Son of Mary

by R. S. Ingermanson

  Yeshua says nothing.

  I feel as I am crushed between two great stones. The village always hated Imma, and why? Because she played the zonah with one of their men. They all know it, but she will not admit. If she would admit and tell who the man was, they would forgive. But they will never forgive if she will not admit. And on account of her sin, all our family suffers. Yeshua suffers. My father suffered. I suffer. And yet none of us ever speak on the matter.

  I remember long ago, I fought the five boys to defend Yeshua because I thought they lied about Imma. But they spoke true. Abba denied it. Imma denied it. But it is a fact. My mother spread her legs for some man of the village. Our grandfather forbade me to speak on the matter. He said one does not speak on a matter of shame on a woman. I was four years old—who was I to say no to the great and mighty Yaakov Mega? So I have kept silent all my life, even after Yaakov Mega was gone, even after Abba was gone. I should not have kept silent. I should have told Imma to confess she played the zonah.

  And now the village hates not only Imma but also Yeshua. They never hated him before. A few made a smirch on his name, but most thought that was a small matter, for Yeshua was only a tekton. But then he went out to other villages and made a big name for himself there, when his own village knows what he is. He dishonored them by not coming here to do mighty wonders. He dishonored them by not telling the kingdom of HaShem here. He dishonored himself by calling a tax-farmer friend. The village was angry on him a month ago when we left for Sukkot. Now Yeshua has come home, and they are in a rage.

  “What do you think I should do?” Yeshua asks.

  I shake my head. “You could beg mercy.”

  “I only did what HaShem told—”

  “Or you could fight.”

  Yeshua says nothing. It is like when I fought the five boys and he stood by and did nothing, and they kicked me in the underparts until my world went dark for my agony.

  I leap to my feet and begin pacing. “If they come for us, you will have to fight. Our brothers and I will fight, whether you do or no, but your men will fight only if you do. Our brothers and I are not enough against fifty villagers. If you do not fight, we will be killed. Imma will be killed. Do you want Imma killed?”

  “I want …” A shadow passes over Yeshua’s face. “They killed Imma already many years ago.”

  I do not know what he means by that. The village did not kill Imma. What she has become, she did to herself because she refused to confess her sin.

  I cannot see how to save him if he will not save himself. And now I think he will not. Yeshua will not beg mercy. He will not fight. He will not run. He will be killed.

  My only hope is that the rest of us are not killed also.

  “Rabbi Yeshua!” shouts a thin, squeaky voice behind us. “Rabbi, you must come!”

  It is that boy, that foolish little Yoni. I do not see why Yeshua gives ear to him. The boy is conceited and constantly prattles nonsense.

  Yoni arrives panting. “Rabbi, there are a few sick folk in the village who have come to ask help. One has an unclean spirit, and there is a boy who is blind, and another has a festered wound.”

  Yeshua stands and tugs on my arm. “Come see what HaShem will do, and then we will talk more on this matter.”

  He will kill us all with his kindness, to no gain.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Yoni of Capernaum

  Rabbi Yeshua’s brother terrifies me. His face is set like stone, and there is a darkness around his eyes when he looks on me. I think I interrupted some large matter, but that is not my fault. Rabbi Yeshua’s mother told me to run find him.

  Rabbi Yeshua smiles on me. “It is good that you came, Yoni. Tell me who it is that needs help.”

  I take his hand and we walk. I feel Little Yaakov’s hard eyes on my back, like an icy wind, but I am safe with Rabbi Yeshua. “There is an old woman named Hana who has a spirit of sadness.”

  “I know Old Hana the cheese-woman. She was kind to me when I was a boy.”

  “And there is a boy who is lately blind from the eye-fever. His grandfather brought him, a big man with a white beard, and his name is called Shimon.”

  “I know Shimon the baker. He called on me often to tell tales in the village square when I was a boy.”

  “And there is a man with a wound on his foot that festered. His name is called Yoseph, and he stinks like piss.”

  “I know Yoseph the leather-man. He …” Rabbi Yeshua’s voice breaks.

