Seventeen

Mary's soul was in turmoil. She longed to believe Jesus, but Judas's words rang louder and louder in her ears: "We have not long to wait, I think. If I am correct, very soon he will be making some claim about himself that only a madman can accept. And he will ask us to accept it with no compromise."

And he knew. "One of you is a devil." But what did that prove? Whatever he was, he could read minds; Judas would admit that. The question was whether God was the personal being Mary had always thought him to be--and if so how he could have a son--or was he the Power Judas spoke of that coursed through Jesus's veins? That Power could possess him as Mary had been possessed by a strange force or forces, and he could be its son, in some sense, she supposed. But it could also drive him mad, as her demons had driven her mad, even while he had the ability to read minds and cure ills of all sorts.

The more she pondered, the more rational Judas's assessment seemed--and the more attractive he became. Her desire for him rose to such a pitch that she finally could not think at all; it simply took over all her consciousness and overwhelmed her with the one great struggle of wanting him desperately, yet knowing that to have him meant to go back to the old life that she had left.

After a number of days of an agony she could not have imagined in her worst moments of torment by the demons, she could not bear it any longer; she would have to get away from here--to go somewhere away from both Jesus and Judas where she could think once again, or at least be distracted enough to become a person and not a battleground littered with shrieking wounded.

--And this reawakened her to Judith's plight, which had been completely forced from her consciousness. She had been planning to leave with her in any case.

But now, she realized, she really had to consult Jesus about this, because it was not right for her simply to disappear, taking Judith with her; and besides, had not Jesus said that he would arrange to have her meet Martha and Lazarus once again?

With great reluctance, having tried twice and used the excuse of Jesus's being occupied with someone else, she encountered him alone and came up to him. He saw her and came over, saying, "Mary, Mary, do not preoccupy yourself thus! Tell me."

"You said, Master, that it might be good for me to leave at some time. I thought . . ." she could not finish.

"Mary, I know you are not deserting me--even if you think you are. I know your concerns, also; in fact, they are shared by almost everyone except Philip, and Philip does not share them because he does not have the capacity. I warned you that this would happen; you see, you too--all of you--must have faith; you must trust that I am what I say I am; and it is not easy, in spite of what you have seen. I will tell you two things that may help: Could the Father have allowed me to do what I do if what I claim is false? Also, were what possessed you simply forces, however powerful, or persons? Keep these in mind as you ponder.

"Still, your instincts are correct; it is doubtless good for you--and for Judith--for you to leave us for a while, at least."

"I am sorry, Master."

"There is nothing to be 'sorry' for. To be engaging in a struggle and not to succumb, and to make a retreat when retreat is rational is praiseworthy, not anything to regret. But I would ask you, now that you know that you will be leaving soon, if you can persevere here a few days longer."

Mary hesitated. "I--suppose I could. If you say that I can."

"Ah. You are beginning to learn where to place your trust. You see, it will be the Feast of the Booths soon, and I think it will be time for me once again to appear in Jerusalem. But it will now be difficult, and I will not announce my intention, because they are already plotting to kill me--oh, yes, they are, you need not protest--but my time will not come quite yet, unless I deliberately seek it out. And there is always the possibility--but, despite everything--but I must not close off the possibility.

"But what I wished to say to you is that if you are willing to wait a short while, and if I assure you that nothing fearsome will happen during that while, perhaps you could come with me to Jerusalem after the festival begins, when everyone is distracted; and if so, I might save you some awkwardness by reintroducing you to your brother and sister during the feast."

"I know--I know not what to say," said Mary.

"Say nothing. Simply do not be so worried," said Jesus.

This was, of course, another one of those commands which could not be obeyed without another miracle comparable to casting out the devils in the first place. But she was not required to succeed, apparently, only to try; and so she decided to forget about who Jesus was for these few days, and concern herself with the future.

It had not occurred to her to wonder what her reception might be in her family; but now the prospect of seeing Lazarus and Martha--both her parents must be dead, or Jesus would of a certainty have mentioned them--confronted her as considerably more than "awkward." What could she say to the inevitable question?

--Well, it would have to be faced; she would live through it somehow. She hoped they would.

