It is only now that I see what I should have seen before all else. I look to the other males who throw down bags and bundles, peering through all that dirt and hair and wildness, and my fish of a heart flops over. There comes the two of the wild red hair. By the heavens, Chaos has come to the wilderness!
John the Baptizer makes his entrance only now, as if he were a hero in a Greek play, as if the part were written for him by Aristophanes of Athens. I do not know where he has been while we have all waited for these homicidal Galileans to climb up from the Salted Sea, but I know where he is now. Beard as tangled as a stork’s nest, he has appeared as if dropped from the cloudless sky. Striding across the sun-blasted courtyard on legs of stork, arms held out wide as if he would embrace the whole family and all their friends down to the goats, John shouts as he comes. “Yehoshua! Jude! Simon! Simeon! Hast thou finally come to share my wilderness?”
Simon the murderer and Simon’s friends—plus their chattel and their livestock and what seems their entire village—come to a confused halt by the sundial. I see them through a shimmy of brutal heat. With a great whoop, John of the River has clasped one of the redheaded twins in his arms, is pummeling his broad back. Like Tata beating a rug, clouds of dust fume and gyre about their heads. “You are all here!” he shouts. “Welcome! Welcome! Shalom! You grace my home.”
The Galilean he pounds manages to say, “Wilderness, John?”
John stops his pounding. He looks back at our settlement, noting how far it strays from the word wilderness. Goats and sheep there are in profusion. Courtyards and well-made walls and the tall stone tower and carob and fig trees and the plash of blue water running from bath to cistern to canal to settling basins. John turns back, laughing. “I see thou hast escaped Herod the Fox, Yehoshua. I hear it was well done.”
In turn, the man Yehoshua now claps his brother-double on the back. More dust, more shouting. “To escape a fox, one must be a fox, eh Jude!” He says this as John would say this, in the slipshod accent of Galilee. The twin Jude does not speak, he growls, touching the knife that is thrust through a loop in his rope belt. And I am the child I once was in my horror of this Jude, of Simon of Capharnaum, of this Yehoshua. Once again, I feel blood, hot with life, flow over my feet.
And yet, Jude and Yehoshua are not as the man Simon.
There is a sight to them, or—what is it? In the midst of my wilderness, my half-loved and half-hated home of yellow dust and high rock and heat like a kiln, the brothers Yehoshua and Jude seem as thunderheads, seem like black clouds charged with lightning. They smell of great deeds. Father once said great deeds are the promise of bright beginnings and the truth of horrible endings. John asks them what I would ask them. “What did you do, Yeshu’a, to provoke Herod so?”
“Do?” He laughs. Of all these men, only this one seems a friend to laughter. “What did we do, Jude?”
Once more, Jude growls, and this time, Yehoshua translates. “Jude says he did nothing, but that I, his brother, vexed a priest in the city of Tiberius.”
I think, is another priest dead for God?
“Jude says that Herod Antipas would say I preached sedition and full merited his jail.”
It eases me so to learn this one talks, and does not kill.
“But if that is so, my brother should like to know why John the Baptizer is here and not rotting away in a similar cell at this very moment?”
Salome’s eyes widen at this. Her nostrils flare. If this Yeshu’a is not careful, he will have an enemy before even he has settled in. If such a thing should befall John, Salome would dig him out with her nails if need be, or bleed to death trying.
John the Baptizer laughs like Eio. Or at least as loudly. “He would not dare. I am more popular than he is. Do not the Pharisee and the Sadducee visit me more and more often, demanding to know my business?”
Yehoshua does not laugh like Eio; he laughs as Father used to laugh, big round sounds. He is not the only one who laughs. Addai laughs. Salome laughs in delight at her favorite. The men and women laugh. Even I almost laugh. The children laugh because we laugh. We are all fools for laughter. John can do this; often he makes us lose ourselves in joy. Or fear. John can do either with equal skill.
Through his laughter, Yehoshua says, “Perhaps we were jailed so that there would be people in his new city, Tiberius. Having built on a Jewish graveyard, Herod must now drag them in by the scruff of their necks. Not that they stay. Have you been there, John? It stinks as this place, steam and sulfur. Now, where do we eat? Where do we sleep? Where do the children play? Have you work for us?”
