Mary of Nazareth (21 page)

“I don't know if I've come to mourn with you,” she sighed. “I don't like mourning. But I couldn't leave you all on your own outside.”

She hoped that Miriam was going to ask her why, but no question came. To break the silence, she said, almost mechanically, “At least drink a little milk. It'll give you the strength to wait for morning. And also to fight the cold…”

She did not finish her sentence. Now that she had heard the clear, harsh voice of Miriam, her advice seemed pointless and even slightly ridiculous. This girl knew what she wanted, and did it. She didn't need any sermons.

Ruth clenched her teeth and her fists, listening for sounds within the silence. Time passed. Neither of them moved, and the muscles of their thighs and lower back went numb. Every now and again, Miriam's lips moved, as if she were murmuring a prayer. Or words. Unless it was an effect of the moonlight through the leaves of the big acacia that stood over them.

Suddenly, Ruth seized the corners of the blanket, opened it out, and spread it over Miriam's legs and her own. Miriam did not protest, did not remove it. That persuaded Ruth to speak.

“I came because I had to. Because of Master Joseph. To tell you something. You say the master is unjust, but it isn't true.”

She looked at her hands lying quite flat on the coarse wool over her legs. On either side of her face, her white hair shone like silver in the moonlight.

“I had a husband. He worked in leather. With a single goatskin, he was capable of making a two-bushel gourd so perfect not a single drop of water leaked in the summer sun. He was a simple, gentle man. His name was Joshua. My mother chose him for me without my knowledge. I'd just reached the marriageable age. Fourteen, perhaps fifteen. When I saw Joshua for the first time, I knew I could love him the way a woman is supposed to love her husband. For eighteen years, we were happy and unhappy. We had three daughters. Two died before they were four months old. The third one grew tall and beautiful. Then she died too. That's when I started hating mourning. But I still had my Joshua, and I thought we would have another child. We were still young enough, and we knew what to do.”

She tried to laugh at her own joke. The laugh did not come. Barely a smile.

“One day, Joshua decided that he loved the Lord more than he loved me. It took him like a wind that rises and lays low a field of barley. He came to live in this house. The brothers took a long time to accept him. They don't easily accept newcomers. They're suspicious. They fear they may not have the strength to become pure enough…. But I took even longer to accept losing him. Every day I'd sit outside the door of the house. I couldn't believe he'd stay. I was sure he'd change his mind. The Almighty had taken my daughters from me. He couldn't take my Joshua, too. What was my sin? Where was his justice?”

Ruth's voice was barely audible. Despite herself, tears started to form. It had been such a long time since she had last dredged this story from her heart.

“He never came back to me.”

Through the thick blanket, she struck her thigh with the palm of her hand and took a deep breath to dispel the lump in her throat.

“One day, Master Joseph came out to speak to me. I was in the shade of the large fig tree to the left of the house. I was watching the door, but I'd been watching it so long, I'd stopped seeing it. When he opened his mouth, I was as scared as if a scorpion had stung my backside.”

She smiled again. She was exaggerating a little, but not much, and thinking about it gave her the chance to dry her eyes. Miriam must have been interested, for she asked, in her curt voice, “What did he say to you?”

“That my Joshua would never come back to me because he had chosen the way of the Essenes. That this way forbade him to be with his wife as before. That the Lord would forgive me if I wanted to consider myself a woman without a husband. That I was still young and beautiful and could easily find a man who'd be happy to love me.”

How strange it was to utter such words today!

“If I'd had a big enough stone to hand, I'd have smashed his skull. Change husbands without it being a sin! You have to be a man, wise or not—may the Almighty forgive me!—to have ideas like that. One moon later, I was still outside the house. Winter had just started. It was raining all the time. The villagers would give me food, but they couldn't do anything against the cold and rain. Master Joseph came to me again. This time, he said, ‘You'll catch your death of cold if you stay here. Joshua isn't coming back.' ‘In that case,' I replied, ‘I'm the one who'll come back here, every day. If the Lord wants me to die, I'll die, and so much the better.' He wasn't pleased about that. He stayed there for a long time in the rain beside me, without saying a word. Then suddenly he said, ‘You can come in and consider this house as your own. But you'll have to respect our rules, and you might not like them. You'll have to become our handmaid.' That wasn't so bad! It took my breath away. Master Joseph said, ‘Sometimes, during your work, you'll see your husband coming and going, but he won't see you. It'll be as if you weren't there. And you won't be able to speak to him or do anything to make him come back to you. That could cause you more pain than the one you feel today.' So what? I thought. I was prepared for anything, just to be under the same roof as Joshua. But the master insisted. ‘If the pain is too great, you will have to leave. Neither God nor I wish you any harm.' He was right. It was terrible to see my husband and be nothing but a shadow. Like a wound that opens again every day. And yet I stayed.”

