Rachel’s eyes turned inquisitive at my revelation of being barren. There was only one way a woman could know such a thing. Rachel wanted to ask about the man who used to be in my life. She fingered my black shift and looked sly. There was no reason for a widow to go live with her mother’s relatives. If I had been married, why wasn’t I living now with people I cared about? With my husband’s relatives or my own father? And why did I wear no ring? I could see Rachel’s mouth grow dry with desire to ask. Had her eyes shown the slightest hint of sympathy, I might have confided in her. I longed for the confidences of women. I missed Judith’s sensible strength that gave such force to her love. I missed Hannah’s thin, quick fingers that knew how to ease pain. But Rachel’s eyes were cold and cunning. It was curiosity born of the chance that maybe she could have power against me. Maybe she could discredit me and be rid of me. So I stayed aloof and found excuses to leave the house whenever she came to me with that expectant look on her face. Perhaps I cheated us both. But the risk was too great to take.
Once I woke from a dream to find Rachel sitting beside me, watching, her eyes like a jackal’s in the dim light of the lamp. I rolled on my side and waited till she returned to her own bed mat. I told myself there was no crime in bad dreams. She could use them for nothing. Still, I began a regimen of barley soaked in curdled milk and a spoonful of honey before I went to sleep. Anything to stay the severity of those dreams. I don’t know whether those remedies helped or if it was simply the effect of time, but by my second winter in Uncle’s home, though the dreams still came, I suffered less from them, because after a dream I fell asleep almost immediately.
Or perhaps it was the mercy of the Creator that reduced my suffering. For I was not proud in asking Him for mercy.
I went to the house of prayer more and more often, sometimes twice in a day. Once when I was walking there, panic overcame me. It was as though I had lost something, something important, something precious. My arms ached to hold that something. I walked ever faster, letting my eyes search the side alleys. I ran. I had to find it or disaster would strike. But then the panic left and I knew again that Isaac was dead. I knew he lay quiet in the shallow grave beside his father. I walked slowly once again.
This house of prayer, though I felt compelled to go there, was not a place of pleasure for me. I never went when the Levites were there. I didn’t want to hear singing. I went at odd hours. I stood in the rear, and listened to the silence, and thought. When song is gone, when words are gone, all that remains are tears and silence. But I was dry as the land. So silence was my altar.
The house of prayer was a small place of worship, smaller than the house of prayer in Magdala. I liked its smallness. I wanted the world to be small and dark and safe. When I was outside the house of prayer, my breath was lost in the vastness of the world. But when I stood inside, I could almost believe my breath had substance again. I could almost hear it reverberate.
Though the house of prayer had become my private place, it was, in fact, the most public of places. Everyone in town came here not just to worship, but to exchange information. And try though I might to come when others were less likely to be around, I found myself inevitably passing through the doorway as a group was passing in the other direction. Once I became a familiar sight, they no longer ceased their talk as we passed. I came to hear snatches of conversation, snatches that gradually tantalized me.
My life until that point had been like a closed fist. I knew my home, my family, my Abraham. I wasn’t part of the gossip at the well in Magdala. I had heard when Herod Antipas built Tiberias so near to Magdala, yes; still the news meant little to me in my family world then. Now in Dor I had no real home. So the larger world crept up on me, sneakily, loosening my fingers, seeking my palm.
Dor was a coastal town brimming with Romans and Greeks, energized with the sound of drachmas exchanging hands. The spirit of the town was diverse. The pagans had their gods; the Jews had another. But everyone met amicably over trade. Or, if not amicably, profitably. This I learned from the talk at the well.
I changed my habits: I now went to the well when the most people would be there, just so I could hear more talk. I learned there that Dor’s successful Jewish merchants called themselves by pagan names like Phillip and Andrew. I saw Uncle’s aspirations in calling himself Thaddaeus. And I knew very well that he’d never realize those aspirations — for his business acumen was dull. The women talked of exotic foods in the marketplace, too. I never went to the market, of course. The hall of prostitutes was bound to be near there. But my own eyes witnessed the horses that the non-Hebrews rode, magnificent creatures, so much taller than the donkey of every Jewish household. Yes, Dor was a place of ambition and excitement.
