Two from Galilee (19 page)

Mary swayed. People pressed close in the heat. There was the heavy odor of the beasts, musky, nostalgic and of the farm, those that were still living; there was the sickening succulence of those already roasting. Smoke poured down, mingling with a sweaty woman-smell and the dizzying aroma of incense. The doves crooned and cried. Cattle bellowed. And rhythmically behind it all, like the sound of tambourines, was the tinkling of coins being dropped into the money boxes.

The world began to rock as it had on the journey. Frantically, like one of the frightened doves, Mary struggled to hang onto consciousness. She could feel her aunt looking at her anxiously. "Are you all right?" She nodded, it would be an offense to leave. And the other girls, Elizabeth's charges, all so poised, she could not suffer them to see her disgrace. Yet as she prostrated herself and prayed, she had a vision of a greedy, bloodstained mouth laughing at his victims—those who enriched the money-changers, trying to buy favor with their gifts and sacrifices. And the leashed and terrified creatures—and all the terrified people on their faces or their knees.

Jahveh, forgive me! she prayed in new horror at her thoughts. But it seemed to her something was wrong. Such was not the father of her spirit, the voice that had spoken to her in childhood, the love, the bliss that had invaded and quickened her womb.

In the fields and orchards the grains and fruits ripened and swelled, like the bodies of the two women. Mary's now, as well. And remembering her earlier misgivings, she was ashamed. Why could she not have been like her aunt, swept utterly into the marvel, beyond questioning or human concerns? Then one night she learned that despite Elizabeth's continual rejoicing, she too had misgivings.

"I feel sure it will be a son," she said as she walked about in the garden, to relieve her discomfort, after Zachariah was in bed. "I doubt if such a miracle would have been vouchsafed me if it were not to be a man-child."

"It will be a son," said Mary.

"Yes, a son, who will be a man of destiny." Elizabeth caught her breath, stood silent a moment, pulling some dry leaves from the ivy. "With all the penalties that implies."

"Penalties? What do you mean?"

"It's a serious thing to be a leader sent from God. It's a grave thing even to be a priest. There are responsibilities, such terrible responsibilities. And if this be true of priests, how much more so to be a prophet or a king. The mother of such a man pays dearly for the honor."

Mary couldn't answer. The Zealots . . . she remembered, she remembered. Yes, hideous things happened to them. And often the foaming prophets. They were not men to be envied. But that the king should suffer? The very king?

Seeing how white and still she was, Elizabeth turned and came to embrace her. "Forgive me, Mary, for going on so about myself. Or for causing you to worry." She lifted the small set chin, gazed into the troubled eyes. "My son—greatly as I love him already," she said, "I know that he will be as nothing compared to the child you are going to give the world. And we must trust in the Lord who will bring all this about. We have no right to be afraid."

"But what will he be like, this child that I carry?" Mary begged. "This baby I have been told is to be the Messiah? The Messiah—I've heard of his coming all my life, at home, and in the synagogue, but I'm confused. Will he come as a king to reign over Israel only, or over all the world? Tell me, my aunt, you are married to a priest and you have studied. Will he have to go out and do battle with our enemies to bring that kingdom about? And is he going to bring an end to Israel's suffering as a nation, or an end simply to suffering? All suffering. To the lepers and the beggars and the slaves, suffering such as I've seen on this very journey, in Jerusalem. And in Nazareth—suffering such as my brother's blindness."

"We don't know," Elizabeth said. "God reveals to us only as much as we're able to accept. We don't know, Mary. And the prophets themselves didn't know. They disagreed in so many ways. Some said the redeemer will be a king descending in triumph even as you describe; some said he will be a very poor man riding on an ass." Her eyes were shining now, her long lips parted so that her white teeth flashed. "Only on one thing they all agreed—he's coming, he's truly coming! And there will be another before him who will help to pave the way.

