Mary of Nazareth (23 page)

“Mariamne!”

         

“
Y
OUR
hair!” Mariamne cried. “Why did you cut it?”

Rekab, his eyes bright, looked at Miriam with emotion and astonishment, while, behind them, Joseph and the brothers tried to calm the crowd, assuring them over and over that the treatments would be resumed.

“How thin you are!” Mariamne said in surprise, hugging Miriam to her. “I can feel your bones through the tunic…What's happening here? Don't they feed you?”

Miriam laughed. She quickly drew them both into the women's courtyard, where Ruth was waiting, with a frown on her face and her fists on her hips. She made a sign to Rekab to come into the handmaids' kitchen and have something to eat.

“Take advantage before these madmen steal all our reserves,” she said, grouchily.

In the main courtyard, the crowd had not yet calmed down. The brothers relayed Geouel's orders for them to be patient and orderly.

“The real miracle would be if God could put a bit of common sense in the brains of all these men,” Ruth snorted. “But that's probably a bit of a tall order. The Lord's been putting it off since the days of Adam!”

She abruptly turned on her heels and went inside the house. Taken aback, Rekab turned to Miriam. She signaled to him to follow Ruth and not take any notice of her moods.

“You should eat and drink something, too,” Miriam said to Mariamne. “And change your tunic, if you've spent all night in the rain. Come and warm yourself….”

Mariamne followed her, but accepted only a bowl of hot broth.

“The wagon's so comfortable, you forget the cold and rain. And my tunic's made of wool. What I want to know is why you cut your hair so horribly, and what's going on in this house. Where have all these people come from who are out there with Joseph? Did you notice he didn't even seem to recognize me? Even though he came all those times to Magdala….”

“Don't be upset with him. He'll see you this evening.”

In a few words, Miriam told Mariamne how the Essene brothers lived, how they treated the sick, and how the survival of the old woman, which had happened quite recently, had been taken as a miracle, attracting a crowd of the desperate to Beth Zabdai.

“These poor people think Joseph possesses the gift of resurrection. Just thinking it is enough to make them lose their minds.”

Mariamne had regained her mocking smile. “Which is quite strange and contradictory, when you think about it,” she said. “None of them like the life they lead, and yet they all hope that thanks to the miracle of resurrection, they'll live forever.”

“You're wrong,” Miriam said confidently. “What they hope for is a sign from God. The assurance that the Almighty is with them. And that he'll still be with them after they die. Aren't we all like that? Alas, Joseph doesn't possess the gift of resurrection. He wasn't able to save Obadiah.”

Mariamne nodded. “I know he's dead. Rekab told us when he got back.”

There were many other questions that Mariamne was burning to ask, but did not dare. Miriam did not yield to her friend's silent requests.

Rekab must have mentioned the state she had been in and the care Joseph of Arimathea had taken to keep her in sound mind. But she did not want to talk to Mariamne about that. Not yet. Mariamne and she had not spoken in months. Many things had happened that had made them rather like strangers to one another, as witness this short hair that so shocked Mariamne.

But Miriam did not want to hurt her young friend. “You're more beautiful than ever. It's as if the Almighty granted you all the beauty he could gather together in one woman!”

Mariamne blushed. She clasped Miriam's hands and kissed her fingers: a tender gesture she had so often made in Magdala. Here, in the house in Beth Zabdai, Miriam thought it excessive. But she did not say anything. She had to get used once again to Mariamne's carefree enthusiasm.

“I missed you!” Mariamne said. “A lot, a lot! I thought about you every day. I was worried. But my mother wouldn't let me come here. You know how she is. She told me you were being taught how to heal by Joseph of Arimathea and weren't to be disturbed.”

“Rachel's always right. That is what I've been doing.”

“Of course she's always right. That's what's so annoying. She told me I'd love learning Greek. And now guess what? I speak better than her. And I really enjoy it!”

They both laughed. Then Mariamne suddenly broke off. She hesitated for a moment, glanced toward the kitchen, where Rekab and Ruth were watching them, and looked at Miriam again.

“The reason my mother let me come here now was to bring you some bad news.”

From the folds of the tunic, she took a small cylindrical leather case, the kind used for carrying letters, and handed it to Miriam.

“It's about your father.”

         

H
ER
stomach in knots, Miriam took the scroll from its case. The long sheet, thicker in one half than in the other because of the irregularity of the fibers, was almost entirely covered with a tangled mass of writing, the brown ink smudged in places, where it had been absorbed by the papyrus.

Miriam recognized her father's plain handwriting. At least, she thought with relief, whatever had happened, he was still alive.

