So one evening she climbed the ladder to the roof of this house, where she had been born, to pray to the Lord her God and ask for His consolation and guidance. The sky was the color of a ripe plum; the hotness of the little town had subsided, and there was peace under the stars, and a great golden moon shivered over all things, casting its yellow light on wall and tree and making intricate patterns of gilt on the ground. A cool wind blew from the mountains; there was a scent of jasmine in the air. Mary wondered at this, for the weather had been hot and dry and the flowers had withered. Then the breeze was full of the perfume of lilies and roses, rising like incense all about her. The moon increased; the mountains were bathed in copper, and the roofs all about Mary trembled with gold. She did not know why, but her heart quivered, and she held her breath.
Moment by moment the air grew effulgent under the moon. Mary stood, her hands clasped, praying innocently. A sense of portent invaded her. She could have cried aloud in her awed joy. She turned her head, and a mighty angel stood near her, brighter than the moon; his white garments drifted with flecks of light; his wings shed silvery sparks; his face was more beautiful than any mortal visage. Mary’s heart failed with mingled fear and veneration, and her lips chilled. She thought she would collapse there, on the roof. She made a motion to cover her face with her hands, for the angel flowed in radiance.
Then he said, very gently, folding his light-filled hands reverently together, “Hail, full of Grace! The Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women!”
Mary’s hands stood in mid-air, paralyzed at this greeting. Her head swam, and her body shook. What was the meaning of his words? Her breath caught in her throat; it emerged, finally, in a loud dry sob. She was very young; she had dreamt of angels, and now that one stood before her she was stricken with terror.
He said, in the kindest of voices, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found grace with God. Behold, you shall conceive in your womb and shall bring forth a Son, and you shall call His name Jesus. He shall be great and be called the Son of the Most High, and the Lord God will give Him the throne of David, His father, and He shall be king over the house of Jacob forever. And of His Kingdom there shall be no end.”
Mary, that young girl, could not speak. She looked vaguely and dazedly about her. It came to her that she was dreaming, and that in her meditations she was imagining all this. But the little city lay in its orange light about her, and the fragrance of flowers intoxicated her senses. She could feel the rough surface under her feet; the lightest of winds touched her young face. She was not dreaming; from the corner of her eye she could see that palpitating presence near her, and her heart quaked. She thought of what he had said. She would conceive in her womb, and she would bring forth a Son — Her head moved slowly and in humble denial.
“How shall this happen, since I do not know man?” she faltered.
The angel smiled, and that smile was like a flash of the sun, and Mary involuntarily stepped back from him and closed her eyes.
“The Holy Spirit shall come upon you, and the power of the Most High shall overshadow you, and therefore the Holy One to be born shall be called the Son of God.”
Mary moistened her cold lips. She thought of the prophecies of the Messias. She lifted her small hands and gazed at them in bewilderment; she saw the stains of work upon them; she saw the coarseness of her garments; she remembered that she was a girl only fourteen years old, the daughter of Galilean countrymen. How could one such as she be the chosen, and not a princess of Israel surrounded by trumpets and marble columns and perfumed fountains and attendants? Her numbed mind struggled with her reflections. She looked at the angel and dimly wondered why he should regard her, a little unlearned girl of no consequence, with such reverence, and why he should keep his hands folded before her as before a queen. Tears rushed into her eyes.
The angel inclined his head as if in the presence of majesty.
“Behold, Elizabeth, your kinswoman, has conceived a son in her old age, and she who was called barren is now in her sixth month, for nothing shall be impossible with God.”
Mary pondered. Then it was as though a large wave of light engulfed her, flooding all her being, and all was made clear to her.
In a loud and joyful voice she exclaimed, “Behold the handmaid of the Lord! Be it done to me according to your word!”
The angel bent his knee before her, and even while she regarded him he disappeared. But where he had stood there remained a light like the reflection of the moon, and it ebbed and swirled, mistlike, for several moments until it died away.
She covered her face with her hands and wept. She did not know if she was weeping with fright or with joy; they mingled in her. Her first thought was of her parents. She crept down the ladder, and then into the tiny house. Joachim and Anna were asleep; she could hear their peaceful breathing in the darkness. She desired to arouse them and tell them of the visitation. Her cheeks flushed hotly. Would they believe? Would they understand? Or would they smile at her with gentleness and tell her again, as they had done so many times before, that she had been dreaming? She thought of Joseph, her espoused husband. She had an impulse to run to his house with her strange revelation. Then her whole spirit recoiled. She leaned against the dark wall and pondered. She must go to Elizabeth, and at once. That old cousin, so strangely pregnant, must be the first to know. On feet that moved no heavier than a breath, Mary passed the room of her parents and went into her own small chamber, and there she wrote to them briefly that she was going immediately to Elizabeth, that they must not fear for her, and that she would return safely.
