The Child Madonna - The Virgin Conception

Chapter 23 Who am I?

Although the sun is hidden for a moment behind a swiftly moving cloud, the quality of light is perfect. The late autumn day has a clarity of vision that permits those that would observe the distant horizons with precision. Perhaps it presages the winter rain that soon will fall. The time is noon, the sun is directly overhead even though at this moment we cannot see it. It is temperate. The landscape is empty.

To the left, upstream, the water glints over rocks as it twists between the dun-coloured hills, smooth and bare, flanks rising to a plateau beyond which gorges lead down to Lake Genneseret. Opposite a steeper bare escarpment that hems in the little river forcing it to curve round towards us through the green glade, before it flows away slowly, with more depth tugging at the long green fronds which grow and luxuriate just beneath the surface toward the opening of the valley; to human settlements beyond the next obstacle of lower hills, self-contained and looking southwards.

In the foreground, at our feet, brown leaves drift onto the squelchy mossy bank, just behind us young trees are stripped of the last few vestiges of autumn foliage revealing the intricacy of their veins, exposing their true beauty.

Please, reader, understand my mission. I have to carry out God’s will, enact it. That is my purpose and my role. Have I feelings? Do I share the human bonds and snares of lust and power? Can I love? Please see it through my eyes and judge me if you will!

But have I deceived myself and you, the reader? Am I really the Archangel or Elijah or am I like the god Zeus who transforms himself to human or beast-like disguise to have his way with some virgin of high beauty or modesty? Am I that spirit of God, that element of the Trinity, that some say is that which produces action and reaction within the heart or mind of the believer? Am I that element of the book that is the will and archetypal intent of the author? Or the element which inspires and provokes within the reader the ability to create its own reality and moves to pity, joy, worship or carnal degradation? Am I you, the reader?

Or am I just a man, a spy, taking advantage of a pure naïve young maiden just as her uncle would have it?

The veil overhead, cast by the cloud, is suddenly torn away; the sunlight streaks between the vapour, dazzles on the water’s surface, spotlights the naked figure standing knee-deep in the swirling stream.

But this is no beloved of our imagination. There is a real girl standing there, vulnerable and trembling, experiencing each second as if eternity. Look at her through my eyes. She is just old enough to bear a child; to understand and with consciousness, obey God’s will. And she is just young enough to be a virgin; to retain childish perfection, a natural unspoilt openness untouched by adult wiles or deviousness.

Watch the water surge around her knees, eddying from the firmness of her calves. She does not seek to hide anything from us, because she does not realise we are here. Just be aware that at this moment she is perfect, there are no flaws, nothing to disfigure yet. Her smile is turned inwards, her huge brown eyes laugh and cry and hurt and hope. Her raven hair spills from the one piece of clothing she has forgotten to remove; the crimson band that pulls it back from off her forehead, so that she can see, if she so desires, what will befall her.

She waits, anticipating our next move. At this moment she is water-nymph, mythical naiad, Beatrice, Laura; Rachel, Rebecca, Zipporah, all women at the well; priestess, vestal virgin, sacrifice, wisdom personified. She is a vessel that is without blemish, intact, pure of line, full of inwardness, outwardly composed. She is accepting, soft, tender, feminine; beautiful and utterly passive. Stop dreaming and look!

She is Mariam, oft called Mari, thirteen year old daughter of Anna and the deceased Joachim, ward of Eli, Pharisee of Nazareth, betrothed of Joseph, who at this very moment is carving and fixing a lintel above a door in distant Capernaum. She has never known a man. She is scared, but loyal and obedient to her God.

I want to prolong this moment; take no action, but fall for what I see; I do not want to spoil her or mix her with my messy emotions. Can I cleanse and purify my, our, roles?
When I act, what Pandora’s Box will I unlock? What consequences will I unleash? Have I also got to take a risk? I thought it was all one-sided, but I was wrong! I look and love. Completely, absolutely, totally; unprofessionally, for I have a task to accomplish. I thought I was immune. I understand now why God’s messengers are called on to act but once. No more can I return undiminished to serve another role. Forgive me, I burn myself in what I do. My muse, my inspiration is the love of you, dear Mari. The purer, nobler love of the Almighty is an abstract goal that fades and thins into the background of your kaleidoscope hues!

“Mari, turn around and face the current of the stream. Lower yourself gently into the cooling waters, immerse your limbs, let the bubbling liquid wash over you, caressing your body. Lie back, just keep your shoulders above the surface, open and receive the surging flow, do not resist. Close your eyes, Mari, let the hot sunlight print scarlet on the inside of your eyelids, do not look now as the shadow passes over you!”

