by Ann Swinfen
The thought gave me a sickening feeling in my stomach, and my skin crawled as it did whenever Adamas contrived to touch me. What if I should be married to a man like that? What if I should be used like a breeding jenny, an animal useful only for labour and offspring? I wrapped my arms protectively around myself, deaf to my mother’s voice. We were taught that barrenness in a woman was sinful, an insult to Yahweh. A girl who did not marry and bear children as soon as she had become a woman was better dead, for she was tainted, cursed. A married woman who did not bear children could be put aside by her husband, or he could take other wives, or father children on her maidservant. But I thought I should not be able to bear such a life, to serve the appetites of a lustful man. I stood there, numb and inwardly shaking, until my mother finished at last.
I left her and went out to my usual tasks: the endless grinding of corn and baking of bread. Eskha was old enough to milk the goats now, but she would often slip away, and was nowhere to be seen this afternoon. She had learned early the advantages of being the youngest, and even the birth of Daniel had not imposed stricter discipline on her. I decided to leave the corn in the hope that Melkha might be shamed into helping, or at least set her maid to work. Instead I carried the low milking stool and the wide earthenware bowl to the pen beyond the goat shed, where the nannies were milling about, bleating in distress because their udders were full.
Milking is something I have always enjoyed. I laid my cheek against the goat’s warm side and sang softly as I began to pull. The goat stopped her crying, rested her chin on my bowed back in a friendly fashion, and relaxed, letting the milk down.
‘Do you always sing so sweetly to your goats, milkmaid?’
I looked up. Someone was standing between me and the sun. I pushed the hair out of my eyes and shaded them with my hand. A young man was leaning on the stone wall that enclosed the pen and smiling down at me. He was probably in his middle or late twenties, handsome and poised, with fine clothes and skin browned from much exposure to sun and wind, although he had no look of a farmer about him.
‘It calms them, if I sing,’ I said. ‘My little sister has neglected them and they were unhappy.’ I did not mind that he had heard me singing, for there was no mockery in his tone.
‘And who are you?’ he asked.
‘My name is Mariam.’
‘Mariam?’ his voice rose several tones in astonishment and he leaned further over the wall to see me better. ‘It cannot be little Mariam!’
There was something about his voice that I thought I could almost place.
‘You are . . . ?’ I asked.
‘Your brother’s friend, Yehûdâ. Back from my travels halfway round the world and back.’
Yehûdâ. Of course. But it was six years and more since I had seen him. Little wonder that I did not recognise him at once. Lifting my bowl of milk, I rose from my stool and the goat ran off. Another came butting at my arm, claiming my attention.
‘I must not keep you from your work,’ he said. ‘Is Yeshûa at home?’
‘Of course. In the workshop, with my father and brothers. It’s good to see you again, Yehûdâ.’
‘And you.’ He was looking me up and down now, taking in how tall I had grown. I was suddenly ashamed of the milk stains on my tunic, my bare feet, my wind-tangled hair. I felt myself reddening.
‘I am sure my parents would be glad if you would sup with us tonight.’
‘I would be pleased.’
He lingered, still looking at me intensely.
‘You are not married yet, Mariam?’
I felt my face flushing even more.
‘No.’ I did not care to say more on the subject.
He touched me lightly on the arm and turned away.
‘Do you still have that pipe I made for you?’ he called over his shoulder.
‘Of course.’
‘Perhaps you will play for me this evening.’
I did play for him that evening. And Melkha sang. She had a beautiful voice and could always be relied upon to outshine me, though I caught Yehûdâ looking at me with that same intense expression. It seemed that Melkha had seen something of Yehûdâ in Sepphoris since his return from his travels with his father’s caravans. He was now learning the less exciting part of a merchant’s business, managing the money and keeping accounts. He had been at his father’s Sepphoris house for some weeks before he had been able to escape (this was his word) for long enough to come to the family house in the village and take up his friendship with my brother again.
