“Never.” I turn and stalk out of Shimon the baker’s house with my brothers.
Half a dozen men stand there with mouths hanging open. Their faces tell that they heard what Thin Shimon read from the tax-farmer.
Yoseph the leather-man grins such a big grin as I never saw. He steps into the house of Shimon the baker. “I will give hospitality to this man. Friend, what is the news from Magdala?”
I do not wait to hear more. I march down the street toward our house. My head buzzes as it is filled with hornets. We must read this whole letter, but not out here on the street. I will take my brothers into an inner chamber and Thin Shimon will read it to us in a quiet voice.
But I already know what we will hear.
Yeshua is making a scandal.
And now all Nazareth knows it.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Yoni of Capernaum
When I wake, it is still dark. My heart beats three times too fast. I have done a bad wickedness.
I would blame Big Yaakov for this, but it is my own wickedness. Rabbi Yeshua will be ashamed on me when he finds out.
Shimon the Rock snores near me, and also Big Yaakov and Toma the boat maker. A little light comes in the window slits of the house where we are staying. I think dawn will come in an hour. When Rabbi Yeshua wakes, HaShem will tell him what I did, and he will call me a sinner and send me home to Capernaum.
My hands still tingle with the feel of the serving girl’s softness. It has been almost two months since we went to that feast in Magdala, but not one day has passed that I have forgotten what happened there, how the girl fell on me and pressed her body on me. We have walked all through Galilee for those two months, telling the good news that the kingdom of HaShem is beginning, but all that time, I have been thinking on that girl.
Yesterday, we came to Tsipori, and Rabbi Yeshua healed a few sick and sent away an unclean spirit. A wine merchant offered hospitality, and we ate a big evening meal and slept all night on fine mats in the main room of his house.
The village hazzan told me once that when a man dreams, his soul goes out of his body and walks the earth doing good things or wicked things. Last night, my soul did a wicked thing.
I listen long to know who is awake. I think they are all asleep.
I raise my head and look to see.
Even Rabbi Yeshua is asleep. Sometimes he goes out early to speak to HaShem, but I see him lying on his back now, breathing softly. We walked far yesterday, and he must be very tired.
Slowly, slowly, I push to a sitting position.
Nobody says no.
Slowly, slowly, I push to a standing position.
Nobody says no.
Slowly, slowly, I take up my cloak and my belt and my pack. I put on my sandals. I walk on silent feet through the door into the middle courtyard of the great house. I walk through the courtyard to the iron gate.
A gate-man sits on a stone bench. He looks on me with sleepy eyes.
I say, “I wish to see the king’s palace. Which way is it?”
He looks on me as I am some ignorant child from a small village. “There is no king in Tsipori since ten years. King Herod lives in Tiberias now.”
I make a big scowl on him. “Yes, I know, and I have seen his palace in Tiberias. But I wish to see the palace he left here in Tsipori. Tales tell it is a big palace.”
He makes a shrug as I am a fool. “Walk downhill. The king’s palace is in the lowest part of the city.”
I know that is a lie, but all I want is for him to unlock the gate. I grin on him and make a move to go out.
He unlocks the gate.
I go out and look all around. There is a pink glow in the east, toward the Lake of Ginosar. Home is that way by a walk of one day. I will not dare go that way ever again.
To the west, in the middle of the city, at the top of the hill, there is a fortress with large walls around it and tall stone buildings inside. That is the king’s palace. The gate-man thought I am a fool who will believe a king would put a palace in the lowest spot of a city. I will show him who is the fool. I lift my tunic and make a piss on the iron gate.
The gate-man shouts on me, “You! Boy!”
I turn and run away fast toward the city center. The streets of Tsipori are wide and straight and paved with flat stones. Rabbi Yeshua told me yesterday that he helped make some of these buildings, he and his father and brothers, for they live near here, only the walk of one hour to the south and east. I think Rabbi Yeshua means to go home soon. We have not been to Nazareth all summer, and I do not know why. Rabbi Yeshua says we will go to Nazareth when HaShem tells him to go to Nazareth. I think he means to do a big thing in Nazareth and is waiting his chance.
