by Krishna Rose
The confined space was stifling. The walls were so cramped, that I imagined this might be what birth feels like for a new soul coming into this world. But in my case, there was no light at the end of the tunnel. For my life was doomed—whether we were captured or not.
So much time passed that I thought we might never see the light of day again. Cocooned in the impenetrable blackness, I shone the beam of my torch ahead as an entrance came into view. It was so small that I almost missed it.
“Mariam,” my uncle said, breaking the silence. “There’s a sealed entrance ahead, hidden in the wall on the left side of the tunnel just a few feet from where you are now. Can you see it?” he asked breathlessly. “Yes,” I said, eagerly moving towards it. I was by now so keen to breathe, that I pushed the full weight of my body upon the entrance without delay, determined to move the rocky wall to get my way if needs must.
“There are steps inside, so take care how you tread. This will lead us to safety,” he said confidently.
I stumbled blindly into the cooling cavern which was refreshingly vast. Standing up straight, I walked slowly down each step, counting them aloud “one, two, three, four, five . . .” so that they might find their way more easily . . . and once I reached the bottom, I turned and gave the full light of the flame to them. I winced, upon seeing my uncle struggle to keep Jesu’s limp body on the stretcher, for the staircase had a steep incline.
We must have walked for a long time in the shadowy underground burrow. ‘So much hate must live inside Caiaphas, that he would devise a plot to steal a man from his grave,’ I thought to myself. As if the wind was beneath my feet, I scurried zealously with unbridled indignation away from the eyes of our wicked tormentors, until after some time, in the distance, a shaft of light ahead beamed with optimism.
The door was stiff and heavy. Nicodemus pushed at it for a good while before it gave—immediately the angels of the air rushed in to save us. I glanced back at Jesu. ‘How has it come to this?’ It was inconceivable.
“There is a tomb beyond the next hillside,” my uncle said, motioning with his head. “Fortunately, as fate would have it, it was built just a few months ago and none but the builders know of it!” he said, running speedily through the open meadow—just in case. We had done the unthinkable, for it is expressly forbidden to shift any burden on Shabbat. Yet here we were, breaking all the laws and conventions of our faith. Love was first and laws second—one of the many gifts we had acquired by dint of our association with Jesu. Of course some stalwarts, who live for the letter of the law, spend day and night discussing and debating them . . . though mostly laws just give man another reason to control and condemn. It was seemingly a devil’s snare.
I stopped long enough to notice that we were far from the city walls in the hilly wilderness, safe from meddling eyes. The full moon still held space for our calculating move, but soon it would be morning. The tombs entrance was camouflaged by wild shrubbery which had been purposely planted to avoid discovery. As we came upon it, a familiar wave of nausea hit me, as once again I remembered the reason why we were there—to bury my husband. Two burials in one day. I retched, but nothing came up, for I had not eaten properly in days. Sitting down upon a rock, exhausted—defeated, I waited.
Moments later they were back again, rolling the door closed behind them with a loud “clank.” “It is done,” my uncle said, washing his hands in a nearby pool, wiping them dry on his cape. With a worried expression, he took measure of me, drawing me deep into his arms. Nicodemus left, swift as an arrow, to fetch the carriage for us.
“I think it’s best we keep this between us for now,” he said, his strong hands stroking my hair in a fatherly gesture. “No one must know of this. And I mean no one, Mariam. Not even The Mary or your siblings,” he said firmly. “Many laws were broken this night and our entire family is compromised. Promise me!” he said, urgently searching my eyes. I nodded in agreement, nestling into his chest. I trusted my uncle implicitly. Though protecting a secret like this from my sister, Martha, would be near impossible, for we were as one, knowing one another’s thoughts before we spoke. But if it meant keeping our brethren out of harm’s way, then I would hold my tongue.
