The Testament of Mariam

by Ann Swinfen

  I shook my head. There may have been talk of it in the village, but I had been heeding nothing but my own inner voices for weeks.

  ‘Yôhânân preached against the tetrarch’s sin, denounced him publicly as an adulterer, and Antipas sent soldiers to arrest him. There was fighting. I was hurt, a little, but Yôhânân called out to us, as they dragged him away, that we should disperse and carry his teaching to all parts of Judah. I have come home to the Galilee to begin my mission.’

  He passed a hand over his face, and I saw that he was exhausted.

  ‘Come,’ I said, and took his arm, though I do not know which of us was able to support the other. ‘Come and wash and eat.’

  There was shouting and excitement as we came into the house. The whole family crowded round, kissing him, clapping him on the back, everyone talking at once. But I would let no one else wash his feet. I knelt before him with a bowl of warm water and a clean soft towel. As I gently sponged away the dirt from his scratched and blistered feet, I wondered whether I, too, might uncover an angel.

  The rejoicing at Yeshûa’s return did not last a day. By evening our brothers began to complain that during his long absences they had to do his share of the work in the fields and the workshop, and our mother was silent but tight-lipped. Our father, who was beginning to look frail with age, sat on the doorstep with his head in his hands, and said nothing. He had told me he thought Yeshûa would look for a life elsewhere, but I do not think he welcomed it. Yeshûa was gaunt, covered with suppurating sores, his skin grey and sagging, but his eyes were filled with a remote elation. Usually his calming presence was like balm to me, but now he was feverish, distracted, excited, fearful. It was the beginning of what our family saw as Yeshûa’s strange behaviour, even to madness, and the beginning of the rift between them.

  The next morning I took him aside, for I needed the answer to an urgent question. I knew why I had fasted: to purge myself of the sin that had brought about Daniel’s death. But Yeshûa was a good man. I could not conceive that he had ever sinned. Why then, did he fast?

  ‘Why did you do this thing? Starve, alone in the desert?’

  ‘I wanted to draw closer to my Father.’

  I looked at him, puzzled, then glanced across at the open door of our father’s workshop. I was a little afraid.

  ‘Your father is here, Yeshûa.’

  He shook his head with a sad smile and touched my cheek.

  ‘No, Mariam. My Father is in heaven.’

  I stared at him, frowning. The One God, Yahweh, who dwells in heaven, is the Father of the whole nation of Israel. Of course I knew that. We are taught this from our earliest age, almost before we can even comprehend the words, and certainly before we can understand the idea. But my brother spoke the words now, the words ‘my Father’, so strangely, as if he possessed some secret and personal knowledge of God, as if he somehow claimed God as belonging to him alone, that I was shocked and angry, as if he had uttered a blasphemy.

  ‘What do you mean? Your Father?’ I almost shouted it. I was shaking, but whether with anger or fear, I am not sure. ‘Your Father, in heaven! Our father is here, among us. He is in his workshop, where he works all the hours of daylight, whether his eldest son is here to help him or not.’

  I spat the words at him, and he flinched, but held his tongue. He had gone very white.

  ‘Have you gone mad?’ I cried.

  No sooner were the words spoken than I clapped my hands over my mouth as if I could trap them there. I remembered the vision I had seen of him and realised that whatever had befallen him in the desert might well have driven him mad.

  He took my hand.

  ‘Some day, perhaps I can explain to you, when I can explain it to myself. Don’t be angry with me, Mariam. I am groping in the dark, like a man blundering about a cave.’

  He seem so sad that I was instantly contrite.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, kissing him lightly on the cheek. ‘We are both confused and lost at the moment. Perhaps we both need to find our way.’

  Yeshûa held me at arms’ length and studied my face keenly.

  ‘You have changed while I have been away.’

  I lowered my eyes, for they were filled with tears.

  ‘I have lost Daniel,’ I whispered.

  Without my brother’s care, I might have died even then as a result of my cruel abuse of my body. He saw at once how it was with me, and ordered me sternly to cease. I resolved to give up my fasting, my vomiting, but he would not allow me to eat normally.

