Mary felt deep inside herself, felt it more and more, that all people were holy, that indeed all the earth, with its humans and its animals, with its rocks and rivers and trees, was holy; and that all the things upon the earth were given to one another in an act of such spectacular grace it was impossible to comprehend. Yet an attempt at such understanding should be what life was devoted to, should be what life was for, she believed: let there be a joyful fullness in taking, and also fullness in giving.
She did not speak of these things. She held them unto herself and pondered them. Yet now, looking across the table into the shining eyes of Joseph, she considered that there might be for her one true companion, someone who held in his heart what she guarded so carefully in her own.
When it was Joseph’s turn to wash his hands, he filled a cup with water and poured it over the top and bottom of his left hand first. He realized his error immediately and corrected it, pouring again quickly over his right hand and pointedly avoiding looking at Mary. I am also nervous, she wanted to tell him. Do not despair. And it was as though he heard her thoughts, for he looked up with relief and smiled at her. She smiled back, and again she saw her parents exchange glances.
At last, Jacob moved to the head of the table for the ha-motzi. He pulled the cloth from the two challah loaves and lifted them high into the air while he recited the final blessing in his deep, slow voice: “Barukh atah Adonai, Elohaynu, melekh ha-olam, ha-motzi lechem min ha-aretz.” Blessed are you, Lord, our God, King of the Universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.
Amein! Mary said silently with him, then watched eagerly as he ripped off pieces of bread for each person and passed them down the table. Mary was suddenly starving, eager for everything before her.
THAT NIGHT, AS MARY lay awake on her pallet, her mother came to sit cross-legged beside her. Anne smelled of the rosemary she used to scent the olive oil she rubbed into her heels each evening before bed. The lamp cast shadows on her face, deepening her wrinkles, but still she was beautiful. She stroked her daughter’s cheek, pushed a tangle of curls back from her forehead. “Are we at last to make a match, then?”
“At last,” Mary muttered. “I am only now turned thirteen!”
“Already thirteen, and never so much as gazed upon a man until now.”
Mary said nothing. From across the room came the deep and even sounds of her father breathing. At last, Mary smiled, and with this her mother smiled also, and then the two of them began quietly giggling. “Did you see her mantle?” Mary asked. “The red?”
Her mother shook her head in admiration. “It is said that she has blue, as well.”
“No one in all our village has the means for indigo dye!”
Her mother raised an eyebrow.
“No one,” Mary said firmly.
“Her vegetable stew was delicious,” Anne said. Coming from Mary’s mother, this was a rare compliment; usually Anne let people know that although a dish might taste good, it could not compare to her own version. “And she set a fine table.”
“Yes.”
Her mother reached behind herself to rub a place on her lower back. Then she said, “When you went out with him to the courtyard, of what did you speak?”
Mary blushed. “He told me he had a dream that we were married and had seven children.”
“Seven!” Mary’s mother cried, and her father turned in his sleep, muttering to himself. “Seven!” she said again, this time in a whisper. “And I suppose all of them were sons!”
“That I do not know,” Mary said. “But when I, too, expressed surprise over the number of children he so easily assigned me, he said, ‘I see, though, that you voiced no objection to the marriage.’ ”
“He is clever as well as handsome.”
Mary smiled, but then she grew serious. She sat up and took her mother’s hands into her own. “Tell me, please. How do you know?”
“Know what?”
“Know when it is time.”
“You know it is time when your parents make a match.”
Mary’s face fell, and Anne leaned in closer. “And you know when your heart beats fast, your breathing quickens, and your dreams are full of your betrothed.”
“He is not yet my betrothed!” Mary said quickly.
“Love grows slowly, but steadily,” Anne said. “You will come to see this, my daughter. For I believe we shall make a match.” She yawned. “And now I shall bid you good rest, and hope for the same myself. Tonight my bones ache.”
She kissed Mary’s forehead, and Mary lay down, then reached out again for her mother’s hand. “Mother?”
“Yes?”
She looked upon Anne’s face, beloved to her, deeply familiar. She was full of questions, full of doubt. But she drew in a breath and said only, “I wish you sound sleep.”
“You are frightened,” Anne said.
Mary nodded.
“Tell me why.”
Mary hesitated, then said, “It is…new. I am only excited, I think.”
“Perhaps you worry that he and his family are too far above us,” Anne said. “Ah, Mary. Are you such a poor offering? My only daughter, my beauty. I shall tell you something now. When you were conceived, an angel came to me and said—”
“I know,” Mary said. “I can tell the story to you!”
“Backward, no doubt,” Anne said. “As fine as your beauty is your mind. But what I want to tell you this night is something I have never told you before.”
Mary waited.
“I hesitated to reveal these things to you,” Anne said, “fearing it would make you swell with pride and be unto others as is dreadful Naomi.”
Mary smiled, thinking of her boastful friend who lived nearby and referred constantly to her skill at bread baking and weaving, to the sheen of her hair and her fine form. She reminded Mary of the crowing rooster that strutted back and forth across the courtyard, oblivious of the fact that he was his only admirer. Still, Mary loved her.
