Mary scoffed, “There are many such descendants. There were many harems!”
“Yet we know that the Messiah will come from such a descendant. One of your seven children might be the one we have so long awaited!”
Mary picked a blade of grass and began to peel long strips from it.
“Many are the girls in the village who envy you,” Yola said. “Why, Naomi said that Joseph’s eyes—”
“I care nothing about what Naomi says.” All her friends, even Yola, spoke to her only of Joseph. Mary preferred the way Yola used to be, when they did things other girls wouldn’t do: climbing the limestone rocks that surrounded their village, begging apricots from the merchants at the marketplace, laughing at Naomi’s mother when her back was turned, spying on the newly betrothed who believed themselves alone in the olive orchards. Even trying to eavesdrop, when the men met to argue the Torah.
“Come, Mary. I grow weary waiting for you.”
“I shall not!” Mary looked quickly over at her friend, then apologized.
“I must go without you, then.” Yola took a few steps, then turned to look over her shoulder. “Are you coming?”
Mary stared into her wet lap and peeled more strips from the blade of grass. She would peel until it disappeared before her.
“Mary?” Yola called.
“I wish to be alone for a while!” she called back. “And in any case I must wait until my clothes dry before I return to the village. Go without me.”
Yola began running to catch up with Naomi. Mary watched her until she disappeared, then began undoing her braid. Her hair, too, was soaked. She would let it dry, re-braid it—properly!—and walk back to the village. And then no more would she unloosen her hair and wade in water. Her days of freedom were over. She must now turn her attention to the duties that lay before her, those that came with being promised to a man. She stood, hesitating, then stepped into the water one last time. She moved to the center of the creek and again sat down. The coolness was exhilarating. Her tunic floated around her like an immense flower, and she was its center.
A man’s voice startled her. And then from behind the bushes appeared the traveling teacher she had last seen in Sepphoris. What was he doing here? Surely no one in Nazareth had offered him gifts for his teaching! He lifted his chin at her, then spoke softly in a language she could not understand—Greek, she thought. She shook her head: I do not understand you. She pushed awkwardly at the skirt of her tunic floating about her, trying to make it stay down.
The man laughed, a harsh sound, and then, as Mary watched in horror, he stepped out of his sandals and removed his girdle. She rose quickly, intending to run, then immediately sat back down, for her tunic clung to her most immodestly.
“Please cover your eyes until I have left this place.” She doubted the man would oblige her, but she knew of nothing else to do.
He made a face at the sound of her Aramaic. Mary remembered Joseph telling her that Nazarenes were looked down upon almost everywhere for their cruder dialect, for their simple, uncultured ways, for their preferred isolation and their devotion to tradition. She felt a strong urge to defend her town, and an equally strong, shameful one, to say that she had been born in Sepphoris.
The man stood smirking, his hands on his hips, then stepped into the creek. Slowly, he began moving toward her. Mary rose, the water making a sucking sound, and moved as quickly as she could toward the opposite bank. How far away were her friends? If she called for them, could they hear her? Even as she asked herself this question, Mary knew the answer. She had spent too long feeling sorry for herself, regretting the loss of freedom that came with her betrothal to Joseph, whom she now wanted in the deep and primal way she used to want her mother on nights she burned with fever.
Trying to climb up the slippery rocks, Mary fell. She slid on her stomach back into the water, and her tunic rose high above her waist. She stood quickly, deeply embarrassed, and looked back at the man. He was not yet upon her, but he had moved closer. Now he was sitting, his arms swirling the water lazily about him, his own tunic risen high about him. He laughed and mockingly showed her his upturned hands.
Mary stood still for a long moment, calculating the distance between them, then scrambled up the bank and ran screaming for Yola and Naomi, for Joseph. She screamed over and over, until it seemed her throat might bleed.
