Son of Mary

by R. S. Ingermanson

  I am cold in all my parts. This is a wrong thing. Yeshua is a good man, a tsaddik, a kind man, and wise. All men love him. I love him with all that is in my heart.

  And now Yeshua is a prophet, and he is well fitted to be a prophet.

  But he is not fitted to be Mashiach.

  He will never be fitted to be Mashiach.

  This will not stand.

  I will not accept.

  Chapter Eight

  Yoni of Capernaum

  I am going to meet my best friend in all the world, and my heart beats fast with a big gladness. Shimon does not know who is my best friend in all the world. If he did, he would call me a fool.

  I tug on Shimon’s hand to make him walk faster, but Shimon is lost in his grief, and he only walks slower. The Romans made a vengeance for him, but he does not seem to care.

  Shimon’s clan and my clan walked already from the west side of Jerusalem to the east and down into the Kidron Valley, and now we are walking up the Mount of Olives toward Bethany, the village where we are staying. I can feel the hot rage of Shimon, the same as I feel the heat of the sun.

  Shimon is right to be in a rage on the matter. The Samaritan took his brother from him, and how can he have a justice? The murderer is dead, but that changes nothing. It is vengeance to trade a life for a life, but vengeance is not justice, and even Shimon knows it.

  But there is a thing Shimon does not know. None of the others know. Only I know, and I will never tell. Not in many ten thousand years. All my family says I cannot keep a secret. They say I talk too much, and so I always tell what I know. It is not my fault that I talk so much. It is the way HaShem made me. But I should die before I tell this mighty secret.

  I should put it out of my heart and never think on the matter, ever again.

  I should think on something else.

  I should think on the crucifixion.

  That was a bad matter. I watched the first part, but then I went aside and vomited. A cross is a bad wickedness. Even when it makes a vengeance for us, it is a wickedness, because tomorrow it can make a vengeance on us. A cross is not justice. It is a weapon of the Great Satan.

  I should think on something else.

  I should think on my friend Shimon.

  Shimon is a good man, but not clever. I like talking with him many hours in the night, when we fish on the Lake of Ginosar. I am the smallest man in our crew, and he is the largest, so our fathers partner us in one boat and we work. In the long hours of the night, I explain to Shimon the deep things of HaShem that I learned from the cantor in our synagogue—the village hazzan—who is a priest and knows Torah.

  The village hazzan says I am a genius, and all the village says it is true, because I memorized the whole Torah already two years ago, but my father says they should not say it so much, or else I will get conceited.

  I do not know why he says that. I do not know everything yet. There is a deep matter I do not understand, and that is the matter of knowing a woman.

  I have asked Shimon on the matter many times. He has been a man twelve whole years and has a woman and two young sons who stayed home in Capernaum, and he knows more on the matter of women than I do, so that is why I ask him. I have been a man only a month, and my brother says I am no man yet, because I have still not got my man growth, but that is a lie. Torah says you are a man when you finish the thirteenth year of your age, and I did that, so I am a man.

  But still I do not understand the matter of women, and that is why I ask Shimon about it, because he does not make a mock on me like my brother. I have five sisters, and I would die for my shame before I ever asked them. So I ask Shimon.

  He knows the matter, and he explains it to the best of his power, but that is not so much. I cannot ask the village hazzan. He is an old man and his woman died many years ago, and I think he has forgotten what he ever knew on the matter of knowing a woman.

  So I only ask the village hazzan about Torah. He says HaShem has given me a great gift, to be a genius in Torah, to see things in Torah that men three times my age do not see.

  I think he is right, because I am clever in the matter of Torah, more clever even than the village hazzan. But I will never say so, because that would be a big dishonor on him, and I love him like my own father. The village hazzan taught me to read, and that is a mighty wonder, that small letters on a page can make thoughts in my mind. Most men of our village cannot read. My father is a priest and can read a little, but my brother cannot read at all. Shimon and his brother and father cannot read. HaShem gave me a gift, and I am glad on it.

