by Ann Swinfen
He paused to drink a little wine, and my father refilled his beaker. I had retreated to a shadowy corner, where I had paid little attention to the conversation until Yeshûa and Yehûdâ were mentioned.
‘It seems,’ he went on, ‘that because of the storm, some people were pushing to the front, wanting to receive baptism and then retreat to safety before the storm struck, for there were tall trees nearby, which might draw down the lightning. Others thought the growling thunder and the intermittent lightning, which were coming nearer and nearer, were signs of the presence of Yahweh at the ceremony and had worked themselves into a state of ecstasy. This preacher Yôhânân provokes such scenes, and the authorities do not like it.’
‘But what of Yeshûa?’ my mother asked.
‘Yôhânân made the others wait on the bank while he took Yeshûa alone into the middle of the river. He said something about being unworthy to perform the ritual—Yehûdâ could not hear the words clearly because of the noise and confusion—then as Yeshûa rose from the river there was a mighty roar. I am sure it was the thunder, but Yehûdâ is not so certain. Some claimed it was a bath kol, a heavenly voice speaking, though there was a dispute about the words. “This is my son, whom I choose,” or “This is my son, in whom I am well pleased”. No one can say for sure. And there was talk of a white dove hovering above Yeshûa’s head, though others thought a shaft of sunlight broke through the storm clouds and illuminated him as he stood in the river, the water streaming from his hair.’
He grinned suddenly at my father.
‘That white dove! I think the story must have been spread about that prank he played with the dove at the bâr mitzvâh sacrifice. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Yehûdâ who mentioned it. He would have remembered that ritual they shared when they were boys.’
My parents looked troubled, especially my mother.
‘All this attention being paid to Yeshûa,’ said my father, ‘it could mean danger, could it not?’
Shim’ôn was suddenly serious.
‘I have had word from several sources that Herod Antipas is keeping a watch on the preacher Yôhânân, for fear he is going to bring trouble to the country. There have been so many uprisings, in our fathers’ and grandfathers’ times. Already Yôhânân’s followers are claiming that he will lead a revolution to free Judah from the Roman occupiers, though to do him justice, I don’t think that the Baptiser himself has said so. He is more concerned with matters of the soul than with this world.’
‘We have an unfortunate reputation here in the Galilee,’ said my father. ‘Too many of these revolutions against our oppressors have been led from here. If Yeshûa, Galilean that he is, comes to be associated with such a man as Yôhânân, he could be seen as a dangerous rebel, by both the Romans and their Israelite lackeys, however innocent he may be.’
Dull though I was still in my grief, I took note of my father’s words, for I had never before heard him speak of the state of our country, of the occupiers and the constant undertow of rebellion.
‘I think your son is safe for the moment,’ said Shim’ôn. ‘Yehûdâ sends word that, after the baptism, Yeshûa decided to go south, to the Judaean desert.’
‘He has not returned to Qumrân?’ the words burst from my mouth and Shim’ôn looked round, surprised. I think he had not noticed me sitting there.
‘No, he has not gone back to the Essenes. He’s gone into the desert alone, to fast for forty days, like the prophets of old. Yehûdâ tried to dissuade him, but he would not listen. He said that ever since the baptism Yeshûa has been acting strangely. But not in any way that should worry you,’ he added hastily, seeing my mother’s look of alarm. ‘He has been very quiet, saying little, sitting apart and meditating.’
Eskha, who had been at her spinning, but doing very little, laid down her distaff and spindle and came forward to Shim’ôn’s chair.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, crouching down beside him. ‘I don’t understand, fasting in the desert? How will he live? There’s nothing there but wild animals and rocks.’
Shim’ôn, who had always been fond of her, patted her cheek.
‘He will eat and drink nothing between sunrise and sundown, and in the hours of darkness will eat only what he can forage.’
‘But I thought there wasn’t anything in the desert.’
‘There are lizards and snakes, and a few predators, like desert dogs and fowl, that feed on them. The prophets of old were said to live on locusts and wild honey.’