She ran until she could run no more, her wet clothes dragging on her. The man had not followed her—she had looked several times over her shoulder. She stood panting, her heart racing. This is what came of her foolish desire for something beyond what Joseph had offered her. Her sin was her pride, and her sin was now compounded. To have had a man see her so! To have left herself open to being compromised; indeed to have invited such danger! Often she had heard of shepherd girls who had been attacked by Roman soldiers who took advantage of their isolation. She wanted only to go home, yet she knew that when she arrived there, her mother’s anger would descend rightfully upon her.
She collapsed into the grass and began to weep. What was wrong with her? Why could she not be happy about her upcoming marriage to a man she deeply cared for and admired, who would be a good father and provider? What did she want so? On and on she wept, her hands over her face, her back bowed. She knew not what she wanted, she had alienated her friends, she had experienced an event most fearful, and now she would displease her mother, whom she loved so well.
Then, mercifully, miraculously, it began to rain. Mary felt the drops first on her back, then on her head. Rain! Now she could explain her wet clothes and the lateness of her arrival to her mother. She would say that she had stopped to seek shelter but then decided to run home, losing her head cover in the process. And run home she must; surely by now Anne was greatly worried. Mary rose to her knees and in so doing spotted a patch of sage growing nearby. She would eat of it, for she knew it had properties to clear the head. She must only be cautious not to eat too much, for then it was said to cause a rare sort of delusion.
When she arrived in the village, the rain had stopped and the sun was out and beginning its descent; Mary had been gone for many hours. Anne first berated Mary, then embraced her and sent her immediately to lie down—she was still wet and shivering, and Anne feared illness. Mary was grateful for this; it would mean she would not have to speak to her mother when she was feeling so peculiar. She walked on feet that felt not quite her own toward her pallet.
Anne busied herself near the oven, and Mary lay still, comforted by the rich, golden light that had begun to stream into the house through the windows high up on the walls, by the rhythmic sounds of food preparation. Why had she not seen the redemption and beauty in such tasks before now? She would devote herself to keeping a home and caring for children. And she would honor Joseph, who cared for her so well. Never again would she make herself vulnerable to an experience such as the one she had just had. Mary closed her eyes and held back more tears, though these were tears of a different kind.
And then she heard a low voice, saying, “Hail, Mary. The Lord is with you; you are blessed among women.” She sat up and clutched the top of her tunic. She wanted to call out to her mother, who had moved to the courtyard, but found she could make no sound. Before her was a towering presence—a man? An angel? From behind him came an illumination so intense Mary could not look directly at him. In addition to a terror that caused her to tremble and fight for her breath was a rapturous wonder, a great joy unlike anything she had ever experienced. She felt awakened from a deep sleep, profoundly known. And she felt eerily suspended, yet anchored, in a place she had longed for since birth. She stared out unblinkingly toward the presence, rapt. All the world seemed to have stilled to accommodate this moment.
“Do not be afraid,” the angel said. “You have found great favor with God. Now you have conceived in your womb and will bear a son.”
But these words! What was he saying? Mary found her voice and spoke most strongly. “How can this be? I have known no man!” Then she gasped and clo
sed her eyes against the vision of herself sitting in the water, her tunic floating about her.
The angel said, “The Holy Spirit will come unto you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. Therefore the One born unto you will be the Son of God, and of his kingdom there will be no end.”
Mary lay her hand over her throat. Now her voice was barely a whisper. “It is not possible.”
“With God, all things are possible,” said the angel. “Behold, your cousin Elizabeth was barren, but she has conceived a child and is now in her sixth month. I bid you go to Judea, where you will see for yourself.”
“I shall,” Mary said, and she meant with her words to communicate her disbelief, her intention to go to Judea to disprove the angel’s words. But at that moment her spirit lifted and her heart opened, and there came to her a great sense of relief. And with it came irrefutable knowledge. She understood that what the angel had told her was true, even as the reddening sky outside her window was true. As such, it was not hers to accept or reject. It was a miracle given her by God, told to her by his messenger. She lay her hands in her lap. “I am the handmaid of the Lord,” she said. “Let it be with me according to your word.”
