“Paulina!” I yanked her arm hard and pulled her forward. “Shut up! We’ve got to catch up with Dido.”
The procession could hardly be called that anymore. We were part of a human flood roiling towards the docks. The voices of our number were scattered and ragged, lost in a gathering roar. Then a frightening silence fell. I put an arm around Paulina’s neck, clamping my hand over her mouth, and dragged her with me as I squeezed to the front of the crowd that had come to a stop just before the docks. And I saw:
Standing arrayed in clean white robes and blocking our way to the boats stood all the chief apostles with Peter and James at the center. Ma and Reginus had stopped before them (it was so quiet you could hear her humming) and Dido and Berta, like me, hurried to join them. At last the Temple Magdalen priestesses and the apostles faced each other.
Now that the moment of confrontation had come, no one knew what to do. On the docks and in the boats the fishermen waited to see what would happen. They were as clueless as the rest of us and their divided loyalties were deadlocked. All the men, Jewish and otherwise, had known Peter and Andrew their whole lives. Peter was well-liked and respected. Though at first they thought Peter was crazy to go traipsing off with a healer-exorcist from the hill country who didn’t know one end of a boat from the other, many had come to love Jesus, too. When Peter was away, the fishermen watched out for his son, who would soon be apprenticing on a boat.
On the other hand, many of the men—yes, some of the Jews, too—had known nights of ecstasy at Temple Magdalen. We were also widely respected as healers, and we were always generous with food when times were hard. Fishermen, like all people who have to earn their living and risk their lives out in the elements, are superstitious, if you want to call it that. They want to stay on the good side of whatever powers there might be. Yahweh could say what he liked about being the only god; deep down in their bones where the marrow stormed, the fishermen knew better. Maybe Yahweh appointed the sea its limit, but Isis ruled the waves. Stella Marina, Star of the Sea. One of the many titles my mother-in-law inherited from her.
Speaking of whom, I have to tell you: in my opinion, it was good old Ma, aka the Ever Blessed Virgin Mary, who tipped the teeter-totter and sent it crashing down on the side of mayhem.
“Tra la la,” she suddenly sang; that’s a translation from the Aramaic, of course, but that’s the gist. “Tra la la la la la la.”
She started davening back and forth back and forth, and then, without warning, she slipped her hands between Peter and James’ shoulders and parted them the way the prow of a ship parts the waves. Before they could react, she slipped through and headed towards the boats singing, Tra la la, as she went. James recovered first.
“Wife of my father’s bosom and mother whom I love as my own, whither do you think you are going. I must with all due respect and remembering my obligation to honor you always, request you to cease your hasty steps and return unto me.”
“Oh, James,” she called over her shoulders. “I’m just going to bless some boats, for Isis’s sake!”
“Don’t just stand there!” Peter gave James a shove. “In Jesus’s name, stop her!”
After that, everything happened very quickly. Reginus, blonde wig and pink tunic notwithstanding, remembered he was our only male protector. (Timothy had stayed at Temple Magdalen with Judith.) He did his best to barrel through the apostle’s ranks and go to Ma’s aid. At which point the apostles lost it. You couldn’t beat up on the Savior’s mother, even if she had been kidnapped and contaminated by a bunch of whores, but a drag queen was then, and alas still is, fair game. So all the bullyboys piled on him. Before I could think what to do, Paulina broke from my grasp and flung herself into the brawl.
“Take your filthy fish-stinking handsh off my property!” she screamed, for in her drunken state she had apparently forgotten that she had freed Reginus more than a decade ago. “Nobody beatsh my slaves but me. I’ll have you all arreshted. Guardsh!”