He stayed in the village for a week, during which he and Yeshûa resumed their old pastimes of fishing and swimming. I saw them often talking animatedly and wondered what they were discussing. At the end of the week, Yehûdâ courteously escorted Melkha home to Sepphoris and I did not think we would see him for a long time. And I found myself wishing that he might come again.
To my surprise, he returned less than two weeks later, and on the day of his return was soon in earnest conversation with both my father and Yeshûa. I wondered whether he might be trying to persuade Yeshûa to join him in Sepphoris, for my brother had about him that old look of restlessness.
Daniel and I were sitting on the ground under the fig tree that shaded our house, sharing a pomegranate. I had halved it with the knife I wore at my belt. With a small sharp twig, I speared the juicy seeds one by one and fed them alternately to Daniel and myself. We were both very sticky and very happy. Even now he loved best to be with me, though I knew that before long he would want to run through the village playing with the other children of his age. He still limped, and I feared that he might suffer for it. Cripples were not treated kindly amongst us.
I looked up to see Yeshûa standing before me. Yehûdâ was at the far side of the courtyard, apparently studying the distant hillside. My brother squatted down on his heels and opened his mouth to speak. I popped a pomegranate seed into it.
‘Every pomegranate seed, a lucky day,’ I said.
He grinned.
‘An old wives’ tale, but a good one,’ he said. ‘No, wait,’ as I prepared to feed him another. ‘I need to speak to you.’
‘What is my crime this time?’ I asked.
‘No crime. Good news. I think you will think it is good news.’
I cocked my head at him. I could not tell whether he was pleased or not.
My brother continued, watching me carefully.
‘Yehûdâ has asked our father if he will consider a betrothal between you. He went back to Sepphoris to ask his father’s permission.’
My jaw dropped.
‘Yehûdâ and me!’
Yehûdâ was rich, handsome, well travelled. What would he want with a girl like me?
‘You know he has always been fond of you. He even suggested it to me years ago, when you were just a little girl.’
I remembered suddenly a scene long since forgotten. Yehûdâ and my brother lying beside the river and discussing marriage.
‘He would not force you,’ said Yeshûa. ‘It shall only be if you are willing.’
I was in turmoil. Just weeks ago, my mother had lamented that I was unmarriageable. And I had feared I might be given to some rough stranger merely to breed him sons. Yehûdâ I had known and liked all my life. He was my brother’s closest friend. It was like a miracle, yet I had not even prayed for it. There was a sudden tightness in my chest, as though all the air was being squeezed out of my lungs. Then my heart gave a painful lurch, so that I pressed my hand against my chest, leaving a sticky patch of pomegranate juice.
‘Before you answer,’ Yeshûa said, ‘there is something else. For the moment, Yehûdâ is proposing a betrothal only. He knows you are of age to wed, but he—well, he and I—plan to travel a little, in the Jordan valley. There would be no wedding yet. Perhaps not for some time. More than the usual one year of betrothal. Would that matter to you?’
‘No,’ I said. Melkha, after all, had waited more than a year and a half, and I was in no hurry. I needed time to understand the
meaning of all this.
‘I . . . I accept,’ I said.
‘Then come and tell him yourself,’ said Yeshûa, springing up and pulling me to my feet, pomegranate and all. Daniel sat and stared at us, speechless.
‘Look at me!’ I said. ‘I cannot go to him like this.’
Yeshûa took both my hands in his, so that the pomegranate fell to the ground.
‘It is not the clothes or . . .’ he laughed, ‘the dust and juice that he will see. Yehûdâ cares more deeply than that. It is the person inside that he sees.’
He led me across the courtyard. My father was standing in the doorway of our house, with his arm around my mother, who had her fingers pressed to her lips in astonishment.
Yehûdâ looked at me in such a way, with such passion, that I knew in my heart what my brother meant. There surged through me a feeling for him that I had never realised was there, waiting to leap out and sweep me away, like a wave of the sea.
‘What is your answer, Mariam?’ he asked.
I held out my hand to him.
