Two from Galilee (21 page)

Joseph was stunned. He took a step nearer. "What are you saying?" he gasped. "You—her own father. Are you proposing that she stay there? That Mary never come
home?'

"In time she could return. Perhaps in time, when the danger has passed."

"Danger!" It was impossible not to scoff. "It would never come to that. You're an elder yourself, you're respected in this town. And Mary. Everyone loves Mary. Surely everyone knows. . . ."

"God forbid that a hand should be raised against her." Joachim's face was ashen but he did not falter. "But the Law is the Law. And there are those—always those who are jealous, suspicious, who could actually think. . . ." He broke off, in his confusion. What did parents know of the wakening rivers of life within their children? You guarded them, taught them, arranged suitable marriages for them, but devious and sly are the rivers once aroused.

What did he think? What did he himself actually think? That his own daughter was an adulteress? It was inconceivable. Yet again the question taunted—what did a father ever know of his own child? He thought of heady afternoons on the shimmering meadows when youths might waylay a maiden tending her sheep. He thought of the dancing at betrothal and wedding feasts. He thought of the sheep shearing and grape treading, the flashing eyes, the tasting of the wine. He thought of the kisses he had exchanged with the passionate, unobtainable Abigail.

Joseph's words broke in upon his reverie. "So long as I live no harm shall come to her. No matter what other people say."

That old protectiveness which Joachim had always felt in him. It was consoling now. And Joachim wondered how Mary might have fared with one of the others? He had been right in overriding Hannah in at least that much. Right in trusting this man then, as he trusted him now.

"But aren't we forgetting one thing?" Joseph asked. "Or are we perhaps avoiding it?—this story that she told us before she went to Jerusalem."

Joachim had been clutching the doorframe. Now he swung around. "I dare not believe it," he said. "At first, yes, I was carried away by it. My own dreams, my own wish to believe. The Messiah! I've expected his coming so long, it seemed a certainty —related somehow to all of us, even me. And my child, our Mary," he said brokenly. "So beautiful, and in my eyes at least, so perfect. No—no, it did not seem impossible to me then that she could be the one.

"But once she was gone I began to see my folly. Hannah made me realize, and she is right—we dare not imagine such a thing. Either our daughter is ill, or she's sinned, or been betrayed. And to charge human error up to God. . . ." he said, appalled. He shook his head.

"He'll come," Joachim went on. "Nothing will ever change my faith in that. In this time of trial I need to believe that more than ever. But we are humble people in a remote village. When the Lord sees fit to send us a deliverer he will surely find better soil than ours and worthier people than such as we."

A bell rang in Joseph's blood, for he was remembering Mary's impassioned words: "Why do you think miracles can happen only to others?" He said, troubled, "And yet, how can we know? The ways of God are strange. And fearful—even if it were true as she claimed, it would be a fearful thing."

"No, no, we must not delude ourselves by toying with ideas for which we too might deserve to be punished. This is surely a matter of human trouble and human decisions. A matter that involves your honor as her espoused husband." Joachim had recovered his dignity. He spoke almost imperiously. "As such, you must do whatever seems to you just and right." He swallowed. "I only pray that you will deal with her as mercifully as you can."

"Deal with her mercifully. . . ."

The words had joined those others to torment Joseph as he beat away at his small house. They clamped him in a vise from which there was no respite save to lose himself in that fierce and stubborn labor which had become itself a mockery. And yet he must go on despite the now frankly gossiping tongues. Mary had been seen in the streets of Jerusalem. So now all Nazareth knew that Mary, daughter of Hannah who had always been so proud, the espoused of Joseph whose patient wait and ultimate triumph had been the delight of the town—that she had fled only to hide her shame.

His mother had been right. And Joachim. A man's honor and the honor of his family was involved. But neither Joachim nor Timna nor any other who spoke of honor—could conceive that there was a value even greater than honor—a man's love. However forsaken, bereaved, humiliated, a man's hopelessly abiding love.

He wanted her back, no matter what. Perversely, he wanted her back even more the more people talked. Yet it was so much greater than that, it went so far back and so far beyond. She was his life's purpose, his hope; she was
his
Messiah. And even as Joachim could not suffer the thought of giving up his dream even now, how much less could Joseph forego his so-nearly-realized dream of Mary.

As mercifully as you can. . . .

Yet what was truly mercy? In his determination not to lose her, was he only being merciful to
himself?
He paused one night as he crawled about the rafters. The thought had gnawed at him before, but only as a half-smothered fear. Now it stabbed him with the sudden clarity of the lightning that forked the sky after the day's heat. Joseph jerked upright before it, his hammer clenched in his hand. For the first time he was forced to face the shattering possibility: Mary might not want to come back! Whatever the circumstances that had taken her to Jerusalem, she had been there three months now. She must be heavy with child.

Whose child?
Whose child?

The agony smote him again, racking his sweaty body. He hurled his hammer savagely into a corner and covered his face with his hands. He crouched there under the lightning that splayed in daggered leaps across the rumbling sky. He felt the absurd and abject spectacle God must be making of him as he sat thus on his heels. "Pray!" the thunder seemed to growl. "Pray, you pitiful fool."

Yet he could not pray, for God had tricked him. For whether the child she carried were human or what she claimed—a child of mystery, of something too awesome for his poor sinful being to comprehend—the fact of the child shut him out. If it were the child of some earthly rival then in all decency he ought to set her free to marry him. But if it were indeed divine then how much less she belonged to him and his rude house in Nazareth. Her home would surely be the holy city, her domain the very Temple. He was building a home for a ghost bride who no longer belonged to him.

