The Secret Magdalene

by Ki Longfellow

  As Peter has spoken, now Jacob speaks. “Does Yeshu forget that Succoth comes on the heels of Yom Kippur? If John does not show himself soon, Yeshu will have waited too long. Is it not timely for the King to appear in Jerusalem on such a feast day as Succoth, the joyous Festival of Tabernacles? Everyone will crowd into Jerusalem, who would know there was one more?” Jacob so moves himself, he shakes his fist in the direction of my nahal. He so inspires himself, white spit sticks to his red lips.

  Not wishing them to notice me, I keep my eye averted as if I do not notice them. But Menahem is ever eager to single me out. He pushes at Andrew who pushes at Simon Peter, which causes Simon Peter to turn and face me full on.

  Simon Peter’s eyes are full of envy and hatred. He knows I am free to see Yeshu and that he is not. It takes him no time at all to step between me and the gate from the courtyard. This gate leads out onto the hot flats under the western cliffs where Eio wanders about searching for something to eat. She will bray when she smells my poppy seeds. The tuft on the end of her tail will quiver. I am eager to see this. I am more eager to avoid Peter.

  “You,” he says. “You, John the Less.”

  Simon Peter means for me to stop.

  I stop on the spot. But where I have stopped requires the rest to come to me. It is not far, but it satisfies my foolishness. I keep my eyes down as suits a youth before his elders. I keep my hands folded in front of me. The bag of poppy seed I would share with Eio dangles from my belt. There is nothing to fault my deference.

  It is Jacob who speaks to the intruder who has by some wickedness bound his brother Yehoshua. “Tell me, John,” he begins, holding on to his temper as I hold on to my nerve, “what does Yeshu’a do?”

  I do not raise my eyes to his. I am humbleness itself. “He is thinking.”

  “Ah! This must mean he plans our actions!”

  I know he wants me to assure him this is so, but I do not. I hold myself steady in a ring of men who lean toward me. I breathe them. I smell them. I feel the heat of their bodies and the ardor of their passions. They would walk with John to Jerusalem. They would follow prophecy. All the men of the settlement, Jew, Nazorean, Yahad, the Issa-ene, the Many and the Poor and so on, now all believe it prophesied that John is the Messiah. I stand silent before Jacob who would turn on his heel and run to Jerusalem at a word from Yeshu.

  “When will he be finished thinking?”

  This I can honestly answer. “I cannot say.”

  “Will it be before Yom Kippur?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “Does he agree we should go in time for Succoth?”

  “I cannot say.”

  Simon Peter, at my elbow, cannot contain himself. He leans into my face and he shouts, “What can you say!”

  Jacob restrains him with a glance. I answer Simon Peter. “I cannot speak for Yeshu.”

  Jacob moves closer, and I reach into him, feel for his heart. He may be, as Salome once said, made stupid by his righteousness, but he is cunning. He is not Simon Peter of Capharnaum; he knows his own mind. Jacob the Just has no thought of Glory or gnosis, has never desired to ride Ezekial’s chariot. He is a “son of man,” rooted deep and steady in his need for restraint and control and for Law. And his sublime conviction, fed by an aching passion for what he calls justice, is that what is right for him is right for all. What Jacob does not know is a single moment of doubt.

  I would say that Nicodemus knows what it is he knows, but were Nicodemus to stand against Jacob in his certainty, he would be as fine sand before a great wind.

  I am more fortunate than sand. I have come to see that I know nothing at all. In this I am no more than the grass. Before the mighty wind of Old Camel Knees, I bend.

  Jacob the Just leans toward me as I lean back; he comes so close, his breath flows into mine.

  “I would ask that you grant me a boon.”

  Please Isis and all the gods, make this something I might grant! “If it is in my power.”

  “I would have you go to my brother. This I am sure you can do.”

  I nod. I can do this.

  “I ask you to say that his brothers and his friends wish a word.”

  Once again, I nod.

  “I ask that you do this now.”

  I nod one last time and I walk away.