The moon had been the only witness of our covert operation. Waiting for Nicodemus to return, my uncle and I sat still and silent—just in case. Leaves rustled in the moonlight and another cock crowed. ‘That’s strange’ I thought, ‘I don’t remember ever hearing a cock crow at night. But on this night I’ve heard three!’
After some time, a mysterious shaft of light struck down from above, illuminating the sepulcher’s entrance, amplifying my aching need for Jesu’s presence. My state of mind had been so clouded by this bitter lesson, that the light seemed like a miracle to bring me forth from my woe. Drawing me from my throes of despair, it fluttered over the tomb door suggestively, while crouched on the sparsely lit ground nearby, we watched mesmerized.
A shrill voice in the distance impressed upon me the danger which potentially lay ahead. Alerted by it, I recovered my composure, sitting bolt upright, hoping Nicodemus was close at hand. And he was.
“I’ve been considering how best to protect ourselves from the aftermath of what has happened here. You may not like my plan, but please listen with an open mind,” he said benevolently. “I am ready to do what we must” I said, humbly. “Good. Here’s what I am thinking . . .” he said, holding out his hand out to help me onto the carriage, which whisked us away. ‘Another law broken,’ I thought, staring back at the unnatural light, which still lingered at the tomb’s entrance.
“It is Shabbat,” he began “so when we arrive at the house, go straight to bed and sleep long. No one will think it unusual. You are a grieving widow with child. Everyone will accept that you are resting. Once Shabbat is ended” he said shuffling next to me, so that I could hear him more clearly, “I’ll suggest that you go to the tomb early the next morning to administer final burial rites for your husband, God rest his soul. But when you arrive at the sepulcher and find it empty, you must act surprised and cry out loudly, ‘Someone has taken him!’ In this way, there will be no question in anyone’s mind, of us having had any involvement in Jesu’s disappearance. Alright?” “Yes,” I nodded in agreement. “Caiaphas will be blamed, and we will be in the clear,” he said thoughtfully.
“You carry the heir to the throne of David in your womb. We must protect you and your unborn child at any cost. Are you willing to do this?” he asked, with a desperately dejected look in his eyes. “Yes Uncle.”
“But that is not all. For then you must make haste to Peter’s house—to convince our brethren that Jesu lives. You will tell them that when you came upon the sepulcher, the stone had been rolled open, and when you crept inside, you found that his body was gone. Then, God forgive me, you will say that you saw someone in the garden outside. Tell them a believable story—something like this: ‘There stood a man outside the sepulcher, so I hid amongst the bushes that I might observe him from a safe distance, for I wondered what he was doing there. The man was tall and distinguished. His figure was indistinct, for his features were masked by a shadow. The man sat down upon a rock and leaned his head upon his hand, which seemed to be bleeding. He looked into the shrubbery where I was hidden and immediately I recognized him. Then he spoke to me, calling my name and instructed me to deliver unto you the message that he is resurrected!’
“Relay all of these details more or less exactly as I just did, so that you sound believable. And be excitably persuasive. Doubting your story, Peter will run to see the empty tomb for himself, and upon his return, he will tell the others what he saw. Rumors will spread like a wild fire through Jerusalem city that Jesu has risen. Understand?”
He had obviously thought this out carefully, but I was mortified. ‘There is no way I can convincingly deceive our brethren. They will see straigh
t through me,’ I reflected. “Mariam, it is crucial to us as a family that Jesu fulfills the prophecy. It is the only way we can protect his legacy. I know I’m asking a lot of you, but they will believe you. Very quickly, word will spread that the Messiah has risen and the people will go up against Caiaphas. It will change our political and religious system forever . . . and more importantly, Jesu’s words will live on. The child which grows in your womb will have a dynasty born of a renowned Messiah, not a man shunned and crucified by his own people as a troublemaker. Do you grasp what I am saying?” he said unabashedly.
