Thirteen

there followed a period of several weeks which Mary always looked back on afterwards as a time of immense peace.

Not that life was boring; far from it. When Jesus was not telling stories and filling their heads with enigmas, he was doing things that made the wildest story dull by comparison: asking a man to stretch out his withered hand, and having it grow to normal as he did so, driving out even herds of devils--which incidentally made their number known by infesting a herd of hogs, which drowned themselves in the lake, frightening their Gentile owners into begging him to leave before he cleansed the whole countryside. (Mary felt a twinge of jealousy that another had had even more devils in him than she; and though she quickly suppressed the thought as not only unworthy but ridiculous, it did rankle, in spite of her.)

The Master even cured lepers with no more fanfare than a touch of his hand--something which caused an intake of breath in those who saw him about to do it, and a sigh of relief when, instead of the infection's spreading to him, the healthy glow of his own skin communicated itself to the poor sufferers.

What Mary noticed, however, was that everything--or almost everything--seemed to have a point beyond mere pity for the victims he relieved. He seemed to select among those he cured, insisting, among other things, that there be a display of faith that he could do it before he would effect a cure, and stressing that it was the faith on the other person's part which performed the cure, almost (though he never said this) rather than his power. Mary herself could attest that faith in him was not always necessary, since the devils had been driven out of her before she had had a chance to believe that he could work miracles.

But it was paradoxically interesting. One had, apparently, to have the belief that Jesus had the power to perform the miracle, not the simple belief that a miracle "could happen"; and yet Jesus would claim that it was this belief in the recipient that was responsible. Mary then realized with something of a shock that this had occurred in her case after all. Not with the devils, but afterwards. She now realized that if she had not believed that in fact her sins could be forgiven by him, they would not have been forgiven; and she remembered the struggle that led up to that belief. She had first of all to believe that it made sense to say that her sins could be forgiven at all; but then that Jesus was the only one who could do it.

But was it that belief gave him the power, or was it that he refused to exercise the power except upon those who believed? Remembering the black whirlpools behind his eyes, she was inclined to think that he withheld his power out of some kind of respect for those he could exercise it upon, so as not to force himself upon them--though in the matter of the devils, he forced himself upon her, did he not? But then, the devils themselves had such control over her at that time that there she was barely a person, and was he forcing himself upon her or upon the devils? And after all, she had wanted to free herself from them, by the only means she could imagine: killing herself. So perhaps he was doing her will after all.

But why all this? What was the ultimate point? It sounded as if he were trying to prepare people for this new Kingdom which would be instituted soon--obviously with himself as King, though he never said as much; for him it was God who was to be King. But then why did he insist on secrecy so often for the most spectacular cures? Why, for instance, had he acted as if Jairus's daughter were not dead at all, and that he was simply waking her from sleep or a coma?

It all did seem to be leading gradually, step by step, somewhere--toward this Kingdom, whatever it was. It was as if his purpose was perfectly clear to him, as were the steps he required to achieve it; but everyone else was too dense to see what it could be. Certainly Mary was as puzzled as Matthew about the nature of the Kingdom he kept speaking of. All the women, of course, had a thousand theories about it, most of them harebrained, but none of the views Mary heard, whether from the women or from overhearing the discussions among the men, could make sense out of everything Jesus was doing and saying--while still everyone was as convinced as Mary was that it did somehow all make sense.

The women, Judith included, quickly got on Mary's nerves. Several of them liked her, though many did not, and not simply because of her past; she had little use for fools, and, like all groups, this had its share of fools. She tried to restrain herself, but it was too easy for her tongue to be surprised into action by someone's particularly inane remark; and instead of ironic innuendo, at which so many were skilled, she simply blurted out an incisive opinion; and her sharp wit inspired terror in all but a very few.

Judith still doted on her, of course; and Mary found confirmed what she had known before but paid no attention to: that Judith was by nature a slave, living not her own life, but the lives of those she knew. Mary was her mistress-in-chief, almost her god, but there were one or two others (the most domineering of the group) that Judith also attached herself to in a kind of secondary way, as they gave her chores to do to relieve their own burdens. Like all natural slaves, she was ready to do anything for any of them, and hurt if any of them presumed to take care of their own needs; she never ventured an opinion before one of her chosen masters had voiced it first, and then she carried it into the discussion as if it were the Roman eagle leading the legions into battle; any success of one of her favorites was the source of more satisfaction on her part than if she had accomplished it herself, and any failure or setback set off a flurry of activity (often unwelcome, truth to be told) to right the wrong.

Mary found this attention irksome in the extreme. She obviously needed no one to do verbal battle for her, even if Judith had been up to the task; and she increasingly found--somewhat to her surprise--that she preferred doing for herself the daily ablutions and tidyings of her person and personal space. Judith may have been an excellent servant, but Mary found it difficult to follow the Master's lead in serving rather than being served when Judith insisted on relieving her of all tasks.

