HIM, page 17
Maryam turned to Babatha. “This is over.”
Babatha fought. She said that they had not begun to deal with this, that they needed to talk to the person, to get her to see how unseemly she was being.
Miltiades undid her. Suddenly he said, “It’s too late, Atha. Everybody’s seen her. Everybody knows. This is beyond helping.” Miltiades turned towards their biers and threw himself into one. But as he had been speaking, the cudgel shook as if his hands were quivering.
He’s afraid, Maryam realized. He wasn’t expecting so many followers.
Yakob growled at them, saying that there was food in the tents, and waved a hand towards it, before striding away.
Babatha looked glum. “Poor Yoses. Poor Tara. How they will suffer for this.”
Then she looked up at Maryam. “You, Mother. This is your fault.” Babatha put on a thin nasty voice. “Don’t be like your sister Atha, learn your embroidery Atha, your sister betrayed the family. But you like it. Both you and Aba liked what she is. Your teaching.” Wiping her cheeks, Babatha stormed away.
Much of what she said is true, thought Maryam in a kind of quietude. It is my fault. I did help the Son do this.
I didn’t do enough to help.
So what now? she asked the heavens, and the answer was there.
In the morning, she told Babatha: “I’m staying.”
“Why?” Babatha asked.
Maryam might have said: I have so much to learn. She might have said: I’m curious. She might have said: for thirty years my life has been waiting for this – I might as well see it.
What she did say was, mildly, with a smile: “It is the will of God.”
Babatha shook her head once. “You’re both crazy. Come home when you need to.” She started to walk away, thought, turned back and kissed her mother on the cheek. “Love you, Ami.” Then she walked back towards the biers. Yudeh bounced in place with a kind of shyness, kissed Maryam and whispered. “This fits. It all fits. I wish I was staying too.”
“You can.”
Yudeh laughed and shook his head. “Nah. Babatha would kill me.” Then he was gone too.
Free, thought Maryam.
CHAPTER 18
THE NEEDLEPOINT OF ARGUMENT
The Miltiades family were soon gone, after more crisp farewells, carried in that clear cool morning on their biers.
Maryam had nothing with her – no clothes, no tent, only one pair of sandals.
A big fellow was walking towards her in the slanted dawn light. He held up a bowl and a spoon. “Brought you some food, Mother.”
She thanked him and asked him to call her Maryam, and asked for his name and he said Shemenolo.
Maryam: “Ooh. That’s my son’s name. Another one of my sons.”
Shemenolo had a Shomeroni’s face, heavy and huge with tiny eyes. The eyes were too small for the glimmer they were trying to display and his slit of a mouth was so narrow that Maryam half-wondered if he could get a spoon into it. “Yah,” he chuckled. “Every other person you meet is called Shem. The Son calls me Kepha.”
The name meant Rock.
Maryam smiled – he looked like a rock. The porridge was made of sorghum with a trace of some sweet spice. Cattle food made rich.
The Rock’s tiny eyes and mouth looked merry. “He calls us all sorts. Two twins, he calls them the Thunder Brothers.”
“He had a gang back home too.” She was indeed very hungry.
The Rock coughed and then said, “Must be hard for you, eh?”
She found she could not answer him, so jammed in another spoonful of porridge.
“It’s hard for all of us sometimes. He can say things so cold, they take away your breath. Until you can mull them over for bit.”
All she could muster in response was: “Hmmmmmm.”
“His love is big. Big enough to take in both you and us. He says that we can’t follow him if we don’t leave our families. But to me that means we have to love everybody. It don’t mean he don’t love you.”
What Maryam knew closed like a trap, and somehow it was said aloud. “Yes, but he doesn’t honour me.”
For that truth, not even a saint had an answer. His eyes fell. Hers did not.
Maryam said, “I need to know what the Son is preaching.”
The Rock chuckled and rubbed his head. “I wish I could say.”
Long exile had taught Maryam to ask the next question. “Who hates him? Who are his enemies?”