It had begun to rain, a few bright drops that spattered coldly on his hot tormented face. From force of habit he wished dully that the roof were complete to protect it, as the rain fell harder, though he knew that the shower, so rare in midsummer, would not last long. He walked about picking up tools, forcing himself to think of this so as to postpone the larger decision that was upon him at last. He felt dazed and shaken, yet curiously relieved that it was no longer to be escaped.

There was a bench in a protected corner. His mother had left an old moth-ridden shawl there; he drew it up about him to warm and quiet his trembling limbs. He was very tired, he realized, quaking from both his fatigue and the chill of his damp clothes. Yet he felt oddly calm too in another area of himself, a severely vacant place where no emotion could invade. He lay gathering all his suffering self into a whole that could be plunged into that blankness and be safe.

In an access of weariness he lay listening to the cold beating fists of the rain, which finally trailed off until there was but a rhythmic dripping from the beams and the scolding of birds that had been disturbed in the trees. He lay staring into the darkness of his house, and gradually facing the bare truth of his position.

Three courses were open to him. The first unthinkable—public denunciation with its possibility of public infamy and even capital punishment. The second, to assert his rights as her espoused, demand that she be brought back to consummate the marriage by living with him, and assume the legal paternity of her child. But that he dared not linger over; that he had just foresworn. The third, to go quietly to the authorities and divorce her without scandal. The elders were just men, they knew and respected everyone involved. Perhaps they would not insist that he specify adultery as his grounds. They would accept what was only too evident, desertion. He fought off the despair that threatened once more to overwhelm him. He turned over on the narrow bench, pulling the cover to his eyes.

Suddenly he could not bear it, to be here with his decision in the house so nearly completed, the place that was to have been their own. Yet he could not face the people he was likely to meet on the streets, and he could not bring himself to go home. He lay there like a wounded thing, enduring his suffering. All night long he lay awake with it, or so it seemed, trudging the same bitter paths and always arriving at the same terrible conclusion. But now and then he dropped off, for now and then he dreamed. Figures scurried along the paths with him, arguing among themselves and pushing him this way and that. Sometimes he stumbled as he had that first night of Mary's announcement, but always he would rise up bruised and bloody and plunge on.
Put her away. Give her up.
Yes, yes, you've reached that end, now go to sleep. But I
am
asleep. . . . I'm dead and in a coffin, I am in a cold rock cave. . . .

He clawed about for the ragged shawl that had fallen to the floor. A chill breeze blew through the open door, though a great moon seemed to have risen. A moon whose light was so intense that he must shield his eyes. He half-roused, blinking, his blood racing. For it seemed to him that he was not alone.

"Who is it?" he demanded. "Where are you and what do you want?"

His own voice startled him. He realized that he must be talking in his troubled sleep. And yet his fear did not abate. He was ashamed of it and yet he couldn't help it. It was like a familiar nightmare where there was great danger or great ecstasy forthcoming and he was powerless either to rise and flee or to lie in quiet expectation.

Then he heard the voice from the half-sensed presence at his feet.
It's all right, Joseph, Fear not. Be calm.
And as he waited, still only half-awake the voice came again:
I am a messenger sent from God. I am sent to tell you that you must not fear to take Mary your wife, for that which is conceived in her is indeed of the Holy Spirit, as she has said.

Joseph opened his mouth but he could not speak. His elbows bit into the hard bench where he lay, half-sitting, yet powerless to rise. The light was as a blinding flame.

She will bear a son,
the voice continued,
and you shall call his name Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.

"Don't mock me," Joseph whispered. "Whoever you are, whether from God or the devil, in God's name don't torment me furtherl"

But it is true, Joseph, even as she has told you. Remember the prophecy: 'Behold, a virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and his name shall be called Emmanuel' That prophecy is to be fulfilled, Joseph, son of David. So delay no longer in taking her as your wife. But know her not until she has borne this holy one.

What happened after that Joseph was never quite sure. He only knew that suddenly it was dawn, gray and misty in the shell of his house, a cock was crowing, and rough hands were shaking him. He found himself blinking into the face of his brother Samuel. The usually merry mouth was grim now, taut with disapproval and concern.

"I told our mother I'd probably find you here. She was upset when she got up to attend our father and found you hadn't come home."

"I'm sorry. I lay down to rest and fell asleep." Joseph stretched his cramped body, and as he did so the dream began to bloom within him, burst in all its brilliance upon his consciousness. The astounding dream! Striving to recreate it fully, he turned his dazed face toward Samuel's scowling one.

He realized that his brother was berating him. About the house, about being laughing stocks in Nazareth. About how difficult it would be for the rest of them to make decent marriages, "until this thing between you and Mary is settled. As for our father—he's dying. Are you too selfish and blind to see it? You owe it to him to take the step that will let him die in peace."

Dying? Joseph had been fastening his leather girdle around his waist. He looked up, startled. This was no idle threat meant to bestir him. Guilt smote him. He had known it, must have known it for a long time, but even that had been secondary to this other all-absorbing anguish. He said, "Forgive me. I'll do everything in my power to make amends." He strode toward the door. "I know now what I must do, and I promise you there will be no delay."

Samuel followed him. "I knew you'd finally see it. It won't be easy, but it's for the best, and you'll feel better for getting it over with."

"I'll have to ask you to look after the shop while I'm gone."

"Gone?" Samuel halted. "You don't mean to say you plan to journey clear to Jerusalem to fetch her back?"

"Even so," said Joseph. "If I hurry I may be able to set forth before this day is past."

"But I thought—I thought surely you'd take care of it quietly here without exposing her!"

"Expose her?" Joseph gasped. "How can you ask such a thing? Hurt Mary? I'd sooner be crucified. I'm only going to Jerusalem to claim her as my bride. To bring her home to our house."

He turned to take one last look about. The pink light was falling through the rafters now; again it was shining, shining.