Song of the Magdalene

by Donna Jo Napoli

  “It has everything to do with you, Miriam. Your father adores you. He knows you dislike Judith. Every time he’s mentioned her to you, you’ve shown your feelings.”

  “That’s nonsense. If he wanted to marry her, he would.”

  “Your father told Judith he will marry her as soon as you are married.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. Father couldn’t love Judith. And he would never marry without love. Nor would I. “I won’t take a husband.”

  “Miriam, be sensible.” Again Hannah squeezed my hand gently. “You have so much love to give. You will be a wonderful wife, a wonderful mother. Wear the dress. Act like other girls your age and a match will come.”

  Hannah’s words sliced cleanly through my heart. What wouldn’t I give to be truly like other girls my age? I wanted a husband to sing to me, to sing,

  Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples; for I am sick from love.

  The second canticle rang in my ears. I wanted a husband delirious with love for me. I wanted to be equally delirious. But my wants counted for nothing. Tears welled and spilled down my cheeks.

  I looked at Hannah’s hopeful face. I had to help her feel that my not marrying was best. “Hannah, if Judith marries Father, you will be her servant.” I stopped and brushed the tears from my cheeks with my free hand. It was difficult to talk but there was no need to say more, anyway. Judith was bossy by nature. She had no servants now — and I was sure she’d revel in her power over having one.

  “Judith is a good woman.” Hannah’s lips came together primly. She would not dare speak ill of her future mistress.

  I swallowed and found my voice again. “Would she let Abraham stay here with you?” I watched Hannah’s face close, masking all expression. I pressed on. “Have you asked her?”

  “I haven’t asked.” Hannah let go of my hand and folded her own hands in her lap. “Miriam, if you would take us, Abraham and I would come with you to your new home. You would not have to mill or bake or wash.”

  I looked at Abraham. He had thrown himself backward in the pillows. I couldn’t see his face. I knew he didn’t want me to see his face. “Other men are not like Father, Hannah. We know that. A husband might refuse. His parents might refuse. And I would have no power to insist.”

  Hannah shook her head. “Don’t do this, Miriam. Don’t make me fear your getting married. It is best for you that you marry. I must encourage you to marry.” She shoved the basket in front of me. “I’ll lengthen the dress tonight. Wear it, Miriam. Please.”

  “Where? It would get ruined, the way Abraham and I go about all day.”

  “Don’t go all over town. It’s not right, Miriam. Go to the house of prayer tomorrow.”

  “The house of prayer?” In all my years, I had not entered the house of prayer. Hannah knew that. “But why?”

  “The Levites will be there. Abraham has told me you love the canticles and the psalms. They’ll be singing the psalms. They may even sing from the Song of Songs. Go, and let the men of Magdala see your devotion.”

  The canticles. For so long I had hungered to hear them sung the right way. And just a moment ago I had considered even going to a wedding in order to hear them. But the house of prayer was sitting there, waiting, the whole time. The house of prayer was much less of a threat than a wedding. If I had a fit, who would I disgrace? The Creator had already seen my fits.

  The Levites might sing things that meant nothing to me. They might sing only the psalms about war and righteousness, about confusion and judgments. But, oh, they might sing about love. And, yes, oh, yes, I’d go to the house of prayer in the fancy dress. “I’ll take Abraham and we can —”

  “Go without Abraham.”

  “No.” The idea was unthinkable. Why, Abraham would delight in the songs as much as I would.

  Hannah looked at Abraham. “Tell her, Abraham. Tell her to leave you behind.”

  Abraham worked to roll to one side so he could look at us. “Miriam is finding her own sense in life, Mother. I can no more change her future than a leaf can refuse to fall from the tree.”

  I stood up and spoke eagerly. “Let’s measure the dress, Hannah. I’ll wear it when I go to the house of prayer with Abraham tomorrow.”

  Hannah pressed her lips together. Then she did as I asked. She did as expected.

  Hannah and Judith and Sarah and all the women I knew — they did as expected. And tomorrow I would go to the house of prayer and for one day I, too, would do as expected.