But the immediate problem was Judith; it was essential to persuade her to come with Mary, even though it was not at all obvious that she would face with alacrity the idea of Mary's rejoining her family, which might make her position even worse than it was now, with the family and their servants fawning over long-lost Mary, and Judith a supernumerary mouth to feed. But there was nothing to do but present the matter to her and see what happened.

"Yes, Miss?" she said at Mary's call. Mary had never been able to break her of this; but that was all to the good now, she supposed.

"I am not--you may have noticed that I have--that my health does not seem to be up to this kind of life," said Mary.

"You do seem quite different, Miss," said Judith--and then realized some of the implications of her remark, and quickly corrected herself, "But so much better!" And then, seeing that this was equally open to a bad construction, she said, "I mean, in some ways, Miss. But you do seem a bit worried about something."

"Are you still that afraid of me?"

"Oh, no, Miss!"

"Oh, yes, Miss! But it is of no consequence. The fact is that I am not very well, and I think it best if I go away for a while for my health. I have a brother and sister in Bethany, near Jerusalem, and I thought I would visit them and then stay for a time when the Mas--that is, in a short while."

She paused. Judith's face fell.

Mary let the impact of apparently leaving Judith reach its full peak of intensity, and then went on. "I hate to ask this of you; but if I am to stay there for any length of time, I might be a burden on their household. So I wonder if it would be possible for you to break yourself away from the Master and the people here--for a time, at least--and resume your task as my personal servant."

Judith was only half listening, in her despair. Mary waited until the initial realization came of what she was saying--and it was laughably apparent in the sudden lifting of the face and the glow of the cheeks--and then said, "You see, I had become used to you."

The apologetic tone of Mary's voice still held Judith in check somewhat; at this point, there was confusion and incredulity in her brow as she struggled to believe what she was hearing. Mary added, "If it would not be too much trouble, you understand."

By this time, the realization had come, and she blurted, "Oh no, Miss!" with eyes shining that this was too good to be true. And this look was immediately followed with an expression of canine loyalty that Mary found supremely repulsive.

Mary swallowed the impulse to turn and walk away. After all, Judith could no more help how she felt about her than Mary could help how she felt about Judas. She decided, however, that it would be politic to pretend that she did not see. "I know that it will be hard," she said, "to leave the Master and Galilee; Judea is so different. And it must be doubly hard to take upon oneself once again the tasks of a personal servant, after having been free of them these months. But it would please me. Will you come?"

"Oh, yes, Miss!"

"Good," said Mary, with an asperity she could not control--and saw Judith's eyes sparkle at it. That girl throve on abuse.

"Then we must prepare. It will be some days before I actually leave, I think, and I do not wish to be anything of a burden to my family. I was considering that it would be good to take to them the rest of the gold I have in that chest--and I would also like to sell some things in the house, and the house itself, if possible, because I will never return there. But I am afraid that I will have to ask you to do all this for me--or as much as you are able--because I do not choose to see it again. It has memories I would rather not revive. Do you think you could manage?"

"Oh, yes, Miss--that is, I could try! If you could tell me just exactly what you wished."

And Judith listened intently, full of responsibility, while Mary told her about the gold and about what clothes she wanted to bring back to the camp, and what was to be sold, and how to go about selling--and as Judith offered shy suggestions, Mary realized that she knew more about all this than Mary did. After giving her enough instructions so that she would feel under orders, Mary told her rather brusquely to go and begin, since it was no easy task, and watched her run down the path, half skipping in her glee. Her world had been turned back on its feet.

Mary actually cared not at all whether she would succeed in her enterprise; but it would be a good thing to have the gold. She foresaw that, though Martha was the younger sister, she had been in charge of the house in Bethany now since her mother had died, and, while she might welcome Mary as a relative, she would take umbrage if Mary did not help with the management of the household, and be even more indignant if Mary were to assume her rightful position as the elder--and Mary could see from her experience here in the camp that she had neither the interest nor the talent for managing household matters. No, it would be better for her to be there more or less as she was here, a kind of guest, and the money--and Judith--would more than make up for the inconvenience. Money, especially a great deal of it, tended to soften inconvenience considerably.

There were only two events of any note that occurred before Jesus actually went to Jerusalem; two events, that is, beyond the stories and the daily cures which were just as miraculous as ever, but had become so commonplace as not any longer even to raise an eyebrow.

