Son of Mary

by R. S. Ingermanson

  “Hurry, Fat Yonatan.” I do not wait for my brother. He has more than forty years and is a thick man and a slow-foot. I am enough to frighten a thousand sheep if I move with speed.

  Many men are in the river, but more are not yet in the water, or already came out.

  The false prophet stands in water to his waist. He points a bony finger on me. “Who warned you to repent, you viper, you?”

  I rest my hand loose on my sword. “I am sent by my father, Hanan ben Set, and by Yoseph Qayaph, high priest of the living God. Who sent you?”

  “HaShem sent me. HaShem calls men to repent. HaShem says judgment is coming on Israel at the hand of the Great Satan.”

  “You are ordered by my father to come to Jerusalem.”

  “You think you are sons of Abraham and have no need to repent, but HaShem says you must repent and immerse and do acts of zekhut.”

  Fat Yonatan comes up beside me, stinking of sweat and fear. He shouts, “They say you speak against the Temple. What is the truth of the matter?”

  The false prophet’s long wet hair hangs in wretched tangles to his waist. His face is rough as leather, scored by wind and sun. “You hide in your Temple of stone and think you are safe from the wrath to come. You are wrong! When the Great Satan comes to make a judgment on you, it will burn your den of thieves with fire. All you rich, who abuse the poor. You priests, who oppress the people with a second tithe and many thousand offerings. You landowners, who turn out peasants for profit. The fire of the Great Satan will destroy you!”

  I do not have time for foolishness. “If you have grievances, bring them to the courts and let the judges make a justice on you.”

  “The courts! Bah!” The false prophet spits in the river. “The courts are owned by those who abuse the poor. There is no justice from the courts. HaShem will make a justice on the poor. HaShem will turn out the rich. HaShem will cast judgment on the earth, and then he will make his kingdom new.”

  My insides turn to springs of coiled iron. “If you need a king, there is one not far from here who will hear your appeals for justice.”

  The false prophet’s eyes burn. “Herod? That son of an Edomite? He stole his own brother’s woman and married her. He is adulterer and she is adulteress. There is no justice from Herod. There is no justice from the Temple. The only justice is from HaShem, and it is coming soon. The ax is already laid at the root of the tree.”

  My fists curl in knots. The tree he speaks of is the olive tree of HaShem, which is Israel. Our nation is a well-watered tree, planted by HaShem long ago. This false prophet leads Israel astray. “My father orders you to come to Jerusalem to answer to him.”

  The false prophet remains in the river. “Your father will be cut down and thrown in the fire. You will be cut down and thrown in the fire.”

  My brother is not quick to anger, but now he draws his sword. “Hanan, go in the river and bring him out.”

  I draw my sword and run down into the water.

  The false prophet steps back, but he is slow, for he is in deep water.

  I splash forward fast. Speed is my friend, and the water comes only to my knees.

  The false prophet shouts with a great shout and turns to flee.

  I lunge forward.

  The false prophet has a big terror on his face.

  I step in a deep hole and go down. Water closes over my head.

  I hear Fat Yonatan shouting, but he is muffled.

  I flail about and find my feet. When I break the surface, I am in water to my chest.

  The false prophet has moved upstream.

  And many hundred men are on the banks of the river, waving sticks.

  I look for my brother.

  He is running backward faster than he ever did, jabbing his sword at a dozen men who pursue him with sticks.

  Stones fall in the water all around me, small but many. One hits me in the face.

  I press backward, away from my enemies, keeping my sword up.

  They are fools and less than fools, but they are not so foolish as to come within reach of my sword.

  I misjudged the matter. I was foolish to misjudge, and that was a big error, but I will learn from my error. I thought they were sheep, and it is true, but they are angry sheep, and sheep have teeth. I cannot fight many hundred sheep when I am in the middle of a river.

  The false prophet scrambles up on the shore, and now I am wrong-footed. He can run and I cannot.

  More men throw stones at me.

