Son of Mary

by R. S. Ingermanson

  Our cousin, Fat Shimon, wrings his hands foolishly.

  All my body is in a big sweat. We have knives in our house. We have iron bars. We have hammers. That is not much against a mob of fifty, but it is something.

  We lower Yehuda Dreamhead to the bench in front of our house.

  His leg is bent at an angle I never saw. That knee will never be right again.

  Yosi sits beside him. Blood streams from his left foot.

  I pound on the door of our house. “Open!”

  The sound of an iron bar scrapes on wood.

  The heavy door creaks inward.

  Yosi’s woman stares out on us with huge eyes.

  I rush through into our courtyard.

  My woman and Thin Shimon’s woman have their arms wrapped around Imma, struggling to hold her.

  Imma’s eyes are wild, and she twists and pulls to break loose. “Where is Yeshua?”

  Uncle Halfai shouts on Fat Shimon to find weapons in our workshop.

  Imma waves a fist at me. “Where is Yeshua?”

  I know she will do something foolish. “Stay here. We will chase after them.”

  “Chase where?” Imma writhes like a rabbit caught in a snare.

  Fat Shimon comes out of the workshop with a hammer.

  I rush to him and tear it out of his hands. “Find more! That is not enough!”

  Thin Shimon says, “They took him to the precipice.”

  “Yeshua!” Imma rips loose from the women. She bounces off Thin Shimon. She runs out into the street. “Yeshua!”

  Thin Shimon staggers after her.

  I crash into his back.

  We both fall in the dirt.

  I roll free and leap to my feet.

  That boy Yoni stands outside with the others.

  Shimon the Rock hangs limp between two of them. He will be no use in a fight, and the others are nothing without him.

  My heart is ready to explode. I knew this would befall. They will kill Yeshua. They will kill Imma. And I alone am left to defend. With only a hammer.

  I run.

  “Follow me!” I shout.

  Imma is already fifty paces down the path, flying fast as a mother rabbit to defend her cub.

  I run like the wind.

  But Imma runs faster.

  Yeshua of Nazareth

  A big sweat pours down my back. The stink of the villagers’ rage fills my nose. Shouts beat on my ears like hammers.

  Two men walk behind me, twisting my arms hard.

  Yoseph the leather-man holds my beard tight, pulling me forward as fast as he can stagger. I see how his leg pains him, how he groans in a big agony, but his rage drives him on.

  It feels as we walk for many miles, but I know that the way to the precipice is not so far.

  Yoseph the leather-man keeps us at his quickest pace, jerking harder and harder on my beard.

  The Accuser shouts in my ears. ‘You have power to destroy these men. Call down fire from heaven.’

  ‘HaShem loves these men.’

  ‘HaShem loves you more. Call down fire from heaven.’

  ‘HaShem loves them like his own children.’

  ‘HaShem cannot love you both. If he loves you, he hates them. If he loves them, he hates you. Call down fire from heaven.’

  ‘HaShem loves all his children.’

  ‘HaShem destroyed all his wicked children in the flood. Call down fire from heaven.’

  ‘These men are slaves to sin.’

  ‘Then destroy them. Sin is the first Power. The prophet told that you must destroy the first Power or be killed. Call down fire from heaven.’

  ‘Destroying sinners is not the same as destroying sin. These men are my brothers.’

  ‘Then you will be killed, to no gain.’

  At last, we arrive at the stony field before the precipice. Here is where Imma played as a child. Here is where I played as a child. The sweat of my fear fills my whole head. I quiver in all my bones.

  We stop a few paces before the edge.

  The men tie my hands behind me with leather cords. They stand around me in a circle, all shouting on me for their rage.

  Shimon the baker gives me the backhand of dishonor.

  Old Yonatan the village elder spits my face.

  Yoseph the leather-man pisses my feet.

  All the men of the village give me the backhand of dishonor or spit my face or piss my feet.

  My heart breaks for these men, my brothers.