The first was that once, as she was by her tent looking at one of her robes to pack, she turned around suddenly for some reason, and thought she caught sight of Judas turning away, as if he had been looking at her. He walked off, and she took two steps toward him before checking herself, realizing that there was no possible way she could ask him if he had been watching her or not--and that he would obviously regard a woman's opening a conversation when he had never spoken to her as an affront past endurance.

It could not be said that it reopened her wound, since it had never closed. But the bleeding redoubled, so that she could not be still, and had to leave the encampment and walk through the woods--all the while hoping that Judas would be doing the same thing, and hating herself for hoping so, and then realizing that she was anxious to return in case he were there and not here. Judith, who could have rescued her by asking some more of the questions about her belongings, was not about at the time, since she was seeing to the sale of the house; and so Mary had to fight it out by herself.

In one sense, it was not much of a struggle, since even if she gave in, she would be in exactly the same position she was in now, full of a desire that could not be fulfilled--except on the fantastic assumption that Judas wanted her and had as little control of himself as she had. This fact did not make the feeling any weaker, however, and she had to do something until it subsided somewhat.

It is perhaps fortunate that the human constitution is such that any single experience, sustained long enough, gradually shatters into distractions. In Mary's case, the emotion of seeing Judas possibly taking an interest in her made her want to think of him; and at first, the feeling was strong enough that, in spite of her resistance, he dominated her mind. But after a while, other thoughts began creeping in, and without realizing it, she began concentrating to keep her attention on Judas--and it became more and more of an effort to have him in front of her mental vision all the time, as practical matters intruded--also colored with the emotions she was feeling, and adding touches of their own, which took her attention away. Eventually, she found by default that she had achieved the goal she was striving vainly for at the beginning, though now she was overcome by it almost against her inclinations.

The other event of note was not really an event but a person. Jesus was preaching in a synagogue, with Mary standing near the doorway, near where the crowd that had come to hear him was overflowing. There was a stirring from outside, and eventually word came through to the front that Jesus's mother and relatives were at the door, wanting to see him.

"Who is my mother?" said Jesus when he heard this, "and who are my relatives?" He raised his hand and waved it over the congregation. "Here are my mother and relatives. Anyone who listens to what God says and acts on it is my mother and my sister and my brother."

Nonetheless, he curtailed his discourse and went outside, almost brushing Mary as he passed through the crowd. Mary followed, curious as to what the mother of such a person would be like.

"I would not disturb you," said a calm, alto voice from a woman whose back was to Mary, "but they insisted that they wished to speak with you as soon as possible--and finally, I told them I would see what I could do."

"They understood well the best approach," said Jesus. Then he turned to a group of two or three others who were with the woman. "But you knew that there was no necessity for this. I am still what I was; I have not changed from the time we played at castles and soldiers in these very streets. I am not some Caesar, who grants audiences."

"True," said a thin, pale man, half a head taller than Jesus. He was a little younger, it seemed, perhaps in his late twenties. He fingered his robe nervously, and temporized, "It was the crowd. We tried to get by them to see you, and could not force our way in--and we thought that if you knew we were outside, you would come out to meet us."

It was obvious that this was a half-truth, perhaps even a little less. At least in this man's case, the fact that his playmate had become a miracle-worker and a preacher of such intense power had intimidated him.

"Actually," said a very brown man whose beard was beginning to be grizzled, though his hair was still black. He had enormous eyebrows and a nose rather more sharp than most, "I was the one who wanted to see you before I left to go back to Alexandria. We are both too busy, are we not?"

"I do seem to be rather occupied at present, James," replied Jesus. "I am sorry I did not make more leisure to have a long chat. You leave soon?"

"On the morrow, I fear. Business. But I have heard much about you--in fact, there are a few stirrings as far away as Egypt, would you believe, and not simply among the relatives you have there, either. Not much, you understand, but your name begins to be mentioned now and again. And that was my real motive for speaking to you. You must leave this place for Judea so that you will have an audience for what you do. People do not do great deeds in secret, they want to be noticed. If you are a magician, you must go show yourself to the world."

