Authors: Marjorie Holmes
Two from Galilee (22 page)
"Work on the roof for me will you, Samuel? Finish it as swiftly as possible. For she'll live with me here and bear our son here. And if God is merciful our father Jacob will live to hold his grandson on his knees."
JOSEPH was destined to take a different journey, however, before the day was over.
He sensed an unnatural stillness in his father's house. And seeking out his mother, found her sitting, already dressed, beside her husband's bed. She sat quite erect, in an immense and terrible composure, holding Jacob's hand. One glance at the remote face on the pillow told him that his father was dead.
Suddenly the whole household was awake and wild with knowing. Cries rang out, there was the scurry of feet. Grave faces appeared, the doctor, the rabbi, neighbors. The day was only beginning to assert itself, yet half of Nazareth had roused and come running, with lamentations on its lips. Joseph was swept up in it, the macabre and insistent regimen of death.
Kneeling before the as yet unwashed body, rending his garments and pouring ashes on his head, he begged its forgiveness that he had not loved it more, nor been more understanding of the craving that drove it to its solace. . . . Father, Father! . . . Jacob lay detached, the coins glinting upon his eyes in the early light. And Joseph had a strong feeling that his father was rather delighted at all the commotion and arrangements on his behalf. For the dead did not immediately depart for Sheol, but hovered watching as was their due.
So there was time. Time to tell him how it was with Mary. "Listen and hear me, Father, it isn't shame that she brings us, but glory. The fulfillment of the prophecies, the Saviour, the holy child itself. And your son is involved. She has been given into my keeping that this wondrous thing may come to pass. Father, hear me—the family of Jacob is to be honored above all men!"
Surely it was not too late. It seemed too cruel that Jacob, whose pride had had so little to feed upon, should not be reassured before slipping away into the lonely darkness. Surely God would grant him this much comfort before snuffing out forever his own peculiarly gay and pathetic little light.
Joseph stumbled to his feet, for there was a clicking of basins in the doorway, a strong smell of aloes and myrtle. The women had arrived to prepare the body. He was astonished to see that Hannah was at their head. "Joseph!" She broke into a wail at sight of him and clasped him to her breast. She screamed likewise at sight of Timna, and Timna rose slowly, gravely, and held the small weeping woman, as if it were Hannah who was bereaved. And Joseph knew, grateful and amazed, that in this drama of death and family Hannah must be involved, she simply could not bear to be left out. Then the other women led the rigid, vacant-eyed Timna from the room.
One of Joseph's sisters found Jacob's best Sabbath garment and washed it and mended a tear in it. Joseph and his brothers set about building a coffin. No mere frame for their father's body, he would be buried as if he were a king. In a fierce recklessness they chose the finest planks, some of the wood that Joseph had meant for the sills of his house. Their hammers rang above the sounds of practiced agony that were coming from the yard, for the professional mourners had arrived.
In the shop the sweat ran down the faces of the brothers as they labored at the box in which to bear their jocund little father away. Before noon the thing was done, and they lifted him into it, where he lay serene. He was inviolate now. Nothing could hurt him any more, nor make him laugh. In death he had gained a dignity unknown to him in life. And all the town came to pay him homage, and the trumpets blew and the cymbals clashed. And when the day was well advanced they lifted him onto their shoulders and carried him, sharing the burden by turns, up into the hills to the family burial cave. "Farewell, depart in peace," each of them bade him. And then the heavy rock to keep the animals away, was rolled before the door.
This was the journey that Joseph made that day instead of setting off for Jerusalem.
"Don't delay," the angel had said. Yet in common decency he could not leave until after the period of mourning. To do so would be too cruel to his mother, and only make things harder for Mary. But he made his plans for the journey even as he grieved for Jacob.
Then on the final day of mourning Joseph saw her. He felt at first that it must be an illusion. His head was light from fasting, the hot day tricked the eyes. He thought it must be only a mirage, the donkey plodding along with the likeness of the beloved upon its back.