She fell silent, and waited for the fire that still burned in her breast to die down.

“It was a long time ago. Twenty years, perhaps. I was in a bad way. I begged the Almighty to let me die. Sometimes, the pain was so great, I couldn't move. The master would come to see me. Mostly, he didn't speak. He'd take my hand and sit down beside me for a moment. Which is against the rules. But this was before Geouel's time. One day he said to me, ‘Your Joshua is dead. His body is dust, but all our bodies will be dust. His soul is eternal. It lives with Yahweh, and I know it lives with you. Your home is here. You can live here as long as you wish, like a sister living in her brother's house.' I didn't weep. I couldn't. But I knew my love for Joshua was as strong as ever. One day, much later, Master Joseph said to me, ‘The goodness and love we have in our hearts don't always need to see a face in order to exist and even to receive love in return. You women have bigger and simpler hearts than ours. You have to make less effort to want what's best for those you love. You are great because of that, and although you are our handmaids, I envy you. As long as you live, your Joshua will be with you.' ”

Miriam's expression changed, but Ruth had no idea what to make of that. There seemed to be anger, sadness, and even a kind of disgust in it. Or perhaps that was the effect of the moonlight.

Ruth felt the need to add, “It was only later that I understood the meaning of Master Joseph's words. At that moment, all that mattered was that he said, ‘Your Joshua.' ”

She fell silent. Miriam had turned to look at her, but was still silent. Ruth felt strangely embarrassed to be looked at like that. You could never guess what was happening in this girl's brain, let alone understand it.

“I told you my story so that you wouldn't be angry with the master. He's the best man who's ever lived on this earth. Everything he does, everything he says, is good for us. It isn't his fault that your friend isn't in a proper graveyard. He's the master, but he doesn't make the decisions on his own. He can do a lot, but he can't perform miracles. I'd have liked him to bring my Joshua back to life too. But it's the Almighty who performs miracles. That's how it is. What's certain is that the master knows what we women feel. He doesn't despise us. And he loves you very much. He can't say it or show it in the house. Because of the rules. But he wishes you well. And he even expects something of you.”

Ruth was surprised by her own words. It was not like her to talk this way. But tonight, the words just came to her. And she needed to say them. And not only because she wanted to be fair to Master Joseph.

She was startled by the question Miriam now asked. “Have you seen your Joshua since he died?”

Ruth hesitated. “In dreams, often. But not for years now.”

“I see Obadiah. But I'm not asleep, and my eyes are open. I see him, and he speaks to me.”

A shiver went down Ruth's spine. She peered into the darkness around them. In the course of her long life, she had heard many stories of this kind. Dead people who left their graves and went wandering. Whether they were true or false, she hated them. Especially hearing them sitting on a grave, in the dark, on ground that wasn't blessed by the rabbis!

“Hunger is playing tricks on you,” she said, trying to make her voice sound as firm as possible.

“No, I don't think so,” Miriam replied calmly.

Ruth closed her eyes. But when she opened them, everything looked exactly the same as before. “What does he say to you?” she asked in a low voice.

Miriam did not reply, but she was smiling—a smile as difficult to understand as her anger.

“Don't scare me,” Ruth begged. “I'm not a brave woman. I hate darkness and shadows. I hate you seeing things I can't see.”

She let out a little cry of terror when Miriam's hand touched her arm. Miriam was looking for her hand. She took it and held it. “There's no reason to be scared. You were right to come. And I'm sure you're right about Joseph, too.”

“So you're staying?”

“It's not yet time for me to leave.”

CHAPTER 14

M
IRIAM
was determined to observe the full seven days of mourning, as custom demanded.

The inhabitants of Beth Zabdai, leaving for the fields in the morning or coming back in the evening, would often join Miriam and pray with her, just as if Obadiah's grave were on sacred ground. Sometimes, they were also joined by those bringing the sick to be healed, who would add prayers for the health of their loved ones to the prayers of mourning.

This unaccustomed activity soon attracted the attention of the Essene brothers. At twilight, the chanting of prayers over Obadiah's grave even penetrated the walls of the house. That disturbed some of them, who wondered if it might not be a good idea to go and join the villagers in prayer.

Was not prayer the first principle of their retreat from the world? Was it not prayer that would ensure the reign of the light of Yahweh after centuries of darkness?