A Poem

The ship of sun-god Ra climbs up his fiery path
Sending shadows like pillars of ivory
Made by giants of old or red kerm-king.
The rigid tower is bedecked with flowers of winter

To celebrate the ritual; lo, the dead will rise
Amidst the ring of burning bush and fleece
Where hides the ark, the sacred vessel, grail
By the well of virgin water, now laid bare.

Sacred glyph of rose and lily, seat of wisdom
Consent to catch and hold the lightning lance
Which pierces the blood red silver chalice
On the sacrificial altar sheathed in velvet.

Stand against the wind, swallow stinging blades of grass
Wherein the snake will squirm; engorge the stone
In the wallowing grave, tangled in the weed
Which streams in fervent chaos round the slippery womb.

Feel the ice-cold flood sweep round and through the crevice,
Surge and retract, caressed by breeze and light,
Stroking the senses while the earth stands still
And time suspends its magic potion deep in space,

Till the fountain bursts in cascades of golden stars,
Explosive energy, raw word of life
Springs reborn with insight, muse inspiring,
Poetry imagined by a child; the bitter truth.

To fathom this precious seed of fertile legend
The virgin must submit as Hebron girls
Fling down the flowers. Within the maiden lass
I grow, white-winged butterfly in the chrysalis.

Chapter 24 I am Mari

Deep, deep within me I know what is happening, but I shall not admit it lightly. I have kept my eyes shut as I was commanded. I know what I want to believe. Certainties have been diffused in the cold mountain water that has numbed my feeling, or confused it sufficiently to maintain a sort of innocence, or at least, its possibility.

I lie in the running water, feel it swirl about my limbs, exerting pressure on my thighs, my breasts. And despite the coldness, I relax, offer my body to the water, let the dappled sunlight flicker on my eyelids like reflections of the sparkling stream. The fronds of slimy weed flowing just beneath the surface brush against me, moving all the time; the water washes over me, bathing every particle of my skin, even inside my very being.

And in the coldness and from the hypnotising movements within my eyes, I grow dizzy, unreal, as if dreaming; I sense a burning flame within me that the flood cannot extinguish, a sense of calm wellbeing that the chaotic water cannot disturb. The flame scorches as if it is driving me asunder, then it draws my mind into an ecstasy I cannot describe, I want to cry out in pain and shock and joyful satisfaction all at once, but I cannot form the words, I don’t know what sound leaves my lips. Then I feel relief flooding me; I have been accepted, been obedient. Whatever happens now, I cannot change my mind. It is accomplished. I am no longer alone.

I open my eyes. I look to the sky above; blue; the clouds have gone. I am cold, my teeth are chattering. I try to turn on one side so that I can look around behind me. I roll onto my hip and slip momentarily beneath the water as I coincide with a gurgling wave and emerge coughing and spluttering, blind until I have shaken the spray from my eyes. The stranger is not there. He has gone. I know, I am sure that this time it is for good. I cannot tell you why, I just sense it in my bones. He has given his message, accomplished his task. We will search for him in the future, that is quite possible, but we’ll not find him. The funny thing is, I’m quite relaxed about it; before the tryst he made me nervous, curious, excited. Now it is done; I cannot look to him for help.

I crawl out of the water onto the empty bank and shake myself like a dog that has been gambolling in the stream. Despite the warmth of the sun, I am still cold, and brush my skin vigorously with my bare hands to scatter the water droplets, massage the goose-pimples. I use my discarded loincloth as a towel to give the sun a chance to dry my body, then I pull my tunic over my head, leaving it loose so that the air can finish the drying process without leaving me clammy.

I stand beside the narrow river staring at the rushes at the edge and I am Miriam watching over her infant brother in the tiny reed basket. I have day-dreamed this many times before; only this time I keep reminding myself that I am in the middle of an even greater story – if what the stranger said is true! A new Moses to lead Israel out of slavery, down within my belly. I cannot contemplate the awesome reality of this; I am going mad, I must be!

I bend and stare at my reflection in the clear waters, trying to judge if I look any different. It is hard to tell, because the river is flowing fast, my image shatters and shimmers and I cannot fix it long enough to study. My eyes trace the stream back towards its source which is a subterranean spring under the massif where Mount Tabor is found. And it flows towards the lake near where my father lost his life. As I look I feel tears well up in my eyes, I remember my father’s words to me to bring him news of the Messiah if I could; why could he not have lived to share my secret?