by Marek Halter
The Essene brothers feared that the crowd, inflamed to the point of madness by the promises of miraculous cures, would overrun the house. They barricaded the door, and ten of the brothers took turns in mounting guard. Unable to go out into the fields, refusing admission to anyone, the community was soon forced to ration its food. It was like being under siege.
Alas, these measures succeeding only in exciting the false prophets even more, who took them as an excuse to deliver a mysterious and threatening message from God. The agitation did not die down—quite the contrary, in fact.
One stormy day, a large wagon made its way through the crowd and stopped outside the door.
The coachman got down and knocked on the door, demanding to be admitted. As had become their custom during this difficult time, the brothers guarding the door paid no attention to his appeals. For a good hour, he shouted himself hoarse, but to no avail. The cries of the young girl who was with him had no greater success.
But the next day, before dawn prayers, and as an icy rain fell on the village, the voice of Rekab, Rachel’s coachman, somehow penetrated the courtyard and reached the ears of Ruth, who, as luck would have it, was just then on her way to draw water. Putting down her wooden pails, she ran to tell Miriam.
“The man who brought you here is outside the door!”
Miriam looked at her, uncomprehending.
“The man with the wagon!” Ruth went on, in an urgent voice. “The man who brought you with poor Obadiah…”
“Rekab? Here?”
“He’s calling your name desperately from the other side of the wall.”
“We must let him in at once.”
“How can we? The brothers certainly won’t open the door to him. If only we could get out of the house….”
But Miriam was already running into the main courtyard. She made such a commotion in front of the brothers guarding the door that Geouel appeared. He refused point-blank to open the door.
“You don’t know what you’re saying, girl! Open the door a little way and all those mad people will come flooding in!”
The dispute became so heated that one of the brothers ran to fetch Joseph.
“Rekab is outside!” was all Miriam said by way of explanation.
Joseph understood immediately. “There must be a reason he’s here. We can’t leave him out in the rain and cold.”
“There are hundreds out there in the cold and rain, and it doesn’t seem to discourage them!” Geouel said sourly. “The sick even seem to thrive on it, as far as I can see. Perhaps that’s the real miracle!”
“That’s enough, Geouel!” Joseph roared with unaccustomed vehemence.
Startled by this outburst, the brothers stood there, numb with cold, and looked at Joseph and Geouel, who were like two wild beasts ready to tear each other to pieces.
“We’re trapped here like rats,” Joseph went on in a cutting tone. “That’s not the vocation of this house. This closure has no purpose. Or, if it has, it’s a bad one. Haven’t we gathered in a community in order to find the way of goodness and assuage the suffering of this world? Are we not healers?”
His cheeks were quivering with rage, and his face was red all the way to the top of his bald cranium. Before Geouel or anyone else could retort, he pointed his index finger at the brothers guarding the door and commanded, in a tone that brooked no reply, “Open the door! Open it wide!”
As soon as the hinges creaked, the commotion on the other side ceased. There was a moment of stunned silence. Their feet in the mud, their faces hollow with weariness, all the people who had been waiting outside for days froze, like a collection of clay statues, streaming with rain and with stunned expressions on their faces.
Then a cry burst out, the first of many. In an instant, the chaos was overwhelming. Men, women, children, old and young, sick and healthy, rushed into the courtyard to kneel at the feet of Joseph of Arimathea.
Miriam then saw Rekab, standing in the wagon, firmly holding the reins of the terrified mules. She immediately recognized the figure beside him.
“Mariamne!”
“YOUR hair!” Mariamne cried. “Why did you cut it?”
Rekab, his eyes bright, looked at Miriam with emotion and astonishment, while, behind them, Joseph and the brothers tried to calm the crowd, assuring them over and over that the treatments would be resumed.
“How thin you are!” Mariamne said in surprise, hugging Miriam to her. “I can feel your bones through the tunic…What’s happening here? Don’t they feed you?”
