Authors: Marjorie Holmes
Two from Galilee (26 page)
"Mary. . . ." Joseph gripped her hands. "Mary, you had better listen to your mother."
"Joachim, speak to her," Hannah beseeched him. He must support her, surely he would not yield to Mary when so important an issue was at stake. "You're her father, she'll listen to you."
Joachim ran a big trembling hand across his grizzled jaw. Slowly he shook his head. "She must do what she must do."
"I must go with my husband," said Mary. "I must journey with him to Bethlehem."
JOSEPH had let Mary sleep as long as possible, but now he must rouse her. "If we are to be off before daylight we must get started."
She fought her way up out of the blessed oblivion. She could feel his strong hand lifting her, a strength beyond hers supporting her, and she gave herself over to it, still dreamily, leaning her head against his breast. "Oh, Joseph, forgive me. . . ." For she was usually up before him as a good wife should be.
"You will need your rest, my beloved," he said, and kissed her hair. "Dress warmly, it will be very cold until the sun is fully up."
She shivered, bathing herself. The bread that had been put on the coals to bake last night smelled hot and good. Gratefully she knelt by the oven, feeling the heat on her face and the hot loaves against her thighs as she carried them in her apron to the table. Then she summoned Joseph, who was outside loading the donkey.
They ate hastily, bound by a sense of urgency and yet a queer elation. They had never made a journey together before. And before their return the baby would have surely arrived. When? Where? How? The very concern that underlay it all, the thrill of fear deep in the vitals, added to the challenge. For they were young and strong and in love and buoyed up by the sheer adventure of going forth alone together to face whatever lay ahead.
Mary tidied up, though her mother had said she would come in later to do it. The queer taut elation remained. Yet now something held her; the little house held her. Stay, stay, it begged. Your first home of your own. . . . The warm fire glowing. The dear familiar cups and bowls. The betrothal gifts, and the lovely table Joseph had made. When would she see them all again?
Yet she must go.
Joseph was making numerous trips for things to further load the donkey. He had strapped a tent across its back, forming a saddle on which Mary could ride. To its sides hung paniers containing dried foods, cooking vessels, clothing. Now he added tools, for he had no idea how long they might be gone; he would probably have to find work before they were ready to come home. They would have to stop at the well to fill the water bags, and they'd better get there before the others began to arrive.
It was growing lighter, they no longer needed the torch that burned beside the door. The outlines of the house grew clearer and Joseph felt it too, its permanence and safety, but more, the dearness of this place that he had worked on so hard and now must leave. He put an arm around Mary's shoulders and they stood gazing upon it a moment thus. "Don't worry," he tried to cheer her, "it will still be here when we get back."
He went to stamp out the torch. The sky was gray now, laced with pink. A cock crowed. Hannah and Joachim were coming up the path to see them off, Hannah's teeth chattering with the cold. Her eyes were like burned cinders, her voice had gone hoarse from pleading with Mary not to go. But her first burst of selfishness had ceased to goad her, her only concern was now for her daughter.
Fighting back her own tears, Mary kissed her mother's wet cheek. Then Joseph lifted her onto the donkey. Heavy as she was, he lifted her with ease, Hannah noticed, taking such consolation from it as she could. And for the first time she acknowledged what her husband had maintained: If any man could take care of Mary in her coming ordeal, that man was Joseph.
"Goodbye, be careful," Joachim said gruffly. "If you. can join up with a party along the route you'd better do so, there are often robbers in the hills. And wait," he trudged beside them a few steps, "take this, you'll need it." He pressed a few dinars into Joseph's hand. "For the little one," he said.
"We'll be all right," Joseph said cheerfully. "Don't worry. God will be with us."
"Yes, yes, God will be with you." He must let them go, and he stood, one hand upraised. "God be with you and keep you, my children."
They progressed down the street, the hooves of the ass making a hollow music on the deserted cobbles. They were shadowy figures in the white mists of the morning, they were like something out of a dream. And Hannah stared after them, gnawing the fist that was pressed against her lips. "God help them," she whispered.
