Song of the Magdalene (16 page)

I stood up. I took the balled-up skin belt from where I had tucked it away — that skin belt that had helped silence my night cries in Dor. I let it fall to the ground. I had no further use for silence.

I walked all the rest of that day. At times the heat shimmered, wavy-like, luring me from my true direction. But I always steered back to the line toward water. I felt neither thirst nor hunger. I was not tired. I was hot. Baked. I was sure my cloak was the only reason my skin didn't split from the heat.

I knew when I was close, for travelers began to appear, coming from south and north as well as west, like me. They greeted each other quickly and without ceremony. I saw holy men pass by, all going to a single destination. The Sadducees
were easy to recognize: Their garments spoke of their wealth. Blue tassels swung from the bottom of their chalouks. I'd heard the villagers at Dor say the Sadducees were aligned with Rome. They led the easy life of privilege and comfort. They moved ahead as though it were their right.

The slower ones of us formed a kind of comradely group, following like the sheep that moved in thick flocks from one pasture to another around the hills of Galilee. Which of us was the shepherd? Which of us would spout prophecies like Amos or poems like David of the scriptures? Which of us was responsible for guarding against the hyena, the jackal, the wolf, even the bear? I felt like a sheep myself, all thick and stuffy in my wool cloak. Where would I be when the first rains of Heshvan came and the sheep were put under cover to pass the cold months?

The people around me talked of Jochanan the Baptist. I listened and gratefully accepted the food they shared, the food Jochanan told people must be shared. All must give to their neighbors. So Jochanan had been well named: He preached
the Creator's graciousness and mercy, in accord with the meaning of his name. I thought again of the fiery prophet Amos, who said the Creator wanted not sacrifices, but decency and kindnesses among people. I wished I had something to give to these new neighbors of mine. But these people did not hold their hands outstretched and open for a coin, and all I had were useless coins.

Soon the sounds of many people made themselves heard. The travelers headed down the incline to the river ahead. The crowd slipped away, leaving me behind. I stopped at the top and sat to watch. My life was totally in my own hands for the first time; I would measure and judge my actions carefully.

A young man stood in the water, up to his knees, clad only in a garment of rough camel's hair. He wore a belt of skins. I recognized the apparel: He was dressed like the prophet Elijah, who had come to warn all Israel generations before, the prophet I had thought of only this morning. People believed Elijah would return before the day when the Creator would rescue His chosen people. Did this young man fancy
himself to be Elijah? He was unkempt and bearded. He was skin and bones. The travelers said he ate only wild locusts, calling upon all to return to the diet people had in the days before the great flood. He preached the virtues of a gentler age.

But as I watched, I didn't see a gentle man. Jochanan railed at the Sadducees. He sent them away. And in the same breath, he welcomed the sinners, all of them, everywhere.

I wanted to join forces with this Baptist, for I realized in that moment that I, too, harbored anger. Oh, yes, rage. If I had screamed my rage right then, I would have deafened the whole world. Jochanan was right. I wanted to run to the Baptist and wade in the water and be purged. I wanted to welcome sinners, side by side with him.

Yet I held back.

There were women in the water. Some of them naked. They threw their heads about, their hair twirling round like halos. They moved to the chants of the men. The late sun glistened off the drops of water on their breasts and bellies.
Some of the men watched them openly. Others gave the appearance of not caring, yet their stances were unnatural. Every man there was aware of the sweetness of fruit. I watched and listened; oh, how I listened.

But the women didn't sing.

Not a single female voice rode the air. The separateness of women made itself known even here.

I would never stand in that water — no matter how cleansing and cool and rejuvenating it might be — and keep my songs inside. I had given up my songs twice. I would never give them up again. The stars of the wilderness night had returned them to my mouth. And oh they were sweeter in my mouth than any fruit these men or women here could ever offer. My songs were me and I was them. Jochanan was a leader to follow, but I was not looking for a leader to follow. I wasn't looking to follow anyone.