Miriam laughed. She quickly drew them both into the women’s courtyard, where Ruth was waiting, with a frown on her face and her fists on her hips. She made a sign to Rekab to come into the handmaids’ kitchen and have something to eat.
“Take advantage before these madmen steal all our reserves,” she said, grouchily.
In the main courtyard, the crowd had not yet calmed down. The brothers relayed Geouel’s orders for them to be patient and orderly.
“The real miracle would be if God could put a bit of common sense in the brains of all these men,” Ruth snorted. “But that’s probably a bit of a tall order. The Lord’s been putting it off since the days of Adam!”
She abruptly turned on her heels and went inside the house. Taken aback, Rekab turned to Miriam. She signaled to him to follow Ruth and not take any notice of her moods.
“You should eat and drink something, too,” Miriam said to Mariamne. “And change your tunic, if you’ve spent all night in the rain. Come and warm yourself….”
Mariamne followed her, but accepted only a bowl of hot broth.
“The wagon’s so comfortable, you forget the cold and rain. And my tunic’s made of wool. What I want to know is why you cut your hair so horribly, and what’s going on in this house. Where have all these people come from who are out there with Joseph? Did you notice he didn’t even seem to recognize me? Even though he came all those times to Magdala….”
“Don’t be upset with him. He’ll see you this evening.”
In a few words, Miriam told Mariamne how the Essene brothers lived, how they treated the sick, and how the survival of the old woman, which had happened quite recently, had been taken as a miracle, attracting a crowd of the desperate to Beth Zabdai.
“These poor people think Joseph possesses the gift of resurrection. Just thinking it is enough to make them lose their minds.”
Mariamne had regained her mocking smile. “Which is quite strange and contradictory, when you think about it,” she said. “None of them like the life they lead, and yet they all hope that thanks to the miracle of resurrection, they’ll live forever.”
“You’re wrong,” Miriam said confidently. “What they hope for is a sign from God. The assurance that the Almighty is with them. And that he’ll still be with them after they die. Aren’t we all like that? Alas, Joseph doesn’t possess the gift of resurrection. He wasn’t able to save Obadiah.”
Mariamne nodded. “I know he’s dead. Rekab told us when he got back.”
There were many other questions that Mariamne was burning to ask, but did not dare. Miriam did not yield to her friend’s silent requests.
Rekab must have mentioned the state she had been in and the care Joseph of Arimathea had taken to keep her in sound mind. But she did not want to talk to Mariamne about that. Not yet. Mariamne and she had not spoken in months. Many things had happened that had made them rather like strangers to one another, as witness this short hair that so shocked Mariamne.
But Miriam did not want to hurt her young friend. “You’re more beautiful than ever. It’s as if the Almighty granted you all the beauty he could gather together in one woman!”
Mariamne blushed. She clasped Miriam’s hands and kissed her fingers: a tender gesture she had so often made in Magdala. Here, in the house in Beth Zabdai, Miriam thought it excessive. But she did not say anything. She had to get used once again to Mariamne’s carefree enthusiasm.
“I missed you!” Mariamne said. “A lot, a
lot! I thought about you every day. I was worried. But my mother wouldn’t let me come here. You know how she is. She told me you were being taught how to heal by Joseph of Arimathea and weren’t to be disturbed.”
“Rachel’s always right. That is what I’ve been doing.”
“Of course she’s always right. That’s what’s so annoying. She told me I’d love learning Greek. And now guess what? I speak better than her. And I really enjoy it!”
They both laughed. Then Mariamne suddenly broke off. She hesitated for a moment, glanced toward the kitchen, where Rekab and Ruth were watching them, and looked at Miriam again.
“The reason my mother let me come here now was to bring you some bad news.”
From the folds of the tunic, she took a small cylindrical leather case, the kind used for carrying letters, and handed it to Miriam.
“It’s about your father.”
HER stomach in knots, Miriam took the scroll from its case. The long sheet, thicker in one half than in the other because of the irregularity of the fibers, was almost entirely covered with a tangled mass of writing, the brown ink smudged in places, where it had been absorbed by the papyrus.
