Authors: Marjorie Holmes
Two from Galilee (9 page)
On the third day, however, Hannah sprang from her couch. "There's much to be done if we're to receive guests in your honor this Sabbath," she announced. And she set about the cleaning and baking with a zeal matched only by her fervor in now convincing Nazareth that, of all its youths, Joseph ben Jacob was the finest. In fact, the only one she would deign consider for her daughter.
Mary could not resist a smile of gentle irony. But so intense was her relief that she banished the memory of her parents' bitter quarrels and these last dark days of sulking.
Hannah was already up, rousing the family, for this day would be full. They must make haste to wash and dress and be about their devotions. She scurried about giving orders, goaded by a wry anticipation. On the strong tide of her vitality they were swept to the synagogue.
The day was bright and sparkling. Light washed the familiar rose red stones of the building, set upon the highest point of the city so that none might look down upon it, its face turned east toward Jerusalem. The light enhanced the multicolored Sabbath robes that flowed into the place of worship like a wind-tossed tulip garden. Mary felt dazzled by it. Leading the younger children, she followed her mother into the women's gallery. A bustle of interest followed her; she could feel her own beauty, quickened and enhanced by love.
Hannah was beside her, eyes lively, in proud defiance. Below them were the men in their fringed prayer shawls; the women relegated to second position and yet above them behind their wooden screen, like angels smiling down. Regarding the men who were so mighty, had such power, and yet were as nothing, as lost sheep, without the women. The rich male voices rose in the chants and psalms.
Joseph was beside his father. Not far from them was Abner, who seemed even from this distance the picture of wretchedness. His eyes were redder than usual—had he been weeping? Mary wondered sadly. Cleophas and his father were toward the back, richly robed, the gold on their dark wrists and ankles gleaming. She yearned toward them too, roused and distressed. To be so cocksure and wealthy and then to suffer this baffling indignity. What an outrage! Reb Levi had made that plain, storming into the house of Joachim.
"How is it that you put me off last year," he demanded, "and now are bargaining with that ass Jacob without even giving me notice? You must be mad—don't you realize I'm prepared to pay almost anything?"
Joachim's reply only incensed him further. "My daughter is not for sale." No, not for sale this sweet newly awakened flesh. Though had it not been for Joseph she would not have objected to Cleophas, whom she'd always liked despite his jaunty insolence. He was engaging and exhilarating, that spoiled young traveler, though his way with girls was well known. If that handsome face was sardonic to hide his suffering now, it would not be so for long. But again it struck her as sad that love should be so divisive, lashing this person to that against another, lacerating those whom it must cast aside.
It was time for the reading of the Torah. The candles in the seven-branched candelabra shone with pointed tongues of flame. The curtains at the back of the dais were parted, the holy chest unlocked. The priest brought forth the sacred scrolls, ivoried with age. The congregation waited for the seven chosen ones. Mary waited too in a soft dream. Surely today my father; surely today my Joseph.
And indeed they were summoned, together with Jacob in honor of the occasion. Joachim on his heavy tread, to solemnly deliver the Hebrew passages, which the interpreter translated into Aramaic, the language of them all. Then Jacob, looking humble yet carrying the peculiar essence of his jocularity, as if to lighten and reduce to their level the weighty words of God. And finally Joseph, striding gracefully forward, his face grave yet unable to resist one shining glance upward.
His last words had fallen, he lifted the parchments high. The old rabbi rose, clearing his furry throat and plucking at his vestments. Expectantly the congregation leaned forward. Mary clutched the railing of the balcony. Dimly she heard the words of the required announcement: Joseph ben Jacob, well known to all here assembled, desired the hand of Mary, daughter of Joachim, whose lineage was likewise of David. "If any here present have just cause to question this union, let him come forth now and make his protests known."
In the stillness you could hear the pigeons cooing and scratching on the roof. Hear too your own blood beating like the flutter of their wings, as they wheeled off. Someone coughed, there was a stirring toward the back, and Mary's heart raced for it struck her as not inconceivable that Reb Levi might stalk forward to make public the indignation he had vented on Joachim. Half-smiling, the old gray leader waited a moment more before lifting his hands for the blessing.
