The Secret Magdalene

by Ki Longfellow

  Seth now does something very surprising. He stands, he places himself before the ancient and then he bows with his palms pressed together like an Arab. “Things have not gone well, John,” he says. “Our children have made themselves known.”

  The old man’s mouth is as small as a pebble. “Nothing goes well. Though it goes as it must.” He lifts a bony hand to point at himself, but he speaks to me and to Salome. “I am John of Kefar Imi. Few and Many and many more call me John the Baptizer.”

  By the moon, Addai has brought us to the madman of the river, who, by his terrible accent, is another Galilean! Salome and I are made to stand before the infamous John the Baptizer, he who so inflames Father and all his friends? I cannot help it, I gape at this rung of a man talked of in every house in Jerusalem; John the Baptizer gapes back. “Come here, girl,” he says.

  Girl? He knows my sex! I creep forward until I am only a cubit away from John of the River. He is buried in his robe. Covering his head is a cloth of brown. His beard is a wild thing. I follow the hard fold of skin from his nose to his mouth.

  “I have seen there is a bat qol within you,” says he. “I saw this at the house of Heli bar Nehushtan as I now see my own hand.” He thrusts his hand in my face. “I saw this as I see the toes on my foot.” Glancing down, I see his feet are as camel’s feet. I spend a moment fearing he will thrust his foot in my face as well, but he does not. “I know you are a Daughter of the Voice.” He plucks at my clothing, pulls me closer. “You know what is said about those who are visited by a bat qol? It is said they are mad and will only grow the madder.”

  I think, John the Baptizer ought to know, is he not a prophet too, and a Galilean?

  Seth startles me by speaking. “Socrates once said our greatest blessings come to us by way of madness.”

  “Socrates was a Greek.” John has turned his head slightly in Seth’s direction, though his eyes remain on me. “But he knew a truth or two. As for you”—and here he turns his face toward Salome—“Seth believes you have the mind of a great scholar. But from what I have heard and seen, I believe you to be willful, devious, and vain, daughter of Coron of Memphis.”

  I feel Salome stiffen at this, as do I. Of course she is, but who is he to say so?

  “And I am well taken with you.”

  Salome is not like me; she will not be silent. “Where are we?” she asks. “What is this place? I have heard many things about you. I have heard you do more than wash away sins, that you wash your god into souls. Are you the great teacher Addai promised us?”

  Yea Balaam! Salome’s questions are my questions! I wish her courage were my courage. In the face of this flood, the old man holds up one finger, one only, and Salome swallows what more she would say. I am amazed. I have never seen her do this, never. Over John’s face, a change has come. There is a lift in the brow, and a light in the eye that was not there a moment ago. I have seen lifts and lights like these before: they show in the face of Addai when he savors magic, in Seth’s when he debates philosophy, in Father’s when he contemplates profit. It is the light of the fanatic talking about that which he cherishes most. But this old man’s light is blinding; the very air seems suddenly charged, as if dark clouds were gathering over the hills. What he says next comes like a blow to the heart. “But even as you are Daughters of the Voice, you are also females alone in this world. What else is there to say of you? You are nothing.” Without moving, I recoil. The words that follow are not blows, but chains; they weigh me down link on link. “You have no brothers or uncles or fathers to protect you, to give you value. What man would marry you now? If you were not here, where would you be? What would you do with yourselves? There are those who would say you are not worthy of Life.”

  I am rooted to the spot; I am frozen in the bone. My belly cramps like a fist. Though I have taken my eyes from his face, I know he stares straight into me as he says, “Look about you. What has become of you?”

  I look about me. I am in a pit deep underground and I am dressed as a boy. My name is a boy’s name and no man claims me as his own. What has become of me? What will become of me? I do not know, and I am sore afraid. I am listening to a heartless old man, a prophet, tell Salome and me that we are not welcome in the world, not as a man is welcome. This is not the first time I have ever heard such a thing, but it is the first time I understand it. Salome and I are females. We are less than animals or slaves without Father. Or brothers. Or husbands. Oh Isis, Queen of Heaven, what shall become of us?

