The Gospel According To Mary

Chapter 3

Over the next few days the conversation with Simon-the-Rock’s wife and mother-in-law, and especially Zebedee’s last words, rarely left Mary’s mind, and she found herself coming back to the whole of her experience in the small fisherman’s hut time and again and mulling it over.

Of one thing she was sure: inquisitive as she might feel about this preacher, she fervently hoped he never got to come even close to her estate. The Holy Name forbid that he should lure her own people away like this, with the consent, nay, the encouragement of all their families. Families who would then, with near certainty, turn to her for keeping them on and providing them with some means of subsistence. Which she very well might, if only to prove the point she harped on incessantly (admittedly, in the privacy of her own mind only, since unable to proclaim it out loud), namely, that women could do very well without men to boss them around, thank you very much. But at what expense and inconvenience to herself, she could only wonder. And these were not the only practical considerations. The labourers she might find willing replacements for easily enough, but to lose someone like Jude the overseer would be a heavy blow indeed. In former times, she would have thought Jude impervious to the calls of a preacher, but since Simon-the-Rock’s defection, she would not vouch for anybody anymore.

It was little comfort to her, amidst such worries, that her afternoon rambles to the Lake shore had so far not produced any sighting of the preacher, for that meant no sighting of the missing fishermen either. (By which she meant, of course, no sighting of John; although, now that she had met his wife, she would not mind catching up with Simon-the-Rock, and giving him a piece of her own mind.) And that was despite the best endeavours of Joseph the tavern-keeper who, esteeming her now incontrovertibly concerned in the matter (though hopefully far from divining where exactly that concern extended), considered it his duty to keep her up-to-date with whatever snippets reached town of the preacher’s comings and goings and doings around Galilee.

She was entertained by the redoubled, earnest, good-hearted care the tavern-keeper was now taking over her, not only for her late afternoon meals, but for her comfort and ease in every moment she spent under his porch. Even amongst the remaining fishermen, she thought she could detect some increased warmth towards herself; a reflection, no doubt, of the interest she had shown in Zebedee and Simon-the-Rock’s wife and mother-in-law. All in all, she still enjoyed her afternoons by the Lake; if there was much less excitement, for her, in the daily arrival of the fishing boats, it was to the advantage of the constant expectation of news.

Yet whatever news there was, it was invariably disconcerting. To the healing powers she had heard about, first-hand, from Simon-the-Rock’s mother-in-law, were now added stories about the preacher expelling demons. Those tales hit uncomfortably close to home with her, too ready corollaries to her brother’s taunts. She pictured the preacher coming to Magdala with such notoriety preceding him, and pondered how tempted her brother might then be, if still denied compelling grounds for having her stoned, to resort to the easier humiliation of throwing her at the preacher’s feet, exposing her before everybody, and conclusively searing her as a woman possessed. Her days in Capernaum were blissfully free of any untoward incidents of the kind that recurred so regularly in her family home; she applied herself that they should be so; but what might happen if she came into the presence of the preacher, here or in Magdala? On the other hand, what if he were really able to banish the voices and visions from her forever?

It was all very perplexing. She wished she had someone she could talk to, and who could help her make sense of these stories, and of all she had heard in the fisherman’s hut. If her father had been alive, she would have naturally turned to him. He would have listened to her, and shared his opinions freely with her, as he always did. And she would have derived great pride in being taken seriously, and provided an attentive audience to his perorations, without any of it obviating her ability to come to her own conclusions. And yet, and yet; a father’s point of view, indeed a male perspective for that matter, was not quite what she needed now; she was looking for something different.

For the first time in her life, she felt herself yearning for a female friend, somebody who could see things from a standpoint proximate enough to hers to sympathise effectively, and with whom she could see through her predicament. Fleeting thoughts of her mother, and of her sister, crossed her mind, and were discarded almost straight away. It was not only that they were half a day’s journey away in Magdala. She had never felt close to them, and she was sure the feeling was mutual; to them Mary’s behaviour, and insistence on independence of mind and action, must seem as alien as they did to her brother. Well, that could not be helped. It was too late for anything to change in her relationship with her family.

