Twelve

She wheeled around, and there was Judith, who had exchanged her face for the sun. But when she saw Mary's expression of consternation, almost of guilt caught red-handed, she blurted in confusion, "Oh, I am sorry, Miss! Forgive me!"

"Forgive you? For what?" Mary once again remembered how exasperating she could be.

"I know not, Miss. I am sorry." She had resumed her hang-dog attitude.

"In the name of all that is holy, will you stop saying that you are sorry!"

She gave a quick little curtsey, and said, "Yes, Miss. I am sor--" and put her hand to her mouth with a little giggle. "I cannot help it!" She looked so pathetic in her joy and her desire to please that Mary could not contain a laugh.

She resumed her gruff manner. "So your mother is cured," she said.

"Is it not wonderful! I am so overjoyed! And it is all thanks to you!"

"To me?" Really, this was too much.

"Well, to him, of course. But you were the one--Mother! Here is she, as I said! I told you that she would be here and the first thing she would do would be to speak for you!" And, without thinking of the liberty she was taking, she tugged Mary by the arm to her mother, who was still surrounded by the multitude. At the sight of Mary, there were whispers, and the crowd immediately thinned.

The mother already looked twenty years younger than she had when first she saw Jesus, and a good forty years younger than Mary remembered her, lying on the bed when Judith brought Mary to her to persuade her to let her work for her. Somehow, Judith had dressed her in a decent robe, of a bluish white, and combed her thinning hair into respectability around the narrow, sharp face, with its Judean nose pointing like an arrow before her. How that face could have given rise to the demure beauty of Judith was one of life's mysteries.

"It is so good to see you here!" said the woman. "Judith was always telling me how good you were, and I believed her, but," she added with a look, whether of apology or collusion Mary could not tell "you know the stories. Or perhaps you do not."

"I know that there have been stories," said Mary. "I told you so when I saw you, you will remember."

"Oh, yes, I suppose you did. It seems so long ago now. Yesterday seems so long ago now. Well, I did hear the stories, even from my very kindly neighbors" this in a tone of bitter irony "who kept after me for years, for her good, of course, to stop sending her to you. I finally told them, 'Even if she is as you say she is, who else can she work for? I do not notice you taking her in to help us out!' Well, that kept them quiet; but you know how a mother is, she worries. And in spite of the fact that I trust Judith more than I trust myself, I worried, every now and then."

As you well might have, thought Mary, since you would have sent that girl into a house of prostitution if it would have brought in the money--in fact, that is what you probably thought you were doing in apprenticing her to me, seeing how rich I was. Pity for you that she was such a paragon, and that I was not interested in grooming a rival. But all she said was, "Judith always did exactly what I told her."

"I am confident she did," said the mother with pride.

"But when I left you last night," said Judith, still bursting with joy, and you said you had seen the prophet--"

"I did not say that I had seen him."

"Well, no, but you did not say you had not, and you would have if you had not. And when I heard that they were saying that he had driven seven devils out of a woman on the road the night before, and when I saw how changed you were--"

"Changed? How do you mean, 'changed'?"

"Oh, Miss, if you could have seen yourself! You seemed terribly afraid of something, but there was--I know not how to say it--hope or something in your face. You looked as if you were going to live!"

"As if seven devils had gone out of me."

Judith held her hand to her mouth and drew in her breath as the implication of what she had said dawned on her.

"You know what tongues these people have," broke in the mother. "Judith had told me that you were not well, and that this Jesus of Nazareth had cured you. Imagine! From Nazareth!"

Judith chimed in, "And when I went up to the house this morning and you were not there, I knew you would be with him, especially after--" and she broke off in horror at the new faux pas she was about to make. The mother continued, possibly trying to cover the mistake, "And she told me how you had been cured, and how kind a man he was--Nazareth! Imagine!--and--well, she persuaded me that if he could cure you, then I would be a fool not to try him myself--and so I did. And for the first time in years I can walk without pain!"

"And it was all your doing!" said Judith. "I would never have been able to get her out of the house if it had not been for you!"

Mary looked at her. She actually did not realize that it was her own blind faith that had persuaded both Mary and her mother to meet with Jesus in the first place. A person that naive had no right to live--except perhaps in this group. Anything was possible here. Of course she was only--what was it, fourteen? Barely a woman yet--and she had still much and much time to learn cynicism.

