Son of Mary

by R. S. Ingermanson

  “He is son of David.” Yehuda Dreamhead’s voice is flat and cold.

  “Only if he is accepted as son of Yoseph,” I say. “What will happen if your village decides he is not son of Yoseph?”

  “How can they decide he is not son of Yoseph?” Yehuda Dreamhead says. “My father claimed Yeshua for his son, so he is son of Yoseph, son of David.”

  Andre says, “But if your village ignores your father’s claim, they will raise a stench on the matter. Other villages will not follow after Rabbi Yeshua if his home village says he is not son of David.”

  Yehuda Dreamhead says nothing. His fists clench tight and there is a big sweat on his forehead.

  I say, “Your grandfather is dead, yes, Yehuda Dreamhead?”

  “Yes, he died the year I was born, and I never knew him. My grandmother died the next year.”

  I ask, “But you have an uncle who lives in the village?”

  “Yes, Uncle Halfai, the firstborn son, who inherited my grandfather’s farm.”

  “Your uncle is an old man, and not strong of voice,” Andre says.

  Yehuda Dreamhead nods.

  I say, “But your uncle must have inherited the Ring of Justice. I have heard tale on such things, and they are a sign of a big authority. Your uncle can enforce your father’s claim by invoking the Ring of Justice, yes?”

  Yehuda Dreamhead shakes his head. “When my grandfather died, he passed the Ring of Justice to my father, not my uncle. My father hid it in some secret place for a safety, only he died untimely, and now the Ring is lost.”

  I say, “That is a bad matter. Your father is dead. Your grandfather is dead. Your uncle is not strong of voice and has no Ring of Justice to enforce the matter. When your uncle dies, how many in the village will honor your father’s claim?”

  “Shimon the baker will honor my father’s claim. He always loved Yeshua.”

  “And who else?” I ask.

  Yehuda Dreamhead thinks hard on the matter. “Two or three others of the old generation.”

  “And what of the villagers of the age of Rabbi Yeshua?”

  Yehuda Dreamhead’s face goes tight. “The leather-man is just his age, and he is strong of voice in our village. He hates Yeshua. Once he came in the night and spread plaster on the wall of our house.”

  My chest has a big pain in it, just over my heart. I heard about that, how a village makes a dishonor on a mamzer by plastering his house with white plaster, to be a sign of shame that anyone can see from far away. I never saw it done, for we have no mamzer in Capernaum, but it is cruel.

  “I did not see plaster on your house when we were there last fall,” Andre says.

  Yehuda Dreamhead nods. “It was long ago, soon after Abba died. The leather-man brought only one bucket, so he could not plaster the whole wall. But it made a big roar in the village, when they saw it. They came with hammers and broke the plaster and scraped it with chisels until it was all clean. Shimon the baker said they should throw the leather-man in his own piss-pool, but others said no, so they never punished him.”

  I do not know what to think on the matter. Rabbi Yeshua has the Shekinah all around him. He is a prophet and a rabbi and a son of David. But he has the smirch of the mamzer on him in his own village.

  I think that is why he is slow to make his move. Anyone can make a move and raise up an army and lead them out against the Great Satan. But not anyone can be Mashiach and king of Israel, even if he is son of David.

  When King David begat a son of adultery with another man’s woman and then killed the man and took the woman, HaShem killed the son. If the son had lived, he could never have been king, because he was a son of adultery. But then King David begat another son with the woman, and that was Solomon, the greatest king that ever lived.

  A son of adultery cannot be king.

  A man with a smirch of mamzer cannot be king either.

  But his brother can.

  I think Rabbi Yeshua must find a way to make the village take away the smirch from his name.

  Either that, or he must yield to Little Yaakov, and let him be Mashiach and king of Israel when HaShem makes his kingdom new.

  I read Yehuda Dreamhead’s face, that he thinks the same.

  I read Andre’s face, that he thinks the same.

  Behind us, I hear a cough.

  I leap up and spin to look.

  Hananyah the nail maker hides behind the next acacia tree, grinning on us with a big happiness.