  ‘You must be careful, Mariam, or your body will be overwhelmed. Only liquids at first: broth and milk and water, perhaps a little yoghurt from sheep’s milk. Believe me, I know how cautiously one must emerge from long fasting.’

  He oversaw what I ate, and though the others must have been puzzled, everyone was too occupied to pay much attention. For several days I suffered violent stomach cramps and sickness while my poor body tried to accept that it was being fed again, but as the days passed I grew stronger. My headaches ceased and I was able once again to grind corn and cook and weave and milk the goats without needing to stop every few minutes to rest. Yeshûa shaved off his tangled beard, had his hair cut. He bathed and donned fresh clothes, and began to look more like the brother I had known. The gash in his leg which had made him limp began to heal.

  ‘A sword thrust from one of Antipas’s soldiers,’ he explained to our father. ‘I think they had been ordered to arrest none but Yôhânân, but they enjoyed giving the rest of us a beating, unarmed and helpless as we were.’

  A few days before Shim’ôn’s wedding was to take place, Yehûdâ arrived, bringing gifts from his family. I could tell from the way he looked at me that he was shocked at my emaciated appearance, but we had no opportunity for private conversation. He had been sent on by his father, after his stay in Jerusalem, to transact further business in Idumea and then Moab, before returning to Sepphoris shortly before Yeshûa reached us. The intention was that, as soon as the festivities for Shim’ôn’s marriage were over, the planning would begin at last for our wedding.

  The following day was the Sabbath and our family and visitors made a large party, walking to the kenîshtâ. It was a lovely early summer’s day. My brother and my betrothed walked beside me through the village to the square, until we parted to take our places on the men’s side and the women’s side. The kenîshtâ was full, all the village there, the people who formed my world, whom I had known since infancy. The air smelled fresh and clean from the infusion of mint sprinkled on the floor. It was like a thousand other Sabbaths, yet it was to change our lives.

  At first, the service went as usual. We stood and chanted the psalms for the day, then sat on the benches while the senior elder of the kenîshtâ, wearing his prayer shawl, recited the Commandments and the Shema: ‘Listen then, Israel; there is no Lord but the Lord our God, and thou shalt love the Lord thy God with the love of thy whole heart, and thy whole soul, and thy whole strength . . .’

  Afterwards, one of the elders of the village chanted the six berakôth, or benedictions, to each of which we responded in chorus with ‘mên. And then he began the final prayer: ‘Blessed art Thou, O Lord . . .’

  The main part of the service was always followed by the reading of one of the pârashôt, the selections from the scriptures. One of the congregation would volunteer or be invited to read it in Hebrew, and then interpret it in Aramaic. The shammâsh went forward and lifted the heavy scrolls from the lovely carved ancient ‘arôn in which they were kept. He looked around the room, and many heads turned towards Yeshûa. It was considered a courtesy to invited a visitor to read. My brother had been absent so long that clearly many in the village felt it his due to be asked to read and interpret. He nodded, rose, and went forward into the centre of the room. The shammâsh handed him a scroll, and he began to read in his beautiful speaking voice. I think perhaps I had never heard him speak in public before. I had heard him read scripture often enough, all through my childhood, when we s
at together on the dusty ground between the coiling roots of the olive trees. This was somehow different. The well-known phrases were new made, they vibrated with sudden intense meaning as my brother read them. I saw heads go up all round the kenîshtâ, the silence of those listening became more concentrated. I saw that he had become something more than he had been before he went away, more urgently present. A shaft of sunlight falling through a high window lit up the soft curls of his short-cut hair and sculpted the fine bones of his face. Like Daniel, he had thick dark eyelashes, which looked as though they had been sketched against his cheek by an artist’s brush. His eyes were lowered to the scroll, though I knew he could have recited the passage by heart.

  The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because the Lord hath anointed me to preach good tidings unto the meek; he hath sent me to bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives . . . to proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord, and the day of vengeance of our God . . .