‘My answer is yes, Yehûdâ.’
He kissed my fingers and I saw from his smile that he could taste the juice on them. Then he kissed me lightly on the lips. I was not sure that he should do this, but there was nothing furtive about it. We were in full sight of my parents.
‘Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely,’ he murmured, with laughter in his eyes, and kissed me again, not so lightly this time. ‘Thy temples are like a piece of pomegranate within thy locks.’
I had to catch hold of his arm to steady myself, for the sun, it seemed, had made me suddenly giddy.
‘Thy lips drop as the honeycomb,’ I whispered, ‘honey and milk are under thy tongue. I would cause thee to drink of spiced wine of the juice of my pomegranate.’
‘My dove, my undefiled is but one. Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm, for love is strong as death. Oh, I am sick of love.’
‘Turn away thine eyes from me,’ I said, ‘for they have overcome me.’
Our betrothal took place the following month, in the kenîshtâ, in the presence of the entire village, together with Shim’ôn of Keriyoth, and Melkha’s family. After the appropriate prayers and readings from the scriptures, Yehûdâ and I stood before the company, hand in hand, and made our pledge. A betrothal is not a marriage, but it is binding in the eyes of both Yahweh and the world. It cannot be broken without documents of divorce. After the ceremony, we crossed the square to the feast, which was set up where Melkha’s wedding meal had been laid six years before. She had given me one of her dresses to wear, a beautiful deep blue silk, which Yehûdâ told me was the colour of the Middle Sea where the water is deepest.
‘It will reflect the colour of your eyes,’ said Melkha, in an uncharacteristic burst of kindness.
My mother had washed my hair three times before she was satisfied, anointed it with precious citrus oil, then combed it until it shone. Melkha’s maid dressed it for me with a string of large sea pearls from Greece, which Yehûdâ had given me as a betrothal gift. Nervously, for I had never before worn perfume, I anointed myself from a little alabaster jar Yehûdâ had sent up to my room, containing jasmine oil. It smelled of springtime freshness, far more to my liking than the heavy scents Melkha favoured. Holding myself as tall and dignified as I could, so that I should not shame Yehûdâ and make him regret his choice, I took my place at the mistitha. I felt curiously outside myself, as though one Mariam talked and laughed with the guests, looking suddenly beautiful and womanly, while another Mariam watched her critically from above, knowing that inside her a fearful girl was hiding, waiting to be exposed for the impostor that she was. At the same time I felt gloriously, impossibly, released. Not to be married to some disgusting stranger! Not to be left a barren outcast! Not even to be required to fulfil the obligations of marriage for months yet! I wanted to throw wide my arms and embrace the world. Surely, to be a betrothed girl is the most enviable of all states, when the promised bridegroom is as fine a man as Yehûdâ. Throughout the meal, I saw Melkha looking at him and knew that she must be comparing him with Adamas, who had grown more greasy and offensive with time.
Shim’ôn of Keriyoth had brought a troop of professional musicians and dancers from Sepphoris, who entertained us while we ate. One man played the kinnôr with a plectrum, another plucked and struck a pesanterîn resting on a stool in front of him, while a third clashed a pair of meshiltayim made of brass. Most of the women were dancers, but one beat the rhythm on a tôp and another blew the double hâlîl. The dancers wore little—nothing but floating dresses of transparent silk, so that every line and movement of their sinuous bodies could be seen. As the evening wore on and the musicians drank more wine, their music became wilder, so that it seemed to make the very blood in my body throb to the rhythm. At last some of the young men ran out into the middle of the square to dance in honour of my betrothal. Yehûdâ beckoned to Yeshûa, who laughed and jumped up from the table. The young men stood in a line, linked their arms around each others’ waists, and began to dance, their feet flickering in and out as they moved first to the left and then to the right, stamping and laughing and shouting. At the end of the line, my betrothed and my brother began to spin them around, faster and faster, in a great wheel, like a rope spun round in the air. Then suddenly Daniel dashed out to join the dance. I jumped to my feet, afraid that he would be crushed by the whirling mass of men as he limped into their path, but Yeshûa, who was now on the outside of the wheel, reached out with his free arm as he spun past and caught Daniel up into the air. Daniel flew past me like a bird, his eyes fierce with excitement.
