mary laughed at him, wiggling her toes with pleasure. Joseph eased his feet back into the water, fighting the impulse to cry out again.

“Shall we go in farther?” Mary asked.

“Into the water?”

She nodded, her eyes mischievous.

“We must not,” he said. The creek was narrow, but one could not judge its depth. There was a small current. He could not swim. “We shall get wet, and we must return to the village soon,” he told her.

“Of course you are right,” Mary said. She moved her feet about, then suddenly reached down and splashed water at Joseph. He grabbed her hand to subdue her, then pulled it gently onto his breast, over his heart. A great calm came over him. They sat looking at each other, feeling the richness of each other’s affection. Then Mary took her hand away to pick a wildflower and presented it to Joseph. He kissed her fingers and tucked the blossom behind his ear. Mary bowed her head and smiled.

He picked up a stick and, in the dirt between them, wrote something. “What do you think that says?” he asked.

“You know I cannot read.” But she peered closely at the marks he had made.

“It says ‘Simon.’ ”

“And the meaning?” she asked.

“The name of our firstborn.”

“And if it is a girl?”

“It won’t be.”

“You are full of confidence!”

He leaned back on his elbows and regarded her. Then he asked, “Would you like to go on a journey with me? To Sepphoris?”

She clapped her hands together. “Oh, Joseph! Will you take me there?”

“I will.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Always I have wanted to see my place of birth! But never have my parents taken me there.”

“It would be hard for them. But not for me.”

She pressed her fingers to her mouth and smiled behind them, then leaned over to quickly kiss his cheek. Then she kissed him again, more slowly, and began moving her mouth toward his. He felt her hand come onto his knee.

“Mary,” he said. “It is forbidden.”

“Joseph,” she said. “I care not.”

He laughed and pulled away from her, then stood and stretched his arms up high, so her eyes would be focused upward and not on another part of him that also had risen. He was astonished and a little embarrassed by her forwardness. But happy, too, at the hint of pleasures to come. Often enough during the night he had heard his mother’s soft protestations
—Jacob! I am so weary!—
followed properly by her cooperation. It was clear that Joseph would not have this problem.

He made his voice go stern and low, manlike. “We must go. Tomorrow we shall complete our chores early in the morning. It is a long walk to Sepphoris and back. And in between, much to see and do.”

Mary put her sandals on, then stood and looked up at him. Her head cover was crooked, and Joseph gently straightened it.

All the way back to the village, Mary asked questions about what they would see in Sepphoris, what they would do there. And Joseph told her to be patient, that all her questions would be answered in time.

CHAPTER FOUR

Joseph

IVE HUNDRED FEET ABOVE THEIR VILLAGE,
they could see thirty miles in three directions. Mary stood speechless, the wind pulling at her tunic, looking at the snow-topped mountains to the north, the Sea of Galilee to the east, and the Mediterranean to the west. To the south was the Plain of Esdraelon and the uplands of Gilead and Samaria. On the next hill to the northwest, they could see Sepphoris, the city they were going to walk to. Joseph showed her a road that went all the way to Egypt, as well as Via Maris, the Way of the Sea, a Roman road connecting Damascus with the seaports. Just as they turned to leave, he put his hand on Mary’s shoulder and pointed to the minute forms of a caravan that had just come into view. “Look,” he said. “They are on their way from Jordan to the city of Caesarea.”

“The Silk Road!” she said. “It is the Silk Road I am seeing!”

“An extension of it,” he said, smiling.

She turned her attention again to the long, slowly moving line. “What do they carry?”

Joseph shrugged. “Pepper. Saffron. Silk, of course.” He was not so much interested in their wares as he was in their route.

“Joseph,” she said quietly. “Look what you have given me!” She turned slowly around and around, her face radiant with wonder. He was full of pride, as though he had indeed made all this for her, as though it had not been there for many years before them and would be after.

“I shall show you even more now,” he said. “Let us be on our way.”

She moved ahead of him through the firs and the cedar trees and down the steep path, thick with thistles. She cried out suddenly, and sat down. A deep gash above her ankle was bleeding freely. She pressed her fingers over the cut, looked quickly about, and then directed Joseph to pick various things for her, wild mint from here, various other leaves from there. She pressed them together and lay them over her wound. Almost immediately the bleeding stopped. Soon afterward, Mary lifted the leaves. No redness to the wound, no swelling. She stood up. “Let us go.”