  Was it pure chance that this particular passage from Isaiah was the reading for that Sabbath? Did Yahweh ordain it so? My brother read the familiar words as though they were fresh, and personal to him.

  Yeshûa finished the reading, rolled up the scroll and handed it to the shammâsh to be restored carefully to the ‘arôn. People shifted a little in their seats, sat back, and turned expectantly towards Yeshûa, awaiting his interpretation of the passage in Aramaic. And that was when the pattern of the day was shattered.

  My brother said not another word but returned to his seat in silence.

  On both sides of the room, men and women looked at each other in puzzlement. There were a few faint muttered words. I felt a blush rising from my neck to flood my face with shame. Why was my brother sitting down without a word? Surely he knew he was expected to say something, however brief, about the significance of the text, or its application to our lives. I could see that Ya’aqôb, who was sitting next to him, was angry. He poked Yeshûa in the ribs with his elbow. He would think that Yeshûa had humiliated the family by this extraordinary behaviour.

  My brother said nothing, studying his clasped hands. The minutes stretched out in acute embarrassment. There were louder mutters from the men’s side, while my mother twisted her hands together and Eskha and Hannah tried to suppress nervous giggles. The longer the silence stretched out, the faster my heart began to beat. From being embarrassed, I began to be angry. How long was he going to keep us all sitting here, his family writhing in discomfort, while that buzz of annoyance in the room became threatening?

  At last my brother looked up.

  ‘These words need no interpretation,’ he said. His voice was quiet, but authoritative. ‘Today is this very scripture fulfilled in your ears. I have come to show the way. To urge the wicked among you to repentance. To care for the sick and needy.’

  People looked at one another in astonishment and growing anger. I could see that they thought him rude or arrogant. What kind of interpretation was this? The scripture was fulfilled? Through him? I did not understand him myself. Then a voice, louder than the others, shouted out:

  ‘Is this not Yeshûa, the carpenter’s son? The brother of Ya’aqôb and Yehûdes and Yoses and Shim’ôn? And are not his sisters here with us, sitting over there?’ I saw an accusing finger pointing towards me and tried to shrink down behind the woman in front.

  At that, my brother jumped to his feet and, stretching out his arms, looked all around at the congregation, and cried out:

  ‘You will surely say unto me this proverb: Physician, heal thyself . . . Truly, I say unto you: No prophet receives honour in his own country! At the time of the great famine in Judah, Elijah was not told to save an Israelite widow. No! He was sent to save a widow in Sidon. A widow amongst the gôyîm.’

  Puzzled, we looked at one another. What had this to do with the reading?

  My brother drew a deep breath.

  ‘Elisha the prophet did not cure any of the lepers in Israel. No! The man he cured was Naaman the Syrian. Another one of the gôyîm.’

  Yeshûa looked around at the gaping mouths, the scowling brows. Some men were starting to their feet. He thumped his fists against his temples in frustration, but this only seemed to make them angrier.

  He was shaking all over now, whether with fear or anger or some other passion, I could not tell. He began to push his way out of the kenîshtâ, but people crowded after him and I lost sight of him. I stood up and tried to fight my way through the angry villagers. These were our neighbours, but they elbowed me aside and ran after him shouting.

  ‘He dares to compare himself to Elijah and Elisha!’ cried the potter, Judith’s father.

  I didn’t think that was what he had said, but I was confused myself. Once again he was behaving strangely, almost like a madman, talking incoherently. Perhaps that time starving in the desert really had turned his brain. I knew how fasting could bring on visions and hallucinations. How it changed your body and haunted your mind with delusions.

  ‘He scorns us!’ said someone.

  ‘Aye, that fellow Yeshûa? He’s nothing but the carpenter’s son, but he scorns us because we won’t listen to him and his arrogant words.’ That sounded like the blacksmith. ‘Come to fulfil a prophecy! Him! Thinks he’s better than we are, does he?’

  ‘Blasphemy!’ Many of them were shouting it now.

