Two from Galilee (29 page)

The fires licked at her savagely. God help me, spare me! But she must go with the cattle. They had come charging back for her and were goading her to greater effort with their fierce horns. They were dragging her to the altar with them now, and the god of her pain was driving them all ferociously on. And the high priest stood there waiting to offer up the sacrifice. But it was not the priest, it was Joseph who bent near in love and reverence, telling her, "I can see its little head. You must strive harder, beloved. Bear down, bear down."

She obeyed, gratefully. There was a great ripping and flooding and burning, and he came forth out of her, out of Mary, his mother. Thus in blood and pain he came into the world, this son of God who was also man and the son of man.

And Joseph lifted him up for her to see. And they looked upon him together and marveled at him, his wholeness, infinitely small and red and perfectly formed. And when he squirmed in Joseph's arms and uttered his first cry, the thrill of all mankind ran through both of them, for this was life, human life, and they knew that a miracle had been achieved.

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M
ARY lay drowsing, with the child in her arms. Joseph had cleansed it and rubbed it with salt as she directed. When it came to swaddling it, however, he carried the cloths to Mary. It was she who placed the newborn cornerwise on the square of linen and folded it up over his tiny sides and feet. Then, with Joseph's help, she made its little harness of swaddling bands to bind it so that its limbs would grow straight and strong.

So now she lay drowsing while Joseph busied himself at tidying up this small nest that had become for a space their home. How beautiful it was. He had taken the bloody straw from beneath her and replaced it with clean sweet hay. He had bathed her too and brought fresh garments for her. He had brushed her matted hair. And then he had brought the swaddled child for her to suckle. She could feel it tugging at her breast as she dozed. So tiny to be so vigorous, so new to be so hungry! How greedy for life it was, it must assert itself, it must be fed. Feed me, it demanded, groping about with its blind little new mouth.

How comical it was, actually. She smiled in her half-sleep and pressed the hot little bundle closer. Yet what bliss, to direct the nipple to the lips, to be the source of its sustenance. Ecstasy flooded her, the ecstasy of the new mother who finds herself with the child safely cradled in her arms after the long ordeal. The only reality is this wonder, this sense of harmony and love so intense it is scarcely to be endured, and the tears escape the eyelids and roll foolishly down the cheeks.

And so Mary rested on this night that her child was born. And Joseph kept watch, near exhaustion himself, but too excited to sleep. There was a little of the barley soup left and he realized that he too was ravenous. He heated it over the coals, and sitting on the dirt floor, drained the cup. It was delicious after his long fast and the struggle to help his beloved. New strength began to flow through him, and with it an exaltation that bordered on Mary's. He need berate himself no longer. He had not failed her. Her son had been safely born, and he had helped to bring him forth. So that made him in a new and wondrous sense his son too. They were sleeping there quietly now, his wife and child. His little family. And, unable to restrain himself, he shielded the lamp and held it above their faces, if only to witness the blessed sight of it in this moment of his rapture.

And as he stood thus he was startled to hear a low rumble of voices, the sound of approaching feet. Fear gripped him, a passion of protectiveness. Like a lion before its den, he went to bar the door. No harm should come to them, none should even disturb their peaceful sleep. He could see figures carrying torches, though behind them through the mouth of the cave such light streamed that it seemed the sun was already high in the skies or that the herdsmen must have rekindled their great fire.

To his relief he saw that the man who led the group was the one who had earlier given him aid. "Hush," Joseph whispered. "Don't wake them. My wife and newborn son are sleeping."

"Then all is well with you, my friend?" the herdsman asked softly. His long narrow face seemed pale in the glow of the light, his eyes were filled with doubt and amazement. "The child has been safely born?"

"Yes, thanks be to God. A man-child is even now resting with his mother. Pray be quiet."

"Then it's true!" There was a smothered outcry, a stir of excitement, the others pressed forward. Among them were several shepherds who had not been with the group in the yard, men who had come a long way. "We told you this is the place!" one of them said to the Bedouin. "The star led us to it. We have followed it all night, to this very stable, and it stands even now above the door." He begged Joseph, "If you are the father, pray let us come in if only for a minute, that we may see with our own eyes the glory that the angels told us would be waiting in this holy place."

"Angels?"

"A whole chorus of angels," the man said breathlessly. "As we were tending our sheep on the Jericho hills. This lad saw them first." He thrust a boy forward, and to Joseph's astonishment the child fell to his face. "He thought at first he was dreaming, then the rest of us awoke from the music and the light."

"We have traveled for hours," another pleaded. "Please let us come in, if only long enough to deliver the gifts we have brought." And Joseph saw that indeed each one carried something in his arms.

"Joseph?" Mary had roused up and was blinking in the strange light that seemed to have claimed the night. "What is it?"

"These men," he told her, shaken. "They are shepherds. They claim to have been guided to this place by a mysterious star. They—they wish to see the little one."

"Then they must be cold and tired," she said. "Bid them come in." She sat up, there on the hay. Startled, half-frightened herself, but smiling, she covered her breast and lifted up the holy child. And the shepherds stole in fearfully, humbly, and laid their gifts at the foot of the manger. Rude gifts hastily assembled—some rabbit skins, a sack of figs, a kid, a newborn lamb. And with shining, transfixed faces, they gazed upon the sleeping child, or fell down upon the straw and worshiped him.

For forty days the rude little stable was their home. And each night the great star stood over its entrance. Joseph had never seen such a star, flaming now purple, now white, now gold. Its light illuminated the countryside. Dazed, he told Mary, "I'm afraid there will be others coming to see the child."

"Let them come," she murmured. "Oh, Joseph, isn't he lovely? Just look at him—see, his eyes are open, he knows us! He's trying to smile."