But then, with that mother, and after five years of Mary herself, if she had not learned it by now, she was probably immune. Still, this group was where she belonged, clearly.

Another thought occurred to Mary. "Oh, Judith," she said, "I am glad I saw you. I wish you to do something for me." She looked at the mother. "Would you excuse us for a moment?"

The mother made appropriate noises and turned away to speak with one of the few who had remained in spite of Mary. Mary took Judith apart and said, "I would have you run up to the house, and--you know the chest in the room in the cave? The one you take the food money from?"

"Yes, Miss, of course."

"Well, behind that chest there is another, larger one, which is locked. I have the key." And she handed it to her. "In it, on the left-hand side, under two scrolls, is an amount of gold; it must be half a talent or so, I would imagine. Take out much of it as you can carry--and lock up the rest carefully, if there is any, mind; you can take it all, if you can manage to carry it, I care not--and wrap it in an old cloth so that it does not look like anything, or appears to be a cut of meat or something, and bring it back. But be very, very careful! I would not have you being robbed on the way. Tell no one, not even your mother."

"I will not, Miss."

"I am serious. If anyone takes the slightest hint that you have with you enough to feed an army for twenty years, your life will be sacrificed as surely as the pigeons in the Temple. You are to give it to that woman over there--"

"I knew you had taken care of paying him--"

"What are you saying? The Master receives no payment for what he does! Now go, and be quick--and careful."

"I will, Miss. Trust me." It occurred to Mary that she had indeed already learned the rudiments of trust from this girl. Judith left, half running and half skipping for joy, not only because her mother and her mistress had been cured, but doubtless because she still was able to be useful, now that the two sources of her servitude were taken away.

The task now was to bring Judith into the Master's entourage. Mary wandered back to the mother, and asked, "And what do you plan to do now that you are well?"

She looked up in surprise at this new thought. "I know not," she said. "It had not occurred to me."

Mary had suspected as much, based on her own experience. Of course, her cure had been spiritual, and this was physical; but still, it was a shock, which dulled the mind to its implications. However much that woman might have dreamed about life without her disease, when it came to it, her future would be a blank to her as much as Mary's was. But whatever it was, it occurred to Mary that, even if Judith were not to become a follower of Jesus, she should rid herself of this harridan who would sell her to a prostitute--even if she herself was the prostitute. There was, of course, a third reason, which was selfish enough to be convincing to the old woman.

"I have grown used to Judith," she said, "and since I plan to follow Jesus for a while, at least--he interests me" she added loftily, and then went on "--it would be convenient for me to have her with me, because she knows what I require. You would not care yourself to join us?" And when the mother looked dubious, as she knew she would, she drove in the knife, "although I should warn you that it is a rather rough life, from the little I have seen: sleeping in the open, and nothing very remarkable to eat."

She heard what she was hoping to hear. "Oh, I do not think that at my age I could manage anything of that sort--much as I would like to," she added, something that Mary had no trouble translating properly.

"Then could Judith--"

"Oh, I do not see how, really. It would be a wonderful experience for her, no doubt, but you heard me tell that man that we have nothing--nothing at all--and Judith is the only means I have to stay alive."

"But if I am gone, she will not even be that," said Mary. "And I think I can manage something; and in fact, she has gone for--shall we say, a solution to the problem?"

"I am afraid I could not even consider it," said the mother.

Mary's tone altered. "I would advise you to do so," she said. It was a little late for her to be squeamish--but of course, Mary had never been in a position of being totally helpless and dependent on another, and perhaps necessity forced one to do disagreeable things. Still . . . But who was Mary to judge anyone?

"Well, of course," said the mother, "what you say is true. With you gone, we would both starve, and I would not have her do that. Still, she is my joy and pleasure; she was all I had when I was ill."

So it had arrived at the negotiation phase this soon, had it? Mary knew she had won. "You must remember," she said, "that you will now be able to be up and around by yourself--and that Judith is--what is it? Fourteen?--now, almost beyond the age to be a wife herself. --And if you have no dowry," she added hastily to forestall an objection, "do not think that in her case that will be of any significance; she is very winsome, and it is easy to see that she would be a docile wife. No, she will find a man in short order, and then . . ." she let it hang in the air between them.