Eskha made a face. Some people regard locusts as a delicacy, but like Eskha I am revolted by them. They will cling to your skin or your hair and nothing will frighten them off. They regard you with their blank, mindless eyes that somehow imply a deep cunning. I think if I ever saw a devil, it would have the eyes of a locust.
As I lay sleepless that night, my mind was filled with thoughts not only of the brother I had lost to the hand of death, but of the other brother I loved, alone in the terrible waste of barren rock and dust that was the desert. There were some roots, Shim’ôn had said, which Yeshûa could dig up, which held a little precious moisture, but I could not imagine anything growing in that fearful place. And would Yeshûa know what was safe to eat, and what was poisonous?
When I had said my farewells before retiring, I raised again the subject of my brother’s withdrawal into the desert.
‘I do not understand,’ I said to Shim’ôn, ‘why Yeshûa has gone into the desert.’
‘He told Yehûdâ that it was a part of his metanoia. He wanted to do penance and purge himself of his sins before starting afresh, reborn into a new life.’
The next morning I accompanied Eskha and two of her friends as they herded their flocks of sheep and goats out of the village and up to the pastures, which were growing succulent with the new spring grass. Now there were more women to undertake the household tasks, I was sometimes able to slip away like this, but I knew I must return before the midday meal. Leaving the girls, I continued climbing further up the hill, beyond the pockets of midbar, until I reached the rocky upper slopes which were too steep to support grass. There were a few stunted mountain trees, and it was here that wolves and jackals had their lairs, but I had no fear of them in the spring daylight. I used a stout staff to help me over the rougher ground and knew it would serve to threaten any unwelcome wild creature.
At last, with my breath short and my legs aching from the unaccustomed climb, I found a hollow in the rock where I could sit and look out over the village and the fall of the land to the east. I could even see, to right and left, two of the neighbouring villages, neither of which I had ever visited. In the privacy that I could never find at home, I allowed myself for the first time to give way to my grief for Daniel.
After a long time, weak and drained from weeping, I sat up and hunched over my knees, trying to drag my thoughts away from the sense of loss and desolation. I could not understand why Yahweh had visited such pain and illness and death on an innocent child. Daniel had never committed a sin which could have called down such a terrible punishment. Of course he had indulged in childish naughtiness, but never anything which could have been deemed a sin. Therefore, the sin must have been committed by the person who felt his loss the most. In other words, Daniel’s death must be laid at my door.
My brother Yeshûa had gone into the desert to fast and purge himself of sin. I could not follow him into the desert, but why should I not fast? Would Yahweh accept the intention, even if my offering of penance was less painful and self-denying than my brother’s? My fast would not restore Daniel to life, but perhaps if I tried to atone for my sins, it might prevent other punishments being inflicted on those I loved. I was not sure for what particular sin of mine Yahweh had exacted vengeance, but I knew I was sinful, through and through. I was guilty of laziness, ingratitude, rebelliousness, thoughtlessness—oh, the list could go on and on! I was lax in my prayers, inattentive during the readings in the kenîshtâ. I had never devoted my life to the service of Yahweh. I was sel
fishness made manifest. Tears of humiliation and self-pity crawled down my cheeks, already stiff with the salt tears I had shed for Daniel. I wrapped my arms around myself and buried my head in my knees.
The sun was growing hot and I could feel it burning the back of my neck where my hair had fallen forward, leaving the skin exposed. Sweat began to trickle down my backbone, and I welcomed the discomfort, as though it could somehow atone for my wilfulness. I was not sure how I could carry out my plan to fast. It must be done somehow in secret, for if I announced my intention, I knew that my family would frustrate me.
The heat of the sun was drawing up a faint mist from the dew-soaked early ground, so that, when I raised my head and looked about me, everything shimmered and blurred in front of my eyes. I remembered that time many years ago, lower down on this same hillside, when I had lost the kid. My brother Yeshûa had appeared suddenly before me, although I had never heard his step.
‘Oh, Yeshûa, Yeshûa,’ I whispered, ‘you saved the kid, which was slaughtered for meat before the end of that year. Why could you not have saved your own brother? You breathed life into someone else’s child. Could you not have laid your hands on my darling boy?’
