The Child Madonna - Chapter 30 'Magnificat'

Chapter 30 Magnificat

When I reached Ein-Karem last night I was dog-tired. Each step had become a major effort, I ceased to interest myself in either my journey or my destination. I suppose I noticed that Zechariah’s home, which opened straight onto the street rather than into a yard, was larger than my own, although nothing like the size of Eli’s total property. It was dusk when we arrived, I had been on the road for over twelve hours and travelled nearly twenty five miles. I was, as I said, on the verge of collapse. My aunt met me at the door, took one look at me and ushered me under her wing scolding Zechariah for driving me so hard. The poor man could not answer back and it was hardly his fault that we had journeyed from the other side of the Jordan within the day. Short of staying in Jerusalem - and where would we have found lodgings? - there seemed to me no alternative. It was nearly dark anyway by our arrival.

Aunt Elizabeth made no attempt to greet me with any flourish; she saw that I was fed with the minimum necessary to stave off hunger pangs and carried my scanty belongings into a small side room where a couple of goats were tethered. We laid out my bedroll and I lay down as I was, unwashed, and within minutes, was fast asleep.

I woke just before dawn and heard movement in the room next to mine. I detected muttered voices, but could not decipher specific words. Then, just when my anxieties could have been surfacing to prevent further sleep, I dozed away and next time I opened my eyes the sun was streaming through a little side window. I lay for a while in silence, listening to the movement around the house, then propped myself on one elbow and yawned. As soon as I did that, I felt the surge of nausea welling under my breasts and staggered out of bed before realising that I could probably recover by taking a few deep breaths.

I pull myself together and venture into the other room where I know I will find my aunt. I am not sure whether Zechariah will be there; I have no idea what he does, whether he goes each day to the Temple or has business in the village here.

“Mari, come here into the light, my girl, let me have a look at you. Goodness me, you’ve grown since I last saw you, that must have been all of four years ago now.”

She is alone in the room and, despite her copious dark blue outer garment, I notice first her bulging stomach which she does not seek to hide as she stands there. Indeed, she is proud of it. I force my gaze upwards to look into her face, and see her weather-beaten skin creased in smiles, as she stares with open curiosity at my still slim form.

As I step closer, she strides the gap between us and falls on my neck, embracing me so tightly that I find I am leaning forwards, almost unbalanced, over her protruding baby, so that I am forced to trust myself completely to her hug.

“Welcome to my house, cousin. I pray that you will be happy with us, staying as long as you wish. I shall find your company very comforting as I near my time.” She pats her bulge and grins conspiratorially at me. Does she not know why I am here? Is this cheerfulness in spite of, or because of her knowledge?

“Come and sit down and have something to eat. We can talk then for as long as you wish without interruption. My husband has gone back into Jerusalem to assist with preparations for the Passover celebration.” That statement answers one of the questions forming in my mind.

I must know if she is fully in the picture about my presence here. I cannot keep up my end of the conversation all day without that knowledge. Every moment I put it off will make it harder to ask the vital question.

“Aunt Elizabeth, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, Mari, anything you wish.”

“Have you read the letter Uncle Eli gave your husband?”

Elizabeth stops in mid-movement and replaces her instant smile by an intense look at my face, holding my gaze without flinching.

“Yes, I have love. Do you know what it says?”

“No, not exactly.”

Elizabeth goes to the corner of the room where a heavy wooden chest lies on the floor, lifts the lid and pulls out the scroll I recognise. She hands it to me.

I recoil, surprised by her action, incredulous that she is inviting me to read it.

“You can read, can’t you, Mari? I’m sure they told me when I was last in Nazareth that you were a very bright girl and you’d been kept at school longer than usual.”

“Yes. I was just surprised you want me to read it. Uncle Eli wouldn’t show me anything, although he told me what he expected before I left my home.”

“It is just as well you see it, girl. I don’t want any secrets from you, we both need to know where we stand. You will not make any better decision for being ignorant.”

“You’ve read it, and are still being friendly towards me? Is it really not so bad, or are you on my side?”

“Read it yourself first, Mari. There’s plenty of time for us to talk about it, get to know one another better. Don’t race to any judgements, and I’ll not do the same! We’ve both got lots to talk about, but I understand you need to face this issue first. Look, I’ll not crowd you. Take the scroll into your room, and read it alone; take your time. Then we’ll talk.”

