Eight

At first, she simply ran aimlessly--away from the demons rather than toward any goal; though she knew she must find the prophet. But as she began to lose her breath, she regained a piece of her mind. Where? Where? It was about to be night; he would have to stay somewhere--where he had stayed after he left her, perhaps, and he was headed toward Magdala.

He would have to eat. Did not Judith say something about Simon, in that distant past before she had become this empty shell? She must have done, since Mary remembered thinking of asking Simon about him when next he came to her--and the thought of his coming almost made her vomit as she ran on, now instinctively in the direction of Simon's house.

The sun was beginning to submerge behind the mountain in the west, an enormous inflamation, a burn in the now green skin of the sky; it would set fully in a few moments. Would they return as soon as it disappeared, or would they be forced to wait until twilight--so short this time of year--lapsed into actual darkness? Thought vanished in abject fear. She ran on.

Almost within sight of Simon's house, she had to stop to catch her breath; she simply could not take another step. She could feel them panting at the back of her neck, and actually looked around, but saw nothing. She must go on!

Fortunately, it was downhill from the path she was on, and not far, and, stumbling and wheezing and without realizing it uttering little wails of terror, she made what seemed her agonizingly slow way, while the sun sank down to an elongated half-egg, fortunately moving as slowly as she. It was running in a nightmare; her clothes hampered her like water.

She must meet him before he went inside, or the door would be barred, and all would be lost! Simon's slaves would never let anyone like her enter! She could see the house, and there seemed to be a crowd at the front; he would be there, he had to be! He knew everything, he knew she wished forgiveness, and he had said if she wished it, he would forgive her, and so he would be there!

--But the crowd did not seem to have a center. It was simply a number of people, waiting and talking, as if--

She scrambled up to the first man she saw, and clutched at his robe; he shrank away in disgust as he turned and saw her, but she cared nothing. "This prophet--" she panted, "what is his name?--Has he arrived yet?"

The man flung her hand from off his garment and turned away, but through the pounding in her ears she heard a voice from somewhere say, "He is inside at supper."

"Is she not--?" said another. And another, "She is! That is the one who--"

"Let me by!" she cried. "I must see him!" She struggled against a man who was trying to hold her back. His grip was strong, but her fear and her need were stronger. She broke free.

"She has a demon still!" he exclaimed, holding his hand. There was shouting and a general running to and fro, some trying to get at her to stop her, others to distance themselves as far as possible. Someone raised his voice above the tumult, "Let her by! If the Master wishes to see her, you will not be able to stop her! Let her by!"

There were protests, and a few still reached out at her, but she saw nothing but the door, and, clutching her jar of payment, she pushed them aside as a boat pushes flotsam from its way in the water. She pounded on the door with the jar, and then stopped, afraid she would break it and spill the perfume before she could hand it to the prophet.

Then, without quite knowing how, she found herself in the dining-room, with the large U-shaped table and the divans ranged round it. The servers were passing on its inside, laying out the food, and ten or twelve diners lay on their left sides, left elbows on the table, heads propped upon their hands, feet hanging over the edge of the divan. Most sat half upright in shock as she entered, staring at her. There was total silence, deafening after the din outside. She stood there, bewildered.

Suddenly, an enormous wave of shame swept over her. She had never before felt like a prostitute, but the looks on everyone's faces showed her what she was far more eloquently than any denunciation. Still no one spoke.

But there was one look that was not condemnation. There, in the place of honor in front of Simon's chest, was the prophet, with a look as if he were saying to himself, "So this is how it was to come about," a look almost of mild amusement, as if he knew what was to happen, and yet was unaware of the details. But what mattered was that he did not denounce her or order her to leave, and she knew that she was safe. Everyone else disappeared from her consciousness. She took a tentative step in his direction--and then became fully aware of the situation: who and what she was, and who he was, and how little she deserved anything but a whipping; and she fell down at his feet, sobbing, "I am sorry! I am so sorry!" over and over. She grasped his feet in her hands, and wept over them, kissing them, pleading incoherently for forgiveness.

She looked down and saw great streaks of tears in the dust on his feet, and, in terror that he would pull away from this drenching, she looked round frantically for something to wipe them with, something to clean off the mess she was making. The feet did not move.

There on the floor beside her was the jar of oil of nard she had brought for payment. It was liquid; it would cleanse those feet. In a frenzy of haste, she fumbled with the stopper and finally freed it, and then poured the oil over his feet, filling the room with the exotic scent. Still there was no sound except her own weeping and pleas for mercy.