  The next day we went. Hannah put a new veil across my face and with the dress on I wondered if anyone we passed would know who I was. But no one else pushed a cripple in a handcart, so I needn’t have wondered.

  I got there early and parked the handcart beside the entrance. I carefully took off Abraham’s shoes and my own and set them in the cart. The stone steps of the house of prayer were smooth with wear. Their steepness scooped in the middle from all the passing feet. I asked for help and two women I could not identify behind their veils worked with me to carry Abraham up and in. We took our place at the side. Abraham sat on the floor, propped against the wall.

  The people came in slowly. Some of them glanced at us and nodded. Others glanced and quickly looked away.

  The service began. The men prayed aloud. The women remained silent, their eyes lowered. I stayed very still, as well. I listened closely to the words. Prayer after prayer, each one strong and glowing. I wanted to memorize every word:

  Blessed be Thou, O Lord our God, King of the Universe. . .

  I was hot with the joy of being a Jew, a child of the King of the Universe. I closed my eyes in reverence. The prayer went on:

  who has not made me a Gentile . . .

  and, yes, I was grateful I was not born pagan,

  who has not made me a slave . . .

  and, yes, I was grateful I had not lived centuries ago when Israel suffered under the hands of the Egyptians,

  who has not made me a woman.

  My eyes flew open. Surely the men had made a terrible mistake. Everyone would be demanding they start this prayer over. I looked around. But no one seemed upset. I turned to Abraham. He watched me, his eyes alert, as though he, too, expected something to happen.

  The prayers went on. Men’s voices in unison, but the words blended for me now, like the distant roll of thunder preceding the rains that overflowed the Sea of Galilee in early spring and again in fall.

  And then the women were reciting their own prayers, and I wasn’t even listening to them. I couldn’t hear anything outside my own head.

  The Creator had made me a woman. Should I be sad? Were all these women sad? Did they know something I didn’t know? Something that every mother taught her daughter but that my mother had overlooked telling me? Or perhaps I’d been too young when Mother died for her to tell me. And I wasn’t Hannah’s daughter, after all. It wasn’t her duty to tell me.

  The men had thanked the Creator for not making them women. Their words echoed in my head.

  These were the words of the prayer service. Holy words. I should have asked Abraham to teach me as much from the scriptures as he was willing. I shouldn’t have insisted on learning only the songs. Did the Torah explain why men should be grateful they weren’t women? But, surely, I could figure out the answer myself, even without the help of a mother.

  Women had the joy of raising children, but they also had uncleanliness every month when their blood came and they had the pain of childbirth. That must have been what the men were grateful for — that they would have no blood, no pain. Yes, it was right. The Creator made men and the Creator made women, and we all owed gratitude for the way we’d been made. A woman should be as grateful she hadn’t been made a man as a man was grateful he hadn’t been made a woman. For a man could never know the pleasures of motherhood. And while I, too, would never know the pleasures of motherhood, it was by my own choice. The Creator had granted me the power to give birth. I should be grateful for that gift. And for the gift of my wise father and gen
tle Hannah and mentor Abraham.

  Now I was able to listen again. The Levites’ voices filled the air. They sang of clapping hands and triumphant shouts in praise of the King of the earth. They sang of mercy and blessings and fear. And then, oh truly merciful Lord, they sang the beautiful songs of love. It was so unlikely after their first songs. As unlikely as Mother’s insistence on love. The men sang the fourth canticle, the canticle I thought of as the canticle of the fawns, that canticle I first talked about with Father, my favorite of all canticles. I concentrated. And, yes, finally, I understood the love in this canticle not just as love between man and woman as they unite, but between the Creator and His people, our Israel. It was a charmed moment, a moment that comes but rarely. Oh, I knew these words in my sleep. The melody repeated itself. It was easy to learn. And I was opening my mouth now and I was singing. I sang the words I’d sung so many times before, but now I sang them to their rightful tune. I sang all the love in my heart.

