The Book of Longings

by Sue Monk Kidd

  I picked up a serving bowl of pomegranate seeds. “It is good of him to miss me.”

  She smiled and rolled her eyes at her platter. “I’ve refilled it four times. Let us hope they leave a morsel for us.”

  Though Yaltha had been designated as a junior, I noticed Skepsis had allowed her to recline on one of the couches reserved for seniors. Lucian left his couch and stood before Skepsis. “Yaltha should be serving us alongside the other juniors,” he said angrily, his voice carrying across the room.

  “Anger is effortless, Lucian. Kindness is hard. Try to exert yourself.”

  “She shouldn’t be here at all,” he persisted.

  Skepsis waved her hand. “Leave me to eat in peace.”

  I looked at Yaltha, who was biting a turnip, unfazed.

  When the banqueting wore down, the community made their way to the opposite end of the room, where a waist-high partition ran along the center with benches on each side, women to the left, men to the right.

  I sat on the last bench with Yaltha and Diodora. “Get comfortable,” Yaltha told us. “You’ll be here the rest of the night.”

  “All night?” Diodora exclaimed.

  “Yes, but you will not lack for entertainment,” Yaltha said.

  Coming behind us and overhearing, Skepsis said, “Our gathering is not entertainment, as Yaltha well knows—it’s a vigil. We watch for the dawn, which represents the true light of God.”

  “And we will sing ourselves into a stupor before it arrives,” Yaltha said.

  “Yes, that part is true,” Skepsis conceded.

  Skepsis began the vigil with a lengthy discourse, about what, precisely, I couldn’t say. I gripped the scroll on which I’d written my hymn. My song suddenly seemed too audacious.

  I heard Skepsis call my name. “Ana . . . come, offer your hymn to Sophia.”

  “I call my hymn ‘Thunder: Perfect Mind,’” I told her when I reached the front of the room. Someone struck a timbrel. As the drumbeat began, I lifted my scroll and chanted.

  I was sent out from power . . .

  Be careful. Do not ignore me.

  I am the first and the last

  I am she who is honored and she who is mocked

  I am the whore and the holy woman

  I am the wife and the virgin

  I am the mother and the daughter

  I stopped and looked at their faces, glimpsing both wonder and bewilderment. Diodora was watching me intensely, her hands tucked under her chin. A smile moved on Yaltha’s lips. I felt all the women who lived inside me.

  Do not stare at me in the shit pile, leaving me discarded

  You will find me in the kingdoms . . .

  Do not be afraid of my power

  Why do you despise my fear and curse my pride?

  I am she who exists in all fears and in trembling boldness

  I paused once more, needing to find my breath. The words I’d sung seemed to swirl over my head. I wondered where they had come from. Where they would go.

  I, I am without God

  And I am she whose God is magnificent . . .

  I am being

  I am she who is nothing . . .

  I am the coming together and the falling apart

  I am the enduring and the disintegration . . .

  I am what everyone can hear and no one can say

  I sang on and on, and when the hymn was ended, I walked slowly back to my place.

  As I passed the benches, a woman rose to her feet and then another, until everyone was standing. I looked uncertainly at Skepsis. “They are telling you that you are Sophia’s daughter,” she said. “They are telling you she is well pleased.”

  I remember the rest of that night only vaguely. I know we sang without ceasing, first the men, then the women, blending finally into a single choir. The sistrums shook and the goatskin drums beat. We danced, pretending to cross the Red Sea, wheeling and counterwheeling, exhausted and delirious, until dawn came and we turned east and faced the light.

  xxiv.

  One afternoon, near the end of winter, Skepsis arrived unexpectedly in my holy room with swatches of leather, papyri, a measuring rod, needles, thread, wax, and a huge pair of scissors. “We’re going to turn your scrolls into codices,” she said. “A bound book is the best way to ensure your writing endures.”