She had to make an effort to decipher the words. But it did not take her long to know. Hannah, her mother, had been killed by a mercenary.

Since leaving Nazareth, Joachim wrote, they had been living in peace in the north of Judea, where they had taken refuge with his cousin, the priest Zechariah, and his wife, Elisheba. With the passing of time, their yearning to see the mountains of Galilee again had grown ever more insistent. Besides, Joachim admitted, he was missing his workshop, missing the smell of wood and the noise of gouge and mallet on cedar and oak. In Judea, where the houses had flat roofs of cob and sunbaked bricks, a carpenter's skills were useless.

So, thinking that it was time to forget the past, and accompanied by Zechariah and Elisheba, who were also eager for a change, Hannah and he had set off for Nazareth before the worst of the winter made the roads impassable.

The first week of the journey had passed happily. As they approached Mount Tabor, their joy grew. Even Hannah, who was always so ready to fear the worst, had a smile on her lips and a carefree feeling in her soul.

It had happened as they were nearing Nazareth.

Why had the Lord felt the need to strike at them yet again? For what sin was he constantly punishing them?

They had come across a column of mercenaries. Joachim had hidden his face, and the mercenaries had not paid him any particular attention. In any case, his beard was so long now that he was certain no one would recognize him, not even a friend. But as always, Herod's soldiers could not let the opportunity pass. They had decided to search the wagon. As usual, they did it in the roughest and most humiliating way possible. Hannah had panicked. In her ridiculous and unfortunate haste to be compliant, she had accidentally knocked over a jar of water. It had hit an officer's leg, nearly breaking his foot. Miriam could picture what had followed: the angry reaction, the sword plunged into Hannah's frail chest.

And that was it.

Except that Hannah had not died immediately. She was still in agony when they reached first Nazareth, then Yossef's house. It had taken her one long night before she joined the Almighty, a night spent in pain and anguish, without a moment's respite—just like the rest of her life.

Perhaps, Joachim wrote, rather bitterly, perhaps Joseph of Arimathea might have been able to treat the wound and save his faithful Hannah.

But Joseph is a long way from here, and so are you, my beloved daughter. For a long time I made an effort to be satisfied with the thought of you to fill your absence. Today I would like you near me. I miss your presence, your spirit and all the new blood that has flowed into you, which makes me hope for a less somber future. You are the one good thing I still have left in this world.

         

“I
'
LL
take you to Nazareth as soon as you like,” Rekab the coachman said. “My mistress Rachel has ordered me to serve you for as long as you wish.”

“And I'll go with you,” Mariamne said. “I'm not leaving you.”

Miriam responded to both with silence. It was as if an icy wind had penetrated her chest. She was suffering for the pain endured by her mother before dying, but she was suffering even more for her father, whose words echoed within her.

At last she said, “Yes, we have to leave as soon as possible.”

“We could do it today,” Rekab said. “It's a long time to nightfall. But perhaps it's best if the mules can rest until tomorrow. It's a long way to Nazareth. At least five days.”

“Tomorrow at dawn, then.”

That was what she announced to Joseph of Arimathea when he finally got away from the crowd, which had been monopolizing his attention. He was exhausted, his mouth was dry from having talked too much, and he had rings around his eyes. But when Miriam told him about Joachim's letter, he put his hand on her shoulder, in a gesture filled with tenderness.

“We are mortal. It is as Yahweh wished. So that we can live a true life.”

“My mother died at the hands of two men. Herod, and a mercenary paid to kill. How can Yahweh allow such a thing? Is it he who wishes us to be humiliated? Prayer isn't enough. We need to shatter the air around us, the air we breathe.”

Wearily, Joseph passed his hand over his face, rubbed his eyes, and said, “Don't give in to anger. It doesn't lead anywhere.”

“I'm not angry,” Miriam replied firmly. “But I know now that patience is not the sister of wisdom. Not anymore.”

“War won't help us, either,” Joseph said. “You know that.”

“Who said anything about war?”

Joseph looked at her without a word, waiting for her to say more. She merely smiled. Seeing him like that, weighed down with fatigue, she felt remorse. She leaned toward him and kissed his cheek with an unaccustomed tenderness that made him quiver.

“I owe you more than I could ever repay,” she murmured. “And I'm abandoning you just when you need me to deal with all these people who'll be coming to see you.”

“No, please don't think you owe me anything,” Joseph said, fervently. “What I've been able to give you, you've already given back without even realizing it. And it's best if you leave. We both know this house is not for you. We'll meet again soon, I have no doubt of that.”