  I look hard on Rabbi Yeshua and think on the evil tale Yehuda Dreamhead told on the leather-man’s son. I think there is more than one tale to be told. I think this leather-man is a cruel man.

  Rabbi Yeshua smiles on me. “Yoseph the leather-man loves HaShem.”

  I do not wish to know all that Yoseph the leather-man did to Rabbi Yeshua. I do not like this village. There is a dark feel about the place. The village elders did not stand when we came in the gate. The women hovered in the doorways of their houses giving us angry eyes. I want to go home to Capernaum, but Rabbi Yeshua said we are to stay for a week and make the village glad. I do not think we can make this village glad.

  After a long walk uphill, we arrive back at Rabbi Yeshua’s house.

  His brothers stand out in the street waiting for us. The women must be inside making food.

  The woman, Old Hana, hobbles toward us. Her eyes are set tight and her mouth is made small and I think she is afraid on something.

  Rabbi Yeshua runs to meet her. He throws his arms around her and gives her a kiss and a kiss and a kiss. “Savta, what troubles you?”

  She weeps and speaks in a small, cracked voice.

  Rabbi Yeshua leans close.

  She speaks long in his ear.

  Tears grow in his eyes. He nods and speaks quietly to her. Then he lays hands on her head. “Go, you spirit of sadness, go!”

  It is as HaShem draws her face again, without so many sad lines.

  Old Hana wraps her arms around Rabbi Yeshua and weeps. It is what women call weeping for joy. I do not understand women.

  Rabbi Yeshua rocks her gently. At last he gives her a kiss and a kiss and a kiss. “HaShem loves you much, Savta.”

  “You were always a kind boy, and you have grown to be a kind man.” Old Hana looks over her shoulder at the village and shudders. “There are wicked lies told—”

  Rabbi Yeshua touches his finger to her lips. “Beware the Evil Tongue, Savta. HaShem loves our village.”

  “You should be wary on the village.”

  “I will be wary, Savta.”

  Old Hana walks back toward the village square.

  Her step is lighter than when she came.

  Rabbi Yeshua turns to the large man with the white beard. “Shimon, my father! Tell me what has befallen.”

  Shimon the baker does not smile. “My grandson had the eye-fever six weeks ago. Now he is blind in the right eye. Tales tell that you have healed such things in other villages. I have come to see if they are idle tales.”

  Rabbi Yeshua sits on a stone bench in front of his house and takes the boy on his lap.

  The boy is young. I have a nephew just his size, in the fourth year of his age. This boy’s right eye is vacant and lost.

  Rabbi Yeshua speaks quietly to him for a time.

  The boy smiles and grows calm and still.

  “Shimon, my father, please take dust from the street and put it in my hand.”

  Shimon the baker’s eyes grow wide. For a moment, it seems that he wishes to go, but he cannot leave without his grandson. At last, he pinches dust between his fingers and puts it in Rabbi Yeshua’s hand.

  “A little more, friend.” Rabbi Yeshua’s voice is kind, but behind it, I hear tears.

  Shimon scowls and adds more dust to Rabbi Yeshua’s open palm.

  Rabbi Yeshua spits in his hand and mixes with his finger to make mud.

  I remember he did this in Magdala, and the blind beggar was healed. My heart thumps. Shimon the baker will not be so rude when
Rabbi Yeshua makes the boy see.

  “Shimon, my friend, please, you will put mud on the eye.”

  Shimon’s face turns red. He stands frozen like some stone idol of the goyim.

  Rabbi Yeshua’s brothers gather close to watch. Our men stand farther back, for they have seen this before and they know what is to happen next.

  Rabbi Yeshua smiles on Shimon the baker. “HaShem says to put mud on the boy’s eye.”

  Shimon the baker grunts and takes mud and puts it on the eye.

  Rabbi Yeshua does nothing. He holds the boy quietly for the fourth part of an hour. Finally, he sets him on his feet and gives him a kiss and a kiss and a kiss. “Shimon, my friend, HaShem says to take the boy to the village spring and wash the eye.”

  Shimon the baker’s eyes narrow to thin slits, and his face turns black with anger. “And … does HaShem say washing the mud will heal the boy?”