  She didn’t wait for my consent, which I would have given a hundred times over, but she set about spreading her bookmaking wares across the table. The scissors were identical to the ones I’d used to cut Jesus’s hair the day I’d told him I was with child.

  “With which scrolls do you wish to begin?” she asked.

  I heard her, but I could not stop looking at the long bronze scissor blades. The remembrance of them caused a toppling sensation in my chest.

  “Ana?” she said.

  Shaking my head to clear the memory, I retrieved the scrolls that contained my stories of the matriarchs and placed them on the table. “I wish to begin at the beginning.”

  “Watch carefully and learn. I’ll show you how to make the first book, but the rest you must do yourself.” She measured and marked the scrolls and the leather cover. When she cut them, I closed my eyes, remembering the sound of the shears, the feel of his hair in my fingers.

  “See, I did not injure a single one of your words,” she said when she was done, seeming to mistake my preoccupation as concern over her cutting skills. I did not correct her. Holding up a blank page of papyrus, she added, “I’ve cut an extra page so you may write a title on it.” Then she began to sew the pages together inside the leather covers.

  “Now,” she said. “What is it that troubles you, Ana? Is it Haran?”

  I hesitated. I had poured out my fears and longings to Yaltha and Diodora, but not to Skepsis. I said, “When spring comes, it will be two years since I’ve seen my husband.”

  She smiled slightly. “I see.”

  “My brother promised to send a letter when it was safe for me to return to Galilee. There’s a servant in Haran’s house who will bring it to me, but Haran will prevent my leaving.”

  It seemed impossible that the Jewish militia was still posted on the road after all these months; their encampment had become a permanent outpost.

  Skepsis pushed and pulled the needle, using a little iron hammer to force it through the leather. She said, “The salt boy tells me the soldiers have built a small stone hut in which to sleep, as well as a pen for a goat, and they’ve hired a local woman to cook their meals. It’s a testament to Haran’s patience and need for revenge.”

  I had heard these things from Yaltha. Hearing them again left me even more disconsolate.

  “I don’t know why the letter hasn’t come,” I said. “But I don’t feel I can tarry here much longer.”

  “Do you see how I’m making a backstitch to make a double knot?” she asked, all of her attention refocused on the book. I said nothing more.

  When the codex was completed, she placed it in my arms. “If your letter comes, I’ll do what I can to help you leave,” she said. “But it will sadden me to see you go. If your place is in Galilee, Ana, so be it. I only wish you to know that this place will be here if you desire to return.”

  She left. I looked down at the codex, this thing of wonder.

  xxv.

  Then came a day balmy with spring. I had just finished turning the last of my scrolls into books, a task I’d worked on for weeks with an exigency I couldn’t explain. Now, alone in the house, I surveyed the stack of codices with relief, then amazement. Perhaps my words would endure now.

  Yaltha had left the house to visit the library, and Diodora was off caring for Theano, who lay at death’s threshold. Skepsis had already ordered his coffin to be constructed—a simple box of acacia wood. Earlier, while watering the animals, I’d heard
the insistent hammering in the woodworking shop.

  Eager to show Diodora and Yaltha my collection of codices, I hurried to complete one last task before they returned. I filled the palette with ink and inscribed a title onto the empty page in each book, blowing the ink gently to dry it.

  The Matriarchs

  The Tales of Terror

  Phasaelis and Herod Antipas

  My Life in Nazareth

  Lamentations for Susanna

  Jesus, Beloved

  Yaltha of Alexandria

  Chaya: Lost Daughter

  The Ways of the Therapeutae

  Thunder: Perfect Mind

  Remembering Enheduanna, who signed her name to her writing, I reopened the books and signed mine: Ana. Not Ana, daughter of Matthias, or Ana, wife of Jesus. Just Ana.

  There was only one codex I didn’t sign. When I lifted my pen to Thunder: Perfect Mind, my hand would not move. The words in the book had come from me, but also from beyond me. I closed the leather cover.