I take my piece of bread and cup of goat’s milk and sit down on my mattress. In trepidation I unroll the parchment, and slowly read, while the blood races madly around my arteries:

Zechariah, greetings!

This is a painful letter to write and I beg your mercy and that of your gracious wife, Elizabeth. My the Lord protect her at her time of joy!

To you, the impending birth of a child brings the fulfilment of long-awaited prayers. In contrast, similar news brings nothing but shame and disgrace on our household. Your cousin, Mariam, after so much charity has been lavished on her, has repaid us by confessing that she is pregnant, and that not even by her betrothed, Joseph of Bethlehem. When I sought to protect her before the elders of the synagogue, she compounded her sin with that of blasphemy by claiming wildly that she had been visited by a messenger from God who made her pregnant and told her that she would bear the Messiah, if you please! It was all that I could do to prevent her condemnation and stoning on the spot. I managed to get her remission to a whipping, on condition that she was excluded from Nazareth until her child had been aborted.

I am placing our fate, and hers, in your hands. For the love of your wife’s dear sister’s child, Anna, I implore your assistance. Should the girl return from you still pregnant, she will be put to death. She knows this, yet still seems obstinate. You are wise in the ways of the world, and I know your wife, because of her long-standing fertility problems, has the contacts who can arrange the necessary termination without endangering the girl’s life.

After the girl has recovered from what I am asking of you, please retain her services to assist your wife during the final days of her labour. I will send my son or one of my sons-in-law to bring the girl home in due course, when you are ready. I will of course repay all your expenses incurred by the girl’s abortion and upkeep.

Eli of Nazareth.

I lay the letter down and think. There are no surprises at all. Zechariah and Elizabeth know the worst, I am relieved that I have not got to make further revelations to them. Despite this, they are treating me with courtesy and care. Seeing in the written word confirmation of the consequences of holding out against his will brings a chill and dread to my heart, but somehow I cannot sense any judgement here. If they are lenient with me, though, and I manage to persuade them not to kill the child within me, I put off the time of sorrow till my return, when my ordeal will be magnified beyond measure.

I finish my frugal breakfast in solitude, then rejoin Elizabeth who is waiting for me.

“Come and sit beside me, Mari, and tell me in your own words what has happened to you. Is it true that you are pregnant?”

“Yes, Aunt. I have been carrying the child about three months.”

“You see what your uncle says he wishes us to arrange for you, and the consequences of disobedience. Is it your will, too, that we act for you in this way?”

“No.”

“Then tell me why, Mari. Help me to understand.”

This is the third time within the last two weeks that I have told my story to a sympathetic audience, my sisters, Susannah, and now Elizabeth. Each time I have grown in confidence, I have had more time and opportunity to elaborate. Elizabeth has the time and inclination to listen to everything. When I hesitate, or gloss over some little detail, she picks me up, until she knows it all. She wants to know the exact words of the messenger, his appearance, the texts he quoted. She will not let me slide over my ordeal, she makes me bare my soul, my prayers; she explores with me my certainty that God was and is sustaining, protecting and ordering my life.

And at the end, and it must be nearly two hours since I first sat with her, she looks at me and her eyes seek mine. We throb with understanding, the two of us, words seem almost superfluous. She is just about to speak, when she starts suddenly and clutches her stomach. I look at her, raising my eyebrows in alarm. She shakes her head slowly, she is still smiling. She stretches out her hand, places it comfortingly on my knee, then holds it on my head as if to bless me.

“Mari, I believe you. I know all that you have said is true.”

My heart skips a beat at her words. After all the suspicion, worry, doubt and tension, it seems too good to be true. Even my whispered conversations with Susannah and the children were secret hidden episodes that could not surface, that could not be shared.

“You need no further argument? You accept all I say, without further
challenge? You don’t think Eli’s right?”