The morning was well into its second half, and the women of her estate, amongst whom she was sitting, were busy preparing the midday meal. It occurred to her that she had no inkling whether even they, who lived almost entirely on site, and only rarely went into town, would have any knowledge of the preacher; and if they did, she would not mind finding out what they made of him. She would not expect any particular insight from them, but it might be a useful enquiry all the same, especially if it provided any indication of their menfolk being likely to go the same way as Simon-the-Rock and Andrew, James and John.

‘Have any of you heard of this new preacher?’

‘Which preacher would that be, Mistress?’ retorted Susanna, the wife of Jude the overseer, who was tending the fire in the communal oven. That was as Mary would have expected. Susanna saw herself as the highest-ranking amongst the women, and naturally the one best entitled to address Mary directly. She was, like Jude, a tough old nut. But Mary could also detect Salome, the wife of Mattathias, one of the older labourers, chopping herbs in the nearest cluster of women in the common courtyard, noticeably pricking up her ears. Salome tended to behave as a kind of first-file to Susanna’s camp-prefect, and the two women would often tussle in vying for Mary’s attention.

‘He’s apparently a carpenter from Nazareth, and he’s becoming very famous in town, and, so I’m told, in the districts all around.’

‘Oh, I heard of him,’ Salome instantly chipped in, whilst Susanna just as predictably shot her a warning glance. Mary raised her eyebrows, inviting Salome to carry on.

‘He’s called Jesus.’

‘How did you hear of him, Salome?’

‘Me sister’s eldest’s in Bethsaida, Mistress, and he heard this man Jesus preach there.’

‘Your sister’s son actually heard him preach?’

‘Ay.’

‘And what did he say? The preacher, I mean.’

‘That I don’t rightly know, Mistress. Me sister’s eldest as told me said the Pharisees was asking him questions, complicated-sounding questions ’twas, but he answered real simple, and they all was left thinking, “Ay, ’tis the right answer, true enough.” Not the Pharisees only, but all the folks as was there too. And me sister’s eldest said too, when he goes to assembly, even them scribes as study the Law and talk to him reckon he’s mighty learned.’

‘Pharisees and scribes and learned preachers! ’Tis all idle talk for fancy folks. Or folks as thinks theirselves fancy.’

‘Nay, Susanna, this preacher’s a holy man.’

‘And what good’s the pretty words of a holy man to working folks, Salome? They’ll put bread on your table, or a roof over your head?’

Salome had no ready answer for that, and had no option but to slump back to her herb-chopping. It was clear to Mary, though, that she was not giving up the fight; even if it was by eventually just mumbling her reply to no-one in particular, without looking up.

‘A holy man’s to be respected. ’Tis the Holy Name as sends him.’

‘ ’Tis what the holy man’ll tell you, so as he can get his food and shelter from the likes of you, ’stead of doing his honest day’s work to earn them.’

That seemed to end the argument. And it put a stopper to some of Mary’s apprehensions; she could leave it to Susanna to impress on these women, who all worked hard for their living, that they should be poorly disposed to those who could be portrayed as shirking their proper share. The wife was, Mary did not doubt, of one mind with the husband, in looking after the estate greedily enough for their own gain; it suited Mary if they considered even listening to a holy man’s preaching as dereliction of duty. Still, she was determined to do her own bit to ward off the preacher ever approaching any of them in any way.

At the same time, her bafflement at the man himself was, if anything, increased. Far from resolving seeming contradictions, every new turn in the tale added further conundrums. A carpenter who could debate with Pharisees, and be held in awe by scribes in their assembly-halls; but who surrounded himself with, not to put too fine a point on it, illiterate fishermen; a healer, a holy man, an expeller of demons; a preacher whose words no-one could relay, beyond mushy exhortations to depend on the charity of others. Well, at least one thing she had definitely learnt today, and that was his name: Jesus of Nazareth.