The heat haze wavered and flickered before me, blotting out the hills and the valleys, the villages of whitewashed houses, the flocks, the green growing fields and the blossoming orchards. Instead, I saw before me a land that was grey and brown from horizon to horizon. Even the air was filled with dry dust. Here and there, far apart amongst the rocky outcrops that rose from the barren soil, stood a thorn bush, its jagged leafless branches clutching the air like the bony fingers of a skeleton. Nothing moved. The heat was so intense it rose from the land in waves that were visible, rippling the dust-laden air. There was no water, no life, no growing thing but those vicious thorns. Then I saw the man. He wore a tunic that had once been white but was torn and stained so that it almost blended with the earth. His face was hollowed and gaunt with hunger, his eyes looked out from cavernous sockets. They looked straight at me, and I knew Yeshûa my brother. The eyes looked through me and beyond me with a terrible intensity, as if what he saw was both marvellous and fearful.
Was this my brother?
My brother, whom I loved?
He was strange, wild. A creature of nightmare.
Could this be Yeshûa, the carpenter’s son?
I was terrified, the back of my hand pressed against my mouth to hold back my cries. What was happening to my brother? What was happening to me?
Then the mist swirled again and he was gone. I was alone on the hillside. Far below me I heard, as clearly as if they were beside me, the crying of the lambs and the kids seeking their mothers.
Chapter Nine
It was not as difficult as I had supposed, to fast, in a desperate attempt to redeem myself from sin. Because so many people were now living in the house, the tables were crowded and busy at mealtimes—my parents, my brothers with their wives and children, my little sister and two unmarried brothers. In the weeks before Shim’ôn’s marriage, Melkha, Adamas and their seven children joined us, so that I was able to move from table to table without anyone noticing whether or not I was eating. When circumstances made it necessary for me to sit down to a meal, I became skilled at slipping food from my plate or my mouth to the dogs, who always lurked below the table in the hope of fallen scraps. The less I ate, the more exalted I felt. My deceptions became a kind of victory, a secret triumph over my family.
Despite all my contrivances, it was not possible to fast totally, but after a while I discovered a way to rid myself of any food I had been forced to eat. I found that if I opened my mouth and prodded the back of my throat with the tip of rooster’s tail feather, I could force myself to vomit. It became my practice to do this after every meal, however little I had eaten. I would slip away beyond the orchard, or down to the river, or up the hill—somewhere different each time, to avoid notice—and vomit the contents of my stomach into the grass. The taste in my mouth was bitter as aloes, but I rejoiced in it, as part of my penance.
Before long, I began to notice changes in my body itself. I grew very thin, and wore a tunic with long sleeves, even after the weather grew hot, to hide my bony arms. My breasts, which were not large, but round and firm, became shrunken, my figure childlike. When I bathed, I ran my hands over my hollowed stomach and prominent ribs with a kind of exultant pleasure. By my own will, I was transforming my physical being—I myself and no one else. In a life where I ruled nothing, I could at last rule my bodily presence. After some weeks, I found that I no longer had the monthly cycles of womanhood. Had my mother not been so occupied with the wedding preparations, she might have noticed that I had stopped washing out my bloody clouts. I felt as though I had reversed time itself, as though I could recapture the past, a past where I was a child and Yeshûa had not left us and Daniel still lived.
In those days I moved as one in a smothering dream. Sometimes the world seemed to spin around me, and I would have to catch hold of a door frame or a wall to stop myself from falling. All day long, there was a rushing in my ears, like a waterfall, that veiled the sound of voices, so that my mother would scold and shout to make me attend to my tasks. At night I lay awake, conscious of my body, which seemed to shrink and change under the very touch of my hands, and the joints of my arms and legs throbbed with pain. I welcomed the pain and rejoiced in it. It was at night, too, that the voices mostly came, echoing in my head, a strange babbling of words that individually made sense, but together tumbled over and over without meaning. Vicious, howling voices, the voices of demons. I knew that they were fighting to stay within me and torment me.