"Oh God, help them!"
"He'll help them," Joachim said. "For he is leading them on this journey, he is taking them to the City of David, which is Bethlehem."
"Bethlehem, where I was born. What a pity all my people are gone from there, they might have given them shelter."
Her husband continued to gaze after the laden donkey that appeared and disappeared in the floating veils of fog. " 'But thou, O Bethlehem,'" he quoted from Micah, "'. . . though thou be little among the thousands of Judah, yet out of thee shall he come forth unto me that is to be ruler in Israel. . . .'" His voice shook, even as he felt his wife's hand trembling on his arm. " 'Therefore,'" he went on, " 'will he give them up, until the time that she which travaileth hath brought forth. . . .'" He could not continue, Hannah's fingers gripped him.
"Bethlehem!
She who is in travail."
And as the great knowledge awoke within her, began to beat and break within her, Hannah's face likewise broke, dissolved. "My God, my God," she cried, and lifted its anguish to heaven, "wherefore have you denied me this truth so long?"
Wordlessly, Joachim drew her to him.
"I knew, I must have known . . . but I dared not . . . after all my vanity and pride. . . ." Far below the road emerged and as Hannah stared, the fog lifted for an instant, and the parents could see them clearly, their daughter so small upon the burdened beast and the tall man who led it.
"I must tell her, I must catch them and tell her before it's too late!" She broke from him and began to run, frantically calling her daughter's name. But Joachim caught his wife and restrained her, wildly though she wept. "Let me go, this much comfort at least I can give her. I
believe.
Oh, Mary, I too believe!"
For four days they traveled, south through the old towns of Nain, Sunem and Jezreel, then eastward across the boggy plains of Esdraelon until they reached the Jordan; then southward through its valley until they must climb again into the bleak hills of Judea. "I wish we dared go directly through Samaria," Joseph told her as they plodded along. "It would be so much easier for you, but it would be too great a risk."
Mary nodded. The enmity between the Samaritans and the Israelites had been growing worse. These eternal hostilities, why must they be? Would the time never come when men and nations could live in peace? Or was that the true significance of the miracle she carried? The Messiah. Perhaps through him these terrible conflicts would be settled; he would bring mankind together in love of their God.
She smiled at Joseph. "I am in your keeping. As long as we're together I don't care how long the journey takes."
She rode along beside him, uncomplaining, either of the cold dry east wind which lashed grit in their faces and made them cringe in their cloaks, or the fierce contrast of the
khamsin,
blowing its hot stifling breath from the desert. The skies were clear and cloudless after the drenching fall rains, but the nights were intensely cold. Despite the dirt, the jolting, all the discomfort, Mary smiled a great deal, half in her pleasure at simply being with him, half in a reverie of the coming child. She smiled faintly even as she dozed—as she was dozing now, on this day which Joseph hoped would be nearly the last one of their journey.
Joseph's feet were sore, his whole body unutterably weary, but he knew he could not be half so miserable as she. He halted the donkey and stood for a moment gazing upon her where she sat, head forward on her chest, one hand braced to support herself. He stood wondering if there were anything he could do to make her more comfortable. The marvel of her electing to come with him seemed more than he deserved. "Mary?" He wasn't aware that he had spoken, but she started and gazed at him blankly for an instant. "Mary, have you any idea how beautiful you are?"
She laughed. "Oh, Joseph, dirty and disheveled as I am?"
He laid his cheek against hers. Then he took a handkerchief from his girdle, and pouring a little water from one of the bags, proceeded to wash her dusty face, if only to cool it a little. "Would you like me to lift you down so that you can stretch?"
"Yes, I need to walk about a bit." He set her down upon the hard hot pavement, and she stood there trying to take in her surroundings. "I must have slept. Where are we?"
"Not far from Jericho. See, there's the river. By nightfall we should be there. Perhaps beyond. And tomorrow night, if all goes well, we shall sleep in Bethlehem."