Then she added, "But do not fear that you will have to eke out a living as a seamstress again; your material needs can be taken care of." But the sight of the woman fighting two different sorts of greed revolted Mary, and she said, "Do give it some thought; I must go and see to certain things."

She left, and the woman drew apart from the others, musing on her alternatives, though Mary was certain what her answer would be. Mary went over to Clopas's Mary and started a conversation on a neutral subject; it was somewhat awkward, but she could see that Clopas's Mary was making a sincere effort to act natural; and since Mary did not have much practice in making womanly conversation, there was a certain tension on both sides. But Mary was at least grateful that she was not confronting disguised hostility.

She talked without paying any more attention than necessary to what she was saying, merely making what she assumed to be the proper remark at the other's statements and questions, leaving the burden of carrying the conversation up to her, because her mind was filled with the past two days. It occurred to her that since last night, when she actually became human again, she had received more slights than in all the years she so richly deserved them--of course, then no one dared to so much as hint at anything to her face, because destruction would have flamed out of her eyes. There is nothing like fear to induce silence.

But this was another reason for having Judith with her; she knew that she would not be able to tolerate this tolerance for long, and that she would eventually lash out, and the whips and scorns of her contempt and fury would make Susanna's reaction to Joanna seem caresses by comparison. But when that time approached, she could turn to Judith, to whom no wrongdoing on Mary's part was thinkable--especially now. Her defense of Mary would be based on delusion, but as Mary knew, delusions can be exceedingly comforting, and might tide her over the most difficult times--as long as Mary kept her own grip on reality.

But in any case, why Mary might find her useful was secondary to the fact that Judith needed to be taken away from her mother, and would doubtless gain great profit from being here. And this outweighed everything else.

And also, who knew? Perhaps David and Judith would find each other agreeable, and the two of them could begin a new life together. She smiled, thinking that in David's case, that would mean a third life for him. She wondered briefly what a person thought of life if he has died and returned. She would have to remember to ask Matthew if David ever spoke of it.

Mary smiled again, at herself now. So she had changed. Here she was, Mary the Matchmaker, just like any other woman. As she considered how she detested the constant shoving toward marriage that women inflicted on each other, she resolved never to prod Judith, if she could avoid it.

After a time, Judith appeared, coming down the hill considerably more slowly than she had gone up, carrying what looked like a bundle of clothes, but which might have had a body in it, it obviously weighed so much. Mary marveled that she had actually succeeded in bringing it all the way, because no robber with eyes in his head would have been fooled for an eyeblink.

Mary motioned to her to come behind a stand of bushes, out of sight of everyone, and Judith let the bundle down with an enormous clank. "I tried--" she panted, and could not continue for a moment. "I tried to carry it on my head, but I was afraid it would spill, and it was awkward any other way."

"No doubt," said Mary, trying to lift the bundle and wondering how she had been able to carry it a cubit, let alone the dozen or so stadia from the house. There was really no danger it would spill, it was wrapped in so many layers of bedding; Mary fought with them to find an opening. "Did you leave any?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, Miss! There is much and much up there. --But do not fear," she added hastily. "I locked it up again securely. It is quite safe."

"Safe or unsafe, I care nothing," said Mary. "But still, we may have use for it later--if still it is there. But this is certainly enough." It could have served as ransom for the Israelites from Egypt, she thought. She reached in and took out a double handful of gold coins, as much as she could manage, and said, "Open the fold of your robe," and dumped them in, and then repeated the process. "That should do," she said. "This is for your mother--" Judith started to protest, but Mary held up a hand and continued without giving her time to speak. "--in payment for the fact that I will be taking you from her more or less permanently, at least for a while. That is, of course, if you are willing to join me in following this prophet and learning what we can from him." She saw Judith's face start to express misgivings about neglecting care of her mother, and added, "Otherwise, the money stays here."

Since there was enough to keep her mother in luxury for at least twenty years--which was probably longer than she would live--Judith looked at the pile of coins weighing down the pocket she had made in her robe, then over at her mother, who was speaking with two of the other women, then up at Mary. "Oh, Miss, it would be . . ." she said, too overwhelmed to be able to finish the sentence.