I was hoping to see his brothers soon, for they will be fierce warriors in the battle with the Great Satan. Now I will not see them ever again.
I catch up to an oxcart driver in the street and ask him, “Which way is the mikveh?”
He scowls on me and points with his chin toward the avenue we are approaching. “Turn south there and go a hundred paces. What do you need a mikveh for?”
He knows well enough why I need a mikveh. He knows I did a wickedness. I hurry ahead and turn left on the broad avenue. There are large homes on the left and right. A hundred paces up, I see the mikveh on the right side. I push on the door, but it is locked. There is a bench across the avenue, facing south. I sit and wait.
Rabbi Yeshua will be sad when he learns I am gone. I will not tell him why I left. I will not tell him I am leaving. I will just go. If Big Yaakov finds out what I have done, he will mock me to scorn. And he will tell my sisters. If he tells them, I will die of my dishonor.
I sit waiting, trying not to think of the wickedness, but it is no use.
Last night, when I dreamed, my soul went to Magdala. It wandered the dark streets. It found the house of that tax-farmer where we ate the feast. It searched all through the house. It found the room where the serving girls sleep. It found the girl I think on all the time, the big-eyes slim-waist girl. My soul looked on her with hungry eyes until she woke. She gave me lewd eyes and said she was glad on seeing me. She took off her tunic. She took off my tunic. She—
“It is a fine morning for thinking, yes?”
My head spins around. “Rabbi Yeshua! You … are awake early.” My heart beats fast as a hummingbird’s wings. My face feels as it has a bad sun-scorch.
Rabbi Yeshua sits on the bench beside me.
I wish to crawl down in some hole in the ground like a snake. He must see there is a mikveh just here. He must know why I have come. At least I can trust him not to tell Big Yaakov. But now it will be hard to leave without telling him I am going. He will wish to sit here talking with me. After I go in the mikveh, he will wait for me, and he will wish to return to the house where we are staying. Then the men will see my wet hair and my wet clothes and know where I was.
I stand as I mean to go walking.
Rabbi Yeshua looks on me with raised eyebrows that ask where I am going when my business is here.
I sit.
My heart thumps in my chest like a war drum. I think it might break my ribs. I think my cheeks will burn up with my shame. I think—
A clinking of metal.
An old man stands at the door of the mikveh with a great ring of iron keys. He finds one, inserts it in the iron lock, twists it around, and pulls until the latch inside clicks. He turns to look on us. He looks on Rabbi Yeshua. He looks on my burning cheeks. A crafty grin spreads across his face. He knows this is my first time to use the mikveh. He reads my face like I read a line from the Torah. “You are here for the mikveh?”
I cannot speak. My tongue is the size of a rat. I am frozen in my place. I cannot move. I will die from my big shame. If I could move, I would tear that mocking grin off his—
“Yes.” Rabbi Yeshua stands. “I had a dream on a woman last night, and now I am unclean.”
My mouth falls open and I cannot breathe.
Rabbi Yeshua takes a c
oin out of his belt and hands it to the old man. “For me and also for my friend after me.”
I watch him go in the mikveh. I do not know how this can be. Rabbi Yeshua is a tsaddik. How is it he dreamed on a woman? A tsaddik should not dream on a woman. I thought a tsaddik was pure in heart. I thought …
I lean forward, for I am dizzy with all my thinking. I am more shocked than I ever was.
Shortly, the door opens. Rabbi Yeshua comes out. His hair and his beard are wet. His tunic is wet all through. He smiles on me. “Blessed be HaShem, yes?”
I stand and walk past him into the mikveh. My feet feel as they are wooden blocks. I step out of my sandals. I take off my pack and my cloak and my belt and lay them on the stone bench. I take off my tunic and look to see where I spilled seed on it. I do not see it, but I must have spilled seed. That is what they say will happen, and that is why it must be immersed with me.
