Two from Galilee (10 page)

The moon plated it with silver. The moon was like a maiden itself, at first frail, fine-boned, but growing, nightly fleshing toward the fullness of love. Or it was like one of the ships that coasted across the blue lake of Galilee, too fragile, it seemed, for its cargo. But when the wind caught the sails how they billowed and strutted forward with their precious freight. The moon was like that, it drew his love along as it rose and nightly swelled. God's own moon watched over his labors and gave them light.He no longer sang. A great silence had come upon him. The music within him was too mighty for words, even those of David or Solomon. He could make music only with his hands, working for the beloved.

"You should get your rest," his mother worried, holding him with her bright penetrating gaze. "You'll be worn out before the betrothal, let alone the wedding."

And the children taunted him. "Joseph's sleep-walking—see, see, he doesn't hear a thing, Joseph's in love!"

He laughed good-naturedly; they were all remote from him, outside the borders of his private journey. He was on his way to Mary.

He had scarcely seen her since the Sabbath when she had sat surrounded by other maids, with her hair unbound. . . . That hair. The scent of its rich dark tumbling tide ... he had had to turn away lest he press his face into it, disturb it with his fingers, make a fool of himself. And since then he had not dared draw near her house. For one thing, it was considered more seemly; for another, her parents were so busy. Hannah had hauled everything out onto the grass and was whitening the walls afresh. But most of all, he was restrained by his own desire. The image of her sitting, eyes downcast, so small and lovely in the intimate tent and shelter of her hair, was to rouse up such passion in him that he was afraid.

God had kept faith with him. He could not even imagine the consequences should he break faith with God. ... As for Hannah! Joseph felt a flash of amused alarm. Or Mary—Mary herself. At this he had to retreat from his own tormented thoughts. For he saw her eyes, large with love. He saw her parted lips.

His heart stopped as it smote him how easily he might have been someone else. But she, a slight girl, had shown far more courage than he, standing up to her parents, an almost unheard of thing. Before the spectacle of his own blind wasted year, Joseph was appalled. Now he resolved to make it up to her. He would protect her from the emotions that sprang like lightning between them. He would keep himself distant. He would not suffer himself to touch her, not even a finger, or a strand of that sweet temptation of hair. As for the fine gifts that he could not bestow upon her, he suffered. Yet in his wretchedness he was also proud.

Weighing himself against them, he realized that Abner had his scholarship, his devotion to the Law. Cleophas had his wealth, his travels, his other women. He, Joseph, had only his love for Mary. She was his Temple, his wealth and his wisdom. And to her he would bring all that he possessed, every stitch, every penny, every eagerly hewn bit of wood. Every fiber of his strong young body, every thought that did not first belong to him who had made her for him, their God.

He was awed by the honor of his undertaking, but he was not humbled. He knew that the gift of total commitment is never small.

Joseph worked feverishly even the day of his betrothal. It would help to pass the hours until sundown. Furthermore, there had been a slight upsurge of business, as if already his union with the house of Joachim might become an asset to his family. He did not want to be found wanting, and he wanted to prosper. Soon he would have a wife to support.

Suddenly he could not believe it. The daze of sheer blind yielding, moving forward, ever forward in harmony with his fate deserted him. Something might happen even yet. Hannah might still hurl herself between them. Or some awful caprice of God might strike. His mother had gone up to help with the baking; any moment she might rush in, her eyes cold with horror. Or Timna would never return at all. The day would simply go on forever, with Mary ahead of him like a mirage on the desert, or a port toward which he was forever doomed to sail.

"My darling, you're still working?" His mother's hand parted the curtains, her concerned face peered through. "It's growing late, I'll fetch the water for your bath and lay out your garments." Flushed and perspiring but smiling, she pulled off her kerchief. Hannah had bade her come up with the aunts and other kin to join in the joyous preparations. Kneading the dough and baking it in the ovens dug in the yard, setting out the vegetables that were now bursting in such abundance, polishing the bright fruit, checking the wine. And all the while they worked, caught up in the glittering net of women's talk. They had praised each other's efforts and each other's children, favoring her especially, as mother of the groom.

