Son of Mary

by R. S. Ingermanson

  I am dying to know why HaShem begs favor that I will come to a feast. “Where and at what time is this feast?”

  ‘Imma! No! Tell the man away at once! If you love me, Imma, do as I say!’

  Rabbi Yeshua points to a boy of the age of ten. “My servant Yoni will bring you to the place this evening at the going out of the day.”

  Yoni smiles on me. He reminds me of my own son long ago, before he became a man, before the wasting disease took him.

  ‘Imma! Father says no.’

  My breath catches in my throat. I do not dare disobey my lord, the father of my son.

  The voice of my lord wakens from the abyss.

  ‘Miryam Magdala, I command that you will not go with this man of scandal. You will not.’

  I shake my head, for to disobey my lord is death. My voice has lost its breath in the dryness of my throat, and I do not know if the rabbi will even hear me. I lean close to him and force out my words in a broken whisper. “Rabbi, I thank you, but I will not come.”

  A smile spreads across Rabbi Yeshua’s face, and he shouts with a big shout of joy. “Blessed be HaShem! You honor me! My servant will find you at the appointed time and bring you to the place.”

  I am stunned at his impudence, for now all these people think I said yes. This man is wily.

  ‘Imma, see what a deceiver he is!’

  ‘Miryam Magdala, I command that you tell him no. Backhand the man for making a deception.’

  I wish to strike the rabbi, but my arms have no strength. Already he is turning away.

  All around me, the men of the town scowl on me with eyes of envy.

  I try to take a step after the rabbi, but my legs refuse me.

  The boy Yoni looks on me, and his smile is kind and innocent.

  Yohana and Shoshanna will never forgive me if I fail to go to this feast.

  My son and my lord will never forgive me if I do.

  ‘Imma! No good can come of this!’

  ‘Miryam Magdala, I command that you will not go. This man will make a scandal.’

  I do not know what to think. My son guides me. My lord commands me. Without their strength, how would I have kept their salting house in business after they went down to Sheol?

  I dare not go to this feast of Rabbi Yeshua.

  But now all Magdala thinks I will.

  Rabbi Yeshua is wily. I must be wary on this man.

  Dreadful things are certain to befall at his feast.

  I must see them.

  I must.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Miryam of Magdala

  The sun has dropped behind Mount Arbel, high above Magdala, when the boy Yoni comes to my salting house to take me to the feast of Rabbi Yeshua.

  He is a talkative boy, and before we have walked a hundred paces, I know the names of his father and mother and brother and five sisters. I know that his village hazzan calls him the Genius of Capernaum. I know that he has followed Rabbi Yeshua since last fall, and he claims to have seen many mighty works of HaShem.

  Boys are gullible, that is what I think. I make a scowl on him. “Some idle tale tells that Rabbi Yeshua healed a man with tsaraat.”

  Yoni shakes his head. “It was not tsaraat, it was the mighty leprosy. I saw it with these eyes.”

  “Never and never will I believe this tale! Did you know the man before? How do you know he had the mighty leprosy? Perhaps it was some other disease.”

  “I … no, I did not know the man. But I also saw Rabbi Yeshua heal Fat Miryam, who had the summer fever. She is my father’s cousin and the mother of Shimon’s—”

  “Never and never will I believe this tale either! How do you know she had the summer fever, or did you merely hear report? Perhaps it was some other kind of fever.”

  “I … I saw her myself, and she sweated through her tunic so it clung to her body like skin, but I only heard report that it was the summer fever. But I also saw Rabbi Yeshua send away the evil spirit of Yoseph the Rage. I have known Yoseph long, and I know he had a spirit of rage because I saw him bite off a man’s ear once.”

  My hands turn cold. I do not wish to hear lies on the matter of spirits. Fools and simples think all spirits are evil.

  That is a false tale. A familiar spirit is not evil. The shade of one you loved who went down to Sheol is not evil.

  ‘Imma! You must not go to this feast! The man will make a scandal on you.’

  ‘It is dishonor to the host to agree to a feast and then turn away.’

  ‘Imma! You did not agree to the feast. The man tricked you.’