I was in every way troubled by his proposal. “Your husband’s story will otherwise die along with his body. None will come to know of his teachings and miracles—for which he risked everything. You will be the shamed widow of another failed Messiah if you don’t see fit to do this,” he said desperately.
I was distraught, for his words hit me hard. Confounded, I asked him, “If I agree to do this, who will perform Jesu’s burial rites?” “I will do it—if you give me permission, that is,” he said, with an air of gratitude, seemingly relieved that I was even slightly willing to consider his request.
“I have thought about it very carefully, Mariam. It must be you who goes to the tomb to declare your husband as risen—otherwise a doubt will be cast on our family and we will all be in danger. Most certainly Caiaphas will claim that we have stolen the body, so I see no other way,” he said, hanging his head low in shame, as if he had failed me in some way.
As we approached my uncle’s estate, I thought for a moment, considering my options. “May I think about it?” I asked. “I am too wearied to make a clear-headed decision,” I admitted. “Of course,” he said sympathetically.
Fortunately everyone still slept as we discreetly tiptoed in through the back door leaving our shoes behind. Accompanying me upstairs to my room, closing the door quietly behind him, my uncle poured something to drink. ‘More laws broken.’ Seated on the edge of my bed, I drank the tea in its entirety.
“Do you really believe this is what Jesu would want, Uncle?” I asked. “I am not convinced . . . as he was not bothered if people believed him to be the Messiah or not. I am troubled with regards to lying to save his ‘name’ which was not of value to him . . . for he cared nothing for such things,” I said, crawling into my bed, shivering. “A decision like this requires a steady mind, which I have not. Perhaps after I’ve rested I will have a change of heart. Just know, that whatever happens after today, if the Lord wills for Jesu’s story to be lost forever, then it is as it should be. Uncle . . .” I said, as he reached for the door, “you have been a tower of strength and I am indebted to you for everything. Thank you.”
He seemed distraught. ‘He is worried sick,’ I noted. “Shabbat shalom. May God bless you my child,” he said, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Laying my weary bones down, closing my tired puffy eyes, I fell into a deep dreamless sleep. Thank the Lord for that.
CHAPTER 3
RIGHTEOUSNESS
Righteousness is when one has the qualities of virtue, decency, integrity and honor.
Throughout the next day I did not leave my room until I saw the sun disappear on the horizon. Once the three stars appeared in the sky, Havdalah ceremonials commenced, marking the end of Shabbat.
“Blessed art Thou, Almighty God, King of the Universe, who distinguishes the Shabbat as holy from the everyday, just as light is separate from darkness. Bless all the nations of God,” I heard them pray.
My body ached and though an intense hunger and thirst churned my stomach, nothing could draw me from the security and solitude which my room afforded me. Jesu was gone. ‘What will become of me?’ I pondered.
The windows poured rays of the rising moon into the room, invoking in me remembrance of the holiness within. Tears welled up as I contemplated my future. Our child would be raised without a father, never knowing the man who led a nation out of darkness.
Custom would determine my fate. As obliged, my situation would necessitate my marriage to James, Jesu’s eldest sibling. ‘Just as The Mary had been required to do when her husband Yosef had died,’ I reflected. She too had been married-off to Cleophas without question—transferred incontestably from one husband to another. Such were the ways of our people. Personally I considered it an outdated custom sorely in need of reassessment. But many men of our faith believe that women have no soul. Hence they were nothing more than property to enjoy and have dominion over. The Mary had graciously never questioned the laws of our people. She was a conservative noblewoman, well-practiced in the art of doing as she was bid. That was not to her detriment, for it was her good nature that resolved her to commit to laws, for the Lord’s sake.
I, however, was very much an independent woman, intent on self-governance. My unconventionality could perhaps be due to the circumstances of my birth. For I never knew my mother. She had died in childbirth. Raised by my father, who never remarried, my siblings and I were blessed with a good deal of liberty. Granted, our father had been good-natured, but nothing could supplant one’s need of a mother, especially to advise in all the significances of womanhood. Without the example of a mother to shadow, I had looked to my sister Martha for direction.