  I back toward the far shore at my best speed. The water never comes higher than my neck.

  Nobody pursues, for there is no gain in it. They throw small stones, but none large enough to make a hurt on me. The stones are a warning, nothing more.

  When I reach the far bank, my heart has stopped its pounding. Cold rage runs in my veins.

  My brother is still across the river on the western side, but south of me. I walk south for many hundred paces until I find a place that looks more shallow. It is not a proper ford, but neither was the place where I crossed. The Jordan is not deep. I stride into the river and cross, wary of holes. Soon I come up out of the river.

  Fat Yonatan stands waiting for me. His face is gray and sweat shines on his forehead and he still gasps for breath. “There were more of them than we were told.”

  That should not have mattered. We were foolish and underthought their rage because they are sheep. I will never underthink a sheep’s rage again.

  I stare up the river at the sheep gathered around the false prophet.

  They shake their fists and shout curses.

  The false prophet smiles.

  Let him smile while he has teeth.

  He is a dead man, or I am no son of my father.

  Hanan ben Hanan

  “You will tell the king exactly what the false prophet told you.” Father’s face shows nothing, but his voice tells me his temper runs hot today.

  It should run hot. Pesach will begin in a week and four days, and soon many ten thousand pilgrims will fill the city, sleeping in their cloaks in the Kidron Valley and up the Mount of Olives. Those pilgrims are dry wood, and the words of the false prophet are a torch. We must remove the torch.

  King Herod Antipas is not really a king. He is a tetrarch over Galilee and Perea and he wishes to be king like his father, who died long ago, Herod called Magnificent. When Father wants a favor, he calls Herod king. When Father does not want a favor, he still calls Herod king, because the day will come when he wants a favor.

  There are four of us going to see the king. My brother-in-law, Yoseph Qayaph, is high priest. My brother Fat Yonatan is captain of the Temple guard. Father has no office, but he is head of the great and mighty House of Hanan, and all Jerusalem quivers before him.

  We stride all together across the bridge from the Temple outer courts to the stone square in front of the Hasmonean Palace. In better times, a century and two ago, the Hasmonean kings were priests, men of good Makkabi blood who loved the Temple. Herod Antipas is no priest and has not one drop of Makkabi blood. Perhaps he loves the Temple, but he does not love chief priests, so we must walk a thin line today.

  We come to the great iron gate before the palace. Father steps to the wooden door beside it and puts his mouth to the small grate. “Hanan ben Set to see my lord King Herod.”

  The door swings inward. Herod is expecting us.

  Father leads the way across the courtyard and up the steps into the palace. Large men with pale skin and yellow hair stand guard on either side—uncircumcised Germans from the barbaric north.

  Such men make me shiver for a disgust. It says much on the Herod family that they use vile foreigners for their personal guard.

  Inside, we cross the marble floor of the receiving room and enter the Hasmonean throne room.

  At the far end of the room, Herod Antipas sits. His woman stands behind him.

  It is not fitting that this woman should be queen. A man may not marry the woman of his brother. Torah forbids. Even the foolish Phari
sees agree on the matter.

  Herod’s marriage to this woman is no Torah marriage.

  But better the false prophet said it than me.

  “My lord the king.” Father gives the smallest possible bow to Herod and then points a finger on me. “Tell what the false prophet said.”

  Herod’s face is hard and flat. He does not trust Father and never did.

  I waste no time on small matters. “The false prophet threatened you, my lord the king. He said you will face judgment. He said you and all your house will burn. He said the ax is already laid at the root of the tree.”

  Herod’s eyes narrow to fine points. “And that would make you lose a big sleep, yes, Hanan ben Hanan? Did he make a mock on the Temple, also?”

  “He called it a den of thieves, my lord the king.”

  Herod makes a big grin. “The man sounds like a true prophet of HaShem.”

  I knew Herod would sneer on us, but I also know what he is afraid on. I say nothing. I put on the face of a man who knows a secret.

