Authors: Marjorie Holmes
Two from Galilee (16 page)
"Think
evil?
Of Mary?" Timna gasped. "Oh, son, no. No, that's the last thing I'd think."
In her dismay she bade him goodnight and hastened back to her pallet. But now that he had planted the seed she could not rest. What was going on? What unspeakable mystery was stirring? Or was she only imagining things? Yet Joseph had been highly agitated. Something was indeed wrong or Mary would not even consider such a departure. A woman betrothed, within a few months of her wedding. The humiliation to her espoused husband, to all of them. It simply wasn't like Mary.
No, this must be Hannah's doing. But why? And then against her will, yet unable to deny it altogether, the question assaulted her: Mary, the pure, the exquisite, the pride of her parents-could it be that she was in the most serious trouble that could befall a girl?
Yet if it involved Joseph the problem could scarcely be considered that serious. In her confoundment Timna sat upright. But if, indeed, her son had had no part in it? What then?
Hannah
plunged
into
the
work
of
preparing
Mary
for
the journey. It seemed to her that by drowning herself in action she could somehow deny it, this madness that had come upon her child. The thing now was to get Mary out of the village, away from Joseph, away from prying eyes and busy tongues. In case. Just ... in case. . . .
Not, truly, that there was cause for alarm. Hannah had reached a state where in sheer self-protection she was forced to reject the evidence that another part of herself, her pragmatic, common sense self, had witnessed. God would not do it to them! To her, maybe—she was only too bitterly aware of her grievous faults. But not to her husband Joachim. He had been punished enough. Wasn't it enough that their first son was twisted and doomed to walk in darkness? But not Joachim's daughter. Not Mary, their firstborn.
Mary was just overwrought with waiting, that was it. Hannah had had many dealings with midwives, often sat with them sucking a lusty pleasure from their tales. She knew that weird things happened to women sometimes when passion is denied. There was a girl who'd fancied herself pregnant by one of the high priests, and lo, her belly swelled, she had actual labor pains, and not until they showed her the newborn son of a neighbor did her straining subside.
Oh, but Hannah was tired, unutterably weary with worry. She felt as if she had been carrying a bag of heavy stones up a mountain and now, somehow, she must drop it to rest before taking up again whatever burden lay in store.
Let Mary visit her Aunt Elizabeth for a while. Let Elizabeth shelter her and counsel her and nurse her, if need be, back to sanity. Elizabeth was older and wiser despite the fact that she'd never borne a child. Let her learn what it was like to worry about one; children were not an unmixed blessing!
Hannah had always felt close to her beautiful older sister, and when the priest Zachariah carried her off to Jerusalem she had begged to go along. Mingled with her awed respect for Elizabeth was a trace of envy for the more graceful life she led. Yet always there had been the consolation that it was Hannah's narrow loins that had found favor, and not Elizabeth's, in the sight of God.
Well now—Hannah's mouth tightened—how much favor she had actually found remained to be seen. In any case, Elizabeth would offer shelter for the poor confused Mary for a time, and a period of respite for the rest of them.
Meanwhile, Joachim set about finding a way to get Mary safely to Ain-Karem. It was a four days' journey at best—eight days away from the ripening crops if he were to go along. When he thought of all that could happen to them in his absence he shuddered. Marauders and thieves were so common that many men kept watch at night. If harm befell either his fields or his flock it would go hard with all the family; what's more, the prospect of a respectable wedding for Mary would be threatened.
He still clung to that hope. Yet like Hannah he had moved into an area of numb withdrawal. What was to be would be, and the Lord would give them strength to bear it. As for now— Hannah's instincts were right; the thing they all needed was action, some definite step that would give them perspective on this astounding complication.
And so he made quiet inquiries in the village as to anyone who might be going to Jerusalem. It was a bad time of year, however, too close to the harvest and the ensuing Feast of Weeks when many of them would be making a pilgrimage to the Temple, for farmers even to think of leaving now. Then to his relief but somewhat to his consternation, Jacob came puffing up the hill one night to solve the problem.