But it was a place of discontent, as well. News passed from mouth to mouth, like shared bread. The Romans’ demands for taxes had grown intolerable. There was a land tax payable in produce or money. There was an income tax. There was a poll tax for everyone but children and the aged. And there was a custom duty tax on imports from each Roman province. Those who tried to avoid paying were imprisoned or flogged by the Roman military.
David, the tax collector for my section of Dor, was hated. He was a Jew; he held our history heavy within his heart, like the rest of us. He knew that before the Romans there were the Greeks, the Babylonians, the Assyrians, the Egyptians. Our invaders went back so far — perhaps forever. History had taught us over and over that periods of self-rule came to an end. Though the pagans who walked the streets of Dor lived in peace with the people of Israel today, David knew, like the rest of us, that such cooperation was transitory. So he had to know that working for the Romans now could come to no good end. Yet David bid for the job of tax collector. The highest bidder got the job and earned our hatred. The other bidders were forgiven and accepted back as though they had never strayed.
Now and then I’d see David at the house of prayer. Once I walked up behind him as he prayed. I moved on flat feet, with no attempt to conceal the sound of flesh on stone. Yet I felt stealthy. I had the sensation of stalking. My skin prickled. I was going to ask him if he came to beg for the Creator’s forgiveness. I was going to ask him what the source of desperation was in his life, for his acts were the acts of a desperate man. I waited for his prayer to end, when suddenly he turned and looked at me before I had a chance to open my mouth. He walked quickly past me, out of the house of prayer.
An enormous tension released inside me. I sank to the floor, as though my bones had turned to water. What had taken hold of me? I had almost talked to this stranger. I looked around. No one had seen. I stood up and smoothed my clothing with both hands. I touched the edges of my veil. No hair escaped from under it. I was a proper woman. I must behave always as a proper woman. Oh, yes, Hannah was right to have all her extra private laws about what colors to ban and how to wear veils. Nothing was more important than appearing proper, than drawing no attention.
At the well I blended in with the other women. I kept my eyes lowered and listened closely. I heard the history of Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor of Palestine. When Pilate first came to Jerusalem, he brought troops carrying army standards with images of the Roman gods. Pilate knew nothing about the Judeans he was sent to rule. He had never heard of our Second Commandment, which forbade false images of the Creator. Either that, or he knew very well precisely what he was doing — he planned every insult. Our people rebelled. They offered their necks to the Roman swords, preferring to die than to see our laws disdained.
Oh, how I wished I could have seen those crowds. I’d have cheered for the men. And, maybe, given how foolish I was four years ago, when Pilate caused that rebellion, maybe I’d have offered my own neck, joining with the men where women never tread.
Pilate relented and finally removed the religious standards. But that didn’t mean he’d learned anything. He was biding his time. Until just months ago, when he confiscated money from the Temple in Jerusalem. No pagan should have touched the sacred money. Again crowds gat
hered in that holy city, crowds of valiant Jews. Pilate sent his soldiers in with weapons concealed in their garments. At an agreed upon signal, they drew their swords and massacred everyone. The Jews of Jerusalem were decimated.
Fear radiated out from Jerusalem to every city and village. Anger followed. Even here in peaceful Dor the word on everyone’s lips was freedom. People were willing to leave much to Rome as long as they had freedom to follow the laws of our ancestors. But the Romans were too stupid or too mean or both. They denied us what they could so easily have allowed. In some villages our people couldn’t even buy meats slaughtered properly, so they ate only bread and vegetables and fruits.
Initially the higher taxes were to blame for Father and Judith’s not visiting me. For as desperation increased, highway robbery became almost a daily occurrence. No one traveled without multiple guards, and then only when absolutely necessary. Later it was the talk of rebellion that kept them away. The Romans took to stopping groups of travelers and turning them back in an effort to quell trouble before it began. I missed Father and Judith and Hannah terribly. I had my own private reason for wanting Pilate’s downfall.