Her long hair had come loose and was falling all about her and the divan, and, without thinking, she took this makeshift towel and began drying them. It was not very satisfactory, but there was much of it, and as her sobs began to subside, his feet, which still had not moved, looked presentable, if still somewhat damp. They glistened, as did her hair in streaks, from the oil.

She sat back on her haunches, now in total silence, except for a gasp or two from her dying paroxysms, gradually daring to raise her eyes to him and the others lying round the table.

Everyone was staring at the prophet, to see what he would do. He turned and spoke to Simon behind him. "Simon," he said, "I have something to say to you."

A look of terror flashed onto the man's face for an instant, as he met Mary's eyes. But it was only for an instant. The expression of supercilious disdain she knew so well replaced it immediately, and if she had not been preternaturally aware of everything in the room, she would have missed it. "Rabbi," he said in a tone that could have been deferential or could have been mockery, "Speak." He looked again at Mary and then through her, and she realized that he was thinking that even if she exposed him, he would deny it and everyone would believe him.

"There were two men who owed money to a banker. One owed five hundred silver denarii, and the other fifty; but neither had anything to pay the debt, so he released both of them from it. Which one do you think will love him more?"

He looked at Simon fixedly, and the terror returned into Simon's eyes. But the prophet said nothing, though to both Mary and Simon it was obvious that he knew the truth; and Simon then divined that the story was probably to be a private code between them, and so he stroked his neat black beard in the way she had often seen him do when he was considering whether some reply of his would lead him into a trap. After a pause, he said, "I imagine it was the one who was released from more."

"You are right," said the prophet. He turned to Mary, and then back to Simon. "Do you see this woman? I came into this house, and you did not give me water to wash my feet. She washed my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You did not give me the customary kiss; she has been kissing my feet since the moment she came in. You had no scent ready for my hair, as a good host would; she has perfumed my feet with myrrh. And that, I tell you, is why she is released from a great many sins, because she has a great deal of love. A person who has not had much forgiven does not love much."

He looked at Simon once again, as if to see if he too would ask to be forgiven. Simon at one point seemed about to speak, then thought better of it, and simply nodded.

A great deal of love? thought Mary. She, who had had nothing but hate in her heart for fifteen years and more?

He turned back to Mary and said simply, "Your sins are gone." And then she realized what he meant. For this, she would die for him--she would go through the torments she had been through twenty times over and laugh--for him. The one who could forgive sins had cast his eyes upon her, and she was new! She, who deserved nothing but the agonies she had just been freed from!

She bowed down, overcome, her face almost on the floor, as the room broke out in murmurs, "Who is he to be releasing people from their sins?" She straightened up indignantly to defend him, and he held up a hand. "Your faith has saved you. Go in peace."

She stood up and looked about her, confused. Once again there was dead silence. Go? Go where?

--But she could not keep him longer from his supper. Who was she? She turned and went out into the night.

As she heard the door close behind her someone said, "Behold! She has been driven from his sight! As I told you!" Another chimed in, "I knew that we should not have let her by!"

There was an ominous movement of the small group toward her, with cries to the effect, "Let us show her what one does to those who defile the Master's presence!" when the door opened again, and a slave put out his head saying, "The Master wishes this woman to have a safe escort to wherever she chooses to go." He looked at her in disgust for an instant, and disappeared inside.

"Safe escort!" "As if she were a princess!" "It cannot be!" "Look at her! We know who she is!" "She is the worst of her lot!" They came no closer, but neither did anyone step forward to help her through them, and they formed a wall in front of her. She glanced off to her right, thinking to get round them, and saw a small group of women, with faces, if anything, ten times more menacing.

She bridled at the taunts, which kept coming from all sides, and was about to reply, "Oh, yes, you are all so virtuous, all of you! I know well you virtuous people; in fact I could name some of you I know very well"--and then realized that in fact she could not, which did not mean much--but it recalled her to herself. She was forgiven. She was a new person. She bit her tongue and then said, "You are right. I am a disgrace to womanhood. No one knows how much of one, except one man. And he forgave me. So please, let me pass; I must--" She must what? Go? Back to her house? She stood there, closed her eyes, and teetered slightly.

She felt a hand, not a gentle one, on her shoulder. "You see, madame, it is not quite so simple." She opened her eyes to see a huge brown face sneering not a palm-breadth in front of her. The hand transferred itself to her chin and forced her to look at him, and the stench of his breath almost overwhelmed her. "You think you can go to him as to a magician and be forgiven for what you have done, and all is erased. You can now go back to leading men into--

"Leave her alone!" said a fiery youth, coming up behind him and spinning him round. "The Master said 'Safe escort,' and safe escort she shall have! If he forgave her, who are you to persecute her?"