  From the corner of my eye, I see that Eio turns her great hairy head my way, that she lifts her soft upper lip and waggles her long tender ears in astonishment. Where do I go? I walk away from her? At this, she lets out such a bray of surprise and dismay, I am almost compelled to turn away from Jacob’s task.

  All who have gathered find Yeshu in my bowl of warm rock. It is the middle of the day, yet he seems to doze. But I know he does not. He does as Socrates once did who was often discovered to be staring at “nothing” for hours. Seth calls the nothing of Socrates a state of rapture.

  Not knowing rapture, most who crowd into my nahal glower amongst themselves.

  They ask themselves how it is he sleeps when all around there is much to discuss and much to determine and much to do? As a youth among men, I do not sit, but I stand near Yeshu. I would wriggle with curiosity if I would allow myself. What shall Yeshu say to these men who hear him as second only to John?

  Salome’s and my secret place has never seen so many. I am surprised they find room. There is Jacob the Just, as close as he can come to Yeshu without climbing up onto my rock. There is Simon Peter, and there is the ever-bald Andrew; these two sit farther back but are still too close. Seated in the sand, the Sons of Thunder, brothers Simon bar Judas and Jacob bar Judas, have come, though they have brought with them only one of their sons. This is the eldest son of Jacob bar Judas, who is called James. James, whose face is roseate with perhaps a rash, stands and keeps silent as suits his place. He seems as solemn as I must seem. I wonder if his solemnity is as much a fraud as mine? As for the absence of Simon’s son, the bearded, preening, tall and irritating Menahem, I find this a blessed relief.

  Simeon is here. From his place near the head of the path, he shows me his wonderful teeth in his wonderful smile, and my heart smiles back at him for this. The youngest brother, Joses, is also come. He kneels near the seated Simeon, and for the first time I get a good look at him. His ugliness is not a thing of birth. Joses has once had a great slice taken from his face. Where it is scarred, his beard will not grow. Seeing this, I look away. I would not shame him. But I do not doubt his scar is because he is Sicarii.

  Because there is so much zealotry here, no woman is allowed. Without Tata to lean on, Addai must be helped by Dositheus and by John of the River. He sits where he has always sat, in his place under his date tree. Near him, John unfolds himself on a soft floor of sand. It pleases me to note that he has not taken a place of prominence for all that he would be a king. As Yeshu does, John closes his eyes. Near John stands Simon Magus. I do not look at him. He does not look at me. But I know, and I know he knows; we look at each other through and through.

  Right beside me, crouching down by the bowl of rock, is Jude. He has not been asked to do so; Jude simply does what he does. Just as he would sit at the bottom of the path stopping all who might pass, now he chooses to sit by his brother Yeshu and to glare out in silence at the men who have come for answers.

  Among these there are none who call themselves Poor or Essene or Yahad or Friends or the Meek or the Little Ones or the First or the Many. But there are nine who call themselves Zealot, and all nine carry knives. It is Seth who is missing here, Seth who is needed, yet he remains in Jerusalem, overseeing Queen Helen’s palace. I would have him to talk to when I do not understand a thing. I would have him to listen to when I would know a thing better. If Addai is my heart, then Seth is my mind, and suddenly I am struck with such a longing for him, and for what is past, I think of Salome who thinks of me, and I quickly look up.

  She stands by her beloved John, but she looks at me. From where I stand near Yeshu, I look back as openly as she. Without speaking, I say, Is this what we meant to
do, you and I? From the moment our voices began, we waited for the One. And now it seems we have found him, one for each. I say also this: I miss your laughter and your briar tongue. I miss your sightedness and your true-speaking.

  It is a thing of blessedness to hear in return, As I miss you, Mariamne, friend of my youth, and she who is my heart.

  In this moment, Yeshu stirs, and whatever else we might say to each other fades as a drop of rain on burning sand. On the instant, those who have come to confront Yeshu strain forward, eager to hear his thoughts so that they might know their own. All, that is, save John. John does not open his eyes. I hear John of the River. John knows his own thoughts. He will walk to Jerusalem. He will be made king. He will be king because the people would have it so.

  Glory plays about the head of Yeshu as lightning might play in the distant hills. I wonder, does anyone see this but me? Do I see what is truly there, or is this as my voices are, a thing of strangeness peculiar to me?