“Hear me now,” Anne said. “The angel said not only that I would conceive when I was barren, but that my offspring would be spoken of in the whole inhabited world.”
Mary breathed out in a rush. “Truly, Mother?”
“For what reason would I lie to one I so love?”
“But…how?”
Anne shrugged. “We wait always on God’s will. But also we must believe his messengers.”
Mary wanted to say something, but what? What would be right to say? Yes, it is true that I have felt inside myself some call to greatness. Would that not be even more boastful than Naomi? Yes, and this is why I feel destined to a fate other than marriage and the life you have lived with Father. Such words would deeply sadden her mother, and make her think that Mary dishonored her parents, which she did not. And Anne longed so for her daughter to marry—she had spoken of Mary’s wedding day since Mary was a little girl. Finally, Mary said simply, “I shall embrace my destiny.”
“Such grandchildren I will have!” Anne said. “I pray that I may live to see them have children of their own. All seven of them!” She laughed, but there was a sadness in it. Anne was elderly, and grew every day older. She rose with difficulty from her sitting position onto her knees. “We shall speak of this again in the morning. For now, know that I hold in my heart the wish for your great happiness, as I always have.” Again she kissed her daughter, and then she made her way quietly across the room and extinguished the lamp. Mary heard her mother adjusting herself on her pallet, and then all was quiet.
Mary closed her eyes and lay still, thinking of how, outside, the stars glowed in the sky, silent yet revelatory. She wished she could read them, as could the wise men from the east she had heard about. What was her destiny? She knew her mother thought it had to do with Joseph, that she had witnessed tonight the beginning of the fulfillment of the angel’s promise. But Mary did not share this belief. Something in her pushed against the notion.
Still. She closed her eyes and saw again Joseph’s handsome face. Felt again the t
hrill she’d experienced when they’d brushed hands, eating from the common bowl. In becoming his helpmate, in helping him to achieve all he was capable of, could she not find her own glory, and be as well in her proper place? She closed her eyes and forced her thoughts to sleep.
CHAPTER THREE
MARCH
Joseph
OSEPH FOUND MARY AND HER MOTHER SITTING out in their courtyard with other neighborhood women, doing laundry. Hidden beneath his girdle was the gift he had finished making for Mary that morning, a small wooden box with an intricate design on the lid. She knew already of his skill as a stonemason; now she would see his talent as a carpenter and woodcarver. “Come for a walk with me,” he told her, after he had wished both her and her mother peace.
Mary looked at her mother for permission, and Anne said, “It is for Joseph to decide for you, now.”
“According to your will,” Joseph told Anne. It would not hurt to move further into her favor.
“You may go,” Mary’s mother told her. “But when you return, you must pound the wheat, gather herbs, and milk the goats.” She returned to scrubbing the laundry, and even with her head bent low, Joseph could see her smile.
Mary rose and dried her hands against her tunic. Then she began to walk with Joseph, gently steering him in a direction that would have them go past Naomi, who sat with her disagreeable mother near the olive press. “Shalom, Joseph,” Naomi said as they passed by, and in her words he heard the rest of her thought: Why her and not me? He greeted Naomi, then turned to wave at Anne. She waved back, then watched them go, her hand shading her eyes against the already hot morning sun.
It pleased Joseph to know how much Anne liked him, Anne and her husband, Joachim, too. And Mary, who now walked proudly beside him—there was no doubt she liked him! He had seen it even at the wedding party where they first met, but each time he had seen her since, his confidence had grown. He knew that she now cared for him deeply. Two months ago, in a ceremony before family and friends, they had been betrothed according to their parents’ will. Joseph had written the ketubah, assigning Mary money in the event of his death. They were now legally man and wife.
On their wedding day, one year after the betrothal, they would enjoy a feast the likes of which had never been seen in their village, said his mother. Already Rachel made herself dizzy every day, talking of how everyone would praise Joseph and Mary’s wedding. For years to come they would speak of it! About the handsome groom, the beautiful bride, and she herself (not to take away from the bride, of course) dressed in finery procured in Jerusalem. About the festal fire of brush and tamarisk branches that would light up the sky. About the beauty of the tables laden with food so artistically arranged it would be a shame to eat it. About the fine musicians who would entertain the guests. She spoke of the procession of young women who would escort Joseph by torchlight to the wedding feast, how they would all be weeping and beating their breasts that such a prize was no longer available.
Joseph walked smiling, his heart light. Now he was fully a man. Now his life was rich with purpose and had truly begun. Every morning when he rose from his pallet, a thought came to him like the sun: Mary. This winter, she would move in with him and they would live together. And then he would know her. He felt a stirring in his loins and directed his thoughts quickly to the design of their stone house.
Already he had very nearly finished it. And already his skill as a carpenter was becoming well known. He had been asked to join the workers who were putting up new buildings for Herod in Sepphoris. The city was being totally rebuilt, even as was the great temple in Jerusalem—for nearly twenty years men had labored on it, and it was said that it would be well over twenty years more until its completion! He would profit well from his work there. Joseph hoped it brought Mary’s parents great joy to know that he would be able to care for their daughter; that she would not want for anything. What went unspoken was that they could now die in peace.