"Who am I?" he spat out. "I am one who knows right from wrong!"

"You call yourself his student--"

"I call myself the student of no man who allows whores to go unpunished!" He swung his free hand and landed a resounding slap on the young man's cheek. The crowd erupted in noises on both sides, while the youth fell back a step in surprise and pain, holding his face, while the man said, "You call yourself his student, now, do you not? Very well, then turn me the other cheek!"

"I turn you my fist, you lobster! You pig's dropping!--" And suddenly, he checked himself, his face flaming, and stood up to the brownbeard, presenting his cheek. He said in a quiet voice, but full of suppressed passion, "Very well. But if you touch her, it will be a different story."

"It will, will it?" said the man, slapping him once again, now with the back of his hand. "You thought I would not do it, did you not? Now we will see what--"

"That will be enough!" said a huge man in almost a conversational tone, one which took for granted that it would be obeyed. "You, sir, whoever you are, if you do not choose to follow a man who would forgive whores, then I suggest you leave this group; our Master would not be to your liking. John, you are too hot-headed."

"What was I to do? Stand there? No one else made a move!"

"We were here," said the giant calmly, as Mary noticed her attacker backing away as inconspicuously as he could. "Some of us do not move as quickly as you, but we would have managed to see that no harm was done, without the necessity of making a fuss."

"And who put you over us, if I may ask?" said John, his face still red, whether from the slaps or emotion Mary could not tell. He barely reached the other's shoulders, and looked a trifle ridiculous with his head tilted back, talking as if to his chest, he was so close. "I did not hear the Master call you Andrew Rock."

At this the other's face flamed--and Mary could tell that it was embarrassment, not anger. But he still spoke with measured cadences. "If you wish the opinion of Simon Rock, you have only to go in and ask him," he said. "Now let us all stop being silly. We give a fine example of what his students are if we continue thus."

Mary saw that John realized that he had overstepped another line, but that there was no way he could repair the damage without bringing into the open the cause of Andrew's red face; so he turned away and disappeared into the group.

What was the cause? Jealousy? And why was this Simon called "Rock"? Evidently the name meant some kind of a leader. Could it be Simon the Pharisee? --No, not possible. If he were inside, he would have to have been another guest; judging by the sparring that had gone on inside, and knowing what she knew of Simon, Mary was unshakeably certain that he was no follower of--her Master, what a strange thought!--and that it would take much and much for him to ask forgiveness. The thought flitted through her mind that it could never happen, but then, what had happened to her?

"--will bother you now, madame," Andrew was saying in a tone, if not of respect, at least not of hatred. "You may go."

"Thank you," she answered, in a small, uncertain voice, looking around totally at a loss. Evidently, she was to go; she was certainly not welcome here. If they tolerated her--and how many did?--it was purely and simply because the Master had forgiven her. She started off tentatively in the direction of her house, then stopped after taking three steps, looked about with a bewildered expression, and turned to walk in a different direction--anywhere, nowhere, but not there--when a man whose hair was showing the first signs of gray stepped out of the crowd and said, "May I assist you?"

She looked at him with terror, and he laughed. "Please excuse me," he said. "I find it rather amusing now to think that anyone is afraid of me. That is, any longer. I mean, afraid in the way you seem to be. I do not seem to be expressing myself well--Andrew, would you assure her she has nothing to fear from me?"

The giant made some remark which Mary heard only as a kind of rumble, like thunder; her mind did not seem to be able to attend to anything. Her heart was still beating wildly, for some reason she knew not. Certainly this man did not seem frightening.

"Let us leave this mob," he said. "You are overwrought." He took her hand, and she looked up into his jet-black eyes, covered with their enormous eyebrows--and thought she saw The Look she had recognized so often. Instinctively, she looked back in the old way, for just an instant--and then the looks disappeared in the eyes of both, he dropped her hand, and she turned away, and for the first time in decades felt her face flush with shame.

Already! She had just been forgiven, she was another person, and here she was, the same! What had she done to provoke this good man? She was poison. The worst that beast who had tried to drive her off had thought was true! Forgiven or not, death was too good for her!

"Forgive me," she heard him say. Forgive him? She looked up, and the little of his cheeks she could see above his beard were a deep reddish brown. She dared not look back into his eyes, and so could see only his mouth and the beard with wide white streaks down its sides. He was saying something--and saying it, she realized, rather haltingly--but she could not make it out; her attention, for some reason, was fixed on the movements his mouth was making. The tone of his voice was kindly, and the words began to filter through.

"--have realized that you have been through some . . . very unsettling . . . experiences in these days," he was saying, "and it . . . must be very difficult to get your bearings. Please do not think I am trying to take advantage of your . . . confusion."