Home now, she looked about with her familiar anxiety for her husband. But Jacob was fine, Joseph assured her; only sleeping. "Good," she sighed, "he'll need the rest. We'll be up late. You should have rested too." She pressed his arm.

Joseph bathed and dressed and annointed his hair with olive oil. His confidence was returning. As the water had washed away the grime and sweat, so it cleansed him of his nervous, foolish imaginings. He felt the splendor of his own body in its pure white linen; he felt the wonder of his youth pulsing, urgent and eager. One small thing troubled him exceedingly—his hands. Although he scrubbed them nearly raw and rubbed them with the precious oil, he could do nothing about their callouses or the scarred, broken nails. He wanted to be perfect for Mary. He did not want his hands to be harsh, clasping hers, or to snag the betrothal veil.

His father puffed in and out, bumping into him, borrowing things, asking Joseph's help with the tying of his girdle. Jacob could never manage and his wife was busy with the girls. "And do I have to wear shoes?" he pleaded, exhibiting his poor swollen feet with their bunions. Squat, ruddy, his wispy hair combed futilely over his baldness, he looked uncomfortably clean and dressed up and rather pathetic. Yet it was he who reminded Joseph of the things that in his agitation he might forget: the purse of long-hoarded silver dinars, the ring, the presents.

Together they set off at last, Joseph lugging the heavy table. Jacob limped along in his unaccustomed sandals. A brisk breeze set the palm trees clashing and blew their robes about their legs. The dusty cobbled streets seemed strangely empty, as if life had been suspended for this gravely impending hour. Behind a tum-bled-down rock fence a camel lurched growling to his feet, a donkey worried a bucket and brayed. They trudged along the steep narrow corridors in a strange silence. They were miserably aware, the nearer they drew to their destination, of the inadequacy of their offerings.

Ahead of them in the fast falling darkness they saw. the newly whitened bridal house in its clump of prickly pears. Fluttering from it like a beckoning arm was the pennant that proclaimed its festivities to passers-by. As they approached they saw that Joachim had stepped outside to light the torch of pitch-soaked rushes at the step. It blazed up suddenly, revealing his face with its unguarded look of grief. However quickly he jerked his head, there was no denying that naked sorrowing. Because of me? Joseph wondered, or only because his dearest child has so little time left to be under his roof? Promptly Joachim recovered himself and turned to welcome them. Courteously ignoring the gifts they carried, he led them inside.

The room had been transformed. This was no house now, but Eden; the women had gathered up armsful of Eden and brought it inside. The white walls struggled to hold up its colors—the shining green of dampened leaves, and blossoms that rose in a bright riot, to wind even into the rushes of the ceiling. Purple iris, scarlet carnations, pink and blue cyclamen, the ruddy cups of tulips, heavy-headed poppies, already beginning to swoon in the heat of the lamps that stood like little floating stars.

The largest lamp, burning the finest oil, was placed at the head of the table where the bride and groom were led. Joseph found himself there as in a dream. Mary seemed unreal beside him, though her sweet flesh at times brushed against his. The scent of her was more heady than the overpowering fragrance of the flowers. He was stiff with guarding his emotions, remote from her, afraid. Her eyes had a fixed shining, she was smiling, smiling, laughing and smiling before the lavish compliments that each guest paid as he laid his gifts at her feet. Bolts of cloth, baskets, jugs, skeins of flax, countless tools for keeping house. The guests deposited them and then returned to their seats which were bedecked with olive boughs.

Finally an expectant hush; the scribe came forward. The rabbi nodded to Joseph, whose heart was large in his throat. With unsteady hands he drew from his girdle the purse containing the marriage fee, and turned to Mary, whose face floated before him. Not smiling now, but grave and as white as one of the pure white roses in her crown.

"And have you brought a token to give the bride to signify that this covenant is made?"

Nodding, Joseph unwound his girdle. His eyes did not leave Mary's as the rabbi took it and placed it across her uplifted hands.

"And have you other gifts?" the rabbi asked.