From behind her, she heard her mother’s voice. “Mary? To whom are you speaking?” Anne moved closer, her face full of concern. “Oh, Mary, you must be with fever that your face glows so!” She moved quickly to kneel beside her daughter and put her hand against Mary’s forehead. Then Anne grew perplexed, saying, “Yet you are cool to my touch.” She lay the back of her fingers against one of Mary’s cheeks, then the other.
Mary put her hand over her mother’s and looked at her with great tenderness. “Mother,” she said. “There is something I must tell you.”
“HAVE YOU ALL YOU NEED?” Mary’s mother asked the next day. Joachim nodded. He was full of sorrow and confusion, as he had been since Anne told him of the angel who had come to their daughter. But he had agreed to accompany Mary to Judea.
“Choose your words well when you speak to Joseph and his family,” Joachim told his wife.
Anne smiled. “Of course I shall. Remember that I, too, know of messages from angels.”
“Mother,” Mary said. She regretted suddenly not having revealed everything that had happened to her yesterday. She had not told Anne about the Greek, though this was not to deceive her mother but to protect her. Now Mary wondered if she had been wrong in this, if she should tell her mother of that experience after all. And surely she should offer some words that her mother might bring to Joseph. But no words would come.
Anne embraced Mary, then kissed her forehead. “Stay with Elizabeth and help her until her child is born.”
Mary understood. It would take long for a resolution to be agreed upon. Joseph would not yet be receptive to any words from her. She would wait on the will of God, and hope with all her heart for Joseph’s understanding.
“Are you ready, my daughter?” Joachim asked. Their donkey, loaded with supplies, shook his head against a fly, and his harness jingled. There was a sad gaiety in the sound: the excitement of a journey tempered by the reason for it.
Mary nodded, and then she and her father began their long walk south. It would take four days or more to arrive at the home of Zechariah, the ancient priest, and his equally elderly wife, Elizabeth, Mary’s cousin, whom the angel had vowed was with child. For a long while Mary and her father did not speak, each busy with thoughts of the journey ahead, and beyond.
CHAPTER SIX
Judea
Mary
HEY CAME OUT OF SAMARIA AND INTO THE hills of Judea in late afternoon and, tired and thirsty, made their way to the house of Elizabeth and Zechariah, who lived just outside of Jerusalem. Joachim watered and tethered the donkey, and Mary pushed open the door of the house, calling her cousin’s name.
Elizabeth appeared and, beaming, rushed forward to greet her visitors. “Joachim! Mary! How wonderful to see you!” She stopped suddenly and put her hand to her side, and Mary saw that what the angel had said of Elizabeth was true. “My child moved so within me!” Elizabeth said, laughing. She moved to embrace Joachim and then took Mary’s face between her hands, smiled, and touched foreheads with her. Then her face grew full of wonder as she said, “You, too, are with child! Bless you and the fruit of your womb!”
Mary stepped back, saying nothing. Beside her, her father hung his head.
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “And I see, too, that your child will be most exceptional! Oh, Mary! How am I so blessed that the mother of my Lord has come to visit me? Even the child in my womb leapt with knowing when he heard your greeting! Joachim, Joachim, is it not wonderful?”
Joachim lifted his head and nodded at Elizabeth. He did not speak. Tears shone in his eyes.
Mary’s heart ached for her father, who, despite their many talks on their journey, did not know what to think or whom to believe. All he knew was that his daughter, his most cherished, was with child, thus endangering both herself and her family. Also, albeit through no fault of her own, she had spoiled her betrothal, about which he had so often and so widely bragged. He feared what would happen when she returned. Women accused of adultery were stoned.
Elizabeth lay her hand over her heart and spoke softly to Mary. “And you are blessed, too, to believe that what the Lord has said will be accomplished.”
A deep feeling of love came over Mary then, and with it came a sense of great confidence. She would now be mother to her father, and comfort him. She stood straighter. “Yes, Elizabeth. And my soul magnifies God in praise of him. For he has come to me, a girl who is poor and undistinguished in any way. Despite my circumstances, he has honored me most profoundly, and the child within me is his own. He is all mighty, and for generations many have feared him because he has brought down those who are prideful; even rulers have fallen from their thrones. But in me, he has lifted up the humble. Through me, he will satisfy the hungry. Because of my child, he will have shown Israel mercy, as promised. From now on I shall be not scorned but called blessed, even as you have called me so. I am full of grace.”