"If it's true that Mary wants to go visiting," he beamed, as if this were a normal and joyous thing, the fool, "if she wants to go see her cousin and perhaps enjoy herself for a time in the city. . . ."
"Her aunt," Joachim said, "and it's no pleasure trip. . . ." though he hated his tongue for its harshness, for his galling need to reject and dominate this man at the very moment of his kindness.
"Yes, yes, well but whatever her reasons, I've learned there's a little company from Magdala who'll be passing this way tomorrow," he said eagerly, "and that if we had Mary at the fork in the road by noon, somewhere toward noon tomorrow she could join them and ride in safety to—wherever it is she's going," he finished lamely, albeit still smiling.
He reminded Joachim of a dog that comes trotting up with a bone. He was all but wagging his tail. "What sort of people?" demanded Joachim. "And how do you know?"
Jacob chuckled. "Oh, I hear lots of things from those travelers, it's not all time wasted, the time I spend visiting with those who pass our way. A man can learn a great deal." He ran a tongue around his puffy lips; his little gem-bright eyes glanced around hopefully.
Joachim rose and went to the cupboard for the cruet of wine. He poured some into a goblet and handed it to this man who was already practically his relative, trying not to wince at the way Jacob gulped it down.
He said, "Magdala's a city known for its wickedness. I'm not sure I'd trust my daughter with strangers from there."
"Oh, but these are good people. Several fishermen and their wives, a tradesman or two, the salt of the earth truly," he claimed. "They'd look after her and she'd have a fine jolly time besides."
He got to his feet, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Something in Joachim's pained silence penetrated at last. His eyes, in their purple pouches, were puzzled. "But if you don't want her to go. . . ."
"No, no. It's very short notice, I'll have to consult her mother." Joachim escorted him to the door. "Don't think we're not grateful," he said, forcing his voice to heartiness and clapping the pudgy shoulder. "But there's no hurry and—we'll see."
He stood, fists curling, watching the plump rather pitiful figure limp off down the hill on his never quite steady feet. He did not want to be beholden to the house of Jacob for anything, even so small a consideration as this ... he wished ... he wished. . . . But no, it was foolish to look back and try to trace what other course might have been taken. But he could not help wondering—if he had been stern, as Hannah had exhorted him to be, if he had held out against his daughter's imploring, given her to some other. . . . Joachim knew he was evading the real issue, the most oppressive and shocking of all . . . or if he had not been so quick to believe her! He in his long obsession with the coming of the Messiah. But it was too late to retreat now. Mary was already too ill and confused without letting her know what Hannah had finally made him realize: he could not, must not, accept her story.
Hannah did not go to the crossroads with them. She awoke with a headache so severe she could scarcely raise her head. Mary had to tell her goodbye in the dim little room with its heavy odor of sleep, laced with the sharp taint of vinegar. Her heart broke at that tiny shape huddled on the mattress.
"Mother, it grieves me to leave you so." She knelt, helpless before this force that was sweeping them all before it so relentlessly. "I'll stay if you'll only say the word. I want to help you, I want to be near you always. . . . Mother?"
She remained so, gazing down, eyes moist.
Oh, embrace me, tell me you'll miss me, you're concerned for me.
There was no response. She stared forlornly out the window a minute as the enormity of it bore in on her.
Her voice was little and lost, saying, "I've never been away from home before."
Hannah forced herself to rise up on her elbows, though the fetid room rocked and her daughter's face, swathed in its veil, was a blur. "We've been through all that. Go now and don't keep your father waiting. If you should miss this meeting no telling when you could leave."
Mary rose, swallowing against the hurt in her throat. "You mustn't worry about me, Mother," she said from the door, fashioning the words for her own comfort. "I'll be quite safe, and I'll give your love to Elizabeth."