         

T
HAT
evening, when the lamps were already lit, Ruth came to see Miriam. “I've been thinking,” she said in a firm voice. “If you'll have me, I'd like to go with you. Who knows? I could be useful to you in that Galilee of yours.”

“You'll be welcome in Galilee. I have a friend who'll need you. Her name is Halva, and she's the best of women. She's not in terribly good health, and she already has five children clinging to her tunic. She may even have another one by now. Your help will a great relief to her, especially if I have to stay with my father, who's alone now.”

The next day, in the gray and still rainy dawn, Rekab had the wagon brought out of the house. The crowd, calmer now, stood aside. For the first time in weeks, people were waiting patiently, and paid little attention to yet another prophet announcing that soon the fields would turn to ice, then into a fire writhing with tongues of poison.

Joseph walked with Miriam to Obadiah's grave. She was anxious to bid him farewell before joining Ruth and Mariamne. She knelt in the mud. Joseph, who had been expecting to hear her pray, was surprised to see her lips moving without any sound emerging. When he helped her back on her feet, she said, with a contentment she could not conceal, “Obadiah still talks to me. He comes to me and I see him. It's like a dream, but I'm not asleep and my eyes are wide open.”

“And what does he say to you?” Joseph asked, without hiding his unease.

Miriam blushed. “That he hasn't abandoned me. That he'll go wherever I go, and that he's still my little husband.”

CHAPTER 16

T
HEY
were within sight of the roofs of Nazareth. It was two days to the beginning of the month of Nisan. The sky was suffused with that beautiful light that heralded spring and helped you to forget the harshness of winter. Since they had left Sepphoris, the sunlight had danced between the clusters of cedar and larch, and, as they approached Nazareth, the shade was deep beneath the hedges lining the path. To Ruth and Mariamne, who had never before seen these hills, Miriam pointed out the paths and fields that had been the scene of her childhood joys. She was so impatient to see her father, Halva, and Yossef again that the thought of her mother receded.

When they were within sight of Yossef's house, she could no longer contain herself. The weary mules were pulling the wagon too slowly. She jumped down onto the path and rushed toward the big, shaded yard.

Joachim, who had obviously been watching for her arrival, was the first to appear. He opened his arms to her, and they embraced, tears in their eyes, lips quivering, joy and sadness intermingled.

“You're here…you're here…,” Joachim kept repeating.

Miriam stroked his cheek and the back of his neck. She noticed that his face was more deeply furrowed with lines and his hair was whiter. “I came as soon as I got your letter!”

“But your hair! What have you done to your beautiful hair? What happened on the journey? It's such a long way, for a girl….”

She pointed to the wagon coming into the yard. “Oh, don't worry. I didn't make the journey alone.”

There was a moment of confusion when, as she was introducing him to Rekab, Mariamne, and Ruth, a middle-aged couple came out of Yossef's house.

The man had the kind of long beard worn by priests and intense, somewhat staring eyes, and the woman was about forty, short, plump, and amiable. She was hugging a baby, only a few days old, to her breast. A whole cluster of little faces peered out from the shadows behind her. Miriam recognized Halva's children: Yakov, Yossef, Shimon, Libna, and her little sister.

She called to them and held out her arms. But only Libna approached, smiling timidly. Miriam caught her and lifted her up. “Don't you recognize me?” she asked the others. “It's me, Miriam.”

Before the children could reply, Joachim, still overcome with the emotion of this reunion, pointed to the plump woman and the priest, and said, a trifle abruptly, “This is my cousin Zechariah. Your poor mother, God rest her soul, and I stayed in his house. And this is his wife, Elisheba, holding Yossef's new baby, Yehuda, may the Lord protect him….”

Miriam laughed. “So that's it! Frail as she is, Halva couldn't stop herself from having another child. But where is she? Still in bed? And Yossef?”

There was a brief silence. Joseph opened his mouth, but he was unable to utter a word. Zechariah, the priest, looked at his wife, who was fervently kissing the sleeping baby's forehead.

“Well, what's going on?” Miriam insisted, less confidently now. “Where are they?”

“I'm here.”

Yossef's voice, coming from the workshop behind her, surprised her. She turned quickly, let out a cry of joy, put Libna down, and opened her arms for him to come to her. He walked toward her, passing Ruth and Mariamne without paying any attention to them. That was when Miriam saw that his eyes were red, and she felt a tightness in her chest.

“Yossef…Where's Halva?” she stammered, already half knowing the answer.

Yossef swayed as he took the last steps. He gripped Miriam by the shoulders and held her to him to stifle the sobs that shook his chest.