The others nodded, and the first one said, "The Festival of the Booths is coming. You could come down with us. We would be delighted to have you."

Jesus smiled at them, and said, "Thank you for your concern, Joses--to all of you," with a special nod at James, "but the right time has not come for me yet. For you, any time would be a good time, because the world does not hate you. But the fact is that it hates me, because what I do proves to it that its deeds are evil."

James tried to make a demurrer, and Jesus answered his thought, "No, I am deadly serious. You go down to the festival; I cannot accompany you, I am afraid."

They made polite noises of insistence, but Mary could see that their hearts were not really in it. The rumors of Jesus's wild statements had doubtless reached them, and these last remarks of his tended more than anything to confirm suspicions that he might indeed be mad.

"Well," said James, "I thought it a good idea to propose it; but I can see that it has already occurred to you, and doubtless you have good and sufficient reason for what you are doing. As to me, of course, I must go and make myself ready for the journey. Some one of these days, we must get together and talk. And if you ever do come down to Alexandria, my house, as always, is open; and you can be sure that I will put in a word in certain circles and see to it that you are well received. From what I have been hearing, if you continue as you have been doing, there will not be a sick person left in Galilee or any of the surrounding countryside."

The others murmured assent, and each found an excuse to leave. They clearly did not know what to make of this new person, for all of his protestations that he had not changed.

Finally, only Jesus' mother remained, greeting all the students, who were overjoyed to see her--especially young John. She walked back with them to the place where they were staying, which was not an encampment this time, but various houses in and around Capernaum. The mother apparently was staying there also, not in Nazareth.

As they walked along, with Mary more or less beside her, but with two or three others intervening, Mary studied her, wondering in what lay her charm. She was rather small even for a woman, and quite delicate of feature, something one did not expect from a Galilean wife--and then Mary remembered that she, like her husband--what was his name? Joseph?--were direct descendants of David. Mary had heard that one time when there was a discussion of Jesus's credentials as the Prince. The husband had died recently, she remembered to have heard. So her origins, at least, were Judean, not Galilean.

She was handsome enough, Mary thought, and reflected that somehow the word fit her better than "beautiful," because there was a quiet dignity, almost a royalty, about her demeanor that belied the connotation of sexual attractiveness that "beautiful" contained. Not that she was aloof; she replied to what was said to her with direct simplicity, in a rather soft but well-modulated voice, and volunteered information from her own experience with that unself-consciousness good conversationalists have that assumes that the experience itself--and not that one has had it--contributes to the conversation, and will be of interest to the listeners.

But there was something about her face. Some lack in it that appeared on every other face Mary had ever seen that had passed even into the beginning of adulthood. If one were not attentive, one might take it for naivete, or even idiocy; but the tone and content of her remarks belied this. What was it?

Finally it occurred to Mary that what was missing was any sign of preoccupation; there were no worry-lines on that face, though it was not really a young face--she must have been well into her forties, judging by Jesus' age. There were smile lines and laugh lines, and sympathy lines, which blossomed as Philip told the story of how he had been teased in the matter of the loaves of bread; but there were no lines of dread of the morrow.

And if Jesus was during his young life essentially what he was now, why should there be? He clearly believed that he could do anything, and a glance at her as she looked over at him made it abundantly clear that she believed the same--if anything, more fervently than even he. When Mary saw the look, she understood what it meant to say that a woman worshiped her son. She was obviously in awe of him, however friendly she might be with him; she had mastered the art of relating to him which his other relatives lacked so woefully; it was not a mother's look, really, in which the child was "hers"; it was more that she was absolutely, completely, his. And yet, it was not Judith's canine fawning; if he were to speak, she would not say, "Yes, my Master," and blindly rush off to do what he told her; she would use her mind, and make suggestions. But when she understood what he meant, and knew what he wanted, then if he told her to slit her throat--or eat the meat of his body--and she knew he meant it literally, she would carry out his command without a moment's hesitation.

Yes, he had completely taken God's place in her mind. When Mary saw the idolatrous expression, the thought occurred to her that if Jesus considered himself God, this was doubtless not a sudden idea brought on by his awareness of his uncanny powers; it would have been hard to live with his mother and not acquire the notion.

Granted, he almost deserved it. Mary wished he fully did.

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