“Mari, I tell you again. I know what you say is true. I too have met the stranger you describe. My child, too, Mari, is an answer to prayer, and God has prepared him to be prophet to the Messiah. All this I know and Zechariah also. The message was too great for him to bear, he’s lost the power of speech ever since he knew. All that you said fell into place. God has chosen you, sweet child, above all others to bear the king of kings. We are privileged beyond measure, blessed beyond our capacity to understand it. My pregnancy has been a joy throughout, many have shared with me, even Zechariah, despite his handicap, our great contentment. But your arrival here and the story that you bring confirms and transforms everything. I marvel and thrill to all you tell, I want to smother you with kisses, I cannot express my elation and excitement. And Mari, at this very moment, when just now we looked at one another, I felt the baby stir within me. It was his first movement, Mari, he is alive! It is the first time in all my life that I have felt such a sensation! Mari, Mari, what has God done for us?! How can we express our
joy? Oh, Mari, words absolutely fail me!”

And she literally dances round me, her eyes so bright that for a moment I think she has gone mad. I am stunned. Her reaction is totally unexpected, I had not conceived that this is what she’d do. I feel the tears welling in my eyes, the force of shock, relief, deep, deep emotion that I have stifled for the last few months comes brimming to the surface and boils over. I am in floods of tears, being rocked in Elizabeth’s arms. She is singing to me, I cannot hear the words for I am not capable now of listening. I am being drowned in the emotional tidal wave let loose in my soul. Together we are praising God, words come choking from our lips, we both sing and clap our hands and throw time to the winds. It’s a wonder all the neighbours have not come storming round out of curiosity to see what’s going on.

When we calm down a little, thoughts come flooding to my mind, new insights which I want to share with her.

“It’s unbelievable, it’s a miracle that the Lord God has chosen me, me, just a simple peasant girl, I have absolutely nothing to offer him. Just think of it, Auntie, in days to come everyone will look back and call me special because of what God’s doing in me. I know now that God loves and honours those who trust him, and he ignores the proud and famous and men of power, even mighty kings. He loves the humble, those of us who have no airs or graces and come before him just as we are. He accepts us and ignores those who think they’ve earned his blessings! Oh, Auntie, we are seeing God fulfil the promises made to our nation since time began, the prophecies are all coming true!”

My aunt is standing transfixed at my outburst.

“Child, you are wise beyond your years. God is wreaking a miracle in me, he is permitting an old body to forget its age, revitalise its youth in new creation. And you, he has taken your young untrammelled mind and simplicity of faith and filled you with his ageless wisdom. God is indeed speaking to you, Mari, and through you.”

We both sit upon the mattress, our emotions ebbing, drained and exhausted in our happiness.

“Let us rest a while, Mari, we cannot take any more at the moment. There are days enough spreading ahead of us to share and explore all things together.”

I lie on my bed. I cannot sleep, my brain is far too active, forming and reforming the words and experiences we have just been sharing. It is a long time since I made a little rhyme up for the children. But I find words of poetry rolling round my head, and I seize each phrase and savour it until I know I shall remember and one day write this down for my children to recite. I resolve to remember things to tell this child growing in my womb. Will I be honest enough to tell him everything, my good and bad times? How will it affect him, will knowledge of my suffering as well as joy bring him unnecessary guilt, or will it let him know how special he is, confirming his destiny ?

For days we live off the energy generated by this hour of shared revelation. We consolidate the details, remember further incidents, whose relevance we grasp anew, acquire new insights which we rush to share, one with the other, wherever we are, whatever we are doing, as if there is no time to lose. Zechariah returns sometimes from the city, on the periphery of our joy, as if he were deaf as well as dumb. Elizabeth has told him of our destinies, I know she has. And he has not shown that he disbelieves; he feels his loss of speech is already punishment enough. It has been a strange Passover. We shared the meal, of course we did. Yet this festival, this highlight of the year was so overshadowed by our other joy, that it too became a diversion from the path we were treading. With hindsight, perhaps we should have seen the festival’s relevance to our situation, and gained new insight to glory through it, rather than dim its lustre. Be patient with us, though. You don’t see the pattern when you’re living in the middle of it.

At other times we just relax and catch up on family gossip. My aunt is eager to hear news of my sisters and of Ben. She loves my mother, and as we talk, she embroiders an intricate pattern on a garment that I am to take back as her gift to her favourite niece. She has a little weep when I describe in detail how my father was killed and delivered to our home and reminisces with affection about the times when my grandmother sought refuge in Ein-Karem and about the childhood of my mother. You see, when my mother was born, my aunt had already been married five years and still no baby had been granted, so that the newborn girl was like a substitute for her own child. As Hannah had two other girls to bring up, Elizabeth found herself more and more helping with the care of the children, just as I did myself in Nazareth.