The ensuing debate was a heated one. Geouel and a few others were strongly opposed to the idea. The brothers were being led astray, they said, blinding themselves to the consequences. The prayers of the Essenes were not the same as the routine chanting of ignorant peasants who could not read a single line of the Torah! And anyway, how could they even think of praying for an
am ha'aretz
who had been refused burial because of his impurity? Had they forgotten the teachings of the wise men and rabbis who had often declared that the
am ha'aretz
had no souls and so were unworthy of the covenant between Yahweh and his people?

Not all the brothers were convinced by these arguments. Prayer was something unique and irreplaceable. The more prayers there were, the purer the world would become. And the closer the day would come when the Messiah appeared. Had Geouel and the others forgotten that this was their one aim? Every prayer brought them a step closer to Yahweh. It was for him, and him alone, to decide who was worthy and who unworthy; men were too shortsighted to do that for themselves. If this girl from Nazareth, the peasants, and the sick joined their prayers in a chorus of love for the Almighty, where was the harm in that?

At this, Geouel flew into a temper. “Are we going to start praying for dogs and scorpions next? Are they the pure you want to lead to the Island of the Blessed? Is that your only ambition—to populate it with the dregs of the earth?”

During this debate, Joseph of Arimathea remained silent. But the last word fell to him. Although he refused to rule on whether the
am ha'aretz
had souls, he declared that whoever went and prayed over the boy's grave with Miriam would not be committing a sin.

In the end, none of the Essenes ventured out to the graveyard. The arguments of Geouel and his supporters were too wearying, too unsettling. Not one of the brothers was prepared to do something that might disrupt the harmony of the community. But when Ruth met Joseph's eyes after the debate, she saw that they were bright with satisfaction.

W
HEN
the seven days of mourning were over, Miriam entered the house without any opposition.

She made her ablutions in the kitchen of the women's quarter, where Ruth and two other handmaids had filled a large tub with pure water.

Miriam was a painful sight to behold. She had grown thinner than was advisable. Her face had not only become gaunt, it had also hardened. In a few days, she seemed to have aged several years. Her eyes had dark rings under them, but they also had a strange radiance that was hard to look at. Her muscles seemed as taut as ropes. Beneath the mask of exhaustion and willpower, there was, if not beauty, a kind of wild charm, as disturbing as it was attractive, and unlike anything else. It was surely this strangeness, as well as her obstinacy, which had won over the villagers and drawn them to join her in prayer.

Ruth knew now what Joseph had known from the beginning: that Miriam's apparent fragility concealed an inflexible strength. And that this strength made Miriam different, and hard to understand. To be convinced of this, you only had to hear her laughing and joking as the handmaids poured water over her back.

Where did she find the capacity for laughter, when only yesterday she had been cursing injustice and the horror of death?

         

S
TARTING
the following day, Miriam came to the courtyard to welcome the sick, who were visited twice a day by Joseph and the brothers.

There were many old people among them, and many women with young children. They would crouch in the shade and wait. The handmaids would give them something to drink, and sometimes distribute food to the hungriest children.

They also brought linen and other things needed for the treatments. Some of the commonest potions and ointments were prepared in advance in the kitchen, to Joseph's recipes.

It was here that he and Miriam met again and exchanged a few words.

Miriam was carrying a large pitcher of milk, which she poured into wooden platters held out by the mothers of the sick children. Geouel was with Joseph, his eyes and ears alert as usual.

On seeing Miriam, Joseph went up to her and greeted her with a friendly smile. “I'm happy you're still in the house.”

“I've stayed in order to learn.”

“To learn?” Geouel said in surprise. “What could a woman possibly learn?”

Miriam did not reply. Nor did Joseph react in any way. It seemed to those around them that Geouel had wasted his breath.

This went on for several days. Following Ruth's instructions, Miriam gave the sick all the help she could. She would talk to them gently, listen to them for as long as they wanted, and prepare the potions and the plasters, which she gradually learned to apply properly.

She always stayed close to Joseph when he made his visits, but he never spoke a word to her or tried to look at her. But in dealing with the patients, especially those whose ailments were particularly mysterious, he always spoke loudly enough for her to hear. He would ask a lot of questions, palpate, examine, and reflect aloud as he did so.

In this way, Miriam gradually began to understand that a stomachache could derive from something eaten or drunk, or that a pain in the chest might be caused by a damp house or by grain dust after the harvest. An old childhood wound in the feet, which a person had learned to tolerate, might lead to the adult's putting his back permanently out of joint.

The eyes and the mouth were the seat of all suffering. Every day, the latter had to be purified with citrus or cloves, the former with kohl. The women often had infections they did not dare talk about, even though the pain was as strong as if someone had thrust a dagger into their stomachs. This was the surest indication that they would die in childbirth.