The last thing I remember clearly is catching Dido’s eyes and exchanging looks of helplessness and horror before we were both swept up in a full-scale riot. The fishermen leapt from their boats (leaving Ma to tra la la the blessings of Isis by herself) and jumped into the fighting, not much caring which side they were on. The whores, having no way out, joined the fray, and we flung ourselves on the apostles, trying to pull them off Reginus, who was managing to do a fair amount of damage with his long, manicured nails before they broke. After that everyone just kept swinging blindly. As always in a riot, vendors suffered. Stalls were crashed into, overturned, produce and fish flying through the air. More than one person ended up in the lake. That no one was killed at the riot of Magdala is one of the lesser known posthumous miracles of my beloved—and I will take some credit for it, since I prayed my way through the fight: Jesus H motherfucking Christ get us out of here alive. Or words to that effect in all the languages I knew.
I would like to be able to tell you that Jesus appeared unto us, perhaps sauntering across the Sea of Galilee inviting everyone to give walking on water a try. It would make a better story. But since he left, my beloved tends to answer prayers in mundane ways, if possible, using the material at hand. So the agent of divine intervention turned out to be Lucius with a few Roman soldiers who dispersed the crowds with practiced efficiency, a humiliating conclusion for all. Especially the apostles. No one on either side was arrested or punished (despite Paulina’s shrill demands) so instead of feeling like victors and/or martyrs, everyone just felt like fools.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WHEN TWO ARE GATHERED
WE ALL LIMPED BACK to our respective camps, so to speak, and instead of partying, we spent the day bandaging wounds, binding sprains, salving bruises, and setting the odd broken bone. Every now and then one of us would go up to the tower to see how the Followers of the Way were faring. If we had any hopes they would decamp to Capernaum where Peter and some of the others had families, we were soon disappointed. Though a few had fallen away, the stalwarts remained. Nor did they suffer silently; they moaned and prayed loudly, and I recognized some of the more lugubrious of David’s psalms.
I am worn out with groaning,
every night I drench my pillow
and soak my bed with tears.
My eyes waste away with vexation.
Arrogance from all my foes!
Away from me, all evil-doers!
For Yahweh has heard the sound of my weeping,
Yahweh has heard my pleading.
Yahweh will accept my prayer.
Let all my enemies be put to confusions,
shaken to their depths,
let them retreat in sudden confusion.
Needless to say, when Judith went out and offered our “enemies” clean bandages and flagons of wine infused with hyssop, she was turned away. Nothing had been resolved by the fracas at the docks; no one had prevailed, and no one had given up. We were still in a state of siege, the day’s events having done nothing more than break up the monotony.
No, that’s not true: Our custom, which had already fallen off, now seemed to have dried up completely. Night was falling and not one god-bearing stranger sought our gate. The conflict was costing us not only our livelihood but our vocation, our mystery, our service to our goddess, our embodiment of her. It was costing too much.
And I was the one responsible.
Something had to give; someone had to give. As I sat on the roof nursing Sarah to sleep and watching the stars come out, I knew what I had to do—or at least attempt. Now that idea had come to me I could hardly believe I hadn’t tried it before.
I got up and went to look for Ma, the person least likely to ask me where I was going or what I was doing. She was also the only one of us without cuts and bruises and who was not busy feeding or tending others. I found her by the spring, spinning with a drop spindle. (You mustn’t think she was entirely useless in the domestic arts.)
“Watch Sarah for me for a while?”
Sh
e put down the spindle at once and reached for the baby, making low whirring dove noises in her throat.
“She’s asleep,” I said a bit sharply.
Ma ignored me completely.
“Don’t tell anyone where I’m going,” I said.
“I don’t know where you’re going, Maeve of Magdala.”
“Keep it that way,” I said.
And before anyone else could stop me or question me, I slipped into the caves, went to the clothes chests, put on all the black clothing I could find (I hadn’t been wearing widow weeds since returning to the Temple), and with my hair and face covered, I slipped out the gates and into the enemy camp.
“Peter,” I whispered, coming up behind him.
I had followed him when he wandered away from his camp, silently as only someone can who has been raised by witches and taught by druids in sacred oak groves. Now I had him cornered, so to speak, as he stood at the end of a little spit of land, pissing in the general direction of the lake. Unless he took off across the water (a miracle he never did get the hang of) he would have to face me. In fact, he whirled around so quickly, he spattered me a bit. I guess I should have given him a little more time.