  Awe took hold of me as I arranged the books inside the wall niche, then placed my incantation bowl on top. As I stepped back and took them in, Yaltha entered the room.

  Pamphile was at her side.

  xxvi.

  My eyes flashed to the goatskin pouch in Pamphile’s hand. She held it out to me without a word, her face tense.

  I took the pouch and fumbled with the knot on the leather tie, my fingers fat as cucumbers. Prying open the drawstring, I peered inside at a scrolled parchment. I wanted to snatch it out and read it that moment, but I loosely retied the pouch. Yaltha looked at me, understanding, it seemed, that I wished to be alone when I read it, away even from her.

  “A courier arrived with it three days ago,” Pamphile said. “I hired a wagon with a donkey as soon as I could. Apion thinks I’m visiting my family in Dionysias. I led him to believe my father had fallen ill.”

  “Thank you, Pamphile. You have done well.”

  “It’s Lavi you should thank,” she replied, her face hardening. “He’s the one who insisted I remain at Haran’s all these months and wait for your letter. If it’d been left to me, I would’ve departed there long ago. I think my husband is more loyal to you than to me.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to this—I thought she might be right. “Is Lavi well?” I asked, hoping to divert her.

  “He’s happy with his work at the library. His superiors heap praise on him. I go to him whenever I can—he rents a small apartment now.”

  Every moment the letter remained unopened was an agony, but I owed it to her to listen.

  “Did you see a colony of soldiers on the road near the gatehouse?” Yaltha asked.

  “Yes. I’ve seen these same kind of soldiers in Haran’s house. One comes each week to see him.”

  “Do you know what they speak about?” I asked.

  She glared at me. “Do you expect me to listen at the door?”

  “I wish you to do nothing that puts you in danger.”

  “You should be prepared when you pass back by the soldiers,” Yaltha said. “There’s no danger to you, but they inspect everyone going east, searching for me and Ana. You’ll be stopped. If asked, say you have no knowledge of us, that you came to sell papyrus.”

  “Sell papyrus,” she repeated, then glowered at me again. “I didn’t know I would have to tell more lies for you.”

  “Only one more, and only if asked,” I said.

  “I wish this to be over,” she said. “Now that your letter has come, I only want to leave Haran’s employ and go live with my husband.”

  I tightened my fingers on the letter’s pouch. Be patient, Ana, I told myself. You have waited so long—what are a few more minutes?

  “What news do you have of Haran?” Yaltha asked her.

  “The morning after you left, his shouting could be heard through the house. He searched your rooms in a rage, looking for some sign of where you’d gone. The man ripped bedcovers and shattered water pots. Who do you think was charged to clean it up? Me, of course. He plundered the scriptorium as well. I found scrolls across the floor, spilled ink, a broken chair.”

  “Did he suspect you of aiding us?” I asked.

  “He was content to lay the blame on Lavi, but not before he interrogated me and the rest of the servants. Even Thaddeus wasn’t spared.” She balled her fists and mimicked Haran. “‘How did they manage to flee? Did they turn into smoke and float under the locked door? Did they fly out the window? Which of you unlocked the door?’ He threatened to have us flogged. It is only through Apion’s intervention that we were spared.”

  It was plain how much she’d suffered under Haran’s roof separated from Lavi. “I’m sorry,” I said. “You’ve been a brave and true friend.” I pulled the bench toward her. “Here, rest. I’ll return shortly. Yaltha will bring you food and water. You will stay the night with us.”

  I walked self-consciously from the house, past the assembly hall, the woodworking shop, the clusters of houses, the animal shed, forcing myself not to break into a run. As I passed the eucalyptus tree, I quickened my pace, then took flight up the escarpment toward the cliffs.

  Finding a boulder midway up, I sat with my back against it, letting the strength of it hold me. My heart was in an uproar. I took a breath, opened the pouch, and pulled out the parchment.

  Dearest Sister,

  I trust you received my earlier letter explaining why it was not safe for you to return.