He sneaked looks at Mary as they walked slowly along. It was unusually warm for this time of year, and he didn’t want to tax her. She was his prize, his pearl. Mary’s great beauty mixed with his own pleasing looks meant that his sons would be handsome. It mattered to him that his sons be handsome and strong, though naturally the strength would come from him.
After a time they came to a creek, and they stopped to rest on its bank. Joseph wiped sweat from his brow and smiled at Mary, who was flush-faced and beautiful in the heat. “I never knew of this place,” she said.
“It is a tributary from the Jordan that runs rarely,” Joseph said. “Only when we have had a wet winter such as the one that just passed. It will last but a few weeks more. Today it runs harder and faster than I have ever seen.”
“And it is loud!” Mary said. “I can scarcely hear the birds.” Overhead, they twittered in the trees. Mary watched as they flew from bough to bough.
“You like birds, and indeed all animals,” Joseph observed.
“Yes. As does my father.” She told Joseph the story of the little boy and the sparrow, and the words her father had spoken.
“I wish you had known me then,” Joseph said, “that I might have built a cage for the bird. A pity to disappoint the child.”
Mary looked at him, surprised. She started to speak, then said nothing. Instead, she stared into her lap, looking troubled.
What had just happened? Joseph wondered. Whatever it was, it was easily remedied. From his father, he had learned of the power of gifts to a woman. Jacob quieted with great skill Rachel’s occasional emotional storms by offering her bits and baubles. It was a weakness in women, the way they were moved by their feelings. A wise man knew how to control this in his mate.
“I have made something for you,” Joseph said.
There, the corners of her lips moving up. “Have you?”
He pulled the box from beneath his girdle and presented it to her.
She gasped and traced with her fingers the ornate design on the top. “It is magnificent, Joseph! How are you able to carve these small leaves, these beautiful flowers?”
He leaned back on his elbows and did not answer. She did not want an answer anyway—she merely wanted to express her gratitude. He was deeply satisfied; it was the reaction he had longed for and indeed imagined, down to her touching the images with great wonder and appreciation. In his next carving for her, he would put in a bird.
“How did you do it?” she asked.
She really wanted to know! He sat up, amused. “Well, there are tools for such things. And one develops a skill for carving, after a time.”
“What tools?” Mary asked. “And how is it that you develop such skills? With what did you begin? Did you first make something for your mother?”
Joseph moved closer to her. “You are full of questions, my wife. Will it ever be so? Will a man never have rest from working when he is with you?”
She blushed. “Forgive me. I am inspired by your talent. I thank you for my gift, my husband.” She smiled then, and he took her hand, and together they enjoyed the breeze that passed over the water and cooled them.
After a few minutes, Mary removed her sandals. She slid closer to the edge of the creek and dipped her feet into the water. Joseph put his feet in, too, but pulled them out immediately, howling from the jolting cold. Mary laughed at him, wiggling her toes with pleasure. Joseph eased his feet back into the water, fighting the impulse to cry out again.
“Shall we go in farther?” Mary asked.
“Into the water?”
She nodded, her eyes mischievous.
“We must not,” he said. The creek was narrow, but one could not judge its depth. There was a small current. He could not swim. “We shall get wet, and we must return to the village soon,” he told her.
“Of course you are right,” Mary said. She moved her feet about, then suddenly reached down and splashed water at Joseph. He grabbed her hand to subdue her, then pulled it gently onto his breast, over his heart. A great calm came over him. They sat looki
ng at each other, feeling the richness of each other’s affection. Then Mary took her hand away to pick a wildflower and presented it to Joseph. He kissed her fingers and tucked the blossom behind his ear. Mary bowed her head and smiled.
He picked up a stick and, in the dirt between them, wrote something. “What do you think that says?” he asked.
“You know I cannot read.” But she peered closely at the marks he had made.
“It says ‘Simon.’ ”
“And the meaning?” she asked.
“The name of our firstborn.”
“And if it is a girl?”
“It won’t be.”
“You are full of confidence!”
He leaned back on his elbows and regarded her. Then he asked, “Would you like to go on a journey with me? To Sepphoris?”
She clapped her hands together. “Oh, Joseph! Will you take me there?”
“I will.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Always I have wanted to see my place of birth! But never have my parents taken me there.”
“It would be hard for them. But not for me.”
She pressed her fingers to her mouth and smiled behind them, then leaned over to quickly kiss his cheek. Then she kissed him again, more slowly, and began moving her mouth toward his. He felt her hand come onto his knee.
“Mary,” he said. “It is forbidden.”
“Joseph,” she said. “I care not.”
He laughed and pulled away from her, then stood and stretched his arms up high, so her eyes would be focused upward and not on another part of him that also had risen. He was astonished and a little embarrassed by her forwardness. But happy, too, at the hint of pleasures to come. Often enough during the night he had heard his mother’s soft protestations—Jacob! I am so weary!—followed properly by her cooperation. It was clear that Joseph would not have this problem.