         

O
NE
day, when Miriam had been in the house for nearly a month, a man arrived carrying a boy in his arms. The boy, who was seven or eight, had broken his leg falling from a tree. He was screaming with pain, and his father was yelling just as loudly with fear.

Although it was late, nearly time for evening prayers, Joseph went out to meet them. He spoke to them, trying to calm both of them down. He assured them that the fracture would heal well and that the boy would be running again before the end of the year. He asked for wooden boards and linen to make a splint.

With his delicate fingers, he palpated the already swollen flesh. The boy cried out. Without warning, Joseph suddenly pulled on the leg to reset the broken bones, and the boy fainted. Now came the moment to put on the splint. Joseph held the leg and asked Miriam to massage it gently with ointments, while Geouel made the wooden boards ready.

As Miriam bent over their work, the comb holding her thick hair in place fell out, and in coming loose the hair brushed against Geouel's face. He let out an angry cry and jumped.

If it had not been for the quick reflexes of Joseph and one of the handmaids, the boy would have fallen from the table where he had been laid. Joseph, fearing that the fracture might have been aggravated by the sudden movement, reprimanded Geouel in no uncertain terms.

“I'm not here to put up with this woman's flesh,” Geouel retorted threateningly. “The obscenity of her hair is a corruption you've imposed on us. How are we supposed to cure with goodness when evil slaps us in the face?”

Everyone looked at him in amazement. Joseph's embarrassment was clear to see, as was Miriam's. Undaunted, Geouel added, with a malicious smile, “I hope, Master, that you're not planning to have another Potiphar's wife with you in the house, like the other Joseph!”

Her face smarting with humiliation, Miriam gave the pot of ointment to one of the handmaids and ran off into the women's quarters.

Fearing the worst, Ruth ran after her to dissuade her from taking Geouel's words too much to heart.

“You know what he's like. A goatskin filled with gall! A man twisted with envy! Nobody in the house likes him. The brothers are no fonder of him than we are. Some say he'll never attain the wisdom of the Essenes because he's too eaten up with jealousy. Unfortunately, as long as he doesn't break any rules, the master has nothing to reproach him with….”

Once again, Miriam astonished Ruth.

She took her hand and drew her into the kitchen. There, she held out to her the knife used for cutting leather straps.

“Cut my hair.”

Ruth stared at her, dumbfounded.

“Go on, cut my hair! Leave it no thicker than my finger.”

No, Ruth cried, it couldn't be done. A woman had a duty to be a woman, which meant she had to have long hair. “And besides, it's so beautiful! What will you look like?”

“I don't care what I look like. It's just hair. It'll grow back.”

As Ruth was still hesitating, Miriam grabbed a handful of her own hair, held it away from her temple, and sliced it off without hesitation.

“If I do it myself, it'll be worse,” she declared, holding out the cut hair to Ruth.

Ruth let out a cry of horror, at which Miriam laughed merrily.

So it was that she appeared to everyone the following day with her hair so short that she was unrecognizable. It made her look like a boy and a girl at the same time, and also made her eyes look bigger and more vivid. Her prominent nose and cheekbones had a virility about them that was belied by her tender, feminine mouth. She was wearing her tunic pulled in at the waist in the manner of a man, and hid her chest beneath a short caftan, creating an unsettling illusion.

Joseph did not recognize her immediately. When he did realize who she was, he raised his eyebrows, while Geouel frowned. Breaking the rule that a woman should not speak before being spoken to, Miriam turned to Geouel and said, “I hope I never again impose my womanly corruption on you, Brother Geouel. No one can undo what the Almighty has made. A woman I was born, and a woman I shall die. But while I am here, I can conceal the appearance of womanliness so that your eyes no longer suffer corruption.”

She said this with a smile devoid of the slightest irony.

There was a brief silence. Then Joseph burst out laughing, and the other brothers did the same. Their laughter rang out so loudly in the courtyard that even the patients joined in.

         

F
OR
weeks, then months, there were no other incidents. Brothers, handmaids, and patients all grew accustomed to Miriam's face.

There was hardly a day when she did not learn more about how to tend the sick and relieve pain, although there existed many ailments whose cure remained an enigma, even for Joseph.

From time to time, and always briefly, taking advantage of the rare moments when they were thrown together, Joseph would exchange a few words with her.

Once he said to her, “We each have to fight the demons that are determined to lead us from the path before us. Some carry these demons with them, clinging to their tunics on the sly. They have little chance to escape them. Some healers think that the diseases we cannot understand or cure are their work. I don't believe that. For me, the demons are a perfectly visible bunch. And when I see you, daughter of Joachim, I know that you are fighting only one demon, but a very powerful one. The demon of anger.”