  Next year, my father will send me to Jerusalem to study Torah with one of the great sages of Israel. I hope to study with Rabbi Shammai, who is the greatest sage there ever was. We are a family of priests, and Torah is in our blood. My grandfather’s brother was a sage.

  All our village says I will be a great sage in Israel someday, and I think they are right. I want that more than anything. Sages are the keepers of Wisdom, and Wisdom is the Power of HaShem to mend the world. There are many broken things in the world. Torah is given to us for the healing of the world, and it is not yet healed, so there is a big room in the world for Wisdom.

  The road at last levels out after our climb up the Mount of Olives.

  We enter Bethany.

  I look on Shimon’s face again, and it is stone. Shimon is like a rock, and that is good when there is a need for strength. But it is bad when there is a need to bend. Now is a time to bend to the will of HaShem. We do not see the deep things of HaShem. We see things on the surface.

  I know how Shimon’s brother died, because I saw it happen, but that is a surface matter. I do not know why HaShem allowed it to happen. That is a deep thing of HaShem.

  But I must not think on the matter, I must not think on the matter, I must not think on the matter.

  I have been holding Shimon’s hand the whole way, because he is my friend, and a friend holds your hand when you are in a big pain. It is a strong hand, rough from the fishing nets, burned by wind and sun. I wish Shimon’s woman were here now. I think she would make a good comfort on him.

  I look up on Shimon’s hard face and squeeze his hand. “Shimon?”

  He looks on me with dull eyes. “Yes, Yoni?”

  “When Mashiach comes, he will make all things right, yes?”

  Shimon sighs with a big sigh. “Yes.”

  “In the Resurrection, your brother will live again, yes?”

  “Yes.” Shimon’s hand spasms.

  I feel the pain rushing through his hand into my own. It is a hot pain, an angry pain, a deep pain. It burns my heart, but I do not let go of Shimon’s hand. He is my friend, and a friend is for feeling a friend’s pain.

  Tears run out of Shimon’s eyes.

  It is good. Until now, Shimon has not made tears on the matter. Until the tears begin, a man’s hurt festers inside. When the tears begin, that is when a man’s hurt begins to heal.

  We reach the large house of my mother’s cousin, Uncle Elazar.

  My clan goes inside, shouting greeting to Uncle Elazar.

  Shimon’s clan goes inside, shouting greeting to Uncle Elazar.

  Shimon and I stand outside.

  Tears run down his face now, many tears.

  It is not a good time for him to be with people, and Uncle Elazar’s house has all our people. I wrap Shimon’s great hand in both of mine. “Shimon, walk with me a little and mourn the loss of Yehuda Stonefist.”

  Shimon shakes his head and bends down and gives me a kiss and a kiss and a kiss. “Better I should walk alone.”

  There is a strange look on his face. I never saw such a face on him. I see a big grief. I see a big anger. I see something else, only I cannot read it.

  A sick dreadness rises in my belly. I am afraid he knows more on the matter than he says. I do not know what to say. All my breath is stolen.

  I must not think on the matter, but I cannot stop Shimon from thinking on the matter.

  Shimon turns and walks a
way. There is a big weight in his steps, more than when we left the cross an hour ago under a heavy cloud of sorrow.

  I beg HaShem that he will make Shimon forget the matter. I beg HaShem that Shimon will never know the truth of the matter.

  I swear by The Name I will never tell. A friend does not tell a friend such a bad matter.

  Shimon walks down the street to the bend and goes out of my sight.

  I go in the house, shouting greeting to Uncle Elazar.

  There is a receiving room just inside, but the room is empty. A door on the far side of the room leads into a large courtyard, and that is where our families are.

  Uncle Elazar is a wealthy man who owns flocks and olive groves and a vineyard. His house is large, with many rooms that connect onto the courtyard. The courtyard has stone benches in the middle for sitting in the cool of the evening, and more benches in the shade for sitting in the heat of the day.