“Who the hell—”
Not the sort of language you expect to hear from the first pope? Look, the man was a fisherman before he was a fisher of men, and he may have laid down his nets, but he didn’t lay down his whole salty (or rather freshwater) vocabulary.
“It’s me,” I said, not very helpfully, considering it was a moonless night and I was swathed head to toe in black.
“Me who?” he said, but I could tell now he was stalling.
“Your enemy,” I answered. “You know, as in Love Your Enemy.”
“Mary,” he said, more in desperation than anger.
“That’s right, the Whore of Magdala.”
“Mary, I’m sorry, I—”
“Oh, stow it, Peter. Do you think I care if anyone calls me a whore? Although I did think prophesying that I would be eaten by dogs was a bit over the top. And comparing me to Jezebel is not very original.”
“Did someone do that? You know, I wasn’t there for that part. I was—”
“At the docks preparing to start a riot. Come on, Peter. At least have the courage of your convictions. They’re your followers. It’s your damn ecclesia.”
“No, it’s not, Mary. They’re his followers. It’s his ecclesia. Jesus’s, my lord, your lord, whom you have abandoned and betrayed.”
Oh, yeah? And who denied him after he was arrested, ran away when he crucified? I bit back the words. I wasn’t here to fight with Peter. I was on a peacemaking mission, and I’d better get on with it.
“Peter, we have to talk.”
I reached out my hand to him, and he must have sensed it, for he jumped back and nearly ended up in the lake.
“Sorry, I keep forgetting I’m unclean. Can we go sit down somewhere? I promise I won’t get too close.”
“Mary, unless you have come to repent and receive baptism in Jesus’s name and marry James or unless you are willing to give us the child, I have nothing to say to you.”
I was silent for a moment, taking time to consider my next move. For Peter couldn’t get past me without danger of my touching him and rendering him unclean.
“But I have things to say to you, Peter,” I said at length. “In Jesus’s name, I ask you sit down with me, to pray with me. In Jesus’s name.”
In the darkness I could feel him yielding at this invocation of the Name.
“Very well.”
Walking away from where Peter had wet the rocks by the water, we sat down on a large flat stone, big enough to accommodate us both with a safe distance between us.
“Jesus,” I pressed my advantage and began praying first. “You told us that whenever two or three gather in your name, you are with us. So we know you are here now, with Peter and me.”
I paused, and in the close, soft night, I knew the words were true, Jesus’s words, my words. I could feel him sitting between Peter and me, closing the chasm between us, loving us both. I knew Peter sensed his presence, too. I could hear him weeping.
“Jesus,” I went on. “We love you, Peter and I, but we have become enemies. We have hurt each other. For that, we ask forgiveness.”
“Forgive me, Lord,” sniffled Peter. “Forgive me.”
“Jesus,” I cut to the chase. “Show us a way out of this mess. And to use your own prayer: please ‘don’t put us to the test’ by asking more of either of us than we can give.”
And I think you know what I mean by that, beloved, I added silently.
“Lord, Lord,” Peter was just getting started. “You said your yoke is easy and your burden is light, but sometimes it feels so heavy, Lord. I am doing my best to tend your flock, to feed your sheep, as you told me to do. As a matter of fact, I feed them quite a lot, but they keep wandering astray.”
I had to bite my hand to keep from laughing at the image of fat, errant sheep driving poor Peter to distraction.
“And this woman, some people don’t even think she is a sheep. Is she, Lord? We know you loved her and forgave her manifold sins and wickednesses. But frankly, we still don’t get your point. Your ways are mysterious to us. So what am I do to about her now? Lord, she has your child, and she won’t give it up, and she won’t marry your brother, either, which frankly, Lord, I can sort of understand. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about James…”
“Peter,” I interrupted. “Stick to the point.”
“Oh, all right. If things go on much longer this way, someone is likely to get killed, Lord, and while we’re in Galilee, the other Mary has way too free a hand in Jerusalem, and she’s—”
“Peter! How about we let Jesus talk now.”