I remember very little about the next few days. My life had changed so abruptly that I felt unfamiliar in my own body. Though I went about my usual daily chores, I moved in a cloud of citrus and jasmine scent which lingered on my hair and skin, compounding the strangeness.
What I do remember was the way the atmosphere in the house changed from the joyful—and perhaps relieved—preparations for my betrothal to a series of explosive arguments between Yeshûa and our parents. After he had run off during that long-ago visit to Jerusalem, he had come back home, lowered his head in obedience to his parents, and contained himself in patience, though I now know how much it had cost him. He would not leave without their permission, but he begged now to be released from his promise. The arguments continued for three days. In the end, I think our father would have given him leave, though he would miss his eldest son’s skilled assistance in the workshop, because he felt that Yeshûa would never settle to his place in the family and in the village until he had satisfied his longing to travel and see the world. But our other brothers grew angry, shouting that he would be shirking his duties.
‘A promise made is a promise to be kept,’ said Ya’aqôb bitterly. ‘You dishonour our parents.’
‘At twelve years old, I promised never to run away,’ said Yeshûa. ‘I am a man now, and I am not running away. I am asking permission of our parents to travel for a while with Yehûdâ around Gennesaret and down the Jordan Valley. I am not,’ he repeated, clenching his teeth, ‘running away.’
‘And who is to do your work while you’re gone?’ asked Yoses. ‘If I should choose to idle away many months, amusing myself, will you step into my place, and do my work?’
‘If you wish.’
The arguments went round and round in this profitless manner, but the most difficult demand for Yeshûa came from our mother.
‘I beg you, I beg you, my son!’ she wailed. ‘Do not go! Terrible things will happen to you—I feel it in my heart!’
Then she scooped up ashes from the hearth and smeared them in her hair and over her face. And tore her tunic, like one lamenting the death of a loved one.
Yeshûa could not hide his distress. He put his arms around her and tried to calm her, but she was beyond calming, pushing him away and crying out repeatedly that leaving the village would lead to his death. In the face of her lamentat
ions, our brothers abandoned their arguments and shambled off in embarrassment. I remained, sitting, as I so often did, withdrawn in my corner, waiting to see what would happen next. I ached for Yeshûa. I wished so much that he and Yehûdâ would remain in the village, but I knew how he longed to break free. If only I were not a girl, I would have been as fervent as he to escape.
After a time my mother grew calmer and drank a beaker of water my father fetched for her. She sat kneading her hands together, squeezing her fingers until the knuckles turned white. Yeshûa knelt on the ground at her feet, his head leaning against her knee, his face pressed against the fabric of her tunic.
At last, long after the night shadows had gathered around us, while the three of them sat in the small circle of light cast by the oil lamp, she gave a shuddering sigh and slumped forward, one hand on Yeshûa’s thick curls, the other covering her face.
‘If you believe it will break your heart not to leave us, then you must go, son, but my heart will never be at rest until you return.’
My brother knelt before them, and asked their blessing. They had forgotten me. I slipped away and climbed the stairs to my room.
The next morning, Yeshûa and Yehûdâ set off on their journey. They each carried a knapsack with a little food and a change of clothes, and I longed to go with them, for I had still never been beyond the village, not even as far as Sepphoris. This journey with Yehûdâ would be the first time my brother had followed his own wishes in all those long years. I was not sure then—and I am not sure even now—whether they had a definite plan in mind, or whether this was to be no more than a holiday, but it was to prove the starting point for all that followed, inexorably, from their setting forth that morning.
I accompanied them down through the olive orchard, where the scene of our many lessons prompted Yeshûa to say, ‘Don’t forget your studies while I am away.’