Shemenolo’s face did an odd sideways shake. “The Perisayya don’t like him because they keep adding new laws and he says that’s nonsense. They’re always here having a go.” The Rock imitated a pompous Perisa. “You just broke the Law, and he just says so what?” The Rock chuckled. “Drives em mad.”
“There was a Perisa in Nazareth who hated him.”
Shemenolo nodded. “The Sadducai took longer to find out about him. But they hate him more cause he never contradicts scripture; he just says the Law doesn’t go far enough. Whoo! They quote scripture and he just agrees with them, but then says, God wants more than that. The Essenai…”
She cut him off with a wave of her hand. “They will love that he lives in poverty. But. He’s no hermit and he gets drunk at weddings.” She shook her head. “The Son is something new.”
The Rock sighed. “So I know where he gets it from.”
Maryam sniffed. “He gets it from his father – the man who raised him. A kind man, knew more scripture than anyone alive. He died last summer.” She held out the empty bowl. “Where do I return this?”
That morning, in a flurry of dust, through scrub, the caravan began to march.
The road north led through vineyards, the plants widely dispersed in the gravel-rich soil. By noon everything was white or grey or virulent blue – sky, lake, soil, shrubs.
Ahead there were clusters of people: joking labourers bearing the tents on their backs, or young children driving goats. A few donkeys bearing loads – the cookware, some bundles of firewood.
But here was a difference: clusters of women, columns of blowing robes, scarves over their heads, walking calmly, chuckling, telling stories, sometimes looking back and calling out children’s names. Women walking unescorted as if at home.
Maryam was conscious that she was alone. She increased her pace and caught up with some of the women. “Do you know where we’re headed?”
Pause. A plump, weathered face turned to her. “Back to Nahum I expect. We should be there soon. It’s not far.” She smiled. “Back before the afternoon winds.”
Another was peering round in curiosity. “You’re his mother.”
This was embarrassing. The Son had not greeted her as if she were his mother. By now most of these people would know why his family had come. She had to say yes. She was tempted to say no.
They didn’t know what to say either. Why was she walking alone at the back if she was his mother? That’s what they wanted to ask. Had his family really come to stop him preaching?
Instead they talked to her about Nazareth, the kind of place it was. “It’s like most others,” Maryam replied. “Higher, dryer, not so green.”
Did he preach there too?
“Yes. Very popular he was.”
“Oh I bet.”
“Fancy having the Son in your village talking away.”
The nearest woman smiled at Maryam. “I think he might have been a handful,” she said. Maryam thought she saw a glimmer of sympathy in her eyes. “Not easy.”
Maryam felt emboldened. “Do you notice anything odd about him?”
The question was batted back and forth among them by their eyelids and no answer came. Yes of course they’ve noticed was the answer. The height, the wide hips, the sturdy short legs, the narrow sloping shoulders, and the voice. Above all else the voice.
But it had been the wrong question to ask, at least so soon. Silence fell and the women either increased their pace to escape her, or turned back, saying they wanted to see about their children. The group dispersed, leaving Maryam walking on her own again.
Maybe that’s my task here. To ask the wrong questions.
She walked more quickly, unburdened by company, hoping to get to the front. I might as well hear what he’s saying.
People kept stepping into her path, so she couldn’t get close to the Son.
At first she thought it was by accident, just everyone else wanting to be near him. She would try to get through, and there would be a wall of broad male backs interleaved in layers between her and the front of the march.
Then outside of the town of Gennesaret a man jumped down from an olive tree and ran towards the front. Immediately, three men and two women formed a kind of a wall, blocking the man. He jumped up and shouted, “Are you a prophet, Rabuli?”
The voice came high and light, shouted from the midst of people, “No. I am the Son of Adam.” A riddle: weren’t all men the Son of Adam?
The olive grower blinked. The large woman whom Maryam had seen before, looking even larger in billowing black, thrust herself forward and said in a blistering Migdali accent, “Away wi ya. Goon. Naw. Ya had ya ansa. Move!”