And so the talk in Dor was ever more important to me. The men’s words turned to whispers now. I’d pretend to be tired and rest on the steps of the house of prayer, close to a huddle of men. But they whispered so softly, I couldn’t hear them anymore, no matter how hard I strained. I knew they talked of revolt.
My dreams turned to my own kind of personal revolt. After my nightmare each night, new and marvelous dreams came. I dreamed of Jerusalem, a city I had never seen. Abraham came to me. He spoke quietly, with the words of the fifth canticle:
I sleep, but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night.
I arose eagerly and walked the streets of Jerusalem without a veil and without fear. Abraham walked with me. He was not tall or beautiful or straight in anyone’s eyes but mine. He was my wonderful Abraham. He told the crowds that the scriptures spoke not of our history, but of the here and now, of how we, the people known as Israel, must live today. He said the lessons were there if only we would heed them. He said Pontius Pilate was a fool. He said Herod Antipas was no one’s true leader. He said we must care for one another, the infirm and the whole, side by side.
In the mornings I woke with Abraham’s words in my mouth. But I was not the Miriam I had been. I swallowed his words. I was a proper woman.
I walked by the beggars in the street, dropping a coin in every open hand I passed. But I never looked in their faces, I never listened to their pleas. They had nothing to do with me. Nothing moved me but the instinct for self-preservation. I was a proper woman.
I woke each day with no hopes of anything new and I went to sleep tired of body. My soul didn’t have the courage to fight. I was like the men on the steps of the house of prayer, full of whispers and sighs. I was like the women at the well, preaching only to the converted, getting nowhere. Revolt was no more in my real plans than it was in theirs. If Abraham’s uncle Daniel had died in Alexandria, his Zealot’s spirit was surely buried with him, for none I knew breathed the spirit of rebellion in the air of this world.
Rachel never stopped expecting something new from me, though what I cannot guess. Some revelation of my past, perhaps. Or maybe she was more attuned than I knew — maybe she could sense the source of my fits in the deep nightmare hollows beneath my eyes. She watched me carefully, no matter how mundane a chore I performed. And it was her careful watching that finally brought about the change I lacked the energy to bring about myself.
I was hanging the laundry before dawn so that I could go to the house of prayer early. Just the day before I had heard the tail end of a story about a man named Jochanan, who preached repentance and welcomed the despised of society: the tax collectors, the rough soldiers, the prostitutes, the cripples. I had to hear more. Oh yes, I had to hear more. The Pharisees of Dor, our most respected people, were planning on going to visit him. I wanted to know where this Jochanan was and what moved him.
As I hung each article of clothing, tension gripped my middle. If the Creator saw fit to ruin a woman’s family — unless shelter was offered to her, unless work was extended to her, unless the community protected her — that woman, any woman, could become a prostitute. Any woman at all. Any one of us. If the Creator saw fit to wither our limbs, to crush our spines, to twist our bodies, we, too, would be cripples and, thus, beggars. Any man, woman, or child. Any one of us. This Jochanan welcomed prostitutes. He welcomed cripples. Did he understand? Was there finally a man speaking the truth? My fingers worked faster and faster. I was crazy to know more of this Jochanan. When I finished, I pressed my face into the wet cloth of Uncle’s hanging shirt and breathed the comfort of damp air. In these dry days, damp air was as a treasure. My heart beat violently.
The sixth fit came. I knew because the knot in the pit of my stomach compressed my insides painfully to a small chunk of marble. The light was exquisite. I clutched Uncle’s shirt and in my spasms, I grasped the line. The clean wash fell, as I fell. In the dust.
• • •
I didn’t sleep, unlike in the past. I lay quiet, spent, with the realization upon me that I was, indeed, still Miriam the Magdalene, the infirm — that no matter how I closed my eyes to misery, it still existed in this world. The beggars were there; their existence did not rely on my acknowledgement. The world was out there and I was in here and every little thing overwhelmed me. I was powerless.