I stood up and walked along the ridge, southward. I walked parallel to the river for several hours, with fertile, low-lying valleys to both sides. I passed a clump of tamarisks, growing thick and giving welcome cool. Their sprays of pink flowers
had long since passed, yet the air was pungent. It was complete night when I finally descended to the River Jordan and drank. Jochanan and all his baptized were now far behind. I held my hands and wrists in the shallow waters until my blood ran cool again. The jackals howled; the hyenas laughed harshly. I slept by the water.

In the morning I continued southward, always following the winding riverbed, passing myrrh and nettles and now and then a bed of papyrus growing in the water. I saw the hoofprints of antelopes and gazelles. A Sinai ibex picked its way along the water's edge.

Food was not a problem, for I met many who were traveling north to see the Baptist. They shared their food with me. I did small tasks in return. I rubbed tired shoulders and repaired broken sandals.

I walked for days. The land dropped in altitude. I could feel the press of the air, as though I weighed more the lower the land got. As though I was being pulled to the center of the earth. The land was now rows of red silt, as red as the cliffs on the east side of my own Sea of Galilee. I passed Idumean nomadic camps that seemed as
timeless as the river. I was careful not to let them see me, just as the antelopes had been careful not to let me see them, for their people and mine had been enemies for generations. The air was hot and thick and heavy.

On the fourth day travelers told me Jericho was off to the west. I looked and saw the outline of the city that held the splendid palace Herod the Great had built. I remembered the roses from Jericho that Abraham and I had smelled in the market so long ago. I remembered savoring the thickness of rose petals. Was every house ornamented with a rose garden? Did oleanders overhang every wall, willows grace every well? I turned and looked across the river valley to the grand Moab mountains, rich in palm trees and balm. I thought of the wonderful woman Ruth, a Moabite, the first convert to Judaism. Ruth had traveled and changed her life for love.

Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.

I had known a love as strong as Ruth's. I would have gone with Abraham wherever he beckoned.

I walked with renewed vigor. The Jordan widened and grew muddy among reeds and the ever-present willows. Finally I came out to the lowest point in our land, the Dead Sea.

The Dead Sea was flat, with water thick like skin. The yellow cliffs beyond rose straight up to the Creator's sky. The air filled my ears, pressed on my eardrums, making me know a silence that was more majestic and beautiful than any I could have imagined. It was as though the silence of the small house of prayer in Dor had multiplied and spread and given peace to the world. I could imagine a perfect understanding as I sat there. For the first time I understood the vows of silence that some holy people take.

In the morning I walked the short distance left to Qumran. The community that Father had once seen stood on a white terrace of marl, many feet above the road. A high tower rose on one side of the thick walls. I reached my hands toward it instinctively. No child of Magdala could help being drawn to that tower.

On the seaside stretched out an immense cemetery
with row after row of graves. A mound of stones, lined up north to south, marked each grave. I marveled. No other Jews I knew of, nor pagans, either, lined up their graves like that. I was happy at the mystery. I had no need to understand.

I lived in the caves of the hills near Qumran for many moons. Some of the caves were high, so that when I stood at the mouth and looked out, I felt I could step into the heavens and fly. Some had openings at the top so that at night I could stare up at the stars. Some had walls smooth to the touch, as though they'd been worn down by thousands of groping fingers over thousands of years. From my favorite cave, I looked south and saw hill interleaving with hill, forming a crisscross valley dotted with the mouths of caves.

The cave I inhabited was none of these. It was low, opening in a gradual decline to level ground. There were no holes in the roof. It was solid and protective. It sat on the north edge of the cave hills, closest to a town.

I bought food at a farm on the edge of that town. The farmer, unquestioning, took my money and treated me fairly.

Once, before the start of the cold weather, it
rained hard for three days and three nights. Water ran in rivulets on both sides of the opening of my cave. It splashed against the stones. I was astonished. I'd been told this land was parched.

Then the rain ceased. It didn't slow down and taper off. It simply vanished. And the sky stretched clear and blue-white. I stepped out of my cave and walked paths strewn with pebbles washed there from the downpour. The light off the wet, white pebbles broke into colors. The world was as bright as before one of my fits. I thought I could see forever. And I remembered, all at once, the great happiness colors had given me as a child.

