by Krishna Rose
“Your moans, and the laments of his mother, never left me—not in all these years. I still dream of it now. It was my unfortunate sword that pierced your husband’s side when he hung upon the cross . . .” he said, eyes-down, disgraced.
“His blood soaked me that day, and something happened. I could not wash the stain of his blood from me. Not for days. My conscience would not allow it. The remorse I have felt since, has remained like a bitter poison. It has crippled me. I knew not what else to do, but to come and see you personally, to seek out forgiveness. I fear death—as this stain lies heavy upon my soul,” he said ruefully.
I remembered the man well. This was one of those rare moments where we are tested by God. I was paralyzed, sickened by the nauseating memory of Jesu’s crucifixion.
“I understand if you cannot forgive me . . . I too might not trust a dishonorable, disgraced traitor like me. You witnessed firsthand the scandalous wickedness of men, which I regret ever having labored. The witch hunt inflicted upon your clan, compelled many of us to unwillingly participate in the devilish treatment of our given Messiah. At that time, we were just foolish young men executing the orders of our commanders, not that that’s an excuse!” he said, quite obviously troubled.
“But being duty bound to execute so many . . . I am ashamed to admit, we had developed an indifference to it.”
“Bless you Brother, for by your shame you repented, and because of it, you amended and promoted yourself above what was expected of you,” I told him, blessing his head with my right hand. “Therefore, fear not. You are forgiven— though you should know, that my husband still lives,” I said.
He stopped his inconsolable weeping, gazing into my eyes speechlessly, his face full of remorse.
“We escaped Judea after the crucifixion and my husband recovered, by grace of the Lord,” I continued, preparing tea for them over a small fire.
“He lives? Of course we had all heard the rumors of your escape, but the Jewish council threatened any who dared speak our Messiah’s name, so we knew not what had happened, or what to believe when his body had disappeared. I am overjoyed! This news is like rain upon the desert of my dried up heart!” he said, joyfully.
“Many in Jerusalem said that your husband was risen—taking to the streets, furiously campaigning against Caiaphas and the Sanhedrin who had ordered his execution. The Council lied to the people, telling them that your husband had ascended to Heaven, witnessed by two local villagers—who were later mysteriously assassinated. How dangerous gossip can be . . .” he said indignantly.
“Longinus, I would be honored if you both would remain a while so I might share secret things of the spirit,” I said, picking up my robe, which was always within arm’s reach should a visitor come. Covering myself, I sat cross-legged, ready to share with them the wisdom of the spirit.
Longinus Gaius and his family stayed for two short days and nights. After they received baptism, the things that were spoken of, carried his soul beyond all limitations. Upon their departure, I asked if they would be so kind as to carry a letter to my sister, telling them, “Very soon I shall to pass from this world. These shall be my final words to my family and brethren,” I predicted. He nodded, taking the rolled-up scroll in his hand. “I shall do as you command,” he said with a sorrowful heart. He was a changed man. His wife thanked me, falling at my feet, kissing them appreciatively. They were the last people to see me alive.
Alone again, I threw off my robe and covered my aging body with my long, untamed hair. Undisturbed, I had spent my final years putting into practice the things I had been taught when youth was upon my heels. I dreamed of Jesu, yearning to see his face once more, especially now that death was soon upon me.
That night, visions of the future came to me in many distressing impressions. Wars won and lost under the banner of a new faith conceived of in our lifetime. Solemn-faced red-haired women lined up, rows upon rows of them, to be unreservedly burned as sorcerers. In the name of Jesu, our descendants, who were red-haired like me, were killed. The new church feared the power of our bloodline.
Taking money from the poor, in exchange for promises of eternal life, the church leaders, laden with gold and jewels, lived like Kings, calling themselves ambassadors of Jesu’s faith. My illustrious name, torn asunder, was soon to be associated with that of a fallen woman. Thus I would be demoted to a prostitute. It was to become my distinguishing mark.
These visions were a trial, a test of my humility. I wept for hours, seeing how world leaders contrived darkness upon the world with Jesu’s good name at the helm. I reclaimed my soul’s composure, understanding the world’s transient nature. It was not for me to pass judgement on the future. I felt weak—too weak to care anymore. Death was coming. It beckoned me. This body I had inhabited was no longer my home. I thanked my flesh, which had housed me so long, cradling my body gratefully in my own arms like a mother to a child.
Death is like a sweet poison. You don’t want to drink it, but its sweetness washes over you—you surrender to it, for it holds such bliss. I saw my children and grandchildren’s faces and prayed for them. I said goodbye to my siblings and friends, and in my delirium, many angels came and went from my cave.
“Be with me through the night,” I requested them.
“Your darkest hours are behind you. Dawn is here. Cast off from this temporary existence. Trust us. We are with you,” they whispered.
Watching as the gentle breeze caused the leaves outside to shiver with delight, I focused on the slow rise and fall of my breath, which was deeper—more labored. The leaves flickered intensely, inducing in me a trance-like state. Then he came to me—my love, my teacher, my friend. He came before me peacefully and beautifully as he did in life.