  Yoseph the leather-man pulls up his tunic to show his leg, still red and swollen. Now it looks shiny with sweat. “You said HaShem would heal my leg. You are a liar and a mamzer and a false prophet.”

  He drives his fist into my belly with all his force.

  I cannot breathe. Black spots dance before my eyes. My heart misses a beat. Two beats. Three.

  I stagger to one knee.

  I am before the Throne.

  All the Messengers are silent, staring on me. They call out to HaShem.

  ‘Avenge this innocent man!’

  ‘Make a justice on him!’

  ‘Destroy these evil men!’

  HaShem comes down off the Throne.

  I feel the Shekinah all around me.

  I feel the love of HaShem for me.

  I feel the love of HaShem for my village, stronger than fire, stronger than flood, stronger than fear.

  There is no time in the Presence of HaShem. It feels as many ten thousand years pass while I rest in the comfort of his Presence.

  The Throne fades.

  I am back in the circle of rage. No time has passed.

  Yoseph the leather-man breathes fast and shallow. His face is dark with the spirit of death and he looks as he will fall over any moment. He says, “Stand him at the edge of the precipice.”

  A dozen hands seize hold on me, forcing me toward the edge.

  I am three paces from the edge.

  Two paces.

  One.

  They have me circled, all screaming on me in their rage.

  There is Shimon the baker, whom I love like a father. I repaired his ovens when the tree fell on them.

  There is Yehuda the sheep-man, whom I love like a brother. I built the pen where he shelters his sheep.

  There is Hananyah the winemaker, whom I love like a son. I carved toys out of olive wood for him when he was a boy.

  Yoseph the leather-man stands before me, weak and shaky. His eyes are half-closed. He rubs his fist slow, gathering his strength.

  I see what he means to do. He means to hit me again in the belly. To drive me over the edge.

  I will fall twice the height of a man onto the big rock below.

  Then they will drop stones on me until I am dead.

  Yoseph the leather-man looks on me with the rage of a man who knows he has the spirit of death on him. He waits for the other men to go silent. “What do you have to say, you son of Miryam! You son of Spreadlegs!”

  I have a word from HaShem to say.

  I open my mouth to say it.

  But before I can speak, I hear the sound of a mighty wailing.

  Louder and louder, like an avenging spirit.

  Like the Messenger of Death that killed all the firstborn of Egypt.

  Imma bursts through the circle of men.

  Her face blazes with the wrath of the Accuser.

  She points a finger on Yoseph the leather-man and screams, “Die, you Evil Boy! I call on the wrath of HaShem! I call on him now to destroy you! I call on him to burn you with fire!”

  That is the worst thing she could say.

  Now they will not only kill me.

  They will also kill her.

  Chapter Eighty

  Miryam of Nazareth

  I fly down the path on wings of rage, clutching the Ring of Justice. My son refused it this morning. He put it in the hand of Shlomzion Lewd when he brought her back in the house. He will not refuse it now. He will use it or he will die. He will use it or I will die.

  I see a half circle
of men, just at the edge of the precipice. I hear their shouts of anger.

  Their anger is nothing to my rage.

  I scream louder than any woman ever did.

  Heads turn to look on me. Their faces melt with fear before me. They fall away in their terror.

  I burst into the circle in my rage.

  My son stands on the lip of the precipice with his hands tied behind him.

  The Evil Boy spins to look on me.

  I hate that Evil Boy, who is now grown into a wicked man.

  He smells like piss and sweat and rage.

  He smells like haryo.

  I point my finger on him and scream, “Die, you Evil Boy! I call on the wrath of HaShem! I call on him now to destroy you! I call on him to burn you with fire!”

  His face is dark with a mighty rage. “Spreadlegs!”

  I open my fist and show him the Ring of Justice. I put it on my finger. A thrill of power runs through me. I point my finger on him. “I curse you with the Ring of Justice! I curse you to die! I curse you to burn!”

  The Evil Boy screams.

  He falls to the ground, clutching his leg in a big agony.

  He tears at his tunic, pulling it up.