  Our women stand together with the women of the house. Uncle Elazar’s sisters are Aunt Marta and Aunt Miryam. They know the matter of death in this house, because of the summer fever that came through Bethany three years ago.

  My heart springs up like a young lamb in the springtime, for I see my greatest friend in all the world.

  She pretends not to see me.

  I know she sees me, for she was not smiling when we came in, but now she smiles with a secret smile.

  The men sit on the benches in the shade.

  I run to sit with them.

  Uncle Elazar calls to his sisters to bring us food.

  Shortly, they bring it. Aunt Marta is a strong-faced woman who is a good worker and has three daughters, grown and married. Aunt Miryam is a soft-faced woman who is a good worker and has no sons or daughters.

  The village calls Aunt Marta a blessed woman, because she has three daughters who lived to the age of marriage. The village calls Aunt Miryam a cursed woman, because she is barren.

  I think on the matter differently. Aunt Miryam is my favorite person in all the world. She loved me with a mighty love since I was a baby. Since I was a small boy, she would answer any question I ever asked without lying, even hard questions that all the other adults made a dodge on. I call her Big Sister when we are alone. I do not know why HaShem made Aunt Miryam barren and Aunt Marta not. That is a deep thing, and the village hazzan has not explained the matter to me.

  Aunt Marta serves us stone cups of water mixed with wine. Aunt Miryam serves us raisins and nuts and flat bread. When she gives me some, she strokes my hand and smiles on me.

  I want to sing for my joy.

  The women go back in the kitchen.

  Already the men are talking of the weather and the harvest and the price of salted fish and the wickedness of the tax-farmers and how matters will change when Mashiach comes to throw off the Great Satan.

  I stand and walk back into the receiving room and outside onto the street.

  Nobody asks where I am going. Bethany sits on top of the Mount of Olives, which overlooks Jerusalem, and my family knows that I often go to look on the City of the Great King.

  My heart thumps with happiness. I walk fifty paces down the street and wait.

  In the heat of the day, the street of Bethany stands dusty and silent.

  Shortly, Aunt Miryam slips out of the house. I knew she would. She runs toward me and throws her arms around me and kisses the top of my head. “Was it very horrible at the crucifixion, Little Brother? Are you well?”

  “I am well.” I always feel well with Aunt Miryam. Since I was a baby, whenever she held me on her lap, I felt that all the world was well.

  She presses my face to her bosoms and kisses the top of my head again.

  My face feels hot on a sudden, and my insides tingle. I do not understand what is happening. I never noticed before how large and soft Aunt Miryam’s bosoms are.

  “Little Brother, is something wrong?”

  I do not know what to say. Nothing is wrong, but everything is different. I do not understand, but everything is different. I am finding it a hard matter to breathe.

  Aunt Miryam takes my head in her hands and tilts my face up to look on her. There is a sad look in her soft eyes, but I am not thinking of the softness of her eyes.

  I feel the heat of blood in my face.

  “I am sorry, Little Brother.” Aunt Miryam’s voice is thick with a big sadness. “You are not a boy anymore. You are a man, and everything is different now, forever.”

  It breaks my heart to hear that. I do not wish things to be different. I wish Aunt Miryam will be my Big Sister forever. But I have entered the world of men, and she lives in the world of women, and those are worlds that do not meet.

  Aunt Miryam takes my hand. “Come walk with me, Little Brother. We must talk.”

  My heart is stone and my throat is dry, but I squeeze her hand and walk with her.

  Chapter Nine

  Miryam of Bethany

  I sit with my little Yoni on a stone terrace on the west face of the Mount of Olives. Across the valley is the City of HaShem. I come here often to admire the Temple. Tales tell that the Temple is the most beautiful building in the world, and I believe it. Tales tell that in days of old, the Presence of the living God—the Shekinah—rested in the Temple, and I believe it.

  Yoni showed me a wonderful matter once. HaShem is a male, and yet Shekinah is a female word. Yoni calls this a paradox. I do not know what is a paradox, but this matter gives me a big gladness in my heart, for it means HaShem knows what it is to be a woman. If that is a paradox, I wish Yoni will show me more paradoxes.