  Salome would never cry, but I cry.

  I bow my head and I cry for the small thing that I am, and will always be. Fleeing to Egypt is suddenly dust in my mouth. I cry until I feel a cool hand on my forehead, so unexpected. I open my wet eyes to find I am looking into a face no more than the space of a palm away. I jerk back in surprise. It is a woman, a stranger, dressed as a traveler, and with a pearl at her throat worth my Father’s house. As well, there is a hauteur to her I have seen in no woman, except the promise of a Salome to come.

  “I have ridden a long way to see you, a very long way. And what have you seen that makes you weep? You could not be seeing what John sees.”

  I only cry the harder. I am shameless in my woe. But the traveler stands before me, her hands now folded into her black cloak and on her face a look of vivid expectation. Beside her, but back a step or two, stands a clean-shaven man. This one’s brow is as arched as the smile of a lizard and his thoughts are as plain as brushed words on papyrus. He is the son of the woman before me and his name is Izates. The dust of the road clings to the hem of his cloak just as it does his mother’s, whose name is Helen. Izates is wondering why he has traveled these past days and nights, two weeks of days and nights in a caravan of merchants and murderers, to meet children. He is not sure if John’s madness is sent by God or is a demon’s touch, and he hopes he will discover the answer for himself, and soon.

  From his seat, John speaks again. He holds up both arms as if he were blessing his watery flock and he talks as if he were speaking to legions, though he speaks only to Salome and to me. “Behold, Mariamne, daughter of Josephus of the tribe of Benjamin, in you there dwells a brave and manly mind. I say the same of Semne, known as Salome, daughter of the Egyptian Coron. In your actions and thoughts you are as men. I see that you are good and brave and that your souls are blessed among women. So I ask of you again, as you are a man and not a woman, so that boldness and understanding rules your mind, look around you.”

  Though his voice now softens, I barely hear him.

  “But, though you are men, you are yet boys. How could you see when I have set about terrifying the female in you? Seth, you should have stopped me.”

  “Who could stop you? You are as the miracle worker, Empedocles, the disciple of Pythagoras, who was always yelling at the top of his voice, and by his own loudness convinced of his purpose.” Seth turns to me and to Salome saying then this astonishing thing: “You are where you intend to be, for all that occurs is intended.”

  By raising an arm, the haughty traveler interrupts him. “I and my son have journeyed from Adiabene. We will hear this one speak.” She is pointing at me, and I should be driven to flee at these words, but Adiabene? Adiabene is farther east than Palmyra, farther than Babylon, farther even than the river Tigris. By the heavens! This one comes so far to see me? The woman continues to speak, but what has Seth just said? We are where we intend to be? To a Jew, prophecy is everything, and if not prophecy, the Law. I have heard no Jew speak as Seth speaks. All that occurs is intended?

  What is John saying? “You, Mariamne, daughter of no one, and you, Salome, daughter of no one, you are Daughters of the Nazorean.”

  Helen of far Adiabene steps between John and me. She lifts up her chin, holds up a hand, and by so doing commands the very air to attend her. She looks directly into my eyes. “Did Issa not walk with me? And is the word not my word? I came to hear this one speak, John, and I will hear it speak. I am Helen, Queen of Adiabene, and I would hear through the Voice tha
t is within this child that you, John of Kefar Imi, are the One.”

  I stand as if held up by rope. Queen? The Queen of Adiabene’s voice sounds in this round room with its domed ceiling as God’s voice must have sounded in the heavens over Moses. But John has caught her in the white light of his regard. “Woman,” he says, “on this earth you are a queen, but before God you are one soul among many.” John of the River is not shouting, but the authority of his person shines forth as I am told the great beacon of Alexandria shines forth, and before it Helen lifts a hand to her face, seems almost to shield her eyes. “You will not demand of God what is God’s to give. You will not command the voice God chooses to use.”

  Salome, who has been standing all along, trembling with what I have thought is rage, sits down on the bare stone of the floor and on her face there is nothing but rapt attention.