"Yes." If only there were more. . . . But nobody seemed to think ill of them, the shawl he had for Hannah, the fine hand chisel for Joachim. And for Mary—ah, for Mary, the sewing box, the soft little doeskin slippers, and the table that would be the first piece of furniture for their house. Plainly she loved them all, especially the slippers. She cried out with delight and thrust out her feet to their measure. There was an awkward moment for it seemed as if she would have him kneel there in the presence of everyone to put them on her. He flushed and people laughed at his discomfort and the rabbi made stern noises in his throat. For the scribe sat waiting to pen the terms of the contract.

And when it was finished, Joseph spoke aloud the prescribed words: that he would work for her and honor her in the manner of Jewish husbands, and that all of his property would be hers forever. Thus did he openly take the vow already made within his heart.

It was over now, all but the draping of her face with the betrothal veil. But the children must first be called forward. They had been bouncing with impatience for their treats; now the rabbi beckoned, and the mothers who had been restraining them let them go. They came in an eager swarm, shrieking, hands outstretched for the nuts and cakes. The eyes of Mary and Joseph met, and between them ran a shining thread of wonder, for despite its festive nature, this too was a grave thing, this matter of bestowing the sweets. For it symbolized the fact that she had kept herself for him.

In the commotion he almost forgot the veil. "The veil, the veil!" various ones were whispering. "Quiet the children." An aunt shepherded most of them outside, the others clung to their mothers, eyes focused with a placid interest on the bride.

As Joseph had feared, his fingers caught on the delicate gossamer stuff, and his hands shook placing it with anguished care so that it fell before her face. Yet pride upheld him. This was his victory; he knew that he stood before them tall and comely, humble yet mighty, a man claiming his true bride.

A vast tenderness swept him, and a great reverence. Now she belonged to him and her face was his to shield. In regret and joy he draped her, his personal Torah, which now must be returned to the ark to await their covenant.

Mary could not sleep. Affectionately she had thanked her parents for the betrothal feast and bade them goodnight and crept into the chamber from which they had removed the younger children, in deference to her new state. Long before the revelry was over the little ones had collapsed one by one, to be carried, limp as the drooping flowers, to pallets in various corners of the house. There, heavy with food and spent with excitement, they slept the deep sleep of the innocent. Her parents slept too at last. She had lain rigid during the long hour when they had murmured together. But finally the voices and the creaking of the mattress ceased. There was heavy silence broken only by Joachim's snores.

Slowly, luxuriantly, she let her knotted fists uncurl, her whole being go limp. And as she did so the memories came flooding in . . . Joseph.
Joseph!
The proud tilt of his head throughout the ceremony. The trembling of his hands—she marveled that he hadn't dropped things as he had once dropped the towel. She ached for him; all that he did was inordinately precious and must be looked at in the fresh new light of herself, alone in her chamber and yet bound to him, awaiting their hour.

And it was all mixed up with that longing which made her toss and turn, which is why she had held herself back until her parents slept . . . Joseph! The grave little smile upon his face as people shouted blessings and wished them well. And his eyes upon her in the glare of the torches in the garden. Those passionate, pensive gray eyes. And the songs that he had sung only for her, quietly, next to her at the feast table, looking straight ahead almost as if she were not present. Singing to her softly, secretly, wooing her with his lips and his remoteness while the others danced and sang.

"Thou hast ravished my heart, my sister, my spouse; thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes.
. . .
How fair is thy love, my sister, my spouse! how much better is thy love than wine!
. . ."

Some of the village boys had brought up lutes and a timbrel, and they too sang and danced, but like shadows, a spectral chorus whose faces flared and fell in the roistering light. Abner had been among them, a trifle tipsy with wine even before he came, striding about making noise, which was alien to his shy nature, and by that giving his heartbreak away. Poor Abner. And poor Cleophas, who had gone off to console himself in Magdala, she had learned. She grieved for them, yet always her being turned back to Joseph. He was the only one she had ever wanted, and he was hers. Hers by law. If he were to die she would be his widow. And if she were to die he would be her widower. And if she were to betray him he would have to give her a bill of divorcement.