She tells me about her family here, whom I have not seen for many years. The old man, Eleazar, her father, who had long been a widower, died last year; she shows me keepsakes of him with affection, though at other times, from the things she says, I suspect he was not easy to live with in his later years. She tells me many things I never knew about my other grandmother, her own sister Hannah, who died only a year after my mother left home as Joachim’s young bride. My mother rarely says much about her; I suspect the shock of losing her so soon after she had moved away caused great distress which she tried to blot from her mind. Apparently she died very suddenly from a fever. One day she was drawing water from the spring, baking and caring for her other daughters’ children. The next, she was tossing on her bed with great sickness and did not survive till nightfall. The first hint of alarm that reached my mother was days after her mother’s burial. My grandfather on that side of the family also died many years before, whilst my mother was still a girl of tender years.

Elizabeth is more expansive about Ruth and Mariam, Hannah’s other daughters. Ruth married a Galilean who’d come to the community at Bethphage on the outskirts of Jerusalem, a skilled craftsman who has done well, and has a string of daughters aged between thirteen and seventeen and boys of ten and twelve. The eldest girls themselves are married and living away from the family home.

“It would be a good opportunity for you to see them, Mari, but I don’t think at the moment either of us can contemplate the return journey, even if Zechariah accompanies us on one of the days he is due at the Temple.

“I can’t, anyway,” she says patting her round stomach.”

Elizabeth’s other niece, Mariam, was divorced by her husband several years before and left to bring up her two daughters, now about my age, whilst the boy stayed with his father and new wife; they had a tiny house on the edge of the village of Emmaus, a further seven or eight miles to the west. I would have liked to have met these girls, but I understood from my aunt that they had a hard life which left them little time for visiting and it seemed unlikely that we would meet, not at least before the birth of Elizabeth’s child and the ensuing celebrations.

Each day when I am recovered from my morning sickness, I help my aunt around the home. The village is built around a spring which provides our water, so I go there morning and evening to draw, sometimes taking an assortment of garments with me to wash in the bubbling stream and dry on the boulders that line the flattish bank. I get to know the other women and girls, some trailing younger children, several with babies suckling at the breast. At first they are consumed with curiosity, but it is aimed at Elizabeth’s astounding news, and rumours of the reason for Zechariah’s dumbness; they do not guess my plight, for my presence to assist Elizabeth seems quite natural to them. A question or two about my living in the north, when Ruth’s and Mariam’s daughters are nearer at hand, then disinterest on my account. I have settled into a rhythm, useful around the house, especially as Elizabeth rests during her final month. There is plenty of time for us to talk and each day we explore God’s work in us. I find Zechariah’s scrolls of scripture which we search for further meaning in the prophets; we pray together, we sing psalms and holy songs. Elizabeth lets me borrow parchment and writing implements so that I can transcribe the poems in my head, and she proudly shows them to her husband who nods good-naturedly or else is humouring me, I know not which!

One morning just as I have returned from the spring, water jar on my shoulder, singing softly under my breath, Elizabeth tells me to put the jar down and sit with her to discuss something. I expect our usual casual chat, relaxed and cheerful, but she looks serious and strained today.

“Mariam, we can’t avoid it. It’s time the two of us had a further serious talk. You’ve been here over three weeks now and since the first day we’ve not said one word about your uncle’s letter.”

“Do we have to, Aunt? Is there anything to say? Surely all that has happened between us shows how wrong Uncle Eli is?”

“But child, what about his threat? If you go home with the child still inside you, he says he’ll have you stoned. He says so in plain and brutal words. Do you think it is possible he is bluffing, just to scare you into obeying him, or is he even testing you to see how sincere you are in your belief?”

“I’m sure he means it. He is not the sort of man not to carry out what he threatens; he does his duty to the letter of the law, irrespective of inconvenience to himself. I believe he means it. But then, God has protected me so far. Won’t he look after me this final time?”

“I knew you’d say that, Mari. Your faith is admirably strong and there is no way I wish to put doubts into your mind. But we have to face the facts. It is easy when you and I are alone here, without pressure; when you return to Nazareth and face your uncle’s anger, your mother’s sorrow and shame, your sisters’ crying, the rabbis’ condemnation, what then? Will you still be so strong?”