“Does it not hurt you?” Joseph asked.

“Not any longer.” She lifted the bottom of her tunic to show him where she had been injured. One could scarcely see a mark.

“It is a miracle. My wife is a miracle worker!”

She laughed. “My husband fails to understand. It is only nature, caring for us as we care for it.”

Joseph frowned. “We care for nature? How is that?”

Mary’s face grew thoughtful. “We appreciate it. We are mindful of it. For all things on the earth are one. All things are one another’s children and also one another’s parents. So I believe.”

Joseph shook his head and began walking again, this time in front of Mary, that he might prevent another injury to her. Over his shoulder he said, “Never will come the day when we shall have to attend to nature. It cares for itself. Naturally!” He laughed at his own joke and turned around to see Mary enjoying it, too. But she was unsmiling, oddly quiet, looking only at the path before her.

Such a deep-thinking girl, his wife! It was never a good idea to wander so in one’s mind. It could make for a restlessness, for deep unhappiness. It would be good when she was busy with their children, attending to those things for which she was created. It was holy, a family, as Mary certainly knew. He and their children would fill her heart and mind so that she would no longer be given to such strange ruminations. Or to asking so many questions!

The walk was five miles over rugged terrain, and the sun beat down upon them. He stopped often to offer Mary water from his goatskin. When she lifted her chin and drank, he admired the loveliness of her long neck, the grace with which she blotted droplets of water from the corners of her mouth, the slow smile of gratitude she offered. Once, walking along beside him, Mary began to sing. Joseph stopped walking and turned to her.

“What is it?” she asked, looking anxiously about. “What have you seen? A mountain lion?” But there was in her fear a kind of happy excitement.

“No, it is your voice. How lovely it is! I want to be still and listen. Sing for me.”

“Ah, but now I shall be too much aware.” She looked away from him.

He put his fingers to her chin and gently turned her face toward him. “I ask this of you, my wife.”

She looked down and sang the song to completion. Her voice was low and soft; it both soothed and stirred him. She raised her head to look at him, pink-cheeked. “So you have it, my husband. A song for Joseph.”

He nodded. “I shall ask that from this day forth, you sing only for me. And for our children.”

Her mouth opened, surprised. But then she nodded obediently, and they continued on their way.

WHEN THEY REACHED
the outskirts of Sepphoris over two hours later, Mary exclaimed, “But this is not far! I could go farther. Then farther yet!”

“And so you will,” Joseph said. “We are not yet to the marketplace, nor to any of the buildings I want to show you.” He himself was tired from the climb up the hill outside Nazareth and then the long walk. Of course God knew it took a toll to walk a distance watching out for someone else! As her protector, he had walked the distance twice. He would be glad to sit for a while and eat some of the delectable food offered at the marketplace. He wanted especially some of the skewered meat that had been marinated in herbs and oils, then grilled.

Mary turned to face him. “I could walk to the Sea of Galilee!”

He laughed. “It seems I have perhaps shown you too much. For now you are full of foolishness!”

“But could I not?”

He tipped his head left and right in a gesture of equivocation. “You
could,
perhaps. But would it be wise? No. It would be unwise, indeed.”

“Have you seen it?”

“The Sea of Galilee? Yes. I went there once, with my father.”

Her eyes widened. “What is it like?”

“It is like…a sea.”

“Joseph!”

“All right, my demanding one. It is…it is bluer than one could ever imagine. A blue that both incites the imagination and calms the spirit. And vast beyond comprehension. Sunlight sparkles on the water bright as all of Caesar’s jewels; it stabs the eyes; and fishermen shout and—” He hung his head, shook it, and slowly began to laugh.

“What?” Mary asked. “What do the fishermen do?”

“Mary. Why do you stand with your back to your birthplace, which we have traveled so far to see? We are in Sepphoris! Let us appreciate what is before us!”

“You are right as always, my husband.” Mary turned around, reached back for Joseph’s hand, and together they walked into the city.