Alone in the sleeping city, where all slept but she, she left on foot for the long journey, without hesitation, feeling herself guarded and treasured. Never had she walked abroad before at night, unless accompanied. But every little street glimmered with yellow light, and she could see the clear tips of the cypresses against the moon and the soft movement of sheltering shade trees shadowed on the soft and velvety dust. She was filled with peace and surety. No dogs barked as she passed lightless houses. She lifted her smiling face to the illuminated sky and prayed. Once or twice, in her youthfulness, she skipped and ran a little pace. Strength filled her. How would she, without money or food, find her distant way to Ain Karim, in Judea? It was a journey of several days and nights, even when riding on the backs of donkeys. She only knew that she would arrive, that she was cherished, that no harm would come to her. With confidence, she left Nazareth, and the narrow road running south was before her, its gravelly stones sharp in the moonlight.
She walked a long time, without exhaustion, and met no one. Sometimes she saw sleeping shepherds on the slopes of the bleached mountains, resting among their sheep. She passed through a hamlet or two, where no one stirred. Black and barren hills pressed against the incandescent sky. She was suddenly thirsty, and looked about her at the vast and silent countryside; here the nearer hills were cultivated; she saw groves of olive trees filigreed in silver under the moon, and palms fluttering their fronds in the warm midnight air. Then she heard the tinkling of a little stream, and found it, running in gilt between black stones. It sang a small song to itself. She knelt on the bank and drank from her hands, deeply, and it was as if she drank strengthening wine. She reached up the trunk of a young palm tree for a bunch of warm ripe dates and satisfied her new hunger. Then she resumed her journey, singing softly, her child’s feet flashing from under her poor robe and the dust rising behind her. At times she could barely control her joy; at other times she pondered simply in her heart. All doubt was gone. Some pulse in her body beat strongly and steadily, and it was like a new and vigorous heart, and she wondered innocently about it.
She decided to rest, though she felt no weariness. She found a clump of cool oak trees and lay down on the grass beneath them, and was instantly asleep, curled like a sheltered child, her cheek on her hand. When she awoke the sky swam in scarlet and pearl and the ocher mountains blazed. She found another stream and washed her hands and face, drank of th
e water. She stepped off the road to a grove of pomegranates and eagerly ate of the fruit. She filled her pouch with two or three for later refreshment. She continued on her way, singing aloud now.
A few hours later, when the sun was high, a caravan came from behind her, a poor caravan of one or two camels and donkeys laden with produce for the towns. The men in the caravan, three of them, had the wild dark features of the mountains and remote places. Yet one of them, seeing her, instantly dismounted from an ass and without speech helped her upon it. It appeared very natural and seemly to her; once or twice she drowsed. When she awakened she always found the man’s browned hand steadying her. No one asked her any questions. When the caravan paused to rest, the taciturn men shared their bread and cheese and wine with her. They treated her with great courtesy. Their restless eyes held no inquiry, no wonder that this young girl, so fair and so smiling, should be alone and unprotected. They slept on the road that night, and spread a rough blanket on the ground for her. She lay awhile, listening to the complaints of the kneeling camels, the stamping of the donkeys, the distant howling of jackals. A small fire danced in the center of the camp. She fell asleep in great content.
And so it went. Sometimes the somber men chanted prayers, and she, on a donkey’s back, joined them shyly. And sometimes they would stare at her peaceful child’s face, and would smile like fathers. They would bring her gourds filled with cool fresh water; they would press fruit upon her. They passed through the savage country, and the few they encountered thought her a daughter with her kinsfolk.
They came at last to Ain Karim, that little village, and, as if they knew, the men helped her from the donkey and, hesitating, one of the men touched her warm cheek tenderly with the back of his hand. She wanted to thank them, but they waved to her and went on. She found her way to the home of Zachary and Elizabeth, a poor clay-colored house perching on a broken hillside among cypresses and other trees. It was hardly past dawn. Mary knocked on the closed door of the house, then entered. Old Elizabeth was already awake, busy at household tasks. She gazed at Mary in absolute amazement, then a great trembling shook her, and she held out her hands to her young cousin and cried aloud in a strange voice:
“Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb! How have I deserved that the Mother of my Lord should come to me? For behold, the moment that the sound of your greeting came to my ears, the babe in my womb leaped for joy! Blessed is she who has believed, because the things promised her by the Lord shall be accomplished!”
Her wrinkled face was transformed, her eyes kindling. She held out her arms to Mary, and the two embraced, like mother and child, full of understanding, and without questions. They kissed each other and murmured lovingly against each other’s cheek. Delight filled them; rapture misted their eyes. Then Mary leaned back against her cousin’s arms and looked joyously into her face.
In her pure and innocent voice ecstasy rose like a song. “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God, my Saviour! Because He has regarded the lowliness of His handmaid. Behold! Henceforth all generations shall call me Blessed, because He who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is His Name, and His mercy is from generation to generation on those who fear Him. He has shown might with His arm, He has scattered the proud in the conceit of their heart. He has put down the mighty from their thrones, and has exalted the lowly. He has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich He has sent away empty. He has given help to Israel, His servant, mindful of His mercy! Even as He spoke to our fathers, to Abraham and his posterity forever!”