  My mouth parted. Judas had written before—why had I not received it?

  The danger to you in Galilee has not fully passed, though it has lessened. Antipas is fully consumed by his lust to be named King of the Jews by Rome.

  Last week we came into Judea on our way to Jerusalem where we will remain through Passover. Antipas has no rule here. Come to us with all haste. Sail with Lavi to Joppa and make your way to Bethany where we lodge at the home of Lazarus, Mary, and Martha.

  The kingdom is close at hand. Vast throngs of people in Galilee and Judea now hail Jesus as the Messiah. He believes the fullness of time is upon us and he wishes you by his side. He compelled me to tell you that he is safe. I, though, must warn of dangers. The people are emboldened by the appearance of a Messiah and there is much talk of revolution. Jesus teaches each day in the Temple and the Jewish authorities set spies upon us the moment we enter the gates. If there is unrest, the Temple guard will most certainly arrest him. Jesus continues to believe God’s kingdom can come without swords. But I am both a Cynic and a Zealot. I only know we cannot let this moment pass. If it is necessary, I will do what I must this Passover to ensure the masses rise up and overthrow the Romans at last. The sacrifice of one for many.

  As I write, I sit in Lazarus’s courtyard where your friend Tabitha is playing the lyre, filling the air with the sweetest of music. Jesus has gone to the Mount of Olives to pray. He has missed you, Ana. He bids me give you his love. We await you.

  Your brother,

  Judas

  10th day of Shebat

  Judas’s words slammed into me. I will do what I must this Passover . . . The sacrifice of one for many. What did he mean? What was he trying to tell me? I began to breathe very fast, like I’d run a great distance. My head churned with confusion. I turned the parchment over, wishing he might have explained himself on the back, but it was devoid of words.

  I reread the letter. This time different pieces of it whirled up, broken-off words. He wishes you by his side . . . He bids me give you his love . . . He has missed you. How had I endured these two years without him? I pressed the letter to my breast and held it there.

  I tried to calculate time. Judas had written the letter early this past winter, seven weeks ago. Passover in Jerusalem was fourteen days away. I stuffed the parchment into the pouch and scrambled to my feet. I must get to Jerusalem, and quickly.
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  xxvii.

  Yaltha stood alone in the courtyard. I thrust the letter into her hand, not asking Pamphile’s whereabouts. As she read, I watched her face, noticing the flare of surprise toward the end. “Finally, you’ll go to your husband,” she said. I waited for her to say more, but that was all.

  “I must find a way to leave in the morning.”

  Would she not mention Judas’s strange message about ensuring the masses rise up? Behind her the light was sinking. Golden-brown scintillas drifting far below over the lake. “What does my brother mean by the sacrifice of one for many?” I asked. “What is he saying?”

  I watched her step beneath the branches of the tamarisk tree and become pensive. Her need to deliberate filled me with unease.

  “I think I already know what he means,” I said quietly. I’d known before I’d finished the letter, but I couldn’t bear to acknowledge it right then. It had seemed impossible that my brother would go so far, but as I stood with Yaltha beneath the tree, I pictured the child whose father was murdered by the Romans and whose mother was sold into slavery, the boy who swore to avenge them, and I knew—yes, he would go that far.

  “Judas,” Yaltha hissed. From the corner of my eye I saw a tiny green lizard dart up the stone wall. “Yes, of course you know what he means. You know him better than anyone.”

  “Please say it. I cannot.”

  We sat on the bench and she placed her hand at my back. “Judas means to have his revolution, Ana. If Jesus doesn’t bring it about peaceably, Judas means to ignite it by force. The surest way to incite the masses is for the Romans to execute their Messiah.”

  “He will deliver Jesus to the Romans,” I whispered. Saying the words, I felt like I was falling off the edge of the world. During the time we’d been in Egypt, I’d stored away a thousand tears, and I let them loose now. Yaltha pulled my head to her shoulder and let me sob my fear, helplessness, and fury.