  “Fool, what did you hear?” I shout on him.

  Hananyah the nail maker jumps up and runs back toward the camp.

  My chest thumps like a galloping horse.

  I think Hananyah the nail maker heard all the matter of the smirch on Rabbi Yeshua.

  Yeshua of Nazareth

  When Philip and Natanel and I return to our camp with food, I see that something is wrong.

  Yoni will not look my eye.

  Andre will not look my eye.

  Yehuda Dreamhead tries to look my eye, only for an instant.

  In that instant, I read his heart. I do not know how I read it, but I read it.

  He told them the matter of the smirch.

  I do not know what to say. I do not know what to think. My father forbade to speak on the matter, because his father forbade to speak on the matter.

  So the matter has festered thirty years.

  I walk toward the river and sit on a rock and stare in the water, wishing HaShem will show me how to think on the matter. I must find a way to remove the smirch on my name, but I do not see my way clear. It is not in my power. Only the village can remove the smirch. I cannot force them to remove the smirch. I cannot even speak to them on the matter. My grandfather ate the sour grapes, but it is my teeth that are set on edge.

  ‘Your men are confused on the matter.’

  ‘They should be confused. I am confused on the matter.’

  ‘This matter will prevent you from taking up the sword, and that is your greatest wish.’

  ‘You are a fool. I never would wish to take up the sword. There is no love in my heart for the blade.’

  ‘Then what is your greatest wish?’

  ‘I wish to do the will of HaShem.’

  ‘What is the will of HaShem? Is it not to destroy the Great Satan?’

  ‘HaShem says I am to tell repentance to Israel.’

  ‘To what gain?’

  ‘So I may defeat the first Power.’

  ‘To what gain?’

  ‘So I may defeat the second Power, and the third, and the fourth.’

  ‘To what gain?’

  ‘To redeem Israel.’

  ‘To be Mashiach?’

  ‘You say so.’

  ‘I do not say so!’

  ‘The man of HaShem told Imma and Abba I should redeem Israel.’

  ‘That is to be Mashiach, but a son of adultery cannot be Mashiach.’

  ‘Abba claimed me for his son.’

  ‘You cover yourself with a broken fig leaf. Your mother spread her legs for some man of the village, but then your father claimed you for his son for a kindness. You are still a son of adultery.’

  ‘My father claimed me for his son, and the village voted long ago to honor his claim, and that is the end of the matter.’

  ‘Your father lies dead in the ground, and his voice is silent, and a new generation is rising who hardly knew your father.’

  ‘Uncle Halfai remembers the claim. And Shimon the baker and the elders.’

  ‘The old leather-man denies the claim, and now he is an elder in the village. And his son is strong of voice. When you go to make your move, the village will deny the claim, and you will be shamed, and your move will come to nothing.’

  ‘The village loves me.’

  ‘The village hates your mother. Hate is stronger than love. When the matter comes to the point, they will deny your claim.’

  ‘The village loved my father, and my father claimed me for his son. Almost all the village honors the claim.’

&
nbsp; ‘Until every man of the village honors the claim, the matter will be in a doubt, and you cannot make a move, and you cannot be king of Israel. Do you defy my logic?’

  ‘Here is a logic for you. HaShem called me his son. I heard it with these ears. And what is the son of HaShem? The scriptures say it is two things. First, the son of HaShem is our nation Israel. And second, the son of HaShem is the king of our nation Israel. Therefore, when HaShem calls me his son, he calls me king of Israel. That is my logic, and it is better than yours.’

  ‘Your logic is a bad logic. The anointed king of Israel cannot be a son of adultery, even if he is son of David. If you make a move while there is a smirch on your name, your village will raise a stench on the matter. If your own village denies your claim, no other village will accept. They will say you are not the son of David, and you are not Mashiach, and you are not the king of Israel, and you are not the son of HaShem.’

  I do not know what to say to that.

  ‘And even if your own village accepts your claim, you know in your heart it is false. You know you are the son of adultery and not the son of Yoseph. Do you deny?’