Then the beast drew nearer, he could hear the clop of hooves, its labored breathing. And the girl who rode the donkey ordered it to halt. She was Mary and yet not Mary, for she had been gone so long. He was afraid that he was dreaming, he was too weak and shaken to acknowledge the reality of her just yet.
She slid down, took a step toward him where he stood in the yard. But he lifted a hand to keep her away, for he was unclean, he had touched his father's corpse.
"Joseph?" She stood trembling, all her anticipation draining away. "Joseph! Aren't you happy to see me?"
He dared to look at her then, desperately recreating the shape of her beauty—the dusky hair damp and curling, the full sweet mouth, the luminous eyes. She was different. He felt the aura of the city about her, the fine house of her aunt, the magnificence of the Temple. She had pushed her veil back and he saw that her hair was brushed in a new way, she wore gold circlets in her ears. Her gown was too fine for Nazareth, there was a mantle of blue shimmering stuff across her shoulders.
He stood dazed and rocked and afraid of her, this angel so suddenly descended, this woman whose body bulged with the fruit of God. He was aware of his garment of sackcloth, the cruel lacerations upon his face and arms. And now, startled, she too became aware of all this.
"Joseph," she gasped, "you're in mourning! Who?" she whispered, at the sound of wailing from the house.
"My father Jacob."
"Oh, no." Her eyes went dim. "He was such a joyful man, I had looked forward to having his laughter in our house. Oh, Joseph, I too grieve for the father of my beloved."
He could not answer for the longing that assaulted him—to touch her, hold her, and the sheer relief. He must wait until his knees had steadied, until he had overcome this terrible desire to throw himself at her feet and weep. Weep as he had not wept even for his father. He turned his face aside. "What brings you back to Nazareth?"
"My need for you, Joseph," she said simply. "We learned of a caravan that was coming up from Hebron and I was allowed to join them. Also, my aunt is also expecting a child and her time is upon her. It isn't fitting that a virgin remain in the house of birth." She glanced down at the curve of her waist, a smile touched her lips. "Even such a virgin as I."
"Mary, blessed Mary. My blessed, my beloved. Forgive me for ever doubting. I know now, I know!" He did crouch then at her feet, he could not help it, and he kissed the hem of her gown.
Salome spied her first. "Here comes Mary leading the donkey," she shouted to her mother on the rooftop. "Mary's come home!"
She set down the lamp she'd been cleaning and rushed to meet her, skirts flying, little Micah and Judith close behind. They flung themselves into her arms, laughing and asking questions and demanding to know what she'd brought them from Jerusalem. "Hush, wait a minute," Mary begged, putting them aside as gently as she could. She was unutterably tired, and anxiety warred with her joy at being home.
"Here." She fumbled in the panier and brought forth a parcel of presents. "The tops are for you two. I brought you an Egyptian doll, Salome, I hope you're not too old for it." She glanced about eagerly, nervously, for she had so much to tell before Joseph came to fetch her. "Where are the others?"
"Mother's flailing barley. Oh, she's coming, she heard us. And Father's in the stable with Esau."
"Mother!" The word was a choked little cry as Hannah came hastening down the steps. "Mother, Mother, I'm home." They clung together, weeping and exclaiming, touching each other awkwardly because of the embarrassing burden between them. Hannah was aware of Salome's troubled eyes. The boys had darted off to try out their tops.
"Go fetch your father," Hannah ordered, still gazing avidly upon her firstborn. She wiped her dusty hands on her tunic of rough homespun. Bits of chaff clung to it, and there was a jaunty, rather pathetic tuft of the bearded barley in her gray hair.
She clenched her small red fists, regathering herself. It was needful to resist these tides of love; if you did not you were lost. For her heart's darling was back, no longer safely in the keeping of her aunt, even though that separation had been agony. And although Hannah was near to swooning in her joy, a part of her recoiled. For she also beheld that it was true, what the cousins were whispering, and half the town. And what Joachim himself had seen. And although he had told her, and Mary herself had forewarned them long ago, until this moment it had simply not been true.