  Rabbi Yeshua stands. He looks more weary than I ever saw him. “HaShem says to take the boy to the village spring and wash the eye.”

  For a moment, I think Shimon the baker will give Rabbi Yeshua the backhand of dishonor.

  Rabbi Yeshua says, “Shimon, my long friend. If you love me, please, you will do as HaShem says.”

  Shimon the baker takes the boy’s hand and tugs him away.

  I watch them go.

  They march toward the village square.

  Just beyond it, they turn aside.

  I think to run after them, for they went the wrong way. Rabbi Yeshua’s mother already told me the spring is outside the far end of the village.

  Rabbi Yeshua clutches my arm. “Shimon the baker is a son of Nazareth sixty years. He knows which way is the village spring.”

  The leather-man makes a clearing of his throat.

  Rabbi Yeshua turns to him and smiles. “Yoseph, my friend! Tell me your troubles.”

  Yoseph has a hard face.

  I would too if I had to wade in a tanning pool full of piss to knead hides with my feet. I would not be a leather-man for all the sweet-smelling myrrh in Arabia.

  Yoseph points to his right foot. “I stepped on some sharp thing in my piss-pool two weeks ago, and now the wound has festered.”

  Rabbi Yeshua leads Yoseph the leather-man to the bench. “Sit here, friend.”

  Yoseph sits and scowls on him and pulls up his tunic above the right knee.

  His leg is red and swollen from the ankle all to the knee.

  That is an evil sign. Six years ago, my father’s cousin had a wound fester in his foot. I saw it with these eyes. A spirit of death came in through the wound and filled up his leg and turned it red as a sun-scorch. After two weeks, the spirit gave him a dizziness in his head and a racing in his heart and a weakness in all his muscles. After two days more, he died of it.

  Rabbi Yeshua kneels before Yoseph the leather-man and takes the foot in his hands.

  Yoseph’s foot is filthy with the fouls of a tanning pool. At the base of the heel is an angry wound, ugly and festered.

  The smell of piss gags me.

  Rabbi Yeshua licks his own finger and puts it on the wound. “You wound, give up your evil.”

  Nothing happens for a moment and then …

  White pus squirts out of the wound onto Rabbi Yeshua’s finger.

  My stomach lurches inside me.

  Rabbi Yeshua wipes his finger in the dirt. He calls into the house, “Imma, please you will bring me a cup of water.”

  Little Yaakov sucks in his breath.

  Rabbi Yeshua’s other brothers look on each other with wide eyes.

  We wait.

  Rabbi Yeshua’s mother comes out of the house with a stone cup.

  She stops as she is frozen.

  She stares on the leather-man.

  She looks as she wants to run away fast.

  I do not think she likes this leather-man.

  The leather-man looks on her as she is haryo.

  Slowly, slowly, she brings the cup to Rabbi Yeshua.

  He smiles on her and takes the cup and pours water on the foot.

  I step in to see.

  All the festering around the wound has gone away.

  That is good, but it is not enough. The right leg is still red, still swollen to twice the size of the left. The spirit of death means to grow stronger and stronger until it kills Yoseph the leather-man.

  Now the rabbi will send it away.

  Rabbi Yeshua puts his hand on the thickest part of the leg. “You spirit of death, leave him.”

  Nothing happens.

  “You spirit of death, leave him!”

  Nothing happens.

  Rabbi Yeshua looks on the leg and waits. His eyes turn inward as he is listening. “Friend, HaShem says that at this time tomorrow, the spirit of death will leave you. Also, HaShem says …”

  Yoseph the leather-man’s eyes pierce him like knives. “Yes?” He spits out the word as it is poison.

  I think Yoseph the leather-man does not like Rabbi Yeshua.

  Rabbi Yeshua thinks long. “Ask me tomorrow, and I will tell you what else HaShem says.”

  Yoseph the leather-man stands and tries to put weight on his bad leg. He winces. A jagged smile creeps across his face.

  I do not understand this matter. His smile looks more festered than any wound I ever saw.

  A tremor runs through him.

  Yoseph the leather-man blinks twice and puts out a shaky hand to touch the wall. He sits again on the bench and leans forward, breathing hard.