"Foolish—all babies smile like that, they don't know what they're doing."

"Oh, but this one does. Our baby does."

Their baby . . . Joseph bent over her where she stood unwinding its swaddling bands. She did this several times a day to change it and exercise its limbs. Timidly at first, but now with confidence, she poured a little oil into her hands and massaged the tiny squirming body, the flailing fists, the curved kicking legs. Then she dusted it with powdered myrtle leaves. The scent of it, ineffably new and tender, stirred Joseph deeply. He bent nearer and offered one of his fingers, and the child clung to it in a thrilling intensity of trust. It tugged, striving to direct the finger into its mouth.

Joseph laughed, over the pain of his blind adoration. His child. If not the child of his loins, yet it was still the child of his love. He thought of the ancient taboo, that no man should witness a woman giving birth. Yet God had surely led them to this place where no other woman was. The star outside confirmed it. Had that too been a part of God's plan—to include him thus?

"My son," he said, smiling. "No, no, you must not try to eat the finger, my precious son."

The fire glowed day and night, clucking softly, for Joseph went forth each day and brought back fuel for it. And he brought bread and juice and water, and sweets which they ate, often secretively in the still of the night, like children on a holiday. And with them, the core and flower and focus of their existence, was the baby, new, small, helpless, who yawned and woke and gazed at them with his blank blue liquid eyes, and suckled and slept again. Or cried, so that they would take turns walking him up and down while the other rested.

There was the snap of the fire, the rustle of the hay, the kick of a hoof in a neighboring stall. The starlight poured through the chink of window, joining the yellow eye of the fire to throw long shadows. They could hear the voices of people coming and going in the courtyard. Music and laughter and raucous shouting floated down from the inn. Camels brayed, harnesses clanked, there was the thump of baggage. All, all made a kind of music for the strange, lovely, half-waking dream.

And sometimes it was interrupted by the coming of visitors, as Joseph had predicted. For the shepherds had spread the tidings. And some came who were only curious or skeptical, but some came who, like those shepherds, marveled and went away rejoicing.

Joseph stood one night at the stable door. He had been to the well for water, but he could not go in just yet. The night was cold and clear, it was exhilarating and yet peaceful to stand for a moment before joining his loved ones inside. From this little distance he stood savoring it, the sweet communion of the stable.

They had made the place more comfortable. The innkeeper's wife had come down, incredulous before the star. She was a fat, bustling, loquacious woman, childless poor thing, and she had fallen in love with the baby. She had urged them to stay. "You will be hard put to find better quarters in Bethlehem," she told them, accurately reading their poorness. "Remain here at least until the time of your purification." She had brought down a table and bench from the inn, and a brazier to augment the fire in the pit. Now it too glowed through the long cold nights. They had tethered the ass in another stall, swept out the straw and strewn fresh rushes on the floor. The little family had been snug as three mice in a nest.

And now the forty days had passed. Tomorrow they must take the little Jesus and travel to the Temple, there to redeem him with an offering. After that, Joseph reasoned, it would be well to come back to Bethlehem and find work until the baby was old enough to attempt the treacherous journey back to Nazareth. Would the star follow them? he wondered. Would it continue to blaze above their heads like a torch to light the way?

Where now, star? he thought. Guide me, lead me.

A quiet joy filled him. Wherever they went they would be together, he and Mary. And the child that had leapt into their lives together. The miracle of that smote him with new significance. For the miracles we beg of God are seldom those we receive. The miracle that had come to them that night was the miracle of birth itself. The living child, fashioned out of nothing, a mystery of love, yet swelling and growing and coming forth as blood and bone and hungry mouth and crying! Would the miracle have been less if he had indeed planted the seed in Mary? Or any greater had God sent an angel down as he had implored and lifted it without pain from her body? No—no, the miracle, he saw now as he stood regarding the flaming star, was life. The baby. God's child—or any child. For is not every birth a mystery and every child the child of God?

Taking up the cool bulging skins, he was about to go in when he heard the pluck of approaching hooves and the jingle of harness, and saw, flowing slowly down the pathway from the inn, three camels. He paused, curiously repelled and attracted by the serpentine necks and undulant heads festooned with tassels, the arrogant grace of them as they moved, and the commanding elegance of their riders. Rich merchants, evidently, dark princes from some far country. And it flashed through his consciousness that it was strange they had not summoned a servant to stable their mounts instead of themselves riding down from the inn.

Joseph turned hastily, not wishing to be seen, and was about to duck into the cave when one of them called out to him. "Wait! You there in the doorway." The camel drew nearer. "Tell me, is this the place where the new child lies?"

Joseph stood rigid, silent in the grip of a terrible apprehension.

"Of course it is, it has to be." The second rider was making a gesture of triumph toward the star. "See, it no longer moves."

"But—a stable!" The third rider drew abreast. "Surely this is no fit birthplace for a king."

Joseph's heart had begun to beat in heavy strokes. Obviously these were men of travel and learning, men on a vital mission, and he was afraid. A great foreboding rose up in him, and a fierce rebellion. What did such men want with his child? Were the dread momentous things hinted at so darkly in the prophets already about to begin? He would not have it. Not yet, not yet! The child was not ready; his little life had only just begun.

He stood blocking the doorway as the strangers prepared to dismount, rapping the growling beasts on the neck so that they folded their thin legs to crouch.

"Why do you ask?" Joseph demanded. "What do you want?"

"To see him. Is there not a newborn child within?"

Joseph hesitated. "Only my wife and son."

They regarded him. One was tall and handsome, with a curling black beard and teeth that flashed white in his swarthy face. The other two were fairer. All had the look of wisdom and splendor about them, humbling Joseph, a sense of purpose and wills that were not easily to be denied.