John sucks in air so that he might shout out his answers, but another has stepped forward. This one has never known a smile, inside or out, there is no room on his face, black bearded to the cheekbone, for other than rage and gloom. In a land of serious men, I have seen none grimmer. Even John, who towers over him, thinks to take a step back, but does not. “Ah,” says John of the River, “Jacob.”
Jacob has thoughts as dark as pitch in his head, thoughts as hard as stone. His mouth when it opens is like a cave. And now he yells as a prophet would yell, as if he too were an immerser on the banks of the Jordan and his accent is as thick as the mud of its banks. “The Righteous will taste more than jails; the Righteous will die by their thousands. Open your nose! Smell the war in the wind? These are the Last Days. These are the End Times! Are you prepared?”
As Jacob yells, I feel Salome’s hand on my arm and am pleased. It has been so long since she touched me. She allows me into her thoughts. This one, she says, has made himself stupid in his righteousness. There is a power in this kind of stupidity that can drain the very sea.
But John is John the Baptizer, famed from one end of the Jordan to the other. None will be allowed to yell louder than he. He opens his mouth and lets out a mighty bellow, “Prepare yourself, Jacob! If every man cares for himself, all will be cared for.” With that he turns back to the brothers, which stops Jacob’s flow as a farmer stops water by closing a sluice gate. Jacob steps back, but his silence is as loud as his voice has been loud. There is more anger in this one man than in any man I have known, and by now, I have known enough angry men to whip the Great Sea to frenzy. John ignores him, therefore all ignore him. John flings out an arm. “Here, we are far from Galilee. Here, neither Herod nor Herod’s men will find you. Nor yet Herodias, the woman he makes his wife, though she be his half brother’s wife as well as his niece. Here, you will make your home, you and all your family. And here you will find many others who flee the law, and none, so far, are snared by it. Not so long as they keep to the wilderness. My home is your home, cousins.”
Cousins? This, then, is why we are bid to witness their arrival; these are John’s kin! But I am wondering, by law, does he mean the Roman law, which is also Herod’s law, or does he mean the Law, which is the Law of Moses—which, among all else it does, forbids Herod to take his brother’s wife to wife? But in truth, I do not care. I have done what was asked of me; I have waited in the sun to witness the coming of his kin. I have felt fear of Simon. I have felt a certain wonder at Yehoshua. Some for Jude. And none for Jacob. Now I should like to go back to my nahal and my sulking. Those who have waited for John move forward now to greet those who have arrived. There is much confusion. I see all this, and I could not be more vexed. It is hot. I am bored. There is a hairy brown spider on the wall near my ankle. I know it is harmless, and yet, in spite of myself, I lean away from it. By this, I push Salome who, not understanding, pushes me back. I am so irritated I kick her. She cannot believe I have done this and stares at me as if I were a hairy brown spider.
I wish with all my heart that I were again in my Egyptian bed under its Egyptian netting. How I long for the voices of the Egyptian night: the murmur of a last few scholars too engrossed to go to bed, distant flutes from the rich district of the Brucheion, the heated song of the streets, the call of night watch to night watch on the ships out in the harbors, salt harbor or sweet—but no. I am in the wilderness and all a
round me everyone is engrossed with coarse Galileans. If I cannot be in Egypt, I would rather be talking to Eio, scratching the hard hairy bone between her eyes. I would rather be in the cool of a cave reading a book. Lately I reread the book given me so long ago by Heli, the philosophy of Epicurus of Athens. Oh, that I should have my own eudaemonia, that “good guardian spirit” Epicurus speaks of, that I should know freedom from bodily and mental pain, and attain ataraxia! I imagine myself an Epicure. Like the followers of Pythagoras did, Epicureans admit women as well as men, slaves as well as the free, the poor as well as the rich. How far this from the ideas of the Poor or the Essene! All they wish for is a mind free from disturbance, a body free of pain, and a simple personal happiness that can only be found by loving the world on which Epicurus placed such high value. I find the Epicurean idea of everything being made of invisible indestructible moving particles, and there being more worlds like this world, wonderful. As wonderful as Metrodorus of Clios saying the stars are surely peopled. But as for Epicurus denying immortality, this I know to be false, for long ago, when I was ill at Father’s—
“And this,” I suddenly hear John say no more than a pace away from my ear, “is our young magician and this our young prophet.”