But it was too difficult to fight both her own nature and Judith's at the same time; since Mary had not the slightest interest in engaging in long discussions and disputes about what was to be eaten at dinner and how best to pack the group's belongings, and since she knew nothing whatever about such things in any case, it was too easy to leave this to Judith--who made no secret of her attachment to Mary, in spite of Mary's warning--and to turn herself into a sort of female man, sitting at the edge of the men and listening to Jesus, while the other women took care of the practical matters.

They complained behind her back, often carefully within earshot, of course, and loudly enough so that she would have to be as deaf as old Esther not to hear them; and the men also looked askance at her, especially in the beginning. But Jesus gave no sign that it bothered him; and if he did not mind, then let everyone else complain.

Judith, as was her wont, initially came running to her defense; but Mary soon put a stop to it for Judith's sake. What she was doing was indefensible from a social point of view; and while Mary cared nothing for the social point of view, she recognized that it had its validity, and she did not want to turn Judith into a rebel--if that were even conceivable. There was also the matter of finding her a man fairly soon, and while David might not be ideal, because, though a hard worker, he had no independent resources, Judith for some reason had no use for him. He did seem somewhat interested in her, since Mary's rather constant association with Matthew put him often in Judith's way; but it never seemed to develop.

Mary the Matchmaker even brought up the subject once, when David did something-or-other that seemed designed to make Judith notice him. Mary pointed out later what he had done, and Judith said, "Yes, I wish he would not make such a nuisance of himself."

"Judith really!" exclaimed Mary. "It was a simple kindness."

"I require no 'kindness' from someone who has been dead!" she said with a certain disdain, as if his death had been a fault rather than a misfortune.

"Surely you do not believe that he killed himself!" said Mary, painfully conscious that Matthew was in earshot.

"I care not. Such are not people I wish to associate myself with."

And that was that. Mary could find nothing to say, and while Judith never openly spurned David, it was clear that David would make no headway with her. Mary could only shake her head, and wonder what it was about being dead and brought back to life that Judith found repugnant. Perhaps if she had known him beforehand, then it would not seem as if he was somehow unclean.

As to others, it was a truism that no man would even look at a woman, even one as demurely pretty as Judith, or even as strikingly beautiful as Mary herself, if she gave the impression that she was self-sufficient. But though Judith could do anything she turned her hand to, and do it well, Mary decided not to be concerned; as soon as she formulated the thought, she realized that "self-sufficient" was as far from Judith's nature as "demure" was from her own.

She tried for a while to deny to herself that one of her reasons for joining--or rather attaching herself to the periphery of--the men was that Judas was there. This finally dawned on her one afternoon as she realized that, while she thought she had been listening to Jesus, she had been looking at the back of Judas's head the whole time, without the slightest idea of what was being said--without any idea, in fact, about anything.

She simply could not get the man out of her mind; it was more and more as if he were something that had once belonged to her, which she had lost. He could not, she thought, have ever been one of her clients, because she had fought like a tiger against ever being attached to any of them, even while she used every wile to make them attached to her; but there was no instance in which she looked up to a man as she seemed to remember looking up to this one: as someone who could solve her problems and complete her reality. Jesus had solved her problems, to be sure; but he was anything but a complement to her reality; there was no question that he, though serving her, was Master, and she was--yes, his now willing slave.

After this, she avoided the men for a while, in fear of --what? As she resumed staying with the women, who got more and more on her nerves (and on whose nerves, it must be said, she encroached just as much), she realized that this was no solution. In the first place, it did nothing to remove him from her consciousness; and in the second place, it occurred to her that it was absurd to deprive herself of Jesus' teaching because she happened to be attracted to someone else who was also listening--and who paid absolutely no attention to her. Even if she wanted to seduce him, he was apparently impervious.

And, in spite of her desire itself, which she could not control, there was really no question of her trying to carry it into action. She never deliberately sat close to him or tried to call his attention to herself. Besides, she reasoned, his nearness eased somewhat the ache (while in another sense it exacerbated it), and after all, the Master was also there, causing all sorts of distractions. Perhaps with time, she would learn to live with this yearning, as the rheumatic older people learned to live with their pain, and discount it. And, after a first week or two, as a kind of experiment, during which sleep came late because of fantastic dreams of what she and Judas would do once he noticed her, there did seem to be a kind of truce that she made with her emotions.

She found that now the women rather welcomed her absence from their midst, once they had had that brief taste of her; and so she was more or less left alone to tag along after the men. Fortunately, Matthew had befriended her and would often talk with her, and a few others would even come to speak with Matthew while she was there--though most, she could see, did not know what to do with her, and so for practical purposes ignored her, more or less politely. They could see that Jesus had no trouble speaking with women, but they had no idea how to go about it themselves. Matthew, on the other hand, simply seemed to regard her as another person, doubtless because he was familiar with being an outcast, and so she had many profitable conversations with him.