“Marjan, it is I. I have returned to you, that I might thank you for the love you have given me. Our lives have been laden with many difficult twists and turns and now it is your turn to shine, my most noble Queen. You are a goddess to many, who shall adore thee Mary, for by your name, you bring solace to those who are helpless and abandoned,” said his euphoric voice.
“Now I seek your comfort, for your love is so deeply rooted in me, that I cannot loosen its hold on my heart. Death forces me to step aside and watch you leave. You have dedicated your life to me from the first . . .” he said tearfully. I reasoned that it must be raining, for I was sure I felt the soft pitter-patter of water upon my skin. Still, I was steady in my trance, determined not to let go of so great a vision.
“Through slip, spill, and tumble, unbridled we roamed the three worlds. We walked in the footsteps of the Lord and have been smothered by the ashes of Saints. Many shall come to seek our way and our message of love will not fail. Our seed, like rain, will scatter far upon the ground, where it shall be planted and one day flourish. We have sown what we came to sow. Now seek among the roots of paradise, the grove where the Maiden of Spring runs through the greening fields—and rejoice in Her!” he said, taking my hand in his.
I strained to open my eyes, which felt heavy. But I could not. I could feel him searching my soul urgently, distracting me from my inevitable fate—death. I wanted to alleviate the melancholy of my friend, who was discernibly bereaved, instead my breath grew heavier. The world slowed. The breeze calmed, and the birds fell silent.
There was nothing impure or unholy between us. There never had been. We were two souls gazing through one eye, with one beating heart that seemed amplified in the stillness.
“Do not wake me from my dream,” I told the angels when they came for me. “Please Jesu—do not let them lift this enchantment which has brought you here to me after so long,” I said, weeping.
The angels hovered wistfully at a distance, giving us occasion to end this life appropriately.
I told him, “Time’s bitter flood may rise when the winds
gather and the sun and moon have burned dim, but you will always find me where the scent of flowers fall from the sky and where a tear falls from Heaven. I was entirely shipwrecked on the ocean before your raft of hope rescued me. I flew from life to life, as a spark of immortality, many storms of restless desires carrying me here and there, yet it was upon your vessel that I came to know peace. You became the captain of my boat and you steered me straight—far from the sinking sand of pain and sorrow.
“I have waged war with somber skies and in goodwill lived with sacred aspiration. My garlands of devotion are hung upon the trees where my soul now goes. Husband, your river stole my heart from the first, and now I must seek it and ask you to return it, that I may go forth—for the majestic choirs of Heaven have come to guide my soul upon their backs . . . Jesu . . . can you hear them? They are reaching for me—expectantly. You and I have loved the Lord in all shrines, where we have bowed, and now He calls me hither, so I must take your leave and crawl to meet my maker . . .”
Some would say death is heavenly in its brilliance. I say it is like the moon, which hides its face and weeps while the sun beats down, rising up between the ancient stones.
“Enter the mists,” the angels told me. But Jesu would not let me go. His hand held me steadfast.
“Jesu. As the old ways reveal themselves in time, and as the river willow bends and sways, I promise to one day return my barge unto your shores, riding the winds and watery waves of my yearning for you. We are as one. Know that I have seen the things of the Lord, at whose glance stars, moons and planets shiver. I did not dare to breathe even one breath in His presence, for His beauty was beyond any human imagining. But now He calls me. I can hear His voice, Jesu. He says, ‘Open the door and enter.’ So how can I refuse Him? It is time. You must let me go . . .”
He sobbed, grieving for all that was and all that would be.
“Remember . . . when the thorns of anguish pierce your heart, that it is I who will remove them, piece by piece, to kiss where you bleed,” I told him, for so tightly did he hold onto me that I could not leave.
“Marjan, you and I are like sacred springs from which people drink. Your life is complete . . .” he said between sobs, suddenly relaxing his grip on me.
“I am the rose and the lily,” I said dreamily. “I have sung the secrets of the ages into the shadows. Your voice is sweet, and the darkness flees by your presence. I shall keep the torch of your love alive in me, and vow to one day be the voice in the wilderness, unravished by the lies they spin in my name.
“Jesu, you wore a crown of thorns upon your brow once, and now you sit upon the throne of people’s hearts, anointed by their tears and sorrows—while our memories ride on the cold seas of untruth. The cup is given, and it is full, so drink of it my love. Embroider a vision upon the tapestry of your heart until it frees you. But now, I must take off my mask, remove my veil, and slip away before you hinder me.”
The spring trees cast shadows as the sun rose slowly on the horizon, shedding a strange light in the vale. All was quiet. The doors of my fleshly destiny were closed to me for the last time. To the depths of the earth my body would now return. My soul, unfettered as the sacred river of truth, would now go forth like summer after spring. As the weaver journeyed to the underworld, so would I now offer prophetic utterances of shelter to those who search for the ancient shrine of wisdom.
Splintered by fate, I saw conflicting stories echoing across nations. Miracles not performed, words not spoken—farfetched tales and symbolic rituals. I had no strength left in me to fight such dogma, which grew like weeds to choke the gardens we had planted. I knew that a great restoration would one day come. I had seen my future. Still, the darkness grasped while it could. It had to run its course.