She realized that he was almost babbling, probably to give himself as much time to get his bearings as to do the same for her. She answered, once again casting her eyes to the ground. "Yes, it is . . . difficult" and immediately bit her lip. Was she again acting like the seductress?

Someone jostled against them with an half-audible remark, whose tone was anything but welcoming, and the man said, "It is far too crowded here for us--you. Come, let us go apart. Believe me, madame, I am safe."

She smiled at the thought that this middle-aged man would think that she felt herself unsafe with him, when she knew so many ways to be "safe" with men in any situation she could imagine--at least the self she had been did. Or was she really still that self, and was all this forgiveness and being a new person the fleeting illusion she had feared? Her soul sank.

"Come. Or is there some place you wish to go? I can take you there."

"No," she said. She thought a moment, and then added. "No. No place." There was no place at all for her now on this side of the grave--and yet he had said that it was not necessary for her to kill herself. What else was there?

"Come with me, then," he said, and made to take her by the arm again, but stopped before his hand reached her. He turned and began walking away. Mechanically, she followed. He dropped back until they were walking side by side through the wooded shadows in the night, with patches of moonlight dappling the little path. Gradually, they left the others behind.

"Do you have some friend you would like to--" and he caught the look on her face.

"To stay with? No, no friend." Not one. She had never realized the lack until this moment; "friend" was not part of her vast vocabulary of hate. "I cannot remember when last I had a friend," she said simply.

"I think I can understand. Until I came here, I was much the same."

She laughed. This kindly gentleman! If he knew what he was saying! She caught herself. "I am sorry," she said. How did one talk to a man one was not trying to seduce?

"You needn't apologize," he said. "I came to see you because I did understand, in my own way. Not that I was involved in your type of sin. But, you see, I used to be a tax-collector."

Now it was his turn to laugh as she instinctively shrank from him. "You see? I do know."

"I am sorry. Who am I to--" she could not finish the sentence. There was a pause.

"I understand this also," he said. "Do not be afraid I will take offense; I would have done, a year ago, but a year of him transforms one. An eyeblink with him transforms one. But you know that."

"I hope so, at least," she said.

"But what I meant to say is that each of us has his own decencies. You probably never defrauded anyone, however much you charged for your--" he let it hang for a moment "--and I used to pride myself on the fact that I never went whoring. Of course, I could not afford to, because I could not bear the thought of any of them rejecting me with scorn because of what I was. Most of the virtues we pride ourselves on are vices in disguise."

There was another pause, while she thought how little he knew. What prostitute would reject anyone, particularly one who must have had so much money? Any prostitute who presumed to "scorn" anyone would very soon starve.

"Were you there when I--?"

"Last night?"

"Was it last night? It seems a year ago."

"Yes. It was quite a frightening thing for us, though we have seen a good deal in our travels with him. That is why so many of them are--not friendly. You terrified them, frankly."

"I did not know, even myself, until . . . a day or two ago, I think. I have completely lost any sense of time. They began to--to let me be aware of them, because . . . well, because of something I had done, and--last night, I was there not to seduce your Master" she added quickly, her face suddenly flaming at the thought--and immediately realized that this was half a lie--"but to make them think that this was why I was beside the cliff; and when I saw him I was going to fling myself over, before they knew and could prevent it." Unless of course, he looked at her, she remembered. How strange to conceive, having seen him, that he would.

"Then that was why he called to you to stop."

"I could not move."

He looked away, pensive. "I had a feeling it was something of the sort. I, too, when he called, had decided that the only thing to do was to kill myself. But, as you discovered, it turned out not to be necessary."

She said nothing. Was it not?

"What?" he said. "Do you find yourself not completely transformed? It is a shock, is it not, to find that you are the same person you left behind. I had much difficulty with that also; for a whole year and more, I would surprise myself thinking unbidden the old thoughts. But he said, once I had the courage to ask him, that of course this would happen, that it was not intended to be easy and simple; I could be forgiven, but not escape what I had made of myself. But that it was of no consequence. As long as I did not embrace this self I had abandoned, it would accompany me like a scar, and eventually would become a badge of honor.

"I confess I do not understand what he meant. It is still a danger to me. At any moment--but no. If he tells me not to be concerned, I will let him concern himself with it." He thought for a while, evidently remembering, and then added, "I suspect he knows that you and I are together now, and that my coming forward was a step in your healing."

Was it? Mary could believe it, that he had arranged this. She could even believe that he was somehow watching them even now--and half of her felt protected, while the other half resented the surveillance. She had far to go in this journey she was beginning. If it was a journey. If she had begun.

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