Now that she was more or less among the men, she could see that Judas was not necessarily the only handsome one, though he was (she thought with a foolish sense of pride) far and away the best looking. But young John, the fiery lad, the one who stood up for her on that first night, who must not be far away from his bar mitzvah, was quite well-favored, and showed promise of being almost beautiful, once his beard thickened and his face lost some of its childish roundness.

He was a study in contrasts: strong as a little ox, and yet sensitive and insightful, with manners and gestures that belied the rumor Mary heard that he had simply been a fisherman. She noticed him one day, looking at her from a distance, in an objective kind of way, studying her, as it were. She did not let him see that she was aware of him, and studied him in her turn. It looked as if he were trying to find out what made her attractive, and the temptation was great to display her wares before him--at which she blushed and hid her face from him, realizing that even this was a gesture that she had perfected for attracting men. She would have to accustom herself to the realization that everything about her was poison.

Still, John in some way looked--how to put it?--impervious. She was more of an academic exercise to him than she could remember to have been to men before. Perhaps because of his age, she thought.

And then Judas walked by between them, and caught the attention of both.

Later, she asked Matthew about his being a fisherman, and he said, "Well, he was a fisherman, true, but his father owned the fishing business, in partnership with the Rock and Andrew; and they had quite a few hired hands. Zebedee is actually a rather prominent person in Capernaum's social circles, and John, I understand, was being groomed for some kind of a career in Judea. They know the family from which they say the next high priest--a man named Caiphas--is to be named, and I gather that, after a certain apprenticeship as a worker on the boats, John was to go to Jerusalem to study. In fact, as I remember, he had taken some time off last year to go to Judea with Andrew and the Rock to meet a new prophet--also named John, as it happens--to find out what his bathing people in the Jordan meant. And that was how he met Jesus, actually."

Evidently, the older brother James was the one being trained to carry on the family fishing business--at least until Jesus intervened. Mary asked why they were both here, and Matthew said, "Ah. Well, you see, shortly after that little excursion into Judea, John was back helping the family, and they were sitting in their boat one day mending their nets with their father Zebedee when Jesus showed up in Galilee, and, looking straight at the father, told the two of them "Come now and follow me, and it will be human beings you catch from now on." Zebedee, who had heard of him from John, was rather expecting it in John's case, and you could see that he thought it rather much that he was to be deprived of both of his children. But there it is. When Jesus says something, who is to say nay? Besides, he had just done the same thing with both the Rock and Andrew (he wasn't "the Rock" at the time, of course), and so the whole business looked as if it were defunct anyway. But Zebedee is a resourceful man. He found others, and the business is still going, though quite reduced from what it was--and certainly what it would have been. But he told them last week as they passed by that if things did not work out here, they would have something to fall back on. But in point of fact, it is easy to see that he expects that they will be very high officials in this new Kingdom the Master is forming. He expects them to be second and third only to Jesus himself; he can see how fond Jesus is of John, in spite of his age--and frankly, if Jesus were to choose him, it would not be an unwise move."

"I know not," said Mary. "It seems to me from what I have seen that he would make a better poet than chancellor."

"Ah, but you know very little of John. True, he has a temper. So does James, for that matter, and he cares for words--as I do, I must confess, though he is a better writer in Aramaic than I, though of course, I surpass him in ability to write Greek--but he is extremely sharp, and a good judge of men. He might be another David, in fact, he is so versatile."

"I had not noticed that in David, particularly."

"Oh no, I meant King David, not young David over there. He was originally merely a shepherd, you remember, but quickly became a great warrior, poet, and king. I know not John's prowess in war, but his physique argues in favor of it, and he certainly has a way of expressing himself."

"That is a great compliment indeed. You must like him a good deal."

"I do, in fact, but that is beside the point. He is an outstanding young man; and he will make a considerable mark in the new Kingdom, you may be sure--though, of course, I do not think as the second in command, because it rather looks as if the Rock has been chosen for that post, as I mentioned."

"That is really quite peculiar," said Mary. "He is certainly not the one I would have chosen."

"Nor I. --Nor, in fact, the Master himself, if it comes to that. I told you that he seemed quite surprised that it was the Rock who evidently gave him the sign that the one he calls the Father had singled him out. As I say, we took it as a joke at first, and that is why he has the nickname; but it seems that the Master was perfectly serious."

"Yes," said Mary, reflecting. "From what I can see, he jokes, but his jokes are never just a joke."

"Perhaps Simon is Gideon's men who lapped the water like dogs. That is what I think."

"Gideon's men? What do you mean?"