  ‘I deny.’

  ‘How can you deny? Explain the matter.’

  ‘I do not understand the matter. Only that my father claimed me for his son and he was a tsaddik.’

  ‘Your father lived a lie and now you live a lie.’

  ‘I do not live a lie. I live a question. It is a question I do not understand. I live a trust in HaShem. If I understood, I would not need to trust in HaShem, for I would have a certainty on the matter.’

  ‘All your words are smoke. You choose to live a lie.’

  ‘I choose to trust HaShem.’

  ‘Your trust is a vain hope.’

  ‘Leave me, you Accuser.’

  ‘I will leave you, but you know I speak true, and my words will echo in your ears every hour of the day.’

  ‘I demand in the power of The Name that you leave me.’

  Silence.

  I should speak to my men on the matter.

  But what can I tell them that will not sound like a big foolishness?

  I cannot speak to them on the matter until HaShem explains it to me.

  HaShem, I beg on you, explain the matter.

  I do not see how I can go back to my men and face the questions in their eyes. Only they will never dishonor me by asking. Even Yoni will be afraid to ask.

  The questions fester in their hearts. The questions fester in mine.

  HaShem, I beg on you, explain the matter.

  Silence.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Miryam of Nazareth

  Little Yaakov stretches and stands. “We should go to the village square. There will be news tonight.”

  He does not mean I should go to the village square. He means his brothers. I have not been outside our house once since we came back to Nazareth. More than four months I have been in this house, safe from the village.

  Yosi and Thin Shimon grin on Little Yaakov’s words.

  “We might hear news of Yeshua and Yehuda Dreamhead,” Yosi says.

  I do not think they will hear news of Yeshua and Yehuda Dreamhead. But they will hear news.

  A traveler came to Nazareth today. The village elders gave Shimon the baker the honor of showing hospitality. Shimon the baker will hear the man’s news first, but all the village wishes to hear the man. Tonight is the first warm night of spring, so all the village will be in the square hearing the news on the world.

  I do not care to hear the news on the world. My Yeshua has been telling repentance to Israel all winter, but I am sure the traveler will know nothing on him. The traveler will tell what has passed in Caesarea or Tiberias or Jerusalem. I do not care what has passed there. If he had news on Yeshua, I would care what he has to say, but what is the chance he has news on Yeshua? Of course, none.

  Yosi’s woman nurses her new little son, who was born the last day of Hanukkah. Thin Shimon’s woman helps Yehuda Dreamhead’s woman clean the cook pot. They do not look like they wish to go hear the news in the square.

  Little Yaakov’s woman stands and sets her face to the door. She has a nickname now—Shlomzion Lewd. That is cruel, but she does not seem to mind. It would be more cruel if they called her Zonah. And most cruel of all if they called her the evil name. When a village calls a woman the evil name, they mean to kill her with shame.

  So Shlomzion Lewd is not such a bad name. Anyway, the men of our village are quick to call any woman lewd if she enjoys lying with her lord. I think some of them have a big envy on Little Yaakov, to have a lewd woman. When they smirk on him and ask if she shouts loud in the night, he only grins and taps his ear as he is a deaf and asks them to repeat, and then they all laugh. I do not understand men.

  Shlomzion Lewd looks on me with a kind smile. “Come with me to hear the news with the men.” She does not like that I have prisoned myself in my own house. She does not understand why I fear the village. Why I hate it.

  I shake my head. “No, never.”

  She takes my hand and tugs. “You should come, Imma Miryam.”

  “The villagers hate me.”

  “You will be safe with Little Yaakov and his brothers.”

  I cross my arms on my chest. She should know there are more ways to kill a woman than throwing stones on her. “Go without me. I do not wish to go.”

  She sighs and leaves with the men.

  Not the tenth part of an hour later, she comes back, out of breath, grinning a big grin. “Imma Miryam! The traveler has seen Yeshua! I heard it from the baker’s woman. She said the traveler went to hear Yohanan the immerser last week, and he heard Yeshua tell repentance! Come! You must hear him! They have not begun yet, so hurry!”