Because of Mary’s delight, Joseph saw with new eyes the colorful chaos of the multicultural marketplace: fortune-tellers; gangs of running children, their faces smeared with food; coins being flung onto silver platters; sheep being herded through the crowd, the whites of their eyes showing in panic; toothless beggars; turtledoves cooing from wooden cages; stall after stall of vendors loudly hawking bolts of linen, scented olive oil, watermelon, metal oil lamps, mantles, tunics, and cloaks.

As they walked the streets, they admired the Roman architecture of the banks and law courts, the Greek mosaics with their representations of people and animals, of flowers and leaves and winding vines. At last, Joseph stopped before one half-finished building and pointed. “There it is!” he said proudly.

She stared. “There
what
is?”

“The building I am working on! The one I told you about. It was I who cut and laid those stones in the corner!”

“Ah!” she said.

“And also I shall make the door for it.” He felt foolish now.

Mary hesitated, then said, “You alone will do that?”

He shrugged.

She moved closer to the building. “It will be a
fine
door!” she said loudly, and her loving enthusiasm raised his spirits.

“Now we shall go back to the marketplace and eat,” he said. She ran to his side and looked up at him. “Shall we have honey cakes?”

AS THEY ATE,
they sat on a half-wall and watched the activity in the marketplace. Most of the people were unlike the lean specimens in Nazareth—they had plump bellies and soft-looking hands, faces absent of the deep wrinkles so common to Nazarenes. Their garments were made from fine wools and silks, and Mary stared longingly at the bright colors. People spoke loudly in many foreign languages. Even the Aramaic spoken here was different—so many dialects, and all far less guttural than the language Mary and Joseph used.

Mary pointed to a handsome man a short distance away, who stood talking to a circle of admiring onlookers.

“Who is that?” she asked, talking around the honey cake in her mouth.

Joseph tenderly brushed a crumb from her face. “It is a traveling teacher, one who makes his way from town to town accepting gifts from those who come to see him.” There was in his explanation a measure of contempt.

“But…he is a disciple, then, is he not?”

“No,” Joseph said.

“A scribe?”

“He is not a Jew.”

Mary looked at him. “But he is a teacher.”

“So they call themselves. But they believe not as we do. Our Torah and Mishna stress religion, law, history, and ethics. The Greek gymnasium concerns itself with science, the arts, linguistics, and body training.”

“But is that wrong?” Mary asked. “The Roman government allows everyone to practice what they believe.”

“Yes,” Joseph said. “But the Romans view all these beliefs as being part of their own system! And they meddle in our affairs when it is our right and our desire to be separate.” He watched the teacher gesturing wildly to make a point. “That man’s teachings are dangerous.”

“Why?”

Joseph sighed. It was unseemly, the girl’s inquisitiveness. But he would share with her what he had learned at synagogue, that she might be impressed by how he, too, could speak in a teacher’s way. “It is dangerous because it harkens back to the time of the Cynics,” he told her. “Hundreds of years ago, they called for a lifestyle of austerity and self-sufficiency. They encouraged both men and women to renounce all claims of the state and the social order. Even the family and religion were to be rejected in favor of a free life in accordance with ‘nature’! Such teachings were of course a threat to order and morality, and the Cynics were expelled from Rome long ago. Now there are those who are beginning to speak again of such things.”

“Let us listen.” Before Joseph could stop her, Mary rose and moved closer. The traveling teacher saw her and stopped talking and stared; even in a place so cosmopolitan as this, Mary’s beauty shone. He smiled at her, and she looked down and tucked her escaped hair behind her ears. She would need to perfect her braiding, Joseph thought. Only on her wedding day should a woman’s hair be loose.

He came to stand at Mary’s side. “We must go now. The hour grows late, and we must be back in Nazareth before dark or tempt the wild animals.”

They walked rapidly at first; then, as the city grew smaller in the distance, more slowly. Mary asked Joseph about the construction of the buildings. About the lives of the buyers and the sellers they’d seen in the marketplace. About whether he had ever dreamed of being a scribe—what an honor it would be, did he not agree? Only once did Joseph lose patience with her, and that was when she asked if they might live in Sepphoris.