  Suddenly I realized my voice was alone. I sang, but no one else did. The Levites had stopped. The men, who stood at the front, had turned and were looking at me. The women, who surrounded me, now faced me and even behind their veils I knew they gawked. The air was brittle with incomprehension. I was anathema to them. Why? What had I done wrong? When would the Creator take me by the hand? But I wouldn’t stop now. I couldn’t. This was my voice and I had promised myself that I would use it. I would not fail myself a third time. I sang on to the end of the canticle. The bodies around me were still and solid. The words of my song fell dully on their shawled shoulders, like rocks into mud. I sang into a space devoid of spirit. I felt that if I stopped singing, I, too, would be empty of the quickness we call life. I sang, though my voice weakened and my knees wanted to cave, though I knew it was anger that had robbed this house of spirit so quickly.

  When I finished, I tugged at Abraham. I hadn’t the strength to pick him up. Somehow someone helped us both, out of the house of prayer, down the steps. The helping hands were firm and purposeful. I imagined them gripping the handle of a broom. I imagined myself being the dust tossed into the hair of the mourners at Mother’s funeral. I choked on the dust that was me and coughed, doubled over. I moved blindly, clumsy with the weight of their anger.

  Abraham said nothing to me on the way home. It didn’t matter. I wouldn’t have been able to hear him. I was locked behind a wall of silence that preceded me through the streets. I heard nothing. Not even my own breath. I searched my heart for pride that I had used my voice at last. Or if not pride, at least consolation. Instead I found emptiness.

  I mustered all my strength and carried Abraham into the house. I kicked the door closed behind me.

  Hannah took one look at my face and ran to me. “What is it, Miriam?”

  Already the lights flashed and my hands and feet tingled. I thanked the Creator for the small mercy of this warning. I barely managed to place Abraham on the floor before the fit came.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “I know the words to the fourth canticle.” Abraham’s right hand opened and closed rapidly. “I know them all. You’ve sung it a hundred times. I know them all.”

  This was the first time we’d been alone together since my fit. Hannah was now part of the deceit; we formed a trinity — Hannah, Abraham, and me — a trinity that kept my fits hidden from the rest of the world. Abraham had insisted that Hannah keep the secret. And Hannah had agreed instantly, as though any alternative was nonsensical.

  Hannah had rubbed my hands and feet with a mixture of oil and wine. She put cold wet cloths on my forehead and muttered and moaned. She had me chew bitter rue and drink a hot brew of saffron. She said it fought spasms. Hope tinged her fearful voice. I didn’t correct her. For had not my morning brew with Abraham, that ritual of the past two years, been the very same attack? Tiny spears against desperation. Finally Hannah went out to gather the drying laundry.

  And I expected to talk to Abraham of the things that were so filling my chest it burned. But instead he was talking about knowing the words to the canticle.

  “What does it matter?” I said impatiently. “Other things are so much more important.”

  “I wish I could say I didn’t know the words.” His right hand went up to his head and buried itself in his sandy-colored hair.

  “What do you mean?”

  Abraham yanked at his hair. “I should have sung with you.” He yanked and thrashed. His mouth screwed up in agony.

  “Oh, Abraham.” I took his frantic right hand and forced the fingers free of the hair. I held it with both my hands and smoothed the back of it against my cheek. “Don’t say silly things.”

  “I should have joined you.” Abraham’s voice broke. “I’m not brave, Miriam. I have so little to lose, but what little I have I desperately want to keep.” A tear made its way down Abraham’s cheek and got lost in his thin beard. “I couldn’t face their anger.”

  “There would have been no purpose in your joining me. And this way they’re angry only at me, not you. That’s better.”

  Abraham gave a sad laugh. “They’ll be angry at me. I taught you the words.” He whispered now. “I taught you to read.”

  My heart fell. “I thought you said it was not written in the Torah that women cannot read.” I shook my head. “Even Father spoke of women that read. I heard him telling you. And you told me yourself that there are women heads of the houses of prayer in other places. You spoke of a woman in Rome. You spoke of a woman in Lower Egypt. You said Daniel told you all about them.” My words rushed out. They had to prevail. I was crying. “That’s where Daniel is now. Egypt.” I squeezed Abraham’s hand in entreaty. “Tell me Daniel went to Egypt to study with this woman scholar.”