  Herod stares on me long, and his face turns uneasy. “Is the man gathering an army?”

  “He has nearly two thousand men with him, my lord the king.”

  “What does he tell these men?”

  “He tells repentance to them.”

  Herod grins on me again. “Repentance is no crime. I would pay many talents to get more of it. Did he tell repentance to you?”

  “He called me a viper and asked who called me to repentance.”

  Herod laughs out loud.

  I flinch, even though I was expecting it. This vile man mocks chief priests for sport. If he were not the client of Rome, I would put a knife in his grin and laugh on him while he bled out.

  Behind me, Father sucks in his breath. That is the signal to complete the business.

  I wait for silence and allow it to hang until it is full ripe. “He also called you to repentance, my lord the king. He spoke hard words on your woman.”

  Herod’s eyes turn cold.

  Behind him, the queen leans forward. Her name is called Herodias, and she is known to take offense. “Say more on that.” The eyes of Herodias are the eyes of a viper.

  My belly burns like fire, for I know there is gold here. “The false prophet said my lord the king is adulterer. He said my lord the king stole his brother’s woman and married her against Torah. He said she left her lord without a divorce, so she is adulteress. He said there is no justice with Herod.”

  Herod’s face is stone.

  His woman’s is ice.

  “You have witnesses?” Herod says.

  Father snaps his fingers at Fat Yonatan.

  Fat Yonatan steps forward.

  I smell the sweat of his terror.

  Father points a finger on him. “Fat Yonatan, did you hear the same? Swear by The Name you heard the same, or else swear by The Name you did not hear the same.”

  Fat Yonatan swears by The Name that he heard it just as I said.

  Fury lights Herod’s eyes.

  My heart shivers when I look on his hard eyes.

  But the eyes of his woman …

  The eyes of Herodias stop my heart cold.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Yoni of Capernaum

  Rabbi Yeshua’s secret is burning a hole in my heart. I thought he would explain the matter of the smirch when we went to Capernaum. Instead, he went to Nazareth without saying a word. I am terrified Andre will tell the matter in a loose word. I am more terrified I will tell the matter.

  We will see Rabbi Yeshua in Jerusalem tomorrow, and if he does not explain the matter then, I will die from holding his secret inside me. I must never think on the matter. Never, ever, ever.

  “How much farther to Bethany?” my sister Elisheva asks.

  “It is a walk of one hour.”

  “You have been quiet today. Are you well?” Elisheva puts a hand on my forehead. She is kind like Aunt Miryam and never teases me like my other sisters and Big Yaakov.

  “I am thinking on a matter.”

  “It must be a small matter,” says Big Yaakov. “I never saw the Genius of Capernaum thinking and not talking.”

  My family laughs, except Elisheva. Shimon’s family laughs.

  I do not think Big Yaakov’s joke is funny. I am desperate to understand the paradox of the smirch. I have wished many times to ask Rabbi Yeshua how he will answer his village on the smirch, but his eyes have been haunted lately.

  He must make an answer on them, or he will never be Mashiach.

  I think he does not know himself how he will answer them.

  I thought a prophet always knew the answer.

  I thought a prophet never doubted himself.

  Rabbi Yeshua is not what I thought a prophet would be. He is less fierce and more kind. I remember when we met him last fall. The first thing I noticed was the light of the Shekinah shining out from his eyes. I can remember every word he ever told me. I listen again in my mind’s ear to each thing he said.

  He never said he means to be Mashiach.

  So why do I think he means to be Mashiach?

  I think it is because his family acts as that is what he means to be. But Mashiach must be accepted as the son of David.

  Rabbi Yeshua’s village thinks his mother played the zonah. That is not such a bad matter. The mother of King Solomon also played the zonah.

  What mattered in the end is that King David claimed Solomon for his son, and all Israel accepted. The people knew his woman played the zonah before, so they would never trust her to say who begat Solomon. But they trusted King David to say who was his son.