  I was running, dodging round the edge of the crowd. We were nearly at the far end of the village, beyond which the ground fell away abruptly into a deep gorge.

  ‘Let’s make an end to his pride and his blasphemy,’ someone shouted. ‘Throw him into the gorge! Let him break his head on the rocks and spout his dying words to the vultures. Let’s see what they make of this fine prophet!’

  These were the young men of the village in the lead now, boys he had gone to school with, in the same beth ha-sefer, with the same hazzan. They were his friends.

  What had happened? Yeshûa’s words had been strange and incomprehensible, but why were our neighbours, our friends, suddenly so lethally angry?

  I saw that Ya’aqôb and Yehûdâ had managed to reach the front of the crowd and were blocking the way into a narrow alleyway, down which my brother must have run. For a moment everything seemed to slow down and quiver, like a set of scales when a feather or a finger-tip may cause it to dip one way or the other. Then the wild fury of the chase abated, the look of the hunter faded from the eyes of the villagers. The older men were urging the younger ones back. The crowd shifted, broke apart and drifted away, though there was still a hum of angry voices and I saw that they looked even at me with something like hatred in their eyes.

  For several minutes I hid myself in the mouth of the alleyway, then, when I was sure everyone was gone, I ran home by back ways. There, everything was in an uproar. Adamas was declaring loudly that Yeshûa had brought shame on us all, that he was a madman and should be locked away. Most of the women were weeping. My father had retreated to his workshop and closed the door. The dogs, sensing the disturbance, were barking furiously. Nowhere could I see Yeshûa.

  Yehûdâ caught sight of me and drew me away, out of the house and behind the goat shed.

  ‘Where is he?’ I cried. ‘They would have killed him back there! What does he mean, saying that he is a prophet, unrecognised in his own country?’ I was gasping with fear and running, for I was still weak.

  ‘Take a deep breath, my love,’ said Yehûdâ, ‘and listen to me, for there is not much time.’

  I obeyed and sank down on to the low wall. Yehûdâ knelt on the dusty ground in front of me in his best Sabbath clothes and took both my hands in his.

  ‘Yeshûa has gone to Capernaum. We have friends there, and they will take him in. He feels himself called to continue Yôhânân’s ministry. He will preach, for the moment, in the villages of Galilee.’

  ‘But . . .’ I said. He put his finger against my lips, but I shook my head. I could not be silent, for this was urgent. ‘Yeshûa does not believe in the fiery message of Yôhânân, of that I’m su
re. He believes in brotherly love and kindness, not punishment and damnation.’

  ‘I know. I know. He will carry his own message. And he wants to practise the healing arts he began to learn at Qumrân, to go amongst the sick and the poor and the outcasts, healing and comforting them, body and heart and mind.’

  ‘But why must he go to Capernaum?’

  ‘You saw what happened here.’

  I nodded. That sudden outrush of anger had been terrifying. The village had turned on him the way a herd of animals will turn on one that is strange or sick, driving it away or even killing it. It was as if, by his words, he had transformed himself into a creature alien to them. I had never before realised the power of the spoken word to arouse such emotion.

  ‘What will you do?’ I asked, though I think I already knew.

  ‘I will go with him to Capernaum, just to ensure that he is safe. I will hope to catch up with him before too many hours. Afterwards I will come back to you, and we shall be wed.’

  ‘Take me with you,’ I said, as I had said once before.

  He shook his head.

  ‘It may not be safe, not if any of those young ruffians pick up his trail and follow him. And it would be unseemly for you. You would forever be tainted, looked upon as a woman of loose morals. You cannot travel alone with me.’

  ‘If only we were already wed!’

  ‘We shall be soon. Now, will you put a little food in a bag for me? Enough for your brother as well? Then I will slip away before anyone can stop me.’

  ‘Of course.’ I stood up, then as remembrance struck me, I pressed my fingers to my lips. In all the confusion and fear, I had forgotten. ‘But, Yehûdâ, it is the Sabbath! You may not travel more than two thousand cubits.’