"And the time is upon us," she went on. "That much we do know, Mary. And we're a part of it, you and I. Exactly what our roles are to be isn't clear as yet. We can only wait and see. But that's part of the wonder of it too, the mystery. To wait patiently, not knowing, only trusting—and to try to be worthy of whatever is to be. To know, to have a conviction deep in the heart," she cried softly, "and yet really not know at all. That's life, Mary, and it's also religion. God—who can really know God even after revelation?" she asked. "And who can convey to another the essence of the revelation he has had? He can't, he can't. We can only wait and find out his meaning, each of us for himself, slowly, gradually."

Mary was staring at her as if transfixed. And Joseph? She was thinking. What of my beloved? What is to be his role in all this? A sweet anticipation smote her, almost too intense to endure. The Feast of the First Fruits was almost upon them. Already pilgrims were on the road. Perhaps even now he was heading for Jerusalem!

The day before the festival Mary and Elizabeth went to the city. They set off early in the day, hoping to avoid the crowds. But the roads were already thronged, they were a long time even getting through the gates; and within was a teeming chaos of singing, shouting, laughing people, laden with their offerings. Men carried kids or lambs across their shoulders, women bore jugs of precious oil, children lugged bags of grain. Asses were everywhere, so loaded they sometimes stumbled. The water carriers did a tremendous business, for the heat of the day coupled with the press of sweating, straining humanity created a violent thirst. "Water, fresh sweet water! Wait your turn—" In the marketplace it was almost impossible to reach the counters piled high with sheaves of yellow wheat, pyramids of fruit, and garlands for the procession.

"Wait here," Elizabeth said, "I'll buy the pomegranates and make my way back. No use both of us being crushed."

"Let me go," said Mary, for her aunt was so much nearer her time. But Elizabeth was already lost in the crowd. She stood waiting, listening to some musicians who were playing in an alley where children were dancing. An atmosphere of adulation and celebration prevailed. As one of the spectators drew away she caught sight of a familiar long-jawed face. "Uncle Nathan!"

He spied her too, and waving one hand, struggled toward her. "How is it with you, Mary?" he cried as they embraced. He was a homely man, heavily pock-marked, but his eyes were tender and pleasant. "We miss you at home, all of us. Let me look at you," he exclaimed in innocent appraisal, "see if you've changed. . . ." His voice broke off in acute embarrassment, he looked quickly away.

Mary could feel the color sweep her cheeks. "I'm fine, fine," she claimed. "And you? And Deborah? Did she come with you? Did any of your family come along?"

"No, all of them are too busy with the wedding—except for your cousin Isaac, who was with me a moment ago. I seem to have lost him, I'd better go look for him." He was obviously anxious to get away. "I'll tell your parents I saw you and that— that you are well?"

"Oh, yes, yes, very well. Only, wait!" She must cling to him a moment more, this dear homely relative who seemed to bring that long-lost country of home suddenly near. "Didn't my family come then, not any of them?"

"None that I know of, at least not with our party. Your father may have joined others. We left early, Mary, he may very well be on his way." Again that flick of a glance, startled, unwilling, as if to confirm or deny what he could not believe he had seen. "Goodbye, Mary, there's Isaac. I'll give everyone greetings for you."

Elizabeth reappeared with her bag of bright red fruit. Her hair had become disheveled and there was perspiration along her ever-smiling lips. "This crowd! I fear we were foolish to get into it, we'd better go home."

"But if my father has come for the festival?"

"Then he'd scarcely look for you here. Surely he'd go first to Ain-Karem."

It was a relief to reach the comparative coolness and quiet of the hillside house; but a terrible tension had begun to mount in Mary. Certainly she could not lie down and rest, as Elizabeth urged. Instead, she went up onto the roof to watch the road. She flinched each time she remembered that chance meeting with her uncle. What must he be thinking, and what would he surely report at home? But no matter, no matter any of it if her father and Joseph came. She could see them now, toiling along the great highways together, or entering the city or approaching along the road. She crouched by the parapet, shielding her eyes. Somewhere among that stream of pilgrims two people, please Lord, just two people. The two she loved. Please. Or even —only one.

All afternoon she waited, until her bones were stiff, until finally as the sun was setting, she dozed. And it was then, when her eyes could watch no more, that Joachim came stomping up the steps.

The servant roused her. "There is someone below who asks for you. There is a man."