“Yossef…,” Miriam said again.

“She died giving birth to the baby.”

“Oh no!”

“Seven days ago.”

“No! No! No!”

Miriam's cries were so intense that they all bowed their heads, as if they had been hit.

“She was so happy when she knew you were coming,” Yossef said, shaking his head. “Lord Almighty, how excited she was! She kept repeating your name at every opportunity. ‘Miriam's like a sister to me…I miss Miriam…At last Miriam's coming back.' And then…”

“No!” Miriam cried, stepping back, face raised to heaven. “Oh, God, no! Why Halva? Why my mother? You can't do that.” She waved her fists and struck her stomach as if to rip out the pain that was gripping it. Then, suddenly, she beat Yossef on the chest. “And you!” she cried. “Why did you make her bear another child? You knew she wasn't strong enough! You knew!”

Yossef did not even try to dodge the blows. He nodded, tears rolling down his cheeks. Mariamne and Ruth both rushed to pull Miriam off him, and Zechariah and Joachim grabbed Yossef by the arms.

“Come, girl, that's enough!” Zechariah said, shocked.

“She's right,” Yossef said. “She's only saying the same things I keep telling myself.”

Elisheba had moved back to protect the children from Miriam's rage. The baby had woken in her arms. “No one's to blame,” she said, with a touch of reproach in her voice. “You know women always pay more than their due. It's God's will!”

“No!” Miriam cried, pulling herself free from Ruth's grip. “It shouldn't be that way! We shouldn't accept a single death, especially not the death of a woman giving life!”

This time, the baby started crying. Elisheba, cradling him to her breast, went and took refuge on the steps of the house. Libna and Shimon were crying and clutching her tunic. Yakov, the eldest, held the young ones firmly by the hand and looked wide-eyed at Miriam. Shaken by choking sobs, Yossef crouched, his head between his arms.

Zechariah placed a hand on his shoulder and turned to Miriam. “Your words are meaningless, girl,” he said, making no attempt to conceal the reproach in his voice. “Yahweh knows what he's doing. He judges, he gives, he takes away. He is the Almighty, Creator of all things. All we can do is obey.”

Miriam seemed not to hear him. “Where is she? Where is Halva?”

“Beside your mother,” Joachim said in a low voice. “Almost in the same plot.”

         

W
HEN
Miriam rushed to the graveyard in Nazareth, no one made any move to follow her. His face drawn with grief, Yossef watched her go until she was swallowed up in the shadows along the path, then, without a word, went and shut himself up in his workshop. At the same time, Elisheba pushed the children inside the house, trying to calm little Yehuda.

At last, Joachim could contain himself no longer. He followed his daughter at a distance, and the others went with him. But at the entrance to the graveyard, Ruth gripped Mariamne's wrist to hold her back. Rekab came to a halt behind them. Zechariah was advancing determinedly behind Joachim. But they, too, stopped dead a dozen paces from the loose earth that covered Hannah and Halva.

Miriam remained in the graveyard until twilight. According to tradition, anyone who visited a grave was supposed to place a small white stone on it as a mark of his visit. Miriam, though, took dozens of stones from the sack placed for that purpose a few paces away and covered the grave with them until it was a blinding white in the winter sun. When she had none left, she went back to the sack and started over again.

Zechariah tried to protest, but Joachim silenced him with a glance. Zechariah shook his head and sighed.

During all this time, Miriam kept speaking, or rather, her lips kept moving, although no one could hear a word. Later, Ruth told them that Miriam was not really saying anything. She had done the same over Obadiah's grave in Beth Zabdai, she said.

“It's her way of conversing with the dead. We others aren't capable.” Casting a glance at Zechariah, who was rolling his eyes with disgust, she added, a little testily, “In Beth Zabdai, Master Joseph of Arimathea never expressed any surprise and never reproached her. Nor did he ever say she was mad. And when it comes to madness, you wouldn't believe the things he's seen! If there's anyone who knows about sickness, of the mind as well as the body, it's him! And I can tell you this, too: If there's a woman he admires and considers the equal of a man, young as she is, it's Miriam. He said it often enough to the brothers, who were as surprised as you are, Zechariah: She's different than the others, he'd say, and we mustn't expect her to behave like everyone else.”

“She's right to rebel against so many deaths,” Mariamne said softly. “Since Obadiah died, she's done a lot of mourning! So have all of you. I wish I could say something to tell you all how sorry I am.”