Besides that rain, those months were without incident, night as well as day. The dream of Jacob that had plagued me in Dor had died in the wilderness. I was alone. I took to wearing my veil constantly, so that if by chance a stranger should see me, no one would question that I was a proper woman. Yet I knew that precaution was needless; the white rocks and caves were free of others' spirits.

So I passed my days in worshipful devotion to the Creator, trying to learn His holy plan. One
day I spied something pink just below the water surface at the edge of the Dead Sea. I put in my hand and seized a slippery stone the size of Abraham's fist. I brought it home and held it as I sat, hour after hour, day after day, month after month. I turned it and rubbed it and thought over the events of my life. I sought a reason. I pressed the stone to my cheek, I breathed my inner heat over it and watched the condensation on the coldest mornings. I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed it. The pink must have been a thin coating of mineral deposit, for it wore off with my rubbing, exposing the marl beneath. My constant polishing made the white glow. Yet I grew no wiser. I prayed to the Creator more passionately. I stood on tiptoe to be closer to the Creator. I pressed both hands as if in a hood sticking out from my eyebrows to concentrate better. I overflowed with energy. I was ready. I was Miriam, beloved of the Creator, I was ready to fulfill the destiny of my name. Every moment of every day, I was ready, my stone cupped in both hands.

Then one day I heard a woman singing. At first I thought I imagined it, it seemed but a memory of a song that perhaps I had sung myself the week
before or maybe a month before. But the song continued, high and keening, wordless sounds that brought tears to my eyes. I tucked my stone into my belt and went in search. I climbed among the cliffs, following a sound that echoed deceptively here and there, until I finally found her, at the mouth of a low cave I knew well, with her girl child in her lap. The child was listless. The woman hushed as soon as she saw me.

“Go on, sing,” I said.

She stared at me.

“Sing!” I touched the girl's forehead as her mother sang a song in a tongue I didn't speak. The girl's eyes were bright with fever — not raging like Abraham's when he first fell ill — but present and steady and relentless. It sapped her energy.

I thought immediately of the oily waters of the Dead Sea, the waters that reeked of mineral decay, the waters whose buoyancy I had struggled against these months when I called upon the sea to serve as my mikvah. They might have healing powers, and they surely would cool her down. I reached for the child. “Let's soak her in the sea.”

The woman looked at me. “That helps only
temporarily. Within the hour, the fever returns.” She spoke Hebrew in an accent unfamiliar to me. It lured me.

I dropped my outstretched arms, unwilling to be lured. “What causes it?”

“I don't know.” The mother spoke in a whisper, as though the child wouldn't hear her that way, even though the child lay in her arms, within breath's reach. “I came for help from the people at Qumran. I want to take her to Galilee. But no one will accompany me. And I don't have the strength to carry her all that way myself.”

Galilee. Magdala was in Galilee. “Why would you go to Galilee?”

The woman looked at me as though my question was silly. She shook her head and her loose black hair brushed the child's legs. “So she can be cured.”

I crossed my arms at the chest and hugged myself. A woman who sought cures could not seduce me so easily. I would not yield so easily, no. “Surely there are healers closer by. Jerusalem is much closer than Galilee.”

“I have been to healer's. So many Roman healers.”

I bent over her, wondering if I had heard right. “Roman?”

“I am not a Jew like you.” She fingered the edge of my veil and looked me up and down. “I am Roman.”

A pagan. I had suspected she was pagan, yet to hear her say it gave a sting. I straightened up. In Magdala we kept our distance from the pagan women. They did not even come to the same well. Some said they did not drink water at all, only wine.

“But do not be deceived. I would not limit myself to Roman healers.” The woman's voice was heavy with disappointment. “I have been to Jewish healers, Greek and Hellene healers. But no one can help. And many are unkind to a woman alone, even with a child.” She looked at me meaningfully. “You must know how it is. A Jewish woman knows as well as a Roman woman.” Her eyes insisted.