  John has turned to me, and in his turning, I feel my knees weaken. Will he speak to me as he has spoken to a queen? But no, his voice when it comes is soft and it is mild. “As Seth tells me you are the Magdal-eder, you will speak as you will speak. That is the privilege of prophets.”

  Magdal-eder? I shake my head. I do not will the Loud Voice. It tempts my illness, makes room in my blood for fever. I would put it away forever, would swallow it, would spit it out! Yet something rises in me; pushes up from my chest. And I do not will it to come. “COME I THROUGH THE MOUTH OF THIS CHILD!” My arms begin to raise themselves as if another owned them. “THE ONE WHO COMES IS HERE. THE ONE WHO COMES IS THE VOICE THAT CRIES IN THE WILDERNESS. WHO WILL HEAR?”

  “It is as I knew it would be,” cries Helen. “This long journey is fulfilled.”

  Now I understand. I am thought to be proof that John the Baptizer is the messiah of the Nazorean. I could not be more dismayed.

  Seth speaks. “I think, John, they would do well for a time in Egypt.”

  Queen Helen gives out a great sigh. “If it is not one land that calls to you, Seth, it is another. You would break my heart.”

  And this from her son, Izates: “Get yourself to Egypt, brother, before I break your nose all over again. We endured you three years on top of a mountain. We endured you following John. But there will be no suffering you until you see Egypt.”

  A thought from Salome flies through my head and I catch it. All that occurs is intended. Did we not intend Egypt, Mariamne, and does it now not come to pass?

  I look up. The night seems no more than an Ethiop’s hand across the face of Glory. The moon is an Ethiop’s eye. I think Cicero right when he says, “Beyond the moon are all the eternal things.” Oh Isis! I am going to Egypt!

  I lie here awake, buried in thought. If what occurs is intended, Salome would have been born a male and I should be a great philosopher. Or a great mathematician. Seth once named mathematicians, and I was astonished, not for how many there were, but for how many were women. If I could truly be anything I intended to be, I would be a philosopher and a mathematician and a magician in one huge person and I should laugh as I strode up and down the halls of the Great Academy I would found and name with my true name: Mariamne of Jerusalem. That is, if intentions were more than wishes. It is a fact that no one would intend to be born a cripple or blind or poor or one of those wild people who live farther west than Italia. Surely no one would intend to be born a savage Celt? And yet Salome and I intended to go to Egypt, and here we are, going to Egypt.

  “Mariamne,” whispers Salome, “are you awake?”

  “What?” She has surprised me. I thought her well asleep an hour ago.

  “What do you make of John?”

  I think for a moment and then I say, “I think he is either full of wonder or he is full of camel dung. Either way, I will find out.”

  Salome answers immediately. “You will find he is full of wonder.”

  I come awake to a world that shines. When shall we leave? How shall we travel? What shall we do when we get there? We pester Addai and Tata with questions the whole of the morning. But it is not until the woman from the south appears and whispers to Tata who whispers to Addai that they finally answer us. We shall go tonight! And we shall go with only three others. Tata looks at Addai and I understand something I do not want to understand. Salome is first to cry out. “But you are going with us, are you not, Tata?”

  Addai’s voice is firm and it is flat. By this, I know his heart bleeds. “You will go with Seth and with two who follow John.”

  Two who follow John? Who are these? The sun seems to have stumbled in the sky. Salome cries out, “But John of the River? Are we not to know John?”

  Tata takes Salome in her arms, smoothes her hair as she did when we were very young. Addai says, “In time you will know all that you will know. But for now, know this, I trust my chosen daughters with Dositheus as I trusted him with my own daughter.”

  “Dositheus! Who is Dositheus?”

  “You met him last night. With John.”

  “That man! But he has the face of an actor!”

  Addai smiles. “And why should he not, as he is an actor.”

  An actor! If I have thought the work of Addai beneath notice, what is there to say about a man who would stomp about on a stage making faces and shouting? But wait—Addai has a daughter? Addai has a wife?

  Before I can ask this, Salome asks and, as Tata packs our few things, receives this in answer.