  I think the spirit of death gave him a dizziness just now.

  Rabbi Yeshua says, “Friend, let me walk with you to your house.”

  Yoseph the leather-man shakes his head and puts his hands on his knees and stands up slow, wearing the look I used to see on the face of Yoseph the Rage.

  Rabbi Yeshua says, “Friend, take my arm.”

  Yoseph the leather-man pushes him away and limps up the street without looking back.

  All my belly is in a big knot.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Miryam of Nazareth

  We have finished the evening meal and welcomed in Queen Shabbat. The heat of the day is gone, and I should feel happy. But I am afraid. All the village feels tense as a viper coiled to strike. Nobody came to make a welcome on my son. Nobody asked him to come tell a tale in the village square tomorrow night after the going out of Shabbat. Sometime this week will be a big fight, I am sure of it.

  Yeshua wears the face of a man who does not know what to do.

  My sons’ women look like they wish we can run away fast and hide. Only we do not have anywhere to go.

  My sons look like they wish to fight, all except Yeshua.

  Yeshua’s men look like they wish to fight. Only none of them will fight unless Yeshua fights.

  Yeshua must fight the village. He has a big Power in him, only he does not know it. A man who can heal the mighty leprosy can call down fire from heaven to destroy his enemies. Elijah the prophet called down fire from heaven. He killed four hundred false prophets with one sword. Our village is no more than two hundreds. HaShem can kill them all with one blast from his nose.

  If Yeshua knew he had the Power, he would fight. When Thin Shimon puts the Ring of Justice in his hand, he will know it. He will see that the Ring was given for such a time as this. Like when the King of Persia put his signet ring in the hand of Mordecai, the cousin of Queen Esther, and Mordecai used it to save our people.

  “Rabbi Yeshua, tell us a tale!” Yoni says.

  A tale would be good, to help us forget our troubles.

  “What tale should I tell?” Yeshua says.

  “The tale of Father Noah and the big boat!” says Toma the boat maker.

  I like that tale, for it is a tale of judgment on wicked men. Today is a good day for such a tale.

  All our family and all Yeshua’s men gather around him.

  The stars are winking awake, one after another, tiny dots in the deep blue sky. A thin crescent moon hangs in the sky, for we are
three days past the new moon. There is no breeze, and I feel as a giant weight hangs over the village, waiting to crush it.

  “In days of old, wicked men flourished in all the lands under heaven,” Yeshua says. “Men stole their enemies’ gold. They forced their enemies’ women to spread their legs. They murdered their enemies’ children in the light of day. There was no judge to make a justice on the weak and the powerless.”

  He stops and his face looks puzzled, as he has forgotten something.

  “And there were giants in the land,” says the tax-farmer. “Our father Enoch wrote a book on the matter, how mighty spirits came down to earth and took women who were daughters of men and used them for a pleasure and begat sons, giants and champions and evil men of renown.”

  I never heard of this book Father Enoch wrote, but if it tells these things, they must be true.

  Yoni says, “The book of Enoch is one of the doubtful writings. Rabbi Yeshua, do you believe this tale of the mighty Nephilim? That sounds like a Greekish tale.”

  My son shrugs. “The first book of Moses tells also of the Nephilim. Do you say the books of Moses are a Greekish tale?”

  Yoni says, “But it is a paradox, that invisible spirits could use women for a pleasure and beget visible sons. It is not even a paradox. It is a foolishness. How do you explain the matter?”

  “What do you think, Yoni?”

  Yoni thinks long on the matter. “I think there are invisible Powers for evil in the world, whether I can explain the matter or no.”

  My son makes a big grin on him. “That is well said, Yoni.”

  I do not know what Yoni means by invisible Powers for evil. When my sons speak of Powers, they mean Syria and Egypt and Babylon and Rome.

  But I know there is evil in the world. I know there is evil in my own village. I know I am afraid. I know my only hope is that HaShem will punish the wicked. That is what I like about the tale of Father Noah.

  Yeshua continues his tale.

  I close my eyes, and I see the tale as it happens. It is here and now, and not some tale from far away and long ago.