She looked utterly fed up and moved in a series of ugly jerks. She’s led a tough life, Maryam decided. You could see in the size of her chin, the thick flesh that merged with the neck. You could also see, around the eyes and cheekbones that she had once been pretty with beautiful colouring – even sandstone skin, flushed cheeks, black eyes, black hair.
Maryam watched the Migdali as they walked. She patrolled the area around the Son, less of a companion and more like a bodyguard. Tall, but more importantly broad, with a fearsome glare and a bustling manner, she thrust her way ahead of the Son to clear a path. Yet when he turned to talk to the followers the Migdali would roll backwards behind him, as if time had reversed.
Suddenly Yakob was walking beside Maryam. “You’ve not gone with Babatha. You’re staying?”
She looked at his newly matured face. How to say – I’d been hoping for something like this; I waited three times ten years. Instead, she answered in mild voice, “Yah. Hear what he has to say.”
Yakob looked at her suddenly fondly and took her arm. His grip was affectionate. He also was controlling where she walked.
They drew near to Nahum, and more people began to trail along beside them.
Those in the caravan greeted the townsfolk, or even held out their hands to slap in greeting. Some of the caravan stretched out to hand over dried fish or new fishing tackle they had had brought from Migdal Nunya. Maryam realized: all of these people are followers as well. He’s got more than forty then. Many more.
Nahum had proper buildings more like Tiberias or Sepphoris than a village, with handsome two-storey dwellings, cobbled streets and a jetty out into the lake.
They had only passed four or five houses when the main group in front swerved into a gate. Through it, Maryam glimpsed windowless brick walls, a paved courtyard, and a jumble of flat-roofed extensions. The Rock ducked under the arch. The way he stamped the dust off his sandals made Maryam think this was his home.
The Migdali woman blocked the entrance with outstretched arms. She seemed not to notice Maryam at all, gazing out over the top of her head. “Tha rast a yas – go to the proseuche. It’s got space there for yas. Yakob’ll show ya the way.”
Yakob smiled at his mother, kept hold of her arm and led her past two cross streets out of which blasted hot wind down from the hills. Maryam heard two of the men joking.
“His whore’s a fearsome lady,” one of them said. “Ha Ha.” It was said in such an unusual way, wry and affectionate at the same time. Ha ha.
“Nowt going to cross that one.” Ha ha.
When is a whore not a whore? When she’s a lieutenant.
The proseuche had a low wall around it.
Yakob helped Maryam step over it into a yard crowded with people sitting outside in the last of the sun, the ground still hot. There was no room for tents.
Yakob introduced her as Maryam to some of the female followers. The women chorused, “Hello, Maryam, hello dear.” They sounded like they might be from Cana. Yakob asked them to make space for her to sleep, perhaps find bedding. Then he said to Maryam, “Let’s get you some food.”
Maryam said, “Let me help.” She’d seen women walking back from the hills carrying firewood so she started to walk in that direction. Yakob looked alarmed and insisted on walking with her out to the stonefields. He helped her carry back scrubwood to the rear wall of the proseuche with its makeshift fire. There was nothing to say between Yakob and Maryam, or rather too much.
He stayed to help the women stumble a cauldron full of water over the fire before assuring his mother that she’d be all right, but he had to get back.
“You’ll tell the Son that I’m here?” Maryam asked.
“He knows,” smiled Yakob, unaware of how deeply disappointing that would sound to her. It meant: Stay here. Stay away.
When the women from Cana asked how she knew the brother of the Son, she answered them, “I’m from Nazareth.” She waited for them to say Nazareth, but you sound like you’re from the South. They didn’t; and she realized she’d been flattening her speech. Flattening herself.
That evening in blue light with golden torches the Son came to the proseuche.
He glowed, laughing, smiling, shaking hands, firelight in his eyes, calling everyone by name. The Migdali trawled in advance, allowing or disallowing people to approach.
Maryam backed away, out of the torchlight. Less than a shadow around the Son, Maryam found that the Migdali made her heart ache.