My eyes do not snap open for they have not been closed. But no part of my mind has been looking through them. It does now, all that I know of it, and with a suddenness that is almost like falling off the top of the tower. As so long ago, once again I am staring into the face of the man Yehoshua—but now he stares also into mine.
I know John is very near me; I know here too is Salome. I know all the others, even Sapphira and her brood of red-faced brats, have moved into the courtyard. I can hear John say, “Simon. John. I would have you meet my favored cousin, Yeshu’a.” And I can hear that the Baptizer does not shout; that instead he almost whispers. But what I know more than I know anything is that I do not know what I feel. It is not irritation. It is not anger. It is certainly not the weariness of the spirit that lately plagues me. What is it? It feels as if a small tooth nibbles on my heart. This man cannot remember me. It was so long ago. I was a child. A female child. Who would remember such a one? But I, I remember this man, and I cannot look away.
I am grieved to see that Yehoshua can look away, and does so when John points to Salome. “This is Simon Magus whom Seth says already confounds the mathematicians and the magicians.” He points to me, “And this is John the Less.”
Once more, Yehoshua looks my way. “I have heard of these youths.”
He would say more, but the moment Yehoshua turns his face from mine, I say, “I have not heard of you.”
Yehoshua laughs. He laughs! I love him for his laughter. I hate him for laughing at me. My petulant self would say more, but suddenly another face pushes into mine. This face comes as a shock.
“Who is this?” asks the face. “John? Yeshu’a? Come away. The sons of Judas would have a word.”
In his eyes I see all I saw the first time; Simon Peter of Capharnaum is as he was. Does he remember me? He had demanded my name so that he might remember me. But no, there is no memory there. I was a child then, and as nothing to him. I am as nothing to him now. With no more than a glance, he dismisses John the Less.
John and Yeshu’a move away, Simon Peter eagerly leading. Why do I grieve? Why do I grieve?
Salome nudges my foot with hers. By Isis, I have all but forgotten my Salome! “What do you see, Mariamne?” Salome asks this of me, using my name, my own name, under her breath. “I see John who lights up my heart. I see the Simon who darkens the air I breathe. But what do you see?”
I do not know what I will say until I say it. “I see that the One has finally come.”
The dark that falls over her face is darker than any Simon of Capharnaum could draw down. For Salome, John is the One. And from this day forward, for Simon Magus and John the Less, nothing is ever again the same.
Two days later, and Salome is pretending to hoe, but it takes only a glance to see she works out something from Pythagoras, a problem in geometry Theano once set her at lessons that results in a twelve-rayed star. I am actually hoeing. I have found I like to grow things, to tend them. There are rounds of salted dirt on my knees. There is salted sweat on the back of my neck. The sun does not burn my skin, but it heats my blood. All this morning, we have been down by the river far below the settlement, and now that it is the month of Tishrei, I have prepared a new bed for sowing more rosh poppies. I have washed salt from the stony earth through a sluice I myself have made, for the poppy does better when the soil is sweeter.
Eio is nibbling at the wild grasses that grow on the riverbank at the end of my unfinished row of poppies; one long shaggy ear bent forward and one long ear twisted back. I imagine myself Eio. I imagine myself Eio because it will be a change from imagining the brothers Yehoshua and Jude. It is Yeshu’a who does not leave my mind. I feel also the first stirrings of the Loud Voice since I cannot recall when, and I am afraid. I cannot ask help of Salome; neither of us has made further mention of voices, or much of anything else. I slip into Eio’s hide, curl like smoke through her nostrils, move through her blood—and the first thing I feel are the flies that torment her. The buzzing, the crawling. I toss my shaggy head and they come back. I toss them away again; they come back. How maddening not to have hands to swat them! I am tormented by flies. I stamp. I snort. I gather myself to bray—
“John!”
Yea Balaam! I must leap a cubit. I find I have not been working at all. I have been a fly-crazed donkey and all the while I am a donkey, Mariamne’s body has been leaning on a hoe. But I am back now. Who shouts at me?