Both by night and by day I saw visions. It is said that the prophets of old had visions. Were they like mine? Sometimes I saw Yeshûa again, wandering alone and desolate in the desert of Judaea, and I would cry out to him, but he never heard me. Sometimes he was not alone. Some monstrous shape hovered fearsomely over him, or he wrestled with it, pitifully weak against its violent presence. There were other visions also. Crowds of people, shouting joyfully or menacingly, I could not tell which—their mouths were open, but no sound came out. And once I saw a garden, beautiful with flowers and lush growth under the shade of huge and ancient olive trees, yet it seemed a terrible place, full of menace, and I knew I must run for my life.
I know now that in my folly I came close to death. Someone in all that crowded house might have noticed, at last, how I was slowly killing myself—not hastening towards a lost childhood but towards a premature death. But they were all busy and happy, and I was always the awkward one—skulking in corners, as Ya’aqôb called it. Perhaps they thought that I was hurt and jealous that Shim’ôn’s marriage was being prepared with such joy while my own betrothal lasted for years. In the end, it was none of them that put a stop to my dangerous game.
Less than three weeks before Shim’ôn’s marriage was to take place, I was sitting on the ground outside our house, with my back propped against the wall and my eyes half shut. I was supposed to be carding wool, but I was too weak to pick up the wool-cards and the raw wool from the ground beside me. My hands lay idly in my lap. I do not know how long I had been sitting there when all the dogs set up their barking. I watched dully as a shambling figure staggered into the courtyard. Another beggar, I thought. They always know, through some mysterious message carried on the wind, when there is to be a wedding in a village and there will be food and kindness for the needy. His tunic had been torn at the shoulder and clumsily caught together with rough thread like a cobbler’s twine; one sandal flapped loose from all but one of its thongs; his hair and beard were matted and filthy, and he walked with a limp. He stopped in front of me.
‘Mariam?’ he said.
I pushed myself to my feet by sliding my back up the wall, and peered at him. It could not be . . .
‘Yeshûa?’
We stared at each other, horrified. I could not believe what I saw before me. I can only guess what he saw. He reached out and took my ha
nds. I saw that one nail was torn past the quick, the others were rimmed with dirt. On his left hand, the old scar from the chisel stood out against skin burnt dark brown from the sun. We fell into each other’s arms.
‘But what has happened to you, Mariam?’ he said at last. ‘Have you been ill? You look as though you’ve been in a Roman prison and starved half to death.’
‘I have been fasting,’ I said. ‘In penance at Daniel’s death.’
I felt a sudden spurt of anger and despair.
‘You would not heal him, and he died.’
A look of agony came over his face.
‘He died? Oh, Mariam.’ His eyes filled with tears.
‘Perhaps I should have tried,’ he stammered uncertainly. ‘I could not tell if I should. How can I know, I who am nothing, a simple bar nasha, hardly more than one of the amê hâ-’erets?’
I shook my head. I had no answer for him.
‘But what has happened to you, Yeshûa? Why do you come home like a filthy beggar?’
He smiled ruefully, and almost looked like himself again.
‘Because that is what I am.’
‘But how? We heard you had been baptised by our cousin Yôhânân, and then had gone into the desert to fast.’ I broke off suddenly.
Should I tell him?
‘I saw you,’ I whispered. ‘I saw you in the desert, so desolate and thin, and sometimes there was something—a monster? I don’t know. An evil spirit?’
‘You saw me?’ He looked at me intently.
‘Yes. Since I have been fasting. And once before. And I heard voices.’
He gripped my shoulders.
‘The voice of Yahweh!’
‘No.’ I shuddered. ‘No. I am sure it wasn’t the voice of Yahweh. A strange babbling. I think perhaps it was the voice of the Evil One.’
‘I wonder . . .’
‘Yeshûa, please, tell me what has happened to you!’
‘I returned to Yôhânân after my time in the desert,’ he said. ‘It seemed to me that I should join his followers and preach the coming of the final judgement. These last months, we have travelled much, throughout the Land of Judah. We even went amongst the Samaritans, though they were mostly hostile and drove us away. Then came word that Herod Antipas had put aside his wife and entered into adultery with his niece Herodias, who is also his brother’s wife. He now lives with her openly, in defiance of the Law and all morality. Have you heard of this?’