"I hope so." She had not realized how weak and trembling her legs were until she stood. Her body ached, her back was one fierce cramp, and the child was threshing about so that it was hard to speak. She drew a deep breath, still determinedly smiling. "The sooner we can reach Bethlehem the better it will be."
"Are you all right, my beloved? Are you well?" he asked anxiously.
"Yes. Yes—it's only riding so long. Come, I'll walk beside you."
"Very well then, I'll ride," Joseph laughed.
"Would that you could. Poor Joseph. Would that you had a camel to ride, or a horse like the Romans."
"Would that you were right, for then I would be rich and able to provide so much better for you and your child."
"Our child," she said. "This child that the Lord has vouchsafed into our keeping. Oh, Joseph, just because it is my body that will bear him does not mean that he is any less your child than mine."
"I didn't father him," he said quietly. "Nothing can ever change that. Don't think I'm protesting, Mary. It is a thing that is beyond protesting. Yet even you must agree that there's no way to change that fact."
"No." She pressed his hand, trying to think how to comfort him. "And it matters to you. You would be less of a man if it did not matter, and I—surely I would love you less. And yet. . . ." She groped for the words to express it. "In many ways he will be more your son than mine."
"More!"
"Yes, more," she insisted. "A father is so important in Israel. A son needs his father to teach him the ways of the world, and of God and the Law. Once I have borne and suckled this child my task will be largely finished. But yours, Joseph, yours will be only beginning."
"He may not need a father's training. He who will come to us as the very son of God."
"Perhaps he will need it more." For a minute there was only the sound of the donkey's hooves on the stones. They could smell the river, now swollen from the rains, and see the cranes that waded its opaque gray-blue waters. "He—the one who is to lead Israel out of her troubles—surely he will have to be very strong and wise. And I ... I don't know much about it, but I feel in my heart that he will come to us innocent and uninformed, a child like any child, needing guidance from us as well as from the one who sends him. Both of us, Joseph, but you especially. And that's why you were chosen. For you
were
chosen —your honor is as great as mine."
She spoke with such conviction that a thrill of hope ran through him. He knew that she was seeing this only as she wished to, because she loved him. He knew that he would never be as significant in the eyes of God as Mary, nor would he have it so. But her words had inspired and consoled him, given him new purpose, added an unanticipated new dimension to his destiny.
The man who ferried them across the river was a coarse, rollicking fellow who cursed the Romans as he poled his tipsy craft, but also sang their praises for improving his business. "It's almost as good as feast time. I'm getting so rich I may soon have enough to pay my taxes! What's your destination, friends?"
"Bethlehem," Joseph told him.
"Oho, Bethlehem. That's where everybody seems to be heading. All the towns are crowded, I hear, like grain sacks bursting at the seams, but Bethlehem, City of David and all his kin—that's the worst. That David," he whooped, "greatest king we ever had, especially with the ladies. Now me, if I was to take another wife or even a concubine, assuming I could afford 'em, my wife would not only break my head, I'd be read out of the synagogue. But oho, not old David, not him!"
Joseph and Mary exchanged amused glances. "Times have changed." Joseph steadied her as the craft bumped the opposite bank. "How much?"
"Two drachmas for you. and the beast." The man glanced mischievously at Mary. "No charge for the lady, though for her I should probably charge double."
Mary laughed. "Thank you. God be with you."
"And with you. May it be a son." The man leaned frowning on his pole. "I trust you have kinfolk to stay with in Bethlehem?"
"Not any more. We're planning to stay at the inn."
"The inn? You'll be lucky to find a corner for the ass at the inn!"
Joseph lifted Mary back onto the donkey and strode along at a faster pace. If things were that bad the quicker they got to Bethlehem the better. Sleeping in the open had not been too hard; he had kept a fire going and seen that Mary was well wrapped. But he knew that her hour would soon be upon her. What, literally, would he do if the birth pangs began without shelter or someone to attend her? True, he had seen animals born. But Mary was no animal What's more, that which was to come from her was a being so significant that it staggered the imagination. And she had been entrusted to him. He too had been chosen.