  All my heart flutters.

  Shlomzion Lewd seizes my hand and pulls. “Come now! If the villagers make a trouble on you, Little Yaakov will defend.”

  My heart screams for news on my son.

  I go.

  It is a fine evening, bright and clear. The stars are so large, I feel as I could reach up and pluck one, like a fig from a tree. I know that is a big foolishness. Little Yaakov says the stars are high up, higher even than the clouds, as high as the sun and moon. He says the stars are not things at all—they are holes in the hard bowl of the heavens that let through the light of the Messengers of HaShem. I never would have guessed it. I am glad to have a son who knows things.

  All the men of the village sit quiet in the square. There are many women also. I creep up behind them on silent feet with Shlomzion Lewd and sit among my sons. I do not wish people to see me.

  The traveler tells the news from Jerusalem. Rabbi Shammai is sick with a big sickness, and they fear he will die.

  My sons gasp, for they love Rabbi Shammai.

  I do not care a fig for Rabbi Shammai. I want to hear news on my son.

  The traveler tells the news from Jericho. They are afraid on the king of Arabia, who is angry on King Herod for throwing off his daughter to marry another woman. If the king of Arabia makes a big war on Herod in the spring, he might cross the river at the fords near Jericho.

  I do not care about the king of Arabia. I want to hear news on my son.

  The traveler says he went to hear Yohanan the prophet telling repentance across the Jordan.

  All my skin tingles.

  The traveler says Yohanan the prophet spoke hard words on King Herod and his new woman. Yohanan the prophet says the king sins for marrying the woman of his own brother, while the brother is alive. That is against Torah. Yohanan the prophet says the woman sins for divorcing her lord to marry King Herod.

  I never heard a woman could divorce her lord! That is not done in Israel. That is a Greekish way, and a big sin.

  The traveler says there was a man with Yohanan the prophet who told repentance better than the prophet.

  My head feels all filled with lightness. I think it might come off my shoulders and float up as high as the stars.

  “This m
an tells tales better than any man ever told,” says the traveler. “His name is called Yeshua, and he said he is a tekton from Nazareth. Do you know the man?”

  A hiss of excitement runs all around the village square.

  Every hair on my neck stands up on its end. I am afraid to breathe.

  “We know the man,” says Shimon the baker. “He is a tsaddik and a man of honor. He has told tales here in this square from the age of nine, and they were good tales.”

  “There is talk that this Yeshua is also a prophet,” says the traveler. “And some say he is a son of the House of David.”

  “He is no son of David,” says another voice from the far side.

  A sneering voice.

  A voice I hate.

  The Evil Boy stands. He is not a boy now. He is a man. Tonight, his lip curls as he smells haryo. “We know this Yeshua the tekton, and he is no son of David. He is a mamzer, the son of Miryam Spreadlegs, who is an evil tale.”

  Darkness closes in all around me. I hear a rushing sound between my ears. It is the sound of my rage. It is the sound of the worst day of my life …

  The Tale of Miryam Spreadlegs

  I shout, “Yeshua! Come walk with me to fetch water!”

  My son comes running on his skinny legs. He is growing fast, and soon he will be eleven. His head comes to the level of my chin. Two more years and he will be a man.

  I go in the house and find my waterpot and come out. “Little Yaakov, watch over the children.”

  Little Yaakov is playing chase in the street with Yosi and my oldest daughter, Miryam Beautiful. He says nothing, but I know he heard.

  Yeshua and I walk together through the village. It is a fine summer day, still too early to be hot. The bright blue sky makes a high bowl above our heads. There is a beautiful breeze, and I hear the birds chirping. Yeshua holds my hand and greets the villagers as we walk.

  They smile on him, but they say nothing to me. I am like the dust between their toes, but I have my Yeshua, and it is enough.

  We walk through the narrows and up the long hill to the spring. I dip my pot in the water and lift it on my head.