And then I heard Rachel screech behind me. “Shedim! Devils! You are possessed!”
I hadn’t pictured this moment, I hadn’t prepared for it, yet I found myself speaking with calm authority, as I stood up. “Rachel, call my uncle. Quickly. Do as I say.”
The fear in Rachel’s eyes would have wounded me if we had ever become friends. As it was, I was grateful — for Rachel obeyed.
I brushed the dust from my arms and hair. I must have thrashed more violently this time, for my shift was rent.
Uncle came outside, pulling his shirt over his head, dressing as he walked. His face was wary. Disbelief struggled with fear. “What is it, Miriam?”
“What Rachel has told you is true.” I paused, to let the import of my words sink in. My uncle’s face grew still. “I’m going away, Uncle. I will cause no harm to you or your family so long as you do one favor for me.”
My uncle’s mouth hung open. He had never bargained with devils before.
Rachel moved slightly behind my uncle. “What favor?”
The urge to hiss, to howl, left my jaw clenched. I could have slit my wrist with the useful knife tucked in my cloth belt. I could have sprayed their mouths with my blood and told them they had drunk of an evil that would live within them forever. But what use was there in venting my anger on their withered souls? They were pitiful. If I had any pity in me, none would have deserved it more than Uncle and Rachel. I spoke softly. “Send a message to Father and Judith and Hannah. Tell them I’ve gone south to live.”
Uncle lifted his chin. If he sent such a message, the money from Father would cease to come. He took a tentative step forward. “South? Where? Where will you go?”
Until that point I wasn’t sure. I had thought of running away to Egypt to join the Therapeutae, a celibate society. I had thought of going to Jerusalem to trace the footsteps of the famous Huldah. I had even thought of trying to live as a hermit hidden in Father’s valley. But now I realized I knew where I was heading, there was no doubt in my mind. When I was ten and the first fit came, I thought immediately of Qumran. The people at Qumran passed their days in prolonged prayer. They fasted and renounced the pleasures of this world. Those people would never take me in; I was not an Essene. But no one could keep me from the caves. And somehow I was sure that the caves themselves were holy. I would go to the caves at Qumran and live as a hermit. I was not brave enough to face the mise
ry of this world, but I would no longer try to live within society and deny that misery.
Still, my family, Father and dear Judith and patient Hannah, none of them should know this. They would only mourn my loss and my choice. They might even try to find me. “Jerusalem,” I said, speaking the holy name with reverence. “Tell them not to come looking, for I am traveling with my husband.”
“Your husband?” My uncle looked so confused that for a moment I was sure he was a stupid man. He did not know that the lie of marriage was the only way I could bestow upon my family any sense of peace. “Who is your husband?”
“Belial, the spirit of darkness,” whispered Rachel.
My husband. My husband was not of this world. “Listen to Rachel,” I said loudly. “She has seen what you have not. Tell them, Uncle. Tell Father and Judith and Hannah.” And then I indulged in an empty threat — for I had no power to truly harm Uncle and I never would, even if I could have — but he had the power to harm the ones I loved, if he failed to pass on this message. “If you care for your family, if you care for your son Samuel, do as I say. Exactly as I say.”
My uncle nodded slowly.
“He will,” said Rachel firmly. “I swear he will.”
I went into the house and changed into the best dress I had, the one Hannah had woven for me when I was only a girl. I would not go in mourning any longer. Abraham and Isaac had both been dead for more than two years. It was time to begin the rest of my life, whatever it should be. I gathered my few belongings, tucking my now heavy box of money in a drawstring cloth bag tied to the belt around my waist and hidden beneath the folds of my cloak. My quieted flute graced that bag, as well. The day was hot, yet I wanted that cloak to surround me, as though it were my traveling home, my tent. As though I were an Idumean, like the ancestors of the tyrannical and pitiless Herod the Great himself. I would appear formidable to all eyes.
Song of the Magdalene Page 11