Our success, garnered by the internal battles we won, were to become the trophies of our inner work, which had brought about substantial power and spiritual strength. Such rewards had driven us deep into the caverns of the inner realms, which were as yet undiscovered. I felt Jesu lay his head on my lap, and I swear that I heard the pitter-patter of his teardrops falling upon my skin, as he grieved for me greatly in his heart.
Not even buried in the ground with two-thousand-years of lies above me, could they silence my influence.
“Before me, the Rose of Sharon blossoms and pricks the conscience of humankind. By my blood, the just shall be revived,” he cried. “Thou art that rose among thorns. Oh great spark of love, I whisper your name Mary, and hope you still hear me. The threshold of the mist that encircles your soul, creates your destiny anew, where, like a vine in your heart, I am planted by its water’s edge. I swear before the altar, Mary—we shall be together again,” he said between choked tears.
The mists moved around me. I was filled with gratitude at having a vision such as this, at the last.
“The Lord shines His love upon your soul, Mary,” he exclaimed to the air as it lifted me. “The Lord kisses your holy brow, Mary. I bore witness to it and He said, ‘She is the true vine.’ This world without you in it, is like winter without thaw, like night without the moon, and darkness without dawn.
“I love you, Mary Magdalene, and I pledge to always watch over you, to preserve your soul in the wilderness. You are the glimmer of hope on the horizon at the threshold of creation. Freedom of spirit calls you, and my soul has constructed for you a glorious path, upon which the truth of our love may be as a lamp to light your way. Now spread your wings and fly . . .” his voice echoed.
My spirit lifted up high up above the hills and mountains, greeted and held by thirteen angels with large shimmering wings who hummed and whispered sweet words of devotion into my ears. I heard Cherubim’s soothing voice. He had come for me.
Jesu cried out to the wind.
Mary, known as The Magdalene, breathed her last, believing she had seen a vision of the man she loved. In truth, he had ventured forth from the mountains of the Himalayas, travelling by the strength of the wind and the pull of his love for her, to sit with the woman he loved as she passed from this world. And as her soul fell from her lifeless body, adoringly, he prepared her body as once she had served him.
Her aged Uncle Joseph, famously known as Joseph of Arimathea, wrapped her body reverently within soft shrouds, and together they buried her in a tomb in the side of mountain, surrounded by buttercups.
Setting sail for Ynys Witrin, there, in the midst of a green valley, as balmy breezes fanned the apple orchards, scattering sweet fragrance of rosy blossoms and ripened fruit—soft grew the green grass beneath their feet. It was here that they built a shrine, remembering her wisdom. An ague which went far beyond bones and flesh was upon them, and this grief none could console.
Jesu wished to use his hands to distract himself from his sadness, so he built a wattle-and-daub church in Mary’s name, carving with his own finger the names Jesu Maria upon its foundation stone as a testimony of their love.
As her spirit watched from another dimension, she ached to touch him while his tears tumbled to the ground. A soft rain fell from Heaven, and he recognized the raindrops to be Mary’s tears, which mingled on the earth beneath his feet, making little puddles.
Shortly afterward, not far from where they had built the first church in Britannia—a spring came forth out of the ground. It had a reddish hue and brought with it miraculous healings. The local people did not believe in the words of Jeshua and Joseph, until, when asked to perform a miracle, Joseph in a sigh of resignation, threw down his hawthorn rod and there it flourished and took root.
That very same Holy Thorn tree still thrives to this day, and it is unlike any other tree in the country. It flowers each Christmas and Easter.
Mary Magdalene’s letter was brought by Longinus Gaius to the members of her family who read her final words to their disciples, while a ge
ntle rain, like tears, fell from Heaven above. It read:
Brethren,
Out of the desert, I brought forth a seed and garden by which many will flourish and grow. It shall cover the barren, desolate lands with tall trees and come to bear fruit. I shall see and repair the destroyed cities of the people’s hearts and they shall be called the restorers of the law.
The deserts will rejoice and the roses will bloom. The blind shall see, the deaf will hear, and sorrows will flee. The prayerful chants of pilgrims shall come to be heard from the mountaintops, and the angels will walk among us—until the crooked are made straight. Therefore, attach yourselves to nothing, lest you be made crooked again.
May those who increase quarrel and hypocrisy be exposed for who they are, and may all pilgrims take heart and step forward fearlessly, emboldened by their faith—to lead the people. Take up the weapons of truth and march forward to spread the glorious names of the Lord into a corner of every heart. For we are the warriors of the Golden Age! We are being called, each and every one of us, to make our wills one with the Lord.
Your humble servant,
MM
Mary Magdalene
I laid my eyes on him for one last time and cried a river.
I am a woman in red,
A Mary,
Anointed so by God,
And of Kings and Queens of past and present.
With a rose in my hair,
I once bore the fruit of a great King’s seed.
Though I am misunderstood,
I have prevailed,
And I triumph,
For we have conquered over darkness.
THE END
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
Salutations!