"I've been counting the hours until we reached Nazareth," Mary was saying.
"To see me or to see Joseph? I should think you'd do well to be counting the hours until you could reach the husband who might be willing to hide your shame."
Mary winced. Her face paled. "Must you speak so to me, Mother, when I am so weary and so glad to be home?"
"I speak out of my terrible concern. You must forgive me, I speak out of my own weariness." Hannah turned on her heel. "Come into the house and rest. Let me bathe your feet, let me take off your fine clothes. Why did you wear them on the road?" she scolded with her old inconsistency and petulance. "Such beautiful garments don't seem practical for traveling."
"I put them on only a little while ago when the caravan stopped to rest. I wanted to look nice when I first saw my dear ones after so long."
"I suppose we can thank Elizabeth for them."
"Yes. My aunt was very kind to me and very generous."
"She can afford to be."
"She sends her love, Mother, her dearest love, and there are gifts in my knapsack. She too is soon to deliver, her time was upon her even as I left. By now your sister surely holds in her arms the baby she's prayed for so long. Surely you can spare your sister and my aunt a moment of rejoicing and tenderness."
Hannah's hands were trembling as she squatted to pull her daughter's sandals off. "I'm sorry. All week I have sat with the mourners, so that my whole outlook is surely forlorn." She dipped a gourd into the stone jug that stood by the doorstep and began to sponge Mary's swollen feet. "Jacob ben Ezra died, did you know?"
"Joseph told me only a little while ago."
"Then you've seen him?"
"Yes, I've seen him. And he's coming for me, Mother. He'll be here to get me within the hour."
"No, oh, no!" Hannah cried out, and there was a great tearing asunder within her. "Wait, come inside, let's say no more of this until your father appears. Joachim!" she called shrilly.
Her husband heard her in the stable where he was fumbling with a broken plow handle. There was such urgency in her voice that he flung it from him and started up the path, knowing that it had something to do with Mary.
"Now? This night?" For some reason Joachim was dismayed. Like Hannah, he had risen to the occasion of death, even felt a certain sense of connection, as if some force beyond themselves were thrusting the families into the mesh of each other, whether they willed it or not. But he recognized with remorse that there had also been a certain expedience in his daily going down to tend their stock and bring them food or wine. He needed Joseph's good will. It had been weeks since their conversation, and Joseph had not made his intentions known. But now that salvation had been offered them, his relief was less than his sense of loss. "But you can't go, Mary, you've been away three months and you're only just now home."
"I must go to be with my husband, Father. Surely you see how it is with me. Even the children have noticed." Mary knelt by her dowry chest, sorting out the things she would need soonest, sheets, napkins, a pair of goat's hair pillows. Linens that she and her mother had worked on so peacefully when it seemed that her marriage would be consummated not in haste but in celebration. "I'd love to stay longer, I've missed you and I've so much to tell you." The wonders of Jerusalem, she thought. The Temple, the gracious ways of Elizabeth's house. "But surely you will agree that the sooner I go to live with my husband the better."
Hannah's eyes arraigned her. "Then you know what people are saying?"
"Yes. And I know how much it must have hurt you, which is all the more reason I must hurry to go to my husband's house."
"His house? His house is not yet finished, and his mother's house is a house of mourning."
"He has sent the mourners home," Mary told them, rising with the linens in her arms. "He's washing himself even now and changing to other clothes. He's bade his mother and sisters to prepare the evening meal. And if you're willing, if you and my father will come to share it," she said wistfully, "it would add to our happiness."
The children came bursting in, quarreling over their tops. And hobbling behind them was Esau, who'd been watering the ox. "Mary!" His sightless face was shining, his arms were outstretched. "You're here, you've come home for your wedding!"