But to their surprise, when Miriam returned to Yossef's house that evening, she appeared to have calmed down. “I asked Mother to forgive me for all the pain I caused her,” she said to Joachim. “I know she missed me and would have liked me to be with her. I told her why I hadn't been able to give her that joy. Perhaps where she is, under the eternal wing of the Almighty, she'll understand.”

“You have nothing to blame yourself for,” Joachim said, his eyes bright with emotion. “None of this is your fault; it's all mine. If I'd been able to control myself, if I hadn't gone mad, killed a mercenary and wounded a tax collector, your mother would be here now, alive and well, and our life would be quite different.”

Miriam stroked his beard and kissed him. “If I have nothing to blame myself for, then you are even purer than me,” she said tenderly. “You have always acted in the name of justice. That day was no different than any other day of your life.”

They all bowed their heads again when they heard these words. This time it was not Miriam's anger that impressed them, but her confidence. Even Zechariah made no objection and bowed his head. But they would have been hard put to explain where she got this newfound strength from.

         

T
HAT
evening, immediately after kissing her father good night, Miriam went to see Yossef in the workshop. He looked frightened when she appeared in the doorway.

She walked up to him, took his hands, and bowed. “Please forgive me. I'm sorry about what I said earlier. I was unfair. I know how much Halva loved being your wife and how much she liked having children.”

Yossef shook his head, unable to make a single sound.

Miriam smiled gently. “My master, Joseph of Arimathea, often reproached me for these fits of anger. He was right.”

The lightness of her tone calmed Yossef. He got his breath back and wiped his eyes with a cloth that was lying on the workbench.

“You didn't say anything that was untrue. We both knew that another birth could kill her. Why couldn't we have abstained?”

Miriam's smile widened. “For the best of reasons, Yossef. Because you loved each other. And because that love had to create a life as beautiful and good as itself.”

Yossef looked at her with a mixture of gratitude and surprise, as if this idea had never crossed his mind.

“When I stood over Halva's grave,” Miriam went on, “I promised her I wouldn't abandon her children. Starting today, if you want me to, I'll take care of them as if they were my own.”

“No, that's not a good decision! You're young, you'll be starting a family of your own soon.”

“Don't speak for me. I know what I'm saying and what I'm committing myself to.”

“No,” Yossef said again. “You don't realize. Four sons and two daughters! That's a lot of work! You're not used to it. It cost Halva her health. I don't want you to ruin yours.”

“Nonsense! Do you think you can manage on your own?”

“Elisheba is helping me.”

“She's not a young woman. She won't be able to do it for much longer. And she was never Halva's friend.”

“One day, when the time is right, I'll find a widow in Nazareth.”

“If it's a wife you want, that's another matter,” Miriam said, a little curtly. “But in the meantime, let me help you. I'm not alone: I have Ruth with me. She can do the work of two. I even told her we'd be helping Halva before we came here.”

This time, Yossef agreed. “Yes,” he said, closing his eyes shyly, “she would have liked you to take care of the children.”

When she learned about it, Ruth approved Miriam's proposition unreservedly. “As long as you and Yossef want me, I'll help you.”

Joachim seemed content, his mind at rest for the first time in days. He would work with Yossef in the workshop. Together, they would get enough work to feed this large family.

“This is life as Yahweh wills it,” Zechariah said, sententiously. “He leads us between death and birth to make us more humble and more just.”

But Joachim would not let him continue in this tone. Overjoyed at Miriam's decision, he said, “Zechariah has some good news to announce. His modesty prevented him from doing so during these days of mourning. So, I'll be the one to tell you: On the way to Nazareth, Elisheba discovered that she was pregnant. Who would have believed it?”

“I certainly wouldn't,” Elisheba said pleasantly. “Yes, by the will of Yahweh, I am with child. May the Almighty be blessed a thousand times for this gift! At my age!”

Elisheba, who must have been twice the age of Mariamne and Miriam, looked radiant and unable to conceal her pride. The young girls looked at her in astonishment.

“You have good reason to be surprised. Who would have thought it possible?”

“Everything is possible if God extends his hand over us. Praise be to the Lord a thousand times!”

“Yes, everything's possible. I have been as sterile as a field of stones during all these years when a woman should be having children….” She chuckled, and winked at Ruth. “And it all came to us in a dream.”

“It's true,” Zechariah said, with the greatest seriousness. “It was an angel from God who urged me to make this child. An angel who declared: ‘It's the will of God, you will be a father.' I was full of pride, and protested that it was impossible. ‘You're not so old, Zechariah. And your Elisheba is almost young compared with Abraham's Sarah. They were older than you two, much older.' ”