  I think the matter is like Yiftakh, a mighty warrior whose mother was a zonah. The man who begat him was Gilead, a great man in the village. Yiftakh would have been nothing, a mamzer, only Gilead claimed him for his son. Gilead’s other sons hated him for being the son of a strange woman, but they never denied he was son of Gilead.

  Because Gilead claimed Yiftakh for his son.

  I do not know how he knew the boy was his own, since a zonah lies with many men.

  The tales do not tell how he knew it. The tales only say Gilead begat Yiftakh, so he must have claimed him. And the village accepted.

  Rabbi Yeshua’s mother made a big trouble by enticing a man before the time. Some in the village think it was not her own lord she enticed, and that is why there is a smirch. But her own lord was a tsaddik and claimed Rabbi Yeshua for his son. That should be the end of the matter. She enticed her own lord before the time, and Rabbi Yeshua is son of Yoseph, son of David.

  It is a wrong thing that there is a smirch on Rabbi Yeshua. The village makes a trouble on the matter only because they are cruel. Rabbi Yeshua’s mother should not have enticed her lord before the time, but if she had not enticed, Rabbi Yeshua would not have been born, and then who would we follow after? It makes my head hurt to think on the matter.

  I think Little Yaakov thinks he should be Mashiach instead. Little Yaakov is also son of David, and he is a man with a strong yetzer hara. I can see him in my eye taking a sword to smite the Great Satan.

  It is harder to see in my eye Rabbi Yeshua taking a sword to smite the Great Satan. He is a tsaddik and a mighty teller of tales and a prophet of HaShem. He has the Shekinah all around him, but he does not have the rage to power.

  Little Yaakov has the rage to power, but he does not have the Shekinah all around him. I think none of us would follow after Little Yaakov, even though he has the rage to power. I think we follow after Rabbi Yeshua because we see the Shekinah in him. A man who has the Shekinah does not need the rage to power to smite the Great Satan.

  A man who has the Shekinah has all that he needs to be Mashiach, because the Shekinah is more than the rage to power.

  That is what I think. That is not a deep thing. Even my family knows it. And Shimon’s family also.

  But if they knew Rabbi Yeshua has a smirch, they would make a hesitation, because a man’s own village should believe in him first, before another village.
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  I should tell them he has a smirch.

  I am dying to say he has a smirch.

  But it is not my place to tell it. It is Rabbi Yeshua’s place to tell it.

  It is a sore trial to know a mighty secret and not be able to tell it.

  I have been watching Andre. He is disturbed also, but he knows it is Rabbi Yeshua’s place to tell the matter to our families.

  “Tell us a tale, Yoni!” Elisheva says. “It makes the road go faster when you tell a tale.”

  I do not wish to tell a tale.

  “Yes, a tale, Yoni!” says my mother. “Perhaps the tale of how Ruth the Moabite got a man. Only if you tell her with large bosoms again, I will box your ears.”

  My face turns hot. I did not know I ever told Ruth with large bosoms.

  “You had better tell her with bosoms twice as large as Miryam Big-Eyes, or else I will box your ears,” says Big Yaakov.

  All my family roars. Shimon’s family roars.

  If they knew how much I think on bosoms, they would not laugh so loud. They would tell repentance on me harder than Yohanan the immerser.

  I tell the tale of Ruth, the Moabite woman who married a man from Bethlehem. Then she became a widow, but she still took a good care on her mother-in-law, Naomi. At last she married her kinsman redeemer and bore a son who begat a son who begat David the king.

  “Tell us another!” says Elisheva. “Only this time, tell the tale of some young girl, for you gave Ruth such small bosoms she might as well have been a child.”

  I did not know I told Ruth with small bosoms.

  I think for a moment and decide to tell the tale of Yiftakh the mighty warrior. When Yiftakh went to war, he swore by The Name that if Yah gave him the victory, he would sacrifice the first living thing that came out of his house when he returned. He thought it would be a sheep or goat, and he would make a burnt offering to Yah.