  Once, long ago when he was yet young, Addai dwelt in the city of Shechem in Samaria. As his father had been a stonemason, so too he was a stonemason. As his father had been a lover of the Law, so too was he. And all was well with Addai and his wife, until came the day she would birth their child. Abihail died that day. If this was not grief enough, the babe was a girl, and a cripple. Addai named her Jael and cared for her tenderly. It was Jael who shook his faith as harvesters shake an olive tree, for by the beliefs he held, if Jael’s twisted body was not God’s doing, then a demon was in her. Addai knew no demon lived in his innocent child. Therefore, God had cursed Jael. But why?

  Jael grew into a maiden as brave as Esther, as loyal as Ruth. But she was shunned by those around her, for who would not shun she who was cursed by God? And the father Addai saw all this and was helpless before it. He could not stop it and he could not endure it and he would not have his child endure it. So he gathered up his daughter and he left Shechem. He did not curse his god nor did he curse his neighbors, for such a thing was not then and is not now in Addai, but he put them both behind him.

  Salome and I have averted our eyes from the faces of the ill and the crippled and the poor. Have not Father and his friends always said it is the Law that no one but the pure in body might enter the Temple? When they said such things, did I think anything of it? I think of it now.

  Addai and his daughter wandered throughout Samaria and west to the Plain of Sharon. Then came they unto Galilee and the city of Sepphoris for there was work there, and in Sepphoris he met his fellow Samaritan, Dositheus of Gitta, who had gone to be an actor. When he came out of Galilee, his new friend went with him, for each had grown fond of the other.

  A man who does not stay in one place is mistrusted. If he is not Hapiru, a roving brigand or a bandit or a misfit, he is surely an exile. But like traveling philosophers and cooks, traders and healers and high-class prostitutes, Addai and Dositheus were welcomed. For three years Addai found work for his capable hands and Dositheus acted out battles and romances and the agonies of the gods near village wells. If neither of these skills were wanted, Addai would perform his “tricks” of magic. There was always a warm meal at the end of the day.

  It was not a terrible time, it was not a time of hardship, but they traveled as aimless as clouds. And though Jael grew stronger in mind and in spirit, she grew daily weaker in body. Then one day, when the sun beat down like a woman beating a rug and Jael could stand to be carried no farther, they found themselves on high badlands looking down into the forested green valley of the Jordan River. And there they saw John the Baptizer for the first time. And here John singled Ja
el out from all the hundreds who were there that day and he cried out, “Behold! Many and many are mistaken. There is no demon in this child!”

  A miracle occurred: The eyes of these thousands were opened. They saw there was no demon in the daughter of Addai.

  And then John said, “Behold! Many and many are mistaken. This child is blameless. Where is the curse?”

  A second miracle! The people opened their eyes and saw God might wager with his own self-doubt, which the prophets call Satan, but he would not curse one without blame. Addai and Jael and Dositheus followed John until Jael died three years later, and Addai and Dositheus have followed John ever since.

  I wonder at a father losing his only beloved daughter, and then I think of Josephus of Arimathaea, and I stop my wondering as pity for Father fills my heart.

  There are still hours to fill before the coming of the night, and of Seth’s coming to take us away. But if Addai has a tale, so too does Tata, which greatly surprises Salome and me. She has never spoken of herself before. Not to us.

  “My mother,” Tata begins, “was the daughter of a poor man and her father was the son of a poor man whose father was even poorer, if that is possible. For so long as there has existed peasants and kings, my family has owned nothing but the rich pride of poverty. But for my mother, this was not enough. My mother did what is seldom done in a poor family, and never by a woman; she fell in love. Love is a luxury that even the rich can ill afford, being far more costly than rubies or spikenard or gold. Having none of these, my mother paid in the coin of her own life. And with mine. When she was fifteen, she fell in love with a Roman soldier, and that is all that need be said of him, that he was a soldier, that he made good use of my mother’s love, that he moved on. All that can be said of my mother was that once having birthed her babe, she sold it for money to send to her family, and then, I am reliably told, she died of a broken heart. Or shame. Or both. She did not see her sixteenth year.”