“All right, and Lord, I do agree with her on one thing: Show us a way out of this mess.”
“A-men.”
Miraculously, Peter shut up, and we sat in silence, listening to the lapping of waves at the shore, both of us leaning against the invisible, palpable presence of Jesus, so that our heads and shoulders almost touched.
Talk to me, cariad, talk to me.
But I heard no words. Instead I saw a picture of a little girl, scrambling up a steep rocky incline after some mountain goats—a barefoot girl in much mended clothes with long thick braids coming undone. At first I didn’t know who she was, and then she turned her face, and I saw: it was Sarah, my own sweet, dark-skinned, golden-eyed Sarah at about six years old. For the first time I saw something of myself in her, maybe just in the way she moved, how free and wild she was, rambling around on her own, just as I had on Tir na mBan. Where was she?
The only answer that came to me was a feeling—of relief mixed with sadness and another feeling: loneliness. But it wasn’t Sarah who was lonely. It was…me.
“Are you sure, Lord?” Peter spoke aloud, and my vision vanished. “I don’t see how…well, if you say so.”
I listened in on Peter’s side of the conversation, but I could not hear Jesus.
“You want me to say that to her? Now? Oh, Lord, must I? Yes, yes, I know I asked you to get us out of this mess. Yes, you know I love you, Lord, yes. All right, all right, she’s a dove not a sheep. I understand. No, you’re right I don’t understand, but it doesn’t matter. Lord, Lord, don’t leave me; please don’t leave me alone with her. Yes, I know, you’re with me. You’re with her, too. All right, if you say so. Lord? Lord! Lord.”
Then Peter was silent again, muffling his sobs with his hands. Maybe it strikes you as strange, but I ached to put my arms around him. He loved Jesus, too; he was lonely, too. How I wished we could comfort each other.
“Peter dear,” I tried to touch him with my voice. “I’m so sorry. I miss him, too.”
“I know,” Peter sobbed. “I know.”
And I wept, too. Parallel mourning.
“Mary?” he spoke at last. “He told me to let you go. To let you go away. Free.”
“Away?” I repeated, and I saw a
gain the wild, mountainous place, the harsh blue sky, so different from the soft diffuse light here by the Sea of Galilee.
“It would never be safe for you here. Never be safe for…”
“Sarah,” I spoke her name to him for the first time.
“Sarah,” Peter repeated. “You and the child have to disappear. Before Purim, and I have to prove to the others that you are gone and take them back to Jerusalem or, or they might, they might do violence to, to your temple. He…he doesn’t want that.”
Of course he doesn’t, I didn’t say aloud. Temple Magdalen opened its gates and took him in, a naked man, near dead, when no one else would. But there was no point in rubbing it in.
“Will you do as he says and go? Far away, telling no one where you are?”
“Yes, Peter” was all I could manage.
We were silent for a time, each pondering what we must sacrifice. Jesus had heard my prayer. He had not put me to the test I would have failed. He had not asked me to give up Sarah.
“Mary,” he said at length. “You must never come back. Never. You don’t exist anymore. Do you understand? Jesus has no wife. No child. We will talk only of him now, of his teachings, his miracles, his saving grace, his coming again.”
“Did Jesus tell you to do that? Did Jesus tell you to take me out of the story?”
I heard the voice of Old Nissyen the druid: They can’t hear your story, Maeve. It is not the story they are telling themselves.
“Peter!” I prompted when he would not answer. “Did Jesus tell you to deny me?”
Still he would not answer, and so I had my answer.
“Mary,” he finally spoke, “he gave me charge over his flock. I have to do what is best for them.”
The bloody sheep again, bleating away and shitting their hindquarters.
“I have to protect them.”
“Protect them from the truth?”
“Protect them from you.”
For a moment I was furious, and then all at once, I saw: I had a choice, just as Mary B had insisted all along. I had made a choice. I could have stayed with the Ecclesia and fought for my story of Jesus to prevail. No, not his story: our story, the story of the human and divine lovers. Or I could take our daughter and run.
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