  I would give anything in the world to feel the Shekinah, to have HaShem wrap his arms around me. When I was a little girl, four or five, my father used to take me to the Temple for the afternoon sacrifices. He would put me on his shoulders, and we listened to the priests play harp and trumpet while the Levites sang psalms to the living God. I felt warm inside, safe and happy. All the world seemed good.

  And sometimes I thought I felt the Shekinah. My father said it was not the Shekinah. He said only a prophet knows the Presence of HaShem. I think it was the edges of the Shekinah. I have not felt it in many years. My sister Marta would say it was only the warmth of the sun and the foolishness of a child. But I wish it was real. I wish I will feel it again.

  Today, my heart is crushed, for I am losing something precious. My little Yoni has become a man, and I must explain to him why things must be different now, forever. I hate that it is so, but it is so. That is the way HaShem ordered the world. A woman cannot be a friend on a man. That will make a big scandal. It will make a shame on the woman and a dishonor on the man. Today, I must make an end on our friendship.

  Yoni’s eyes are deep pools of sadness. “Big Sister, why did HaShem make us this way, male and female?”

  I have never lied to Yoni, and he has never lied to me. When he was in the fourth year of his age, he climbed in my lap and begged that I should always answer any question with truth. And I promised. How was I to know he would never stop asking questions? And such deep questions! I never saw such a clever boy. How can I answer him? How am I to know why HaShem made us different?

  “I do not know, Little Brother. It is the way things are. HaShem commanded us to be fruitful and multiply. It is the first commandment in Torah. He made us male and female so we could obey the commandment.”

  He sighs with a big sigh and stares across the Kidron Valley toward the Temple. He was always a sweet boy, and I love him. Everyone loves him, but I love him more than all the others. They see his great mind, and they love him for the mighty sage he will be someday. I see his great heart, and I love him for the kind boy he is already. But now he is a man, and no longer a boy. How can I give him up, the son I will never have?

  The Temple is filled with life today. Many ten thousand men rush here and there in the outer courts, all doing the will of HaShem. Women go to the Temple, and they also do the will of HaShem, but the will of HaShem for women is different from the will of HaShem for men.
I cannot fight the will of HaShem.

  “Will you explain something to me, Big Sister?”

  “You know I will.”

  “I … it is not permitted to ask.”

  My heart beats faster.

  “But I have no one else I can ask.”

  Please, HaShem, let him not ask some wrong thing.

  Yoni’s cheeks are pink. “King Solomon said a proverb, that there is a thing he does not understand—the way of a man with a maiden.”

  The day is too hot and there is no breeze and I cannot breathe.

  “Explain to me please what is the way of a man with a maiden.”

  “Little Brother, it is not fitting that I should explain the matter—”

  He turns his head and looks on me with his huge brown eyes that pierce my heart.

  I must be firm. I must. I shake my head. “Ask your father to explain the matter. Ask your brother. Ask Shimon. He is your good friend, yes?”

  “I asked Shimon and he explained it, but he knows the matter as a man knows it. I asked him to explain it as a woman knows it, and he said that was a big foolishness, because a man is not a woman, so a man can never know it as a woman knows it. And anyway, he said there was never a man who wished to know it as a woman knows it. But that is not true, because I wish to know it.”

  That is why I love my little Yoni. He is not like other men. He does not think a woman is of small account. Someday he will be a great sage, maybe even a tsaddik. He has a great heart in him. But what am I to do? It is not fitting for a woman to speak on the matter to a man.

  Yoni takes my hand in his. “In five years, or six, or seven, I will take a woman. Then I will know the matter as a man knows it. But I think my woman will be glad if I know the matter as a woman knows it, yes? I think it will give her a good happiness, yes? I wish to give my woman a good happiness, more than my own.”

  My heart is all in a big confusion.

  Yoni looks on me, and I see his heart is pure and good.