She sprang up, flinging back her dark hair. A man!
Joseph.
All her senses leaped toward him, all her blind singing hope and need. For an instant she had forgotten she expected any other. Joseph waited below, Joseph had come!

The blow of seeing that it was Joachim who stood there was almost too stunning. She stumbled and would have fallen except for his quickly outstretched arms. Then she was cradled against him, comforted by his rough burly tenderness in his robes that smelled sweaty and travel-stained. And as she sobbed, "Father, Father," he thought it was only tears of joy that she shed at seeing him.

"Are you alone?" she begged. "Hasn't anyone else come?"

No, Hannah hadn't felt up to it, he said, and the children had remained behind to help her, but she had sent a few things. Eyes low, he began to fumble with the hamper, to bring forth gifts—a jar of the wild honey that Elizabeth had always loved, the raisin cakes and barley loaves and some of Mary's favorite cheeses. He did not trust himself to look at his daughter just yet. He had a strange fated feeling that so long as he postponed that moment he would be safe, spared some vital and intolerable acknowledgment.

He was tired and still worried, despite the prayers that he said day and night for her, for Joseph, for all of them. His confoundment had not abated during these past weeks; if anything it had grown more intense. He didn't know, he simply didn't know. And he was here now in his darling's presence, but he could not bring himself to confirm or deny this wild complex of fears and hopes by whatever truth, or lack of truth, might be revealed in one frank searching appraisal.

Elizabeth had heard and came to join them, walking with a heavy yet graceful dignity, her ringed hands outstretched. "Joachim!" No one had warned him of her condition. Now the shock of seeing her thus was so great that he looked dazedly about for a place to sit . . .
Elizabeth . .
. sweat poured from him. He knew that his mouth hung foolishly open, and how awkwardly he perched on the slender Grecian chair, afraid that it might not support his weight, either of flesh or sheer astonishment. He sat stiff and absurd, with his legs apart. Elizabeth—at her age! If a man had come seeking miracles. . . .

He could think of nothing to say to her. He turned to Mary. "Have you a message for your mother? When do you want to come home?"

"Oh, not yet a while, please," Elizabeth said. "You can see how it is with me, my sister's husband. The Lord has finally seen fit to bless us too, even his servants Elizabeth and Zachariah. And the presence of your child at this time is a great delight to us." She smiled toward Mary. "We're a comfort to each other in our time of waiting, Mary and I."

"Blessed be the house of Zachariah, may it be thrice blessed and know only rejoicing in the fruit of my sister's womb." So it was true then, he was thinking. This other dread complication was still upon them. It had not departed with the departure of Mary, but had only grown within her. Slowly Joachim forced himself to raise his eyes and gaze upon his daughter. How little she seemed still, how slender and unformed; why she was but a child herself. Thus he strove to dissuade himself from what he too saw before him. From this other, this second discovery that somehow, some way he must manage to convey to his wife.

"But if Mother isn't well," Mary said, "if she needs me more. . . ."

No, no. Joachim lifted a bluntly restraining hand. Hannah had given specific instructions that Mary was to stay as long as she wanted, or was welcome. He glanced about, seeking an excuse to be gone. He had always felt himself uncouth in this splendid house; now in his distress and bewilderment, an old antagonism rose up as if to divert his senses from larger issues. These priests lived well on other people's tithes and offerings. This chair with its silken cushion, these hanging lamps and brocades, was it for this a man fought beast and insect and hail and drought to wrest the crops from the soil? Of a sudden he recoiled at the thought of the procession of goods into the Temple tomorrow. Gladly a man gave up a portion of his products unto God and the servants of his God, yet it was hard at times not to be galled at how handsomely the servants also served themselves.

Enough. He was ashamed. He wrenched his thoughts back to the present. How could he get away before the evening meal? The strain of watching his manners would be too much after this, And he couldn't bear the look in Mary's eyes—their silent pleading. She'd be asking about Joseph, and what could he tell her? That there had been no more dealings between the two households, that he'd scarcely seen him. And that gradually, intolerably, the fear had taken root in him: Joseph might be preparing to divorce her. No. No, he must get out of here. If he remained she might wring it from him—he had never been any match for her.