  ‘I will not be shamed before all Magdala by turning away.’

  ‘Miryam Magdala! I command that you turn back. The man means to shame you at the feast.’

  ‘The man seems kind. I will not dishonor him. But I will be wary on him, for he is wily.’

  Yoni studies me with large eyes. “Are you well, Savta?”

  My heart is warmed that he calls me grandmother. I never had a grandchild and never will. “I feel faint. Where is the place we are going?”

  “Rabbi Yeshua said it is to be a surprise. But it is not far.”

  We walk down the wide and bending street above the synagogue, where there are many houses that are considered large and fine. Merchants live here. Also owners of fishing fleets. Also tax-farmers. I do not consider these houses large or fine, and I would not live among such middleborn people, but at least these are not the huts of fish-men. The feast will be adequate.

  Yoni talks and talks as we walk.

  I learn that he is older than he looks, for he is thirteen, a man. He shows intelligence. I can believe he is thought a genius in a fish village. I do not think Yoni would be the Genius of Magdala, but my friend Shoshanna has a son who is a scribe and could examine his merit.

  Yoni is conceited, but I like him. If he is the tenth part as wise as he thinks he is, then he is the greatest mind in a hundred generations and I will pay to send him to Jerusalem to study Torah with Rabbi Shammai, who is the wisest sage of Israel.

  Yoni stops. “Savta, now you must close your eyes and take my arm, and I will guide you the rest of the way. Rabbi Yeshua says it is to be a big surprise.”

  I close my eyes, and I close my heart to the voices of my familiars. I already know they do not like the matter. I do not like the matter either. I will attend the feast and not shame myself before the town, and then I will be done with this Rabbi Yeshua until forever.

  I take Yoni’s arm and follow after him. I feel like the blind beggar Rabbi Yeshua healed in the street today. At least that is a tale I believe.

  Yoni leads me left, and then right, and then left.

  “Now you may open your eyes, Savta.”

  I open. Heat floods my chest. No, never! It is the home of that tax-farmer—that wicked Alexander. He cheats me on every cart of salted fish I send from our toparchy. I hate the man and would spit his eye, only then he would cheat me double.

  ‘Imma! I told you not to come! We are dishonored!’

  ‘Miryam Magdala! I command that you go home at once.’

  I am so angry, I want to beat Rabbi Yeshua with my fists. I should turn back on this tax-farmer. But it is not done to accept a feast and then turn back. If I dishonor this man, nobody will ever invite me to a feast again. I must go through with the matter. This Rabbi Yeshua is a deceiver and a cheat. I will give him hard words.

  Rabbi Yeshua stands near the door, surrounded by five women, lowborn by the look of them. I cannot believe he makes words with women in public. The man has no honor. What man ever came to a feast and spoke to—

  My heart jumps to double. There is choice gossip here! Those are not ordinary lowborn women. Those are sinful women, or I am a catfish. Sinful women, speaking with Rabbi Yeshua as they mean to offer business!

  One zonah points to her belly and speaks to Rabbi Yeshua.

  She must have some sickness of the woman parts. That is a justice. It is a curse from HaShem on account of her sin.

  This matt
er is vile beyond imagining. My friends will faint for the shock of it. I must see more.

  Yoni takes my arm and tries to pull me away from looking on Rabbi Yeshua. “Savta, perhaps this way? There is our host just inside.”

  I fling Yoni off and move closer. This is too horrible to watch.

  I must watch.

  Rabbi Yeshua puts his hand on the zonah’s belly and speaks to it.

  It is not done in Israel, for a man of honor to touch a woman. Not even a tsaddik should do it.

  The zonah screams for her pain.

  I am mad with delight. My friends will never forgive me, that I have seen this great scandal and they have not.

  The zonah screams again, but no—it is not for her pain. She laughs. She weeps. She shouts. She dances. Either she is healed or she is gone mad and walks beside herself.

  Rabbi Yeshua gives the zonah a kiss and a kiss and … a kiss.

  This is beyond madness. Never and never would I have dreamed to see such a horror. I shall be telling this gossip until I die. My friends will call me liar, but I know what I see.