But even before it was pronounced, two figures moved into the aisle. Robes billowing, Cleophas and his father strode from the synagogue.
Men surged forward to congratulate Joseph. The rude departure only added zest to their words, for they were mostly poor and it delighted them that a mere carpenter had bested the richest man in town. Upstairs the women crowded around Mary and Hannah, eager for details. But Hannah squirmed through, impatient to get home. She'd been unable to concentrate on the Scriptures for fretting about the food. Would there be enough to go around? After that little scene, no doubt the company would be considerable, and Hannah shrank with anxiety for the deficiencies of her little house.
She had one terrible final pang at the image of those grandly departing backs. As if she were being forced to witness the literal withdrawal of some glittering fulfillment almost within her reach. But no—she set her sharp little teeth. She must cut the garment to fit the cloth. Joseph was all that her tormented pride had driven her to proclaim. Down in some dark locked cupboard of herself she had known it all along. . . . Oh, she was a vain and wretched woman, unworthy of this rare and exquisite daughter, this noble if humble youth who was to become her son. Let her be punished and shamed in the streets if ever again she muddied the vessel of their happiness.
Cora, Deborah's mother, stood with the other sisters-in-law trying to protect the cheeses and fruits and cakes, spread out on tables in the yard. The flies were bad and the children almost worse. Both must continually be shooed away. Meanwhile all about, guardedly lest Hannah overhear, was the tentative buzz of tongues.
"It's still hard to believe Joachim would not give in to Hannah—she dominates our brother in everything else."
"Well, you know his weakness for Mary. A wonder she wasn't spoiled."
"Not spoiled?" Cora gasped. "What about now? 'The eye that mocks a father and scorns to obey a mother—'" she began, but halted before the shocked reaction of the others that she should choose such a cruel proverb. For Mary was their niece and the family ties were strong. Cora was irked at herself for betraying the resentment that had smouldered within her for years.
She was a massive, strong-jawed woman, who had borne seven children, five of them sons. As the eldest sister, she had tried to champion Hannah when the family first became saddled with that impudent waif from Bethlehem. She had made a great show of counseling and commiserating with her in her barrenness; yet she had felt fortified by her own fruitful loins, armed against Hannah's quicker mind and sometimes vitriolic tongue.
It had galled her when Hannah finally conceived. Galled her further that her brother's wife had failed to be properly humble that the child was a girl. Mary's undeniable beauty had been a blow. Jealously examining her own daughters, Cora had found them wanting. Deborah had an agile catlike loveliness. Esther was pretty in a pudgy, dimpled way. But Mary's was the kind of beauty that people turned to gaze at on the street.
Thus from the beginning Hannah was armed, a voluble little adversary with whom you could not compete. And Joachim was almost as bad. It was amazing that Mary wasn't ruined. Yet Mary only grew more radiantly appealing with the years. Cora was baffled and aggrieved.
Outwardly unctuous, creamy with praise, even forcing her own daughters to yield to Mary when it came to toys or games, she bided her time. Often she used Mary as an example: "How soft-spoken your cousin is," she sometimes corrected the strident Deborah, "can't you be more like her?" Or to the untidy Esther: "Mary would never leave the pots and pans in such a state." Even so, she had failed to generate any real dislike between them. Though they had their share of quarrels, she knew that they loved and admired their cousin and wished her happiness.
Nor would Cora begrudge the child. Especially not today when she had been delivered of a vexing, unworthy but long tormenting burden—that Mary would surpass her daughters in marriage. Live in a greater house, have servants, travel, shop in the bazaars of exotic cities. She had not missed the final plaintive look on Hannah's face as Cleophas and his father swept from the synagogue. As for her, it was as if they carried with them her heavy accumulation of dread.
Cora hastened to correct the impression she had made. She could afford to be generous. "It still seems a pity." She plunged the knife into her own breast. "The chances that girl had."
"And beauty fades so fast," said Ruth, Joachim's small dark intense middle sister. "I shudder to think what a few years suckling the babes of a poor joiner may do to her."