Miriam recognized her father’s plain handwriting. At least, she thought with relief, whatever had happened, he was still alive.
She had to make an effort to decipher the words. But it did not take her long to know. Hannah, her mother, had been killed by a mercenary.
Since leaving Nazareth, Joachim wrote, they had been living in peace in the north of Judea, where they had taken refuge with his cousin, the priest Zechariah, and his wife, Elisheba. With the passing of time, their yearning to see the mountains of Galilee again had grown ever more insistent. Besides, Joachim admitted, he was missing his workshop, missing the smell of wood and the noise of gouge and mallet on cedar and oak. In Judea, where the houses had flat roofs of cob and sunbaked bricks, a carpenter’s skills were useless.
So, thinking that it was time to forget the past, and accompanied by Zechariah and Elisheba, who were also eager for a change, Hannah and he had set off for Nazareth before the worst of the winter made the roads impassable.
The first week of the journey had passed happily. As they approached Mount Tabor, their joy grew. Even Hannah, who was always so ready to fear the worst, had a smile on her lips and a carefree feeling in her soul.
It had happened as they were nearing Nazareth.
Why had the Lord felt the need to strike at them yet again? For what sin was he constantly punishing them?
They had come across a column of mercenaries. Joachim had hidden his face, and the mercenaries had not paid him any particular attention. In any case, his beard was so long now that he was certain no one would recognize him, not even a friend. But as always, Herod’s soldiers could not let the opportunity pass. They had decided to search the wagon. As usual, they did it in the roughest and most humiliating way possible. Hannah had panicked. In her ridiculous and unfortunate haste to be compliant, she had accidentally knocked over a jar of water. It had hit an officer’s leg, nearly breaking his foot. Miriam could picture what had followed: the angry reaction, the sword plunged into Hannah’s frail chest.
And that was it.
Except that Hannah had not died immediately. She was still in agony when they reached first Nazareth, then Yossef’s house. It had taken her one long night before she joined the Almighty, a night spent in pain and anguish, without a moment’s respite—just like the rest of her life.
Perhaps, Joachim wrote, rather bitterly, perhaps Joseph of Arimathea might have been able to treat the wound and save his faithful Hannah.
But Joseph is a long way from here, and so are you, my beloved daughter. For a long time I made an effort to be satisfied with the thought of you to fill your absence. Today I would like you near me. I miss your presence, your spirit and all the new blood that has flowed into you, which makes me hope for a less somber future. You are the one good thing I still have left in this world.
“I’LL take you to Nazareth as soon as you like,” Rekab the coachman said. “My mistress Rachel has ordered me to serve you for as long as you wish.”
“And I’ll go with you,” Mariamne said. “I’m not leaving you.”
Miriam responded to both with silence. It was as if an icy wind had penetrated her chest. She was suffering for the pain endured by her mother before dying, but she was suffering even more for her father, whose words echoed within her.
At last she said, “Yes, we have to leave as soon as possible.”
“We could do it today,” Rekab said. “It’s a long time to nightfall. But perhaps it’s best if the mules can rest until tomorrow. It’s a long way to Nazareth. At least five days.”
“Tomorrow at dawn, then.”
That was what she announced to Joseph of Arimathea when he finally got away from the crowd, which had been monopolizing his attention. He was exhausted, his mouth was dry from having talked too much, and he had rings around his eyes. But when Miriam told him about Joachim’s letter, he put his hand on her shoulder, in a gesture filled with tenderness.
“We are mortal. It is as Yahweh wished. So that we can live a true life.”
“My mother died at the hands of two men. Herod, and a mercenary paid to kill. How can Yahweh allow such a thing? Is it he who wishes us to be humiliated? Prayer isn’t enough. We need to shatter the air around us, the air we breathe.”
Wearily, Joseph passed his hand over his face, rubbed his eyes, and said, “Don’t give in to anger. It doesn’t lead anywhere.”