“A word,” says Tata, who has come all the way down from the settlement, across the entirety of the poppy field, and now appears before me without my notice, but not without Eio’s. Which of us has truly brayed? I find I do not know.
Salome glances up from her star in the dirt, wondering if a word is wanted with her as well, or if something is happening she would be interested in. If it concerns John of the River, Salome is always interested.
“I come for this one,” offers Tata, removing me from my hoe. “Addai has need of Eio.” She pushes at me, urges me away from our field on the banks of the Jordan. “Eio works for no one but John the Less and Addai.”
At the word works, Salome goes back to her dots and her dirt. In all this heat, I am hardly more interested in work than Salome, but, it is true, Tata could not make Eio walk a step. I call to Eio who trots over at once; gone for seven years and still Eio is mine. And so we walk away, Tata and Eio and I, out of the poppy field and up the steep path leading back to the settlement.
We are walking into the moment I will remember forever.
Addai awaits us in a drying room near the pottery workshops. From its door I can see the great kiln. This is where Tata now spends her days, for by now she has become more than a passable potter. Waiting as well are Seth, and the man Yehoshua, and Yehoshua’s twin, Jude.
I am put off balance. Not only is it clear that Addai has no interest in Eio, but this is the first I have seen of Seth since he left many weeks ago for Jerusalem on some business of Queen Helen’s. I smile at Seth; I stare at Yehoshua, at Jude. So alike outside, yet the man inside each is not the same and it shows in the eyes and the mouth. Addai comes forward, touches my shoulder. I am startled. So intent on the brothers, I have lost myself. He bids me sit. There are no benches, no chairs, in this room. There are only shelves of drying clay: pots of all shapes and sizes, cups and bowls and jugs. So we sit on the dirt of the floor, which makes no difference to me, as I am already dirty. It makes no difference to the brothers who seem as baked as the pots. Why am I here?
Now that we are all seated in a circle, Seth says an odd thing, “You know who I am, John?”
“Of course. You are my uncle, Seth of Damascus, the last of the Maccabees.”
“And you know who Addai is? And Tata?”
“I do.”
“Do you love us?” r />
“With the whole of my heart.”
“Then you will not question what we ask of you.” This last is not a question. I keep my eyes on his eyes. I keep my back straight and my hands folded. “I would have you tell us of your illness. I would have you tell us what you heard and what you saw, even if it sounds as the Book of Enoch.”
I look from face to face. My illness? Sounding as the Book of Enoch? Enoch is full of fantastic visions and terrible secrets. It is full of a Jew’s Seven Heavens and of a Jew’s hell. Enoch teaches of fallen angels and an avenging messiah. For a moment I do not understand, and then I do. My eyes come to rest on Tata and I see why I am called here. She has told them how it was with me at Father’s in the month before Ananias came to supper that night.
She has told them that eight years ago I died.
And that I rose from the dead.
In all this time I have told no one what I experienced, not even Salome. I do not know why I have not shared it with the friend with whom I share everything, but I do know—and have known all along—that the Loud Voice was born of my dying. Only Tata, who never left my side in those days and nights, could have even the smallest idea of what it might have been like, and Tata has no idea at all. And yet she does know, for it was she who saw the skin of my face shine with a light like unto Moses on the mountain, and she who told me this is what she saw.
I sit in silence. Seth asks me a terrible thing. I do not want to tell them. And if I did, I would share with only Addai and Tata and Seth. Why would I tell these brothers something I have not told Salome? And there is this: I do not have the courage. Having told no one, I have no oft-told tale to tell. From that time to this, I have thought of it seldom, and when I have, it seems more a fabulous dream than a doing. But I know it was not a dream. It was not a dream and it was not delirium, though delirium was the door through which I walked. But to explain where I went? To describe what I saw? To offer what I brought back into this world? Would they understand my answers? I went nowhere for there is nowhere to go. I saw nothing but what is always here. I brought nothing back but what I took with me. But I think of Addai and Tata and how I love them. I think of Seth and all we have been to each other and all he has taught me. Suddenly I feel ashamed. Seth has given me freely of his life and his skill and his mind, vast as the green Egyptian Sea, and I keep such as this to myself?