Our father ensured that we were all well educated in scripture, language and etiquette—a commodity most women were not privy to. As a consequence, knowledge grew to be the backbone of the freethinking woman I had become. I was an unconventional, distinctly free-spirited woman, very much my own person in all ways. I would not bear another man to touch me, nor have any man think me his possession. Not even James, who was like a brother to me. It would be nothing short of merciless to force a woman like me upon a man I could never love . . . certainly not in that way.
It seemed unnatural, while veritably true to our time, that a man had right to do what he willed at every life juncture, while a woman had none. A man could take more than one wife and marry whom he chose. It was a man’s world—while women, no matter how influential, well-educated, or independently wealthy, were told every step of the way exactly how to act and what to do.
I could choose to shave my hair and leave this life behind, to don white, signifying my renunciation and flee to Egypt if needs must. Don’t get me wrong—James was a noble man, staggering in fact. So much like Jesu in many ways—righteous and kind . . . and sympathetic to our cause. However, to be forced to lie with another, after suffering the loss of Jesu, would be sacrilege! I would rather die than face such a sentence.
Jesu had told me about women who threw themselves onto their husband’s funeral pyre so as not to tolerate widowhood. ‘I will flee Judea,’ I decided. I had no wish to cling to this place, with all of its politically insidious intention.
The village of Bethany had been our inheritance upon our father’s demise, and even though we had sold some property to finance our campaigns, we were fortunate to still have sufficient income that we could live without worry—one of the many blessings from our father.
I would leave and escape to the mountains of Scetis. To live out my days with the Therapeutae, who were known to Jesu’s family. They would protect me and were renowned for esteeming women as equals. I would speak of it with my uncle, though I was sure he had a plan of his own. He always did.
The aroma of the evening meal wafted in through the cracked window, sneaking beneath my sealed door. Thought of its nourishment caused my belly to growl . . . as did the thought of being caught in a lie. I had no concept of how to confront what lay ahead, as my uncle had formulated an unexpectedly extreme predicament upon me. To lie, especially to my family, struck me as inconceivable. I would be a hopeless liar. They would doubtless see through me in a heartbeat, for my face could not betray the truth. Deceitfulness, wholeheartedly went against my nature. What a hopeless situation this was!
For if I did not do as my uncle bid, our ministry would end, Jesu’s ideology would cease, our good name would lay in ruin, and our children’s legacy would be questionable at best.
Peter would certainly never accept my story. He was hostile towards me at the best of times. It could backfire on us entirely. He would be infuriated that I was the first one to have seen our risen Master and would chance upon a reason to spite me and create bad blood between us. Especially if his position and leadership were thwarted in any way due to a woman—God forbid!
Peter considered me a stain on our brethren, for I was born under difficult circumstances. My mother’s passing was extremely unsettling for my father and village. We lived in a culture whose customs premised it as true, that any child who survived a birth, wherein the mother had died, was a curse upon society. Thought to have no chance of overcoming the stigma of its cursed beginnings—a tribal superstition—the children of such circumstance, were oftentimes shunned by the family. Sometimes even killed. Perhaps it was this that was to be a prelude to so much misunderstanding in my name.
Having lived with a blemish such as this upon my soul, I had set about examining the source of such notions, which were presided over by the old wives in the villages. Ultimately, I wanted to know who it was that decided what was and was not acceptable in society. Such matters were fuel for my inclination towards truth. I had a burning desire to rise above the norm. In fact it had become a survival mechanism for me. Of course Jesu’s refuge and protection had guarded me from such prudish superstitions—however, now that he was gone, I would no longer be shielded from Peter’s condemnation. His disapproval of me, would no doubt be an onslaught, which for years had been checked by Jesu’s love of me. He was waiting for a chance to bring about my downfall and this might be his moment.