The Child Madonna - Interlude
By David Maidment
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I've decided - on advice from a reader - to submit extracts from my book (which is a 120,000 word novel published by Melrose Books and available on Amazon, all royalties to the Railway Children charity) in shorter chapters. This extract is exceptionally brief and is the musing of the 'watcher' or the 'angel' or the 'spy' who is observing closely the character of the young Mari and will soon enact a critical part in the ancient story.
Interlude
“Dance, dance, girl of Shulam,
Let us watch you as you dance.
Why do you want to watch me
As I dance between rows of onlookers?”
You thought I had gone away. Eli, Anna, Miriam, all the rest, have long since forgotten me. Come on, admit it, you’d thought I’d gone as well. Repulsed by Eli, my back nervously watched by the womenfolk. You should have known better, I told you I was biding my time. I watched the scurrying round the well when the scorpion stung. I saw her father slipping from shadow to shadow, entering the house at nightfall. I was the angel struggling with Jacob, I inspired Anna’s little birthday speech. I was an Arab gypsy child, I heard a maiden praying under a fig tree. You saw me, under that fig tree didn’t you, even though Mari was unaware of our presence.
I think she suspects I’m here. She alone knows something’s afoot. She knows I’m watching. “Why me?” she says.
“Tell me, my love,
Where will you lead your flock to graze?
Where will they rest from the noonday
sun?”
You’ll soon be of age, my girl. Is Eli plotting to find you a husband? Where will your precious freedom go then? In the meantime, your children follow you, full of heroine-worship; everywhere you lead, they follow. Will you leave your siblings to found your own dynasty?
Through the cool damp winter, they cling to you for fear you’ll leave them. Stories of Moses, stories of David, stories of the Promised One, mistress of storytellers, keep them spellbound round the cooking fire.
To you, reader, March 8th, 8 B.C. To you, Mari, twelve years, six months, one day. Adult under the law. The stakes are raised. You have the power of veto. You are accountable; no child’s excuse will stave off retribution if you transgress. It’s a world of rough justice in a Galilean village. Can you cope? Who dares to be different here?
I’m still watching them, prepared to spring the trap. I’ve stalked you nearly long enough. Shall I stay my hand a while, or now take aim?
“The winter is over; the rains have stopped;
In the countryside the flowers are in bloom.
This is the time for singing;
The song of doves is heard in the fields.”
Let’s just wait a little time longer; let you sing a last song, carefree for the moment. Your swansong.
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