  “Daniel went to Egypt to incite the Jews against the Romans.”

  “What?” I laid Abraham’s hand carefully on his chest and sat back on my heels. The coldness of danger made me move slowly. “Why?”

  “It was a terrible harvest, the year he left. I was eleven. I remember talk of famine in Egypt. Then the emperor Tiberius distributed grain to the Greeks in Alexandria. But he gave nothing to the Jews. He wanted them to starve.”

  “But the Jews were under Tiberius’ care.”

  “That same year he expelled all Jews from Rome. Many were sent to Sardinia to fight in battles without weapons. To be slaughtered. Such was Tiberius’ care.” Abraham’s eyes were limpid. Only his voice showed anger.

  “The Romans hate us,” I said dully, wishing my words would be proved stupid.

  “Not all of them. It is said a woman close to Tiberius, his wife or sister, converted to Judaism.”

  “And for that our people should be starved?” I put my fingertips to my numb lips. “May the Creator keep Daniel safe.”

  Abraham looked away. “My uncle never feared breaking unjust laws, even when the price might be his life. But I wouldn’t break a law, when the price was only their anger.”

  “No. It cannot be against the law to teach a woman to read. You told me that. Why do you torment yourself? They cannot be angry at you.”

  “The laws of Moses and Israel are not the strongest laws, Miriam. We pretend they are. But we break those laws more easily than the unwritten laws, the laws people enforce through shame and isolation. There may be women who head synagogues in other places, but it will not happen in our small village. It will not happen in Magdala.” Abraham’s head jerked spasmodically. “I have broken so many unwritten laws. They will know it now. They will figure out that I taught you.” He threw himself back into the pillows. “I should have sung with you. They will vent their anger on me anyway. So I lost what I valued most in life for no purpose whatsoever.”

  I leaned over Abraham and gently wiped the tears from his cheeks. His anguish was more biting than my own. “What? What did you lose, Abraham?”

  “Your respect.”

  “Never!” I stood up and paced about the room. It was impossible to stand still. My Abraham feared losing my respect. My perfect man. I imagin
ed him singing beside me in the house of prayer. “Don’t talk senseless words, Abraham. I never expected you to sing with me. I wouldn’t have wanted you to.”

  “Of course you wanted me to.”

  “No. You’re tone-deaf.”

  Abraham wrestled with the pillows till he got himself in a position to look at me. He stared. I stared back. Then he laughed. “You mean it, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.” And now my feet allowed me to stand in one place. “You sing terribly.”

  “Miriam, what —”

  The door opened, without even a knock, before Abraham could finish speaking. Judith came in and shut it behind her.

  “I’ve heard.”

  My whole body tightened. “What have you heard, Judith?”

  “All of it. How you went to the house of prayer and brought that mess of a creature and then . . . then sang!” Judith shook her head. “What on earth is the matter with you, Miriam?”

  I looked at Abraham. He was gazing aimlessly at the wall. He gave no indication of being upset at being called a mess. Maybe he thought of himself as a mess. Maybe no one thought reasonably or sensibly. Maybe the whole world was mad. My head felt heavy. I wanted to be outside in the valley, high in a sycamore tree. I looked back at Judith. “I don’t really know,” I said honestly.

  “Well, stop it.” Judith spoke with the assertiveness I’d seen her display at the well so often. The assertiveness she showed toward younger women. “Stop all this foolishness. You’ll never get a husband, the way you’re acting.” She thrust her chin toward Abraham. “You mustn’t be seen with him anymore.”

  “Abraham’s his name.”

  Judith peered at me as though I’d said something shocking. “Abraham. You call him by his name? He can’t possibly know his name.” She stood silent for a moment. Then she spoke slowly, thoughtfully. “Does your father call him Abraham, too?”

  “It’s his name.”

  “Yes.” She put both hands to her cheeks. She looked chagrined. “Yes, of course. It’s the proper thing to do.” She shook her head, then dropped her hands. “You are a good girl, Miriam. You have a kind heart. But . . .” She searched for words. “But there are right and wrong ways to show charity.”