  Rabbi Yeshua is a mighty scandal. I am more glad than I ever was that I came to this feast.

  The tax-farmer’s woman comes out to greet me. I know who she is, a middleborn daughter of some fig farmer. She thinks to be my hostess? I am dizzy with the audacity of the matter.

  I put on a strong face and pretend to be at ease.

  She leads me in to the feast. A servant brings water and washes my feet. Another brings olive oil to dip my hands and a towel to wipe. At last the tax-farmer’s woman shows me where I am to recline.

  I am appalled. I will recline at table with the women of tax-farmers and the women of merchants and the women of scribes. There is one woman I do not know who looks as she is some peasant and hangs her head in silence. At least she knows she is nothing. The others have a little wealth and think they are something. There are nine of us, and we recline on three couches around a table in an alcove where we cannot be seen by the men. Of course, I am in the chief place at the table, for I am above all the others in age and wealth. Still, it chafes me to rub shoulders with women so common. I will be brief when I tell this part of the tale to Yohana and Shoshanna.

  The meal is only seven courses. In truth, I did not expect so many from a tax-farmer. The women chatter among themselves and attempt to make words with me, but what do I have in common with such folk? Still, I do my best, for a woman of respect does not shame middleborn women for no cause. I learn that the peasant woman is Rabbi Yeshua’s mother. She looks out of her place, more than a sow in a synagogue.

  I hear Rabbi Yeshua’s voice in the central courtyard, loud with wine, making jest with the tax-farmer who owns this house. There are several tax-farmers here. I hear the voice of that dreadful Mattityahu, the tax-farmer who has the booth at the border. He is wicked, even for a tax-farmer. I should warn Rabbi Yeshua to watch his purse when that man is around. But I will not. If he loses all his dinars, I will laugh him to scorn, because he tricked me here.

  What man of honor would jest with tax-farmers? It is a scandal and worse than a scandal.

  I wonder if this tax-farmer and his woman will expect me to feast them at my own house. Never and never! Rather I should dance in the street naked at noontime. If Rabbi Yeshua invites me to another feast, I will take off my sandal and smite his face and spit his eye.

  When the feast draws near an end, Rabbi Yeshua stands to tell a tale. He comes to the end of the courtyard, where we women in the alcove can see him. He tells a strange tale of some peasant woman who lost a coin and made a big dust in the house to search it out. Then when she found it, she made a big joy in all the village.

  Never and never did I hear such a big foolishness.

  He tells another tale of some sheep-man who left ninety and nine sheep in the pen to search for one lost ewe lamb in a storm. Then he fought bandits and took her back home on his shoulders, and he shouted the whole village to come see his lost sheep that was found.

  I do not see what is the point of this tale. It is less than pig sense to me.

  When he is done, Rabbi Yeshua gives orders that food should be taken out to the street and served to the beggars. Of course, there are always beggars at the door of a feast, but one does not serve food to them. One throws out the leavings in a pile beside the house, and the beggars fight for the scraps. That is a good sport.

  There is muttering on the matter among the women at my table. I hear it even in the courtyard, for there are six tables of men there, and men are noisy even when they try to be quiet.

  There is more wine to be served, and there will be some sweet thing to tickle the tongue before the feast is ended. People of quality serve apples, but I fear that is too much to hope for. My teeth will complain on me if they serve dried figs. I am eager to be gone, for I have enough gossip now for many days of telling, and I am weary of these middleborn women and their middleborn talk.

  Suddenly, silence.

  The silk merchant’s woman nudges me and points with her chin.

  Rabbi Yeshua stands outside the alcove, motioning me with his hand.

  I do not know which is worse. That he wishes to speak with me, or that he makes a commotion for all to see.

  ‘Imma! You should ignore him, and he will leave off the matter.’

  ‘Miryam Magdala, I command that you tell him away. Put on your strong face and give him hard words.’

  ‘Imma, do not allow him to speak, for he is a deceiver.’

  Rabbi Yeshua continues to motion me with his hand.

  Fool of a fool! He makes a spectacle on me.