  All his leg is red like fire.

  The heat of it smites me in the face.

  “Fire!” he screams. “My leg! On fire!”

  All my heart fills with joy. I knew the Ring of Justice was a mighty Power. HaShem is judging the Evil Boy. I called down the wrath of HaShem on him, and HaShem heard my cry.

  The men of the village drop back for their terror. They fall on their faces in the dust.

  The Evil Boy screams and screams and screams, writhing in the flames of his torment.

  I feel glad of his screaming. I hope HaShem tortures him many days. I hope HaShem tortures him many years. I hope HaShem tortures him until forever.

  Yeshua turns and shows me his bound hands. “Imma! Quickly, you will untie me.” His voice is frantic.

  I look on what those evil men did to him. They spat his face. They pissed his feet. They would have pushed him off the edge if I had not come to save him.

  The Evil Boy screams again and again and again.

  I wish he would stop his screaming so loud, for it hurts my ears.

  I fumble with the leather cords that bind my son. They are tied with many knots of rage. I pluck and pluck until all the cords are undone.

  All the while, the Evil Boy screams and screams and screams.

  The screams of the Evil Boy hurt my heart. I take my Yeshua’s hand and pull. “We should run away fast.”

  Yeshua stares on the Evil Boy.

  “Yeshua, come away with me!”

  Tears run down my son’s face.

  I pull hard on his hand. “Run away fast, or they will hurt you again!”

  Yeshua kneels beside the Evil Boy.

  The Evil Boy screams in a big agony.

  He screams like Thin Hana, the iron-man’s woman, who died last year in childbed. Her baby was too big in her belly and would not come out, and the midwife could do nothing. Thin Hana screamed her agony three days and two nights until she died, while all the village wept. That is how loud the wicked leather-man screams.

  I am sick in my soul. There are some things too terrible even for the wicked.

  The leather-man’s leg glows brighter and redder than any log we ever put in the fire.

  The heat of it makes my eyes burn. My face sweats for the fury of that fire.

  My Yeshua puts his hand on the leather-man’s leg.

  His hand jerks back for the pain of it.

  He puts his hand on the leg again.

  Tears rush out of his eyes. “HaShem, forgive my brother! Forgive!”

  HaShem will never forgive. Never, ever, ever. HaShem is just.

  Yoseph the leather-man screams. His voice rises higher and higher and higher, loud as the cry of some terrible bird of prey.

  I think I will weep for the sound of it. HaShem cannot forgive such a big evil as the leather-man has done on me. Only … I wish HaShem could forgive it. HaShem would forgive if he could, but that is not a justice. HaShem must make a justice.

  The Evil Boy made me cry. HaShem has no choice but to make him cry.

  Tears for tears. A big agony for a big agony.

  That is what I always wanted, only now it makes a piercing in my ears. But HaShem must do it anyway. That is a justice.

  I close my eyes so I will not have to see the leather-man writhing in the wrath of HaShem.

  Another scream, more terrible than any so far.

  My heart twists in a big knot, and my eyes spring open. That is not Yoseph the leather-man’s voice.

  That is my son.

  Yeshua’s hand holds fast on the leather-man’s leg. His hand glows white for its heat. His whole arm glows white.

  Yeshua screams and screams and screams.

  I am frantic for my fear. I tear at his body, desperate to pull him away.

  He is heavy as an ox.

  “Yeshua!” I scream.

  My Yeshua’s face twists in a big agony. He screams again. His voice mixes with the leather-man’s voice.

  A sword pierces my heart. “HaShem, help us!”

  Yeshua screams again, a long rising cry more terrible than death.

  “Mercy, HaShem! Have mercy on my son!” I tug on Yeshua to pull him away.

  I cannot move him, no more than I can move a mountain.

  All my rage is turned to sorrow.

  I called down the wrath of HaShem, and he made a justice on me.

  Now my son has turned my justice into mercy.

  I fall on my knees and clutch my son to my heart.

  His arm burns with a blinding heat.