  Yeshu speaks. In tones as clear and as beautiful as the lute, he says, “Now you are come, what is it you would have me say?”

  At such a question, it is Jacob who looks most askance, causing him to blurt out, “You ask this? As you have ever been the right hand of John, and as it is time to be about a king’s business, we would know how you see this thing done.”

  Reclined in the bowl of stone, Yeshu answers, “How do you see it done, Jacob?”

  Jacob would seize this chance to say how he would see it done, but Jacob is a cunning man. He thinks that now is not the time to stand forth. He knows the men around him have come to listen to Yeshu, not to Jacob. “I, Yeshu’a? I would see it done as you think it wise. What is it you think wise?”

  Yeshu sits up as a desert Arab would sit, cross-legged, with his elbows on his knees. In my sight, Glory now rises from his whole body as steam rises from boiling water. “As you have come to hear me, then I shall tell you, and when I have told you, you may do as you wish.”

  There are puzzled looks, mouths that turn down, beards that stiffen as the chins beneath them stiffen. No one knows what he means by this, and they are made apprehensive in their not knowing. Of all, John looks neither puzzled nor apprehensive. Yeshu looks from each to each. “I tell you, of those born of woman, none is greater than John.” Hearing this, Simon Magus could not be better pleased than if the emperor Tiberius himself had said this thing. But Yeshu has more to say. “I ask you, who is our true king?”

  There is much mumbling and a host of sidelong glances, Salome’s chief among all. Does Yeshu test them? John is rising from his nest of sand so that he stands before all as the very king they would make him, but it is Jacob who answers. “As Issa, the first Nazorean, taught, God is our true king.”

  To which Simon bar Judas eagerly adds, “It was the battle-cry of my father, ‘No ruler but God!’”

  Jacob bar Judas flushes that his brother would speak. But Yeshu smiles and as he smiles, he says, “Then it is God who would rule us.”

  There is much looking around at this, each man checking to see what the other man thinks.

  “True, Yeshu’a,” replies Jacob when all is again still, “God is our king. But as men have need of God, God has need of one man, so that he might rule through him.”

  There is much approval at this.

  Yeshu replies, “Each man rules himself.”

  There is more than confusion now; there is dismay, and Jacob’s is spoken: “How so, Yeshu’a? You know and I know that men cannot and do not rule themselves. Have we not spent our young manhood taking the part of those who cannot, or will not, take it for themselves?”

  “Yes, we have spent our youth in this way. Tell me now, what has come of it?”

  “What has come of it!” Jacob cannot believe he hears this. “It has brought us to this moment! It has made the people ready for their rightful king!”

  All eyes turn to John, who does nothing more than listen, nothing more than stand as tall and as thin as an obelisk. He seems a very Caesar, yet to me, this is as nothing compared to Yeshu. Yeshu is the perfection of man, not coming, but here. Can these men not see this? Can they not see that though he walked away from them one man, as small as most men believe themselves to be small, he has come back another: a man as large as man is? Jude is looking up at Yeshu, and I know the hair rises on his head. He does not know what Yeshu has done or what he has seen, but he knows there is a change in his twin. All his life, Jude has been as a shadow to this one. And though he has done as is expected of all the men of Palestine: married and fathered a child, still, the path Yeshu walked was Jude’s path. Jude is who Jude is: the one quiet as the other talks, the one somber as the other laughs, the one who remains earthbound as the other soars into flights of fancy or wit or passion. As Sicarii, he fought at his brother’s side for the weak and for the fearful and for those who could not fight for themselves. Or thought they could not. Jude knows well what it is that his other brother, the righteous Jacob, means by saying, “Men cannot and do not rule themselves.”

  But it is I who finish this thought, though I finish it only to myself: For if they could, they would. Father would say, and I would say it a truth, that the strong rule the weak.

  “These things are so because we allow them to be so,” I hear Yeshu say again, as on the day he and Jude together first visited my secret place. “The men of resignation have made all this.”