I walk down the steps on the right side of the stone divider into the mikveh. I lower myself into the water until my head is covered. I come up from the water clean. I wring out the water from my tunic. It takes many times to wring it all out.
I walk up the steps on the clean side. I put on my tunic. It clings to my skin wet. I take up my belt and my cloak and my pack. I put on my sandals and go outside.
Rabbi Yeshua has been waiting for me. He takes my hand. “We should walk and let the sun dry us, yes? I will show you a place I helped build.”
We walk for the fourth part of an hour until we reach a large stone house. Two stone benches sit across from it, facing east. We sit on the benches until the sun rises. We say the morning prayer. We sit again and wait for the sun to warm us. Finally, I make my courage strong to ask the question burning a hole in my heart.
“Rabbi Yeshua …?” My tongue refuses to speak.
He smiles on me. “Did Big Yaakov tell you some idle tale about dreaming on a woman?”
“I …” My ears turn hot. I nod my head.
“Did he tell you it is a wickedness to dream on a woman who is not yours?”
I cannot look his eyes.
“Once there was a man who went on a far journey. His donkey went lame, so he had to walk. He met a hungry beggar and gave him some of his bread and cheese. A big storm blew and delayed him. Two days before his journey’s end, his food ran out. He was in a desert place and could not glean from the edges of a field or vineyard. There was no town or farm to ask for bread. The man spent all day thinking on food and wishing for food. When night came, he went to sleep hungry. In the night, HaShem gave him a dream on a rich feast with figs and cheese and grapes and stewed lentils and bread and fine wine and a whole fatted calf. The man ate and ate until he could not eat any more. In the morning, he woke and knew it was only a dream. Do you know what he did?”
I stare on Rabbi Yeshua with my mouth hanging open.
He grins on me. “The man said the blessing after bread. He blessed HaShem for sending him a kindness, a promise of good things in days to come. Blessed be HaShem, yes?”
I think I am only beginning to understand what is a tsaddik.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Miryam of Nazareth
I am going home for one night! We spent three days in Tsipori. Yesterday was Shabbat, and we all went to the synagogue. Tsipori has a mighty synagogue, for it is a large city. They asked my son to read from the prophets and expound on them. He read it well and told some tales. Then some man with an evil spirit spoiled it all by shouting curses on him.
My son sent away the evil spirit, and now all the city knows Rabbi Yeshua is a mighty man of HaShem. He was busy all today healing people.
Of course, Little Yaakov and Yosi and Thin Shimon and Yehuda Dreamhead heard the matter. They work in Tsipori most days, and they heard the talk in the street today and came to find us.
They said we should come home to Nazareth.
Yeshua was too busy—there were many hundred people waiting to be healed—but he said I could go home to see my grandchildren tonight.
I said I was not sure if I should go.
Little Yaakov said I should come.
I said maybe.
Yosi said I should come.
I said maybe.
Yehuda Dreamhead said I should come.
I said maybe.
Thin Shimon tapped his nose and said his little son longs for me to come home.
I said yes.
I never thought I would be eager to go back to Nazareth, but now I am eager. Now I am brave of the village. I wish to see—
“Explain the matter of the tax-farmer,” Little Yaakov says.
I do not know where to begin. “Two months ago, Yeshua made a scandal in Capernaum and—”
“What scandal?” Yosi asks.
“They brought a sick man to be healed, but Yeshua did not heal him at the first. He told forgiveness to the man, and people thought he made a scorn on HaShem.”
Little Yaakov sucks in his breath through his teeth. “That is a bad matter.”
“Yeshua is a prophet,” I say. “HaShem told him the man was forgiven, so he told the man he was forgiven. That is not a scorn on HaShem.”
My sons say nothing, but I hear a big disapproval in their silence.
At last Little Yaakov says, “What has this to do with the tax-farmer?”
“There was a big scandal in Capernaum on the matter of telling forgiveness, so we went away from there toward Bethsaida. When we reached the border, there was a tax-farmer’s booth. Yeshua waited in line with the oxcart drivers as he had something to pay. Then he spoke kindly to the tax-farmer and asked him to come with us and help destroy the Great Satan.”