“I’m not angry,” Miriam replied firmly. “But I know now that patience is not the sister of wisdom. Not anymore.”
“War won’t help us, either,” Joseph said. “You know that.”
“Who said anything about war?”
Joseph looked at her without a word, waiting for her to say more. She merely smiled. Seeing him like that, weighed down with fatigue, she felt remorse. She leaned toward him and kissed his cheek with an unaccustomed tenderness that made him quiver.
“I owe you more than I could ever repay,” she murmured. “And I’m abandoning you just when you need me to deal with all these people who’ll be coming to see you.”
“No, please don’t think you owe me anything,” Joseph said, fervently. “What I’ve been able to give you, you’ve already given back without even realizing it. And it’s best if you leave. We both know this house is not for you. We’ll meet again soon, I have no doubt of that.”
THAT evening, when the lamps were already lit, Ruth came to see Miriam. “I’ve been thinking,” she said in a firm voice. “If you’ll have me, I’d like to go with you. Who knows? I could be useful to you in that Galilee of yours.”
“You’ll be welcome in Galilee. I have a friend who’ll need you. Her name is Halva, and she’s the best of women. She’s not in terribly good health, and she already has five children clinging to her tunic. She may even have another one by now. Your help will a great relief to her, especially if I have to stay with my father, who’s alone now.”
The next day, in the gray and still rainy dawn, Rekab had the wagon brought out of the house. The crowd, calmer now, stood aside. For the first time in weeks, people were waiting patiently, and paid little attention to yet another prophet announcing that soon the fields would turn to ice, then into a fire writhing with tongues of poison.
Joseph walked with Miriam to Obadiah’s grave. She was anxious to bid him farewell before joining Ruth and Mariamne. She knelt in the mud. Joseph, who had been expecting to hear her pray, was surprised to see her lips moving without any sound emerging. When he helped her back on her feet, she said, with a contentment she could not conceal, “Obadiah still talks to me. He comes to me and I see him. It’s like a dream, but I’m not asleep and my eyes are wide open.”
“And what does he say to you?” Joseph asked, without hiding his unease.
Miriam blushed. “That he hasn’t abandoned me. That he’ll go wherever I go, and that he’s still my li
ttle husband.”
CHAPTER 16
THEY were within sight of the roofs of Nazareth. It was two days to the beginning of the month of Nisan. The sky was suffused with that beautiful light that heralded spring and helped you to forget the harshness of winter. Since they had left Sepphoris, the sunlight had danced between the clusters of cedar and larch, and, as they approached Nazareth, the shade was deep beneath the hedges lining the path. To Ruth and Mariamne, who had never before seen these hills, Miriam pointed out the paths and fields that had been the scene of her childhood joys. She was so impatient to see her father, Halva, and Yossef again that the thought of her mother receded.
When they were within sight of Yossef’s house, she could no longer contain herself. The weary mules were pulling the wagon too slowly. She jumped down onto the path and rushed toward the big, shaded yard.
Joachim, who had obviously been watching for her arrival, was the first to appear. He opened his arms to her, and they embraced, tears in their eyes, lips quivering, joy and sadness intermingled.
“You’re here…you’re here…,” Joachim kept repeating.
Miriam stroked his cheek and the back of his neck. She noticed that his face was more deeply furrowed with lines and his hair was whiter. “I came as soon as I got your letter!”
“But your hair! What have you done to your beautiful hair? What happened on the journey? It’s such a long way, for a girl….”
She pointed to the wagon coming into the yard. “Oh, don’t worry. I didn’t make the journey alone.”
There was a moment of confusion when, as she was introducing him to Rekab, Mariamne, and Ruth, a middle-aged couple came out of Yossef’s house.
The man had the kind of long beard worn by priests and intense, somewhat staring eyes, and the woman was about forty, short, plump, and amiable. She was hugging a baby, only a few days old, to her breast. A whole cluster of little faces peered out from the shadows behind her. Miriam recognized Halva’s children: Yakov, Yossef, Shimon, Libna, and her little sister.