Maryam knew her ache for what it was. She could name it – envy. She was envious of the Migdali and jealous too. Giving the right names to those emotions added shame to them. She hated feeling such things, wrestled with them. This was the loss old people feel around the young who replace them – the young who can achieve what the old now never would.
Could she believe the rough men who had called the Migdali a whore? A whore would have known pleasure. Maryam had not. This Migdali now had the honour of serving and being accepted by the Son of Adam.
What made Maryam crumble was seeing the Migdali with the Son’s followers both young and old. They would dip slightly to her, smiling. She had an easy, laughing, forthright relationship with many of them, nodding in agreement, touching their forearms, and making quick joint decisions while tucking her hair back into her head-tie. Giving directions that were accepted and acted on, pushing some people forward to meet the Son, directing others to the Rock, or even to Yakob, who did seem to have authority over practical things like firewood, or spaces to sleep.
The Son was hoisted onto the top of the proseuche’s wall by two big men. The crowd began to shush itself, with the swollen-cheeked settling of people expecting to enjoy themselves.
The Son made a sound like thunder by croaking and wobbling his cheeks, and then laughed. He shouted at them like a fisherman on the prow of a boat. “Oi! Oi! You lot!”
There was laughter. The Son acknowledged it. “Well, that went well! We had top men from Yerusalam up here. Did you see? All the way from Beth Yahu. All the way back too (a rattling satirical kind of laugh). Trying to make out I’m a demon. Or possessed. Or mad. Well. I am possessed.”
He paused, waited. In the wavering firelight it was as if he came and went in waves.
“I am possessed by the spirit of God. You can keep that to yourselves. You know those people. They’d have my hide. But that’s the way it is. You can call me crazy if you like. My family can come across and try to hide me away – most families would. You can do that and be forgiven. Hey, Mum, you’re all right, no worries.”
Laughter. Eyes searched in the twilight but no one recognized her.
“You can lie, cheat, steal – all of that – and be forgiven. Here’s one thing you won’t be forgiven... insulting the spirit of God. God is not to be insulted. Especially not when he comes to visit. Nooooooo, I am NOT saying I AM God. But the spirit of God is here with us. And that is something new. What am I?”
And they all chorused “The Son of Adam.”
“You’re sure now. Is that it?”
The Rock rumbled a laugh and ducked. It was a riddle. Who was the Son of Adam – Hawa, a woman. And who was Adam’s father?
You’d probably have to know already the answers – as Maryam did.
The Yehudai called themselves Sons of God. And that just meant a follower of the God of Yisrael, or even more precisely a male Yehudi.
But might mean something beyond imagining.
The Son put a finger to his lips and ssshed for silence. “Don’t tell anyone.” Then loudly. “All right then!” Clapping his hands once, loudly. Then it was the twins’ turn to make a sound of thunder. The Son laughed and pointed at them.
The Thunder Brothers took turns to bellow. “So there were this merchant who had gold to sell. But it was so valuable that he feared for his safety. And so he only sold wooden trinkets. And at the end, he died, and folk found he had all this gold. Why didn’t he tell us he had all this gold? they said. Why did he hide it away? He could have used it to build a beautiful house for all of us to share.”
The Thunder Brothers paused, waiting, one with an arm across his belly, the other with a finger cocked under his chin, mimicking some grand personages. They’d learned the comic style from watching the Son.
They waited. First silence, then a swelling groan and a kind of chuckle of approval. One of the Thunders pointed to someone. “Get it?” The other Thunder nodded. “You got it. Good. Do you get-get it?” There were more chuckles and both Thunders cupped a hand behind one ear. One of them prompted, “Let…”
And the crowd took up the cry, sounding like the sea. “HE WHO HAS EARS, HEAR.” An older woman crowded in between the Thunders, beaming, taking their arms. That’ll be their mother, Maryam decided.
A young thin man with spots shouted, “If you’ve got gold, tell folks, don’t be afeard.”
And there was a groaning, and people ssshed the young man. You weren’t supposed to spoil the story by explaining it.