  I scream for my terror. “HaShem, forgive!”

  A bolt, bright as lightning.

  A clap, loud as thunder.

  A lightness in my soul, sweet as the smell of morning in springtime.

  Yeshua stops his screaming.

  His arm fades from its fiery brightness. It returns to cool flesh.

  The silence smites me like a hammerfall. The leather-man has stopped his screaming also. The leather-man’s leg no longer burns. HaShem has forgiven the leather-man his great sin.

  I breathe faster than I ever did, as I had run all the way from Mount Tabor. My heart thumps louder than the running of a herd of goats.

  Yeshua pulls back his hand from the leg of Yoseph the leather-man.

  The red is gone.

  The spirit of death is gone.

  Yoseph the leather-man is healed.

  His face is like the face of a baby. Like my son Yeshua when I nursed him as a newborn.

  All the world is a blur for my tears.

  All is silence for many thousand years of sorrow.

  At last, Yeshua stands. “Yoseph, my brother, HaShem says he loves you like his own son.”

  I never heard such a thick silence from the men of the village. They cower for their terror before my son.

  They should cower. There was never a man like my son in all the earth.

  Yeshua leans down to me. He gives me a kiss and a kiss and a kiss. “Imma, you look more beautiful than any woman ever did.”

  He has told me so many ten thousand times.

  Only I never believed him.

  Until now.

  He takes my hand. He takes the Ring of Justice from off my finger and puts it in his belt. There is a big sadness in his eyes.

  I do not understand the matter. We won a mighty victory.

  But Yeshua does not wear the face of a man who won a mighty victory.

  We walk out from the circle of men.

  The villagers tremble on their faces in the dust.

  All my family stands at a distance of twenty paces, frozen, staring on us.

  There is Little Yaakov with a hammer in his hand. His mouth hangs open.

  There is Yosi. There is Thin Shimon. There is my brother-in-law, Halfai, and my nephew, Fat Shimon. There are all Ye
shua’s men.

  Toma the boat maker’s eyes bulge out of his head. Tomorrow, he will say he does not believe it. Today, he believes it.

  Yoni comes running from the village, and his eyes are huge and gleaming white. “Rabbi Yeshua! I am afraid I did a wrong thing.”

  Yeshua looks around on all my family and all his men. “Where is Yehuda Dreamhead?”

  “He was hurt,” Little Yaakov says. “We left him at the house. You boy, Yoni, you should have stayed with him.”

  Yeshua walks swiftly toward the village. “What wrong thing did you do, Yoni?”

  I run fast to keep up with my son.

  Yoni runs fast to keep up with us both. “I … did what I have seen you do many ten thousand times, Rabbi Yeshua. I laid my hands—”

  A shout from far up the path.

  The dust of someone walking.

  A large man is coming this way.

  My son Yehuda Dreamhead is walking this way.

  My son Yehuda Dreamhead is running this way.

  My heart shouts for joy within me.

  But Yeshua walks heavy beside me. He thinks I have done a wrong thing.

  I did a right thing. I saved him with the Ring of Justice.

  I proved the Ring of Justice is a mighty Power in the world.

  But I did not get all my justice. I cursed the Evil Boy, but only him. There is still the rest of the village.

  Now Yeshua knows the Power of the Ring of Justice. He should tell a judgment on the whole village, every man, every woman, every child who was cruel on me.

  If he does not see that, he is a fool and a simple.

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Yoni of Capernaum

  I wake in the night, thinking I heard some noise.

  I listen with my biggest ears.

  I do not hear a noise.

  It is nothing. I should sleep more. Today was a day of terror. They would have killed Rabbi Yeshua at the precipice, only he did a mighty wonder at the last moment, and put them all on their faces in the dust. I wish I could have seen it, but it took me long to heal his brother. By the time I got there, Rabbi Yeshua did not need my help.

  I think the matter would have gone better with my advice, but I will not say so, or Little Yaakov will make a big scowl on me, and Big Yaakov will tell my mother to box my ears when we get home.