"Yes, I'm afraid they'll all live to regret it," Cora said. "For her own sake her parents should have been firm. Now Deborah had plenty of other chances too," she claimed. "Some that might have pleased her more than Aaron. But Deborah's obedient, she's been trained not to question what we deem best."
There was a quick change of subject as Hannah came out. They didn't want to spoil this day for her, poor thing; they knew it was hard enough for her already. They had a grudging respect for her spunk, the way she always bounced back. Even now Hannah couldn't refrain. "Did you ever hear such a moving reading of the Word as Joseph's this morning? He should have studied for the priesthood. But he knows you can serve the Lord in other ways—by being a good husband, a good father. A good carpenter!" she declared, daring them to doubt. "You should see the table he's making for Mary—why, it would be a credit to the Temple."
They agreed, with the loyalty that overrode their differences. How was it that Hannah always managed to be right? they wondered. Yet they wanted her to be right in this instance, if only because they were all of the selfsame family. Whatever befell one of them befell them all.
Upstairs, Deborah was helping Mary unbind her hair. She yanked the pins from the dark coronet and impishly began to tumble it about. "Come, now," Mary protested, laughing. "Hand me the comb. It's a maid my loosened hair is supposed to symbolize, not a wanton."
Deborah held the comb wickedly away. Her slant green eyes were dancing. "What a glorious joke
that
would be, to sit demurely on the bench with disheveled hair all day, knowing that you were no virgin as the visitors believed, but wild and wanton."
"It would be dreadful I should think."
"I thought of it at the time of my own hair's unwinding. I didn't feel demure and virginal at all, but wanton. I thought how it would be if I had lain with some of the boys I'd kissed, and almost wished I had!"
Mary smiled at her cousin's self-dramatics. "But what about Aaron? Don't you love him?"
"Plenty of time for Aaron when he leads me to the marriage bed." She attacked with the comb, so vigorously Mary winced. "As for love, you tell
me
what it's like. How does it feel when you look at Joseph, what is it like when you kiss?"
"We don't kiss," Mary said softly. "Not yet."
"You will. You'll find they're all alike, they can hardly wait. Even Aaron—this betrothal has been one long struggle. Don't you tell," she warned. "It's legal, of course, but still a disgrace. I wouldn't think of it. But then I'm not tempted." She shuddered. "His lips—they're like kissing a sausage."
Mary gasped, shocked if amused. A sausage was heathen food. "Oh, Deborah, no, it shouldn't be like that! When Joseph looks at me it's like drowning sometimes, almost too lovely to bear. And his touch, even his hand on mine! I dare not even imagine what the rest of it will be like."
"Well, you're lucky." Deborah took up the wreath of blue forget-me-nots. She could hear the other girls coming with their garlands and she wanted to be first. She felt very possessive of Mary; she wanted to claim and crown her, this cousin whose beauty had always been a thorn in her side, who seemed born to be loved. "But you'd better be well chaperoned, you've got a long wait ahead."
Mary too could hear the patter of her friends' feet approaching. Her hair spilled over her shoulders in a sweet cascade, the shining hair of her maidenhood. A thrill of longing pierced her as she thought of the impending hours, months of waiting. Waiting for the beloved to come unto her. Yet surely there was reason in postponement; surely it would only enhance the time when they could truly be one.
She smiled at her restless, importunate cousin. "The Lord will give both of us strength," she said.
T
HE betrothal had been fixed for the Wednesday three weeks hence, when the moon would be full for good luck.
Each night Joseph watched for its rising, and often he was still awake as it set. By the light of the moon and a single saucer of oil he worked on his gifts for Mary: A sewing box. A pair of slippers from some doeskin bought in the bazaars at Sepphoris. And his table. The moonlight poured across the doorstep, for he had flung the door wide; it made him feel closer to Mary. Everywhere things were blooming and bearing. The fragrance of almond and pomegranate blossoms drifted in, mingling with the odor of shavings and the cedar oil that he was rubbing into the table. Deeply, lovingly, with all his force to make it shine for her.