  I rise from my couch and put on a face stronger than I ever did. When my lord and my son died, I was weak. But when I went down to Sheol and found their spirits, they taught me to be strong, to be a woman of respect in the world of men. I am respected now, for all men respect age and fear power. I am in the sixty-first year of my age, and I am more mighty than any woman. I am not afraid of this teller of tales.

  I walk to Rabbi Yeshua with bold foot and strong face.

  ‘Imma, do not look his eyes.’

  ‘Miryam Magdala, I command that you tell him away before he can speak!’

  I open my mouth to tell him away.

  Rabbi Yeshua leans forward and gives me a kiss and a kiss.

  My cheeks burn and my words turn to dust. Yohana and Shoshanna will faint for the shock of it, that some common man kissed my face.

  I call up a big indignation in my soul. “Rabbi Yeshua—”

  He kisses me again on both cheeks.

  My soul is undone, and my indignation turns to smoke. I cannot speak, nor breathe, nor think.

  He kisses my lips.

  I feel as I will faint. My head rings. This is not done! Rabbi Yeshua treats me as a friend, as a man. I wait for the whirling to pass. My strong face must look like a weak face now.

  I do not wish to look Rabbi Yeshua’s eyes, but he wishes to look my eyes, and he kisses me again and again. Each time he kisses me, he looks deep in my eyes, and I know he sees every secret I ever had.

  Fear rises like a storm. My soul loses its strength.

  ‘Imma, he sees us! What have you done?’

  ‘Miryam Magdala, I command that you run away fast!’

  Rabbi Yeshua leans close to my ear. “Friend, do you wish to be free?”

  “I … do not know what you mean. I am more free than any woman ever was.”

  ‘Miryam Magdala, I command that you say no more. Turn and flee!’

  ‘Imma, he will destroy us! If you love us, run away fast!’

  Rabbi Yeshua holds both my arms and peers on me with strong eyes. “They are not who you think they are.”

  ‘Imma! Tell him away!’

  ‘Miryam Magdala, I command that you smite his face!’

  My son and my lord are in a rage now, more furious than any woman ever endured. We have storms here in Magdala, great storms of wind and rain and wave and thunder and lightning. But they are
nothing to the storm between my ears. I cannot hear. I cannot think. I am going mad with the fury of it.

  Rabbi Yeshua blows in my face and whispers, “You storm, be silent.”

  Silence.

  I am damp with the sweat of my trembling. My familiars are silent. My heart hammers on my ribs as it will crack them, and I want to faint for the pain. I am terrified that Rabbi Yeshua has sent my familiars away. Who will be my strength, if I lose my son and my lord?

  “Are they … gone?” My voice is a thin breeze.

  He shakes his head, and his eyes are gentle as a mother looking on her only child. “No, but they will be silent for a moment, while we talk.”

  “And then?”

  “Then they will punish you. What you heard was the first birth pangs of that punishment. Do you wish for me to help?”

  “Never and never!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Leave me!”

  He gives me a kiss and a kiss and a kiss. “I beg favor of you, let me help.”

  I cannot bear the kindness in his eyes. “Maybe.”

  “Only maybe?”

  “Y-yes.”

  The smile of Rabbi Yeshua is like sunlight on gold. “You spirits, leave her!” he says in a whisper.

  I feel a rushing in my soul.

  I am cold, naked, destroyed.

  I am alone.

  I have lost my lord and my son, whom I lost once to Death and pursued to Sheol at great cost. Now they are gone again, forever and forever. Rabbi Yeshua has stolen my strength.

  I scream. I give Rabbi Yeshua the backhand of dishonor hard across his right cheek. “Do not touch me, you evil man!”

  A gash of red rises on his cheek, for I wear three gold rings on that hand, and one of them is heavy.

  Rabbi Yeshua’s eyes water, and they lose their seeing for a moment.

  I am glad, for he stole what I loved most.

  He turns his head so his left cheek is toward me. “And this one also, friend.”

  All my strength goes out of me. It is not done to give the left backhand, for that is the hand one uses for wiping away haryo. The left hand is vile. I would shame myself to give him the left backhand. Never and never will I do it. My knees fold.