Now Joachim wept openly, and Mary turned to embrace him. “Do not despair, Father,” she said. “I am strong and happy and clear in my mind. Take your rest and nourishment here, and then leave me with Elizabeth; you see that she understands.”
“HOW GOES IT with your mother?” Elizabeth asked Mary early the next morning. Joachim had left a short while ago, fortified by a breakfast of hummus and flatbread and grapes, and now she and her cousin sat in the as-yet empty courtyard, the sun bright above them. Mary knew what Elizabeth meant by her question. What does your mother think about all of this?
“She, too, was visited by an angel, and in this way told she was with child,” Mary said. She was weary to her bones; she had slept poorly, and the exalted confidence she’d felt yesterday was lacking in her this morning. Already she missed her father. She missed Joseph. She missed her mother and her friends.
“Angels come to many, though not all have the courage—or the wisdom—to speak of it,” Elizabeth said.
Mary looked over at her. Her face was old and lined but her eyes clear and wise. She was an intuitionist and an oneiromancer, as well as a great healer. She was known in Judea as the one to come to when one was desperate, when nothing else had worked. Elizabeth had taught Mary’s mother much of what she knew about healing, as Anne had then taught Mary. For generations, it had run strong in both sides of Mary’s family, such gifts for curing, such strong perceptive abilities.
Elizabeth’s compassion was well known, too; those she could not cure she would stay with as they died, easing them back into God’s hands. So for all her homesickness, Mary was glad to be with Elizabeth. Mary would help with chores as Elizabeth’s time drew nigh, and in return she would be comforted and consoled by her cousin. And educated! Mary knew that now she would pay close attention to the ways of the woman with child, especially when the baby was born. Mary had heard the cries of women in labor, had seen that some
times the baby died, or the mother, or, saddest of all, both.
She shivered at the idea despite the heat, and Elizabeth, knowing her thoughts, smiled kindly at her. “There is much to consider, my child. But in this, as in all things, each day comes one at a time. No matter our urging, the crops will not grow but according to their own schedule. You will learn patience. You will come to understand the thing that has happened to you, and why. You will learn what to expect when your own time comes; I will teach you ways of easing discomfort. When you return home, it will be not as a child but as a woman.”
Mary nodded, relieved, but then began to weep. She surprised herself in this. “Forgive me,” she said, the urge to laugh vying with the urge to cry harder.
Elizabeth reached out to put her hand on Mary’s shoulder. “It is the way of women with child, that their emotions run strong and with great variation. Much has been thrust upon you. Yet be not ashamed, and ask no one’s forgiveness.” She leaned closer to Mary. “For I say to you again, you are blessed.”
Mary smiled gratefully.
“Tell me again of the angel,” Elizabeth said, leaning back on her hands and showing Mary a face full of eagerness, as though she were a child ready to hear her favorite story.
Once more Mary described the event as best she could, and Elizabeth listened carefully and with great pleasure. Her eyes did not widen in awe, she did not scoff and decry Mary’s words, she did not protest the likelihood of such an event. She knew of aberrant voices of instruction, of events beyond understanding. And when Mary had finished her story, Elizabeth said simply, “So be it. Now let us eat, for my child demands nourishment.” She rose to go back inside, and Mary followed her.
THE WEEKS PASSED. Oftentimes when he arrived home, Zechariah brought pomegranate juice from the marketplace for Elizabeth. It was her favorite, and he spoiled her now. He offered her back rubs every night, and also he washed her feet, since she could no longer reach past her swollen middle to do it herself. Across from her at the table, he gazed upon her with deep love, seeing not just Elizabeth but their nascent family. He had lost his voice, and so he spoke neither to Mary nor Elizabeth; but no words were needed to communicate his rich devotion.