  I hear Jude prepare himself to grieve. I feel him full of fear that he does not know his brother and if he does not know Yeshu, there is nothing to know at all. My heart goes out to him. He is a great heart and has great pity. I think of Salome, and by this I know what it is Jude faces. I would reach out and touch him if I thought he would not scorn me. But the truth is, he would shake off my hand. He does not loathe me as do the others, but he does not love me.

  “I would do more than make the people ready for their rightful king, Jacob. I would show them what I have seen.”

  I see how all listening, yearn to understand him.

  “For I have seen the Kingdom of God.”

  How do they hear this? What is it they think he says to them? Quickly, I reach from one to another. There is one who is made eager; this one wonders if Yeshu returns from a place he himself might be shown? There is one made anxious; he imagines Yeshu become poetic, by which he means weak. But among the rest, only a few have the least idea what might be meant. Jacob, who understands least of all, has the wisdom to remain silent.

  But there is one who knows what is meant. “There have been others who would do this, cousin,” says John of the River, “and among these others, I count myself. None have succeeded.”

  Yeshu does not lower his gaze. “I must try.”

  “Then our paths diverge, as I knew they must.”

  “Yes,” replies Yeshu.

  I find I understand John. He knows he has tried and he has failed to bring people to gnosis, to know directly the God in themselves. Once he cajoled, he urged, he did not threaten. But the people could not hear him. Now he rages at them, pleads for their very souls. And this, at last, they hear. The noise he makes, the lamentations, brings them to the river in their thousands. Yet even now he fails. For instead of knowing themselves, they look to him to save them from themselves. Only the Few seek within; the many seek without, and the many are counted as legion. So that now he seeks a third way to teach. He will allow the many to make him king. If he is king, then perhaps he can teach as a king. Perhaps they will hear a king.

  Yeshu must also try. He is suffused with the need to show others what he has seen, to have others know what it is he knows. By this, he believes their suffering will end; for, by this, they will see themselves free. And not merely from the yoke of the Romans, or the despair of their secret hearts, but from Yahweh and his Laws.

  By all the stars, if Jacob or Simon Peter knew Yeshu’s heart, like caged lions they would roar in their rage! Yehoshua the Nazorean will not lead them to Jerusalem to make John king. Yeshu will walk among the people to m
ake them all kings in the Kingdom of Heaven.

  John is right. The path of the cousins diverges.

  As he would speak with Yeshu as an inner Nazorean, John sends all others away, save Addai and Simon Magus and Dositheus. Yeshu motions for Jude and me to stay. All others go quietly, but they each go with deep misgiving; they now know that Yeshu will not be leading them as they walk with John to Jerusalem. And if there is no Yeshu, there will be no Jude. Jude is the rock that Simon Peter would be. Who else might abandon them? Simeon? The Sons of Thunder who are devoted to Yeshu?

  Tonight, there will be much grinding of teeth in the wilderness.

  High above us, the sun is hung from the white roof of the sky, and there seem no shadows. John and Yeshu are still; Yeshu lost to makarismos, which is the blessed nature of one who has seen the Mysteries. John and Addai seem simply to wait. Jude has not moved from his chosen spot. Salome and Dositheus use stubby bits of palm leaf to write each to each in the dirt. I am watching tiny brown ants pulling and pushing the great bulk of a bright green beetle toward the door to their underworld home, such a single-minded struggle.

  It is John who pulls me from my ants. “Soon I will leave this place, Yeshu’a.”

  Yeshu does not open his eyes. “I know.”

  John sighs at this. “As I know that you will not travel with me.”

  Yeshu says nothing, and I watch John quietly accept what is not said. He lifts his hand in small supplication. “But tell me, cousin, as I have depended on your advice, I ask that you advise me now, and perhaps for the last time. If I should go up to Jerusalem, if I should do what is asked of me, what is it you see coming to pass?”

  Yeshu looks now at his cousin, a man it has been his duty and his pleasure to follow all of his life, and his eyes are full of what he sees coming to pass: he sees a man who will die for pity. Yeshu has no need to reply, for over the face of John comes an acceptance of what Yeshu would not say aloud, and by this I see at last how worthy John is of Salome’s love.