“Tax-farmers are the Great Satan,” Yosi says.
I do not know what to say to that.
“So now Yeshua has this tax-farmer in his army,” Little Yaakov says. “That is more foolish than I ever heard.”
My cheeks feel as they are on fire. “You should be glad on the matter. Mattai is the one who wrote letters all the summer long for me. Without him, you would not know what Yeshua has been doing.”
“Without him, all Nazareth would not know what Yeshua has been doing. Do you know how angry the village is on the matter?”
“I …” Suddenly, I cannot breathe.
“Do you know how angry we are on the matter?” Yehuda Dreamhead says.
I stop and look on my sons.
Their faces are red with their fury.
I do not know if they are angry on me, but I am sure they are angry on Yeshua. “Mattai is not a tax-farmer anymore. You should meet him. He is a kind man.”
“Kind?” Yosi glares on me. “He is a thief and a liar and a finger in the hand of the Great Satan. Do you think none of that matters, only because he is kind?”
I cross my arms on my chest and glare back on him. “Yes, kind. He wrote many letters for me all summer, one in each week, and never called me a foolish old woman. He bought papyrus and ink and reed pens with his own money, for a kindness on me. And he loves HaShem. When he was a small boy, he was strong in Torah. He wished to go to Jerusalem to study with a sage. He—”
“What sage would have a tax-farmer?” Little Yaakov spits in the dust.
“He was not a tax-farmer yet! He was the son of a scribe in Magdala, and his father taught him to read and write and even do sums! He was mighty in Torah already as a boy, and Rabbi Shammai wished to have him in his school when he came of age, only—”
“Rabbi Shammai?” Thin Shimon looks as he will faint. “Rabbi Shammai wished to have a tax-farmer in his school?”
“He was not a tax-farmer yet! I keep telling you, and why will you not listen? Mattai would have gone to Jerusalem when he became a man, but before that, his father died, and he was starving, and he agreed to do sums for a tax-farmer to put bread in his mouth.”
“Bread in his mouth.” Little Yaakov’s lips curl. “That is no good—”
“Hush, fool!” I stab a finger on his chest. “Your woman was once a zonah to put bread in her mouth
. Do you sneer on your woman because she chose not to starve?”
Little Yaakov’s face is stone. He loves his woman, even if she is only a concubine.
I say, “I like the tax-farmer, and you will not speak ill on him.”
My four sons stare on me as I am a dead woman.
I am still shocked to say such a thing, but it is true. I like the tax-farmer. At first, I pretended to like him so he would write letters for me. But then I saw he is kind and loves Torah and gives alms to the poor, even when no one is looking. I am only a foolish old woman, but he does not treat me as a foolish old woman. After one month, I realized I liked him. Now it is two months, and he is like a son to me.
I stand to my tallest height, but still I do not come as high as Little Yaakov’s chin. “Mattai is a good man, and he loves Yeshua.”
“If he comes to our village, he will be killed,” Yosi says.
I do not say anything to that. Maybe that is why my son has delayed to go to Nazareth. I know he longs to go there. We walked past it three times, but he never made a move to go up the hill.
We walk the rest of the way to our village in silence. My sons are angry on me. I am angry on them. The sun hangs low in the sky behind us when we reach the village gate.
The village elders stop their chatter when they see us.
We march through the gate.
Old Yonatan the leather-man hawks loud and spits the dust. He sings the wicked song he made long ago.
“Once there was an evil tale
An evil tale
An evil—”
I scoop up a fistful of dust from the street and fling it in his face. “You old fool!”
He gags and stands, retching in the street. He coughs and coughs and coughs. At last, he spits out something black. He wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic. “Filthy zonah.”
“You did not think I was a zonah when you tried to buy me many years ago.”
His face fills with hate. “I—”
“I thank HaShem every day that my father refused you.”
Son of Mary Page 41