The creeping hand of dread catches round my heart, the slight hesitation, the re-entry of uncertainty.

“I’d like to think I’ll not change my decision; to go all this way, then falter at the last hurdle would be an awful shame and disappointment.”

“I know, child, I know. But I must put to you these thoughts. You can’t go back to your threatened fate in Nazareth without thinking them through to the ultimate conclusion.”

I am silent, absorbed.

“Let me try again. Zechariah brought me a note home last night from a midwife in the city who is associated with one of the Canaanite temples where they practice all sorts of magic. Apparently they often cleanse the temple acolytes and priestesses from unwanted pregnancies and would be prepared to do the same for you, in accordance with your uncle’s wishes, for a suitable offering of cash and sacrifices. I do not approve, of course, of their practices or heathen thinking, but I know no believing Jewish midwife who would help you in this way.”

“Auntie, you’re not in earnest with me, are you? I can’t believe you would suggest such a dreadful thing.”

“Child, don’t be so vehement with me. You think life is so simple, black and white; you’ve never had to compromise. I am making the offer because I love you, no more. You are the one who says your uncle is not bluffing.”

“I’m sorry, I did not mean to be angry with you. I was just surprised that you would even let me contemplate such action, let alone suggest it yourself.”

“Well, I have my answer. I admire you, Mariam, I wonder at your faith, which far surpasses mine, despite all God has done for me. Were I in your place, would that I could make so momentous a decision with so much trust.”

“You would, I’m sure you would.”

Elizabeth reaches round me and kisses me.

“You sweet child, you believe the best of everyone, don’t you. I pray your faith in human nature is not disillusioned.”

I am about to correct her, when I think better of myself. It will sound priggish and act as further rebuke and I have hurt her enough already. I truly did not mean to, but her suggestion caught me off guard.

“I knew a girl once who said she was a dancing girl at one of those heathen temples. I didn’t really think there were any in Israel itself.”

I’m afraid so, Mari. Jerusalem is full of them and so are the surrounding towns. There are so many races here and each has its own religion. We are lucky that our king has seen fit to rebuild our own Temple, so that it dominates the others.”

“My uncle says that King Herod is a wicked man who desecrates the Jews and all that they believe in.”

“Well, Herod has a funny way of showing it, if your uncle is right. He has fought for us Jews here, and obtained the dominant role for us with the Romans, despite the fact that he is an Idumean. How can that be evil?”

I find this conversation interesting. Uncle Eli had led me to think that pious Jews thought the same way as he did. I learned during the weeks that I was here in Ein-Karem that even an orthodox Jew like Zechariah, as far as I could communicate with him, had many different views. I learned too that Zechariah and Elizabeth considered the Galilean ways of village justice to be crude and barbaric, although they experienced the results of the political turmoil in the capital city. But, as they said, only the ambitious and the powerful suffered, and they chose to get involved. For the ordinary citizen, life was much more liberal; at least alleged crimes were judged impartially and sins were dealt with as private matters in which the state had little interest. There was little behaviour that could not be settled by divorce or financial compensation.

I am still curious about Rachel and try to find out more about her life at one of the temples, but Elizabeth seems reluctant to say too much. Perhaps she doesn’t know. What she hints at, however, confirms the story Rachel told me. I tell her of the girl’s sin and condemnation and my horror at the manner of her death.

“Mariam,” says Elizabeth, placing her hand on my knee, “Mariam, my child, this is the death they are threatening to impose on you if you return home in this condition. Do you really understand the danger you are in? Has it registered with you?”

“Yes, Aunt.”

I think it has. I think I can truthfully say that. I have thought about it much, but recently, here, so far from home, it has seemed curiously disconnected from me.

“I’m not sure it has. You know, we could help you escape here in Jerusalem if necessary until your child is born and have it adopted so that no-one in Nazareth would know that it still lived. Then your child could still be the Messiah. He could be brought up by someone else, just as Moses was.”

I hadn’t thought of that. And what came over me was a surge of disappointment, of anti-climax. Did God just want me to bring his Messiah into the world and then abandon him to another and never be part of his grand plan? Am I being selfish to want to be his mother and stay in the centre of this huge miraculous event?