"Do you not recall? Gideon was told to take his men to the water to drink, and the Master chose only the three hundred who lapped the water like dogs, and it was those few who won the battle, so that the people would know that it was not by force of arms but by the Master's power. I think Simon made a statement that meant something true that went far beyond what Simon understood it to mean--because I think that Simon, frankly, has never really had a remarkably clear notion of much of anything--and the Master picked him to show that, even if he leaves us, he will still be with us, because we will know that what the Rock does he does not do by himself, because it will be something the Rock could not do of himself. --Either that, or the Master is a poor judge of men, and that I find impossible to believe."

"It does seem that it must be something of the sort," said Mary. "I would have singled out James, myself."

"He certainly would make a good leader. Or Andrew, since he has a commanding presence about him, as doubtless you have seen by now--though Andrew perhaps rather lacks imagination. But this is consistent with the way the Master acts. You notice, for instance, that I am not our group's treasurer."

"I wondered about that. One would think that you, of all people, would have experience with money."

"I have handled it all my life--and a good deal more than we have here, also. And I have had to keep very careful track of it, you may be sure. But, of course, there are reasons why it is not necessarily in my best interest that I be treasurer."

Mary did not quite know what to say, since obviously he had touched upon a topic that might easily be forbidden ground. She wondered if he were leaving her an opening for her to ask him to confide in her; but she felt that she, of all people, was not the one to be giving others advice on their moral dilemmas, and so she simply kept silence for a while, and then finally said, "Who is the treasurer?"

"Judas." Mary's heart gave a leap at the name. Matthew was continuing "--by far the most intelligent among us; he can analyze the Master's stories and actions better than anyone else. I would not say he is always correct, but he is certainly always profound. He agrees with me, by the way, about Simon--and about me and him. He knows that I am better qualified to be treasurer than he, because his mind is of the theoretical type, not the rather dull kind one requires to keep accounts. But he thinks he was chosen to demonstrate the Master's idea that money is not to be thought of as of any importance--since he himself never gave a moment of thought to it before now--and that the task, whatever it is, that the Master wants us ultimately to do is so far beyond the powers of any human being that it is of no consequence whom he chooses for what duty. We are all totally incompetent."

Mary laughed, and then there was another silence. "Even if he chose a woman," she said finally, almost to herself.

"To be one of his Emissaries? I had not thought of that." He looked at her. "I suppose it would depend on what we are in fact being ultimately chosen for. Simon the Revolutionary thinks that it is for being commanders of an army, when the time is right; in that case, the analogy with Gideon's men is singularly apt--or rather, not, because the three hundred chosen at least knew how to use a sword. In our case, it would obviously demonstrate the miraculous powers of God, because nothing short of a miracle could make most of us into anything that would not be as likely to chop our own legs off as anything else."

"But even in that case," she answered, "they say that women fight somewhere north of Greece, I believe it is. And if he is going to transform us all miraculously into warriors, what difference would the sex make?"

"You are serious, are you not?"

"I know not whether I would call it 'serious.' I am merely thinking."

"You must remember that all of this supposes that Judas and I are correct in how he chooses people. And, now that you have brought the matter up, were he to choose you as one of his Emissaries, I, for one, would have no problem; you have a mental capacity that is probably second among us only to that of Judas. --Though I confess, many would see it as upsetting the proper order of things. But then, what is the proper order of things in this new Kingdom, if there is to be no disease or death in it, as he certainly seems to be implying? 'Change your way of thinking' indeed!" he laughed. "If it involves something like this, it is no wonder he is approaching it gradually! --But seriously," he continued, looking down at her earnest face, "I think he chose us Twelve, not because we would make the best Emissaries, but because it would be best for us to be his Emissaries, however competent or incompetent we were--and because we happened to be in the way at the proper moment. Some such thing."

"It is a strange way to begin a Kingdom."

"Everything is strange. But it makes sense, in a way, that if we are to demonstrate God's working in us by the fact that we are in ourselves unsuited to the task he assigns, it really is not much of an honor to be part of the inner circle."

"When you put it in that light," she laughed, "it is almost a sign of competence to be left out."

"There may be more to that than you--or I, for that matter--are aware," he replied. "But of course, if that is indeed the case, then it puzzles me why Judas is one of the Twelve. He is exactly the kind of person one would choose for the ideal follower of a great new religious leader: learned in the Law, intelligent, astute, an excellent speaker, good looking, hard-working--everything."

Mary's heart glowed as she heard Judas praised. "Perhaps," she said, "it is to show that the competent are not necessarily to be excluded."

"That may be. In fact, it might explain something that puzzled me in the very first story he told, about a farmer sowing seeds. Some fell on good ground, he said, and these multiplied themselves thirty or sixty or a hundredfold. The ground, as he explained, were the listeners to the seeds of his sayings; but what I found odd was that he did not seem concerned about the different yields. I asked him about it afterwards, and he said I was correct."

"What is this that you are so intent on discussing?" said a voice.

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