Lucanus listened without moving on the bench. Mary’s voice had risen like a pealing of sweet bells as she recalled those days. And, as it had happened between him and his brother, Priscus, he wondered how much he had learned from Mary’s words and how much from a mystic insight given to him, through her own eyes and speech.
Mary’s face, as she looked at the sky, was vivid with joy, and she lifted her hands so that the palms were gilded with light. Lucanus regarded her with love and awe, this woman who had carried God under her child’s breast, and who had delivered Him in a stable. He leaned toward her. She dropped her hands and regarded him, smilingly, and he thought that never had he seen so gracious and noble a countenance, nor one so endowed with a beauty not of earth. He hesitated; then he took one of her hands and kissed it, and said, “Happy am I to have heard these things from your lips, Lady. I do not deserve this happiness.”
He gazed at her with reverence, and he thought, Truly, here is one who is without sin, who was born and who lived without sin, who has endured evil but has never been touched by it. She has known grief, but not guilt. She has wept, but not for transgressions of her own. She has loved, and her love was as pure as moonlight. She has walked among terror and sorrow. But there is no shadow on her spirit, nor uncleanness on her hands. Blessed is she among women.
“Only God can judge whether or not a man deserves happiness,” said Mary, gently. “You have suffered much, and He has brought you to Him.”
The shadows of the afternoon lengthened quickly; a hot and arid wind stirred the dust. The goats bleated. Mary stood up and said, “I will milk the creatures, and, if you will, drink and eat with me.”
“Let me help you,” said Lucanus, and both knelt on the crumbling ground and milked the goats, the warm liquid foaming into pails. Then Mary brought out dishes of bread and cheese, little black olives, a few small cakes which she had baked earlier, and a wooden platter of fruit. They sat in silent contentment, eating.
Then Mary began to speak again; she told Lucanus how she had remained with Elizabeth until the birth of little John, who from the moment he was delivered was lusty and full of bellowings, and how at the very instant John emerged from his mother’s womb his father’s speech was restored.
Zachary had lifted his hands to heaven, while his men friends came to him one by one and kissed his beard, in congratulation, and the old man cried aloud:
“Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel, because He has visited and wrought redemption for His people and has raised up a horn of salvation for us, in the house of David, His servant, as He promised through the mouth of His holy ones, the prophets from of old: salvation from our enemies and from the hand of all who hate us, to show mercy to our forefathers and to be mindful of His holy covenant, of the oath He swore to Abraham, our father, that He would grant us, and that, delivered from the hand of our enemies, we should serve Him without fear, and in holiness, and justice before Him all our days!”
Exalted, and full of the Holy Spirit, he cried out again while his friends stood about him, gaping and wondering:
“And you, child,” and he put his withered old hand on the head of the baby, “shall be called the prophet of the Most High, for you shall go before the face of the Lord to prepare His ways, to give to His people knowledge of salvation through forgiveness of their sins, because of the loving kindness of our God, wherewith the Orient from on high has visited us, to shine on those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace!”
Mary related how she had returned to her parents and to Joseph, who was greatly troubled. She told of her marriage to Joseph, and then of the decree of Augustus Caesar that all his subjects throughout the world should be counted, and of her journey, with Joseph, to Bethlehem. Faltering now, and speaking in a low and trembling voice, she told of the birth of her Son, of the angels who appeared to the shepherds on the mounts, who were full of fear on seeing the Star, and how they were led to the stable where their Lord was lying in His manger. Much of this Lucanus had heard from others, but he listened with the absorption of one who is hearing the story for the first time. For Mary’s sweet and ringing voice was like music to him. The hills about Nazareth turned to the color of ripe lemons, and the sky became golden above them, and the clamor of the little city penetrated now even to this poor and wretched street.
Mary was tiring; a pale shadow appeared on her smooth cheeks;
her blue eyes darkened with weariness. So, as the sun began to set abruptly, washing all the earth with a sudden fiery light like a conflagration, Lucanus stood up and again kissed Mary’s hand.
“Let me return tomorrow for a little while,” he pleaded. “I wish to know of the childhood of your Son. In the meanwhile I will find an inn.”
“There is but one inn in the town,” said Mary, her garments stirred by the evening wind. “And a poor one.”
“I care nothing for luxury,” said Lucanus. Mary accompanied him to the front of the house, and he was again struck by the dusty desolation of the little street, where goats wandered on the small stones and children cried from within closed houses, and vultures sailed against the burning heavens. Mary directed Lucanus to where he would find the inn. He went down the street and looked back at her. She lifted her hand to him and smiled.
The inn, as Mary had feared, was indeed abominable, a little crude house with an open well in the black-stoned courtyard. Lucanus was the only guest, and the host, an old man with a gray-red beard, greeted him with gratitude and showed him to the best of the four rooms, a tiny chamber with a rush-covered floor, a narrow bed, and one chair, and a lamp hanging on the wooden wall. Later Lucanus was alone in the wretched public dining room, but the landlord proudly produced some cold beer as well as wine, a plate of lukewarm and very oily mutton, half a boiled fowl, tough and streaked with yellow fat, some limp turnips, and a bowl of pomegranates, dates, and grapes.
Dear and Glorious Physician Page 75