Mary could almost trace the conflict as it progressed in her face. First there was elation at her own prospect, and then when she once again glanced at the coins, joy at her mother's good fortune; but that reminded her that her mother would be alone, and her eyes fell and her head dropped, and then she would look up to see Mary and the process would start over again. Mary decided to put a stop to it, and said, "Now listen. If you had got married, she would have to put up with letting you go also--or have to tolerate living with you and your husband and no longer being anyone of any importance in her house. She would be far worse off than alone. And you must remember, she is no longer sick, and can resume her sewing and her acquaintances; and she will have quite enough money so that she will soon have many friends, or I miss my guess. There is nothing for you to concern yourself with; it is human nature and ordained by God that children eventually leave. --And truth to tell," she added, "parents would never admit this, but often and often are glad to be rid of them." She could see the face come back to life, and the dejection become more and more a matter of propriety and duty rather than conviction. She had won here also.

"You give me that money, and I will propose it to your mother, while you take the rest and give it to that woman over there" indicating Susanna "who will know what to do with it." She made a pocket in the fold of her robe, and Judith placed the coins inside. They really did weigh an inordinate amount.

Then, indicating the bundle, she said, "You can say that it was a gift from a person you saw in the crowd--which is true--who did not want his name known--and that is also very true. They will doubtless guess whose it is, but they will not be able to prove it, and they will not have to refuse it as if it were the fruits of sin." Judith was about to protest at this, but Mary cut her off with "Go."

While Judith once again grappled with the bundle, Mary went over to Judith's mother and gave her the coins. From the way her eyes widened as she saw them, Mary knew that the struggle with maternal instinct, if ever there was one, was instantly over. She could almost see her calculating what she would do with it.

When Judith returned, there was a tearful but on the whole rather hurried farewell between her mother and her; and Mary sensed--or perhaps imagined--an undertone of relief on the part of both. One may love one's mother, but it is still hard not to feel joy at not having to put up with disgusting chores and querulous talk. And by the same token, one may love one's daughter, but not having to feed an extra mouth makes one's resources go that much farther.

Once the mother left, Mary said to Judith, "As far as I am concerned, you are free to join us or not. Do you wish to do so?"

"Oh, yes, Miss!"

"Do not 'Oh, yes, Miss' me simply because you were my servant. This is not how it will be with us if you are here. I need no servant here--indeed, from the little I have seen, we seem all to be servants, more or less--though not of him," she added hastily, "of one another. Or rather--well, you will see," she said, thinking that indeed in one sense, all were his slaves; but it was a servitude unlike anything that could even have a name.

"No, I truly would like to come," said Judith, "especially now that--" and she looked after her departing mother.

"Now that you cannot slave for her any longer. Never mind; I understand. I think. But, as I say, you will not be slaving for me either, though I am sure that the women will find plenty of work for you to do. And Judith--"

"Yes, Miss?"

"That is exactly what I wanted to say. It is not to be 'Miss' any longer. You are not my personal servant. It is 'Mary' from now on. I am not requiring you to tell lies; but neither is it necessary for you to advertise that you ever were my servant, do you understand? You know all the stories about me--"

"They are false!"

"False or not, they are believed. The point is that there is no reason why you should have the remotest connection with them."

"Do you mean," said Judith tearfully, "that you wish to have nothing to do with me?"

"Not at all," said Mary. "It is simply that you come in fresh--with a good excuse, the cure of your mother, which has no connection with me--and if you choose to strike up a friendship with me, as has without the slightest doubt already been observed, then let us act as if our acquaintance began here, with me speaking to you about your mother's miracle, as if I were a new person. And I am a new person--almost."

"Oh, no, Miss!"

"Mary."

"Mary," she said shyly. "You are the same! Truly you are!"

"Oh, I fervently hope not!" said Mary.

"It is true! You are just as I knew you to be!"

"I doubt if it is humanly possible for anyone to be as you knew me to be," she said. "Still, I might make some progress in that direction with you here to remind me." Seeing the puzzled look on Judith's face, she said gruffly. "Now go over to the woman you gave the money to, and tell her that you would like to come along with us."

Judith, however, found it difficult to get Susanna's attention, since the whole group was buzzing with the news that Jesus had brought Jairus's daughter back to life.

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