"Yes. You'll be better off there with her. She's wise. Sometimes women who don't have children are wiser about them than those who do," said Hannah. And her words compounded the irony. Mary stood torn. As yet she had not had the courage to tell anyone of that other revelation. Dare I? she wondered. But no, they would truly think her mad in claiming that Elizabeth too was to bear a child. Credulity had already been strained beyond the breaking point.
"Goodbye, Mother," she said softly, still hoping.
"Goodbye." Hannah's face was already to the wall.
Hannah lay still until Mary's footsteps had receded, until she could hear voices and the crunch of hooves and feet on the street below no more. Then when all was silent, Hannah gave way. She flung her tight-clenched limbs wide, she tossed her pain-lashed head. Her teeth were bared like those of an animal, and from her throat came a choked and bitter cry, its anguish the more awful because she must muffle its sounds so that the other children might not hear:
"Mary . . . Maaaary!"
They allowed Esau to walk along, leading the donkey, hobbling cheerfully through the darkness, feeling his way. As indeed they were all groping along, feeling their way no less than he. They kept to back streets as much as possible, but encountered a number of people even so. Among them Deborah.
"I've just heard," she exclaimed. "Oh, take me with you! What wouldn't I give to get away from all this hustle myself, sometimes I think I can't stand it, I keep telling my mother. . . ." She fell into step with them babbling enthusiastically, while her excited eyes and cool narrow nose seemed to sniff at the scent of the truth. She caught Mary's wrist, holding her a little back from her father. "I don't know whether to envy you or be angry with you. You
will
be back in time for my wedding?" she demanded.
"Oh, yes. Yes, I wouldn't miss it."
"Or your own!" Joachim called curtly over his shoulder. "Come along now, hurry if we're going to make our rendezvous."
His tone signaled Deborah's dismissal; she had to stand watching them trudge on, with their strange and secret air of urgency. Certainly there was about them no air of holiday. Mad with curiosity, yet feeling that old bond of affection and loyalty for Mary, Deborah hurried home, debating whether or not to tell her parents.
Out in the open country they freed Esau's hand and let him bounce along leading the donkey and echoing the bird calls in the trees. He knew them all by name and could echo their cries so that sometimes they swooped down to inspect this otherwise solemn trio.
The day was bright and hot, with the rich sweet fragrance of lotus, flowering ginger, almond and lemon blossoms. For Mary every step was torment. She could hardly bear to think of her mother. Or Joseph ... he had not returned to her since that night in the olive grove. And it was his father who had made these arrangements. Perhaps then his people, even his people, were anxious to be rid of her!
Thus when she saw Joseph waiting for them in the shade of the cypresses, she could not believe it. Such joy mingled with such anguish she could not speak, but only turn her wet eyes away.
Joachim too was startled. How dared he come, complicating things? He wanted to have these final moments alone with his daughter; perhaps to hear again her story, to restore and confirm that first blessed hour when he had been rocked to his soul by her words. When, awed, stunned but unquestioning, he had believed.
Perhaps fortunately, there was time for only the briefest of greetings. "They're coming, they're comingl" Esau announced, though it was a moment before the rest of them could see the film of dust that began to hover over the burning hill. He had heard the creak of harness and plod of hooves, and he hopped excitedly on his crooked legs predicting accurately, "There are horses among them along with the asses, I can tell. When they arrive will you lift me onto the back of a horse, Father, that I may know how it feels?"
"We'll see, we'll see," Joachim told him indulgently.
Frozen, in a kind of dumb fascination, they stood watching the figures in the distance grow larger, until Joachim stepped into the road to wave them down. Then, only then did Joseph turn to Mary. "Don't go," he said grimly, without warning. "Mary, I can't bear it. Don't go, even now. Stay here with me."
"I can't," she gasped. "I must go. I've already caused our parents enough grief." Her heart was hammering. The company of strangers was drawing nearer. She could hear their voices, and the fated rattle of stones beneath the hooves of the beasts they led or rode. She had never seen any of them before—alien faces, dusky, laughing or grave—a mass of indifferent unknown faces behind the veils or under the soft round hats. She was frightened, she had never been away from her mother, and she wanted desperately to go home.