That same afternoon, as she came within sight of the tavern by the Lake, she noticed that Joseph the tavern-keeper was standing outside, as though he were on the lookout for her as she came up the path. She felt thrilled at the prospect of good news, sure that nothing else would bring Joseph out like this. It was with great difficulty that she kept herself from running to him.

‘Peace be with you, your ladyship.’

‘And with you, Joseph. What news?’

‘How d’you knows there’s news?’

‘Out with it, Joseph.’

‘The preacher’ll be back in Capernaum tomorrow.’

She positively beamed, as she sat down under the vine-covered porch. That was the news she was looking for. Yet now she had heard it, she was no nearer deciding what her next move should be. She wanted to see the fishermen, and especially John, again; she also wanted to see and hear the preacher for herself, to work out the riddles the stories of him had thrown up; but she also wanted to keep a safe distance between himself and herself, just in case. The fishermen were sure to be accompanying the preacher, but alongside that simple fact, a thousand complications crowded in, and she just seemed unable to see past them.

‘Your ladyship’s going looking for the preacher?’ Joseph had asked the question simply and bluntly for once, and Mary could not begin to express how grateful she was for that. Rather than struggle with her muddle and confusion, she decided she could do worse than enlist the frank collaboration of the tavern-keeper, however less than frank she might want to be herself, as to the ends it would serve.

‘I’d like to hear him speak, Joseph, and of course, I’d also like to see our old friends and know that all’s well with them.’

‘Ay. Then let me advise your ladyship. ’Tis no good going looking for him tomorrow. Folks’s all over the place as ’tis, you’ll have it hard getting into town as ’tis. But the word’s going ’round, day after tomorrow, Simon the Pharisee’ll have the preacher in his house. D’you knows’t?’

‘I do.’

She knew the house, because she had noticed it during her exploration of the market, and she had asked the market traders about it. It was quite opulent for Capernaum, but Mary could think of a number of houses in Magdala alone that could easily compare, her own family home included. Where they differed was that, whereas her Magdala home aimed for height, Simon the Pharisee’s house boasted sprawl. It was built ground floor only, as were so many in Capernaum, covering a large area, with beautifully glazed roof tiles and, it was said, several inner courtyards.

‘There’s an inn next to’t.’

Was there? Mary had stayed at many inns in Capernaum during her visits with her father, and during the building of her own dwelling-house, but she did not remember any of them being near this house.

‘I knows the innkeeper. If your ladyship’s willing, I’ll send word for his putting you up tomorrow, if you can make it afore evening. And then in the morn, he can take you up to his rooftop.’

‘His rooftop?’

‘Ay. From there, you’s sure to make out the preacher as’ll be in Simon’s house below.’

It sounded like a clever idea, allowing her to observe the preacher at the required prudent removal and, what was more, with little chance of her being seen, herself, by him or by others. Yet that meant one important downside to it, which nagged at her.

‘It doesn’t get me close to our friends, though.’

‘You’d not get close any easy, your ladyship, with the crowd as’s coming in. And you’ll be more like to see them clear from up on the rooftop as over folks’ heads.’

‘I guess you’re right.’

‘If you spots the lads from up there, you calls, your ladyship. Then they’s sure to come to you once the preacher’s done with his preaching.’

That was it; that made the whole thing perfect. She exulted inwardly, but tried very hard not to let it show, and to keep her voice level, as she gave her acquiescence to the tavern-keeper’s suggestions.

‘Very well. Go ahead, then, Joseph, and please get everything arranged for me.’

‘Ay.’

‘And I’ll leave you some money for the innkeeper. And to thank you for your trouble.’

‘Nay, your ladyship. You knows ‘tis no trouble. And you’s better off paying the innkeeper when you’s done. I’ll settle with him for the usual fare, but he’s sure to hold out for some more once you’s there. Just so you knows.’

‘Joseph! I thought the innkeeper was your friend.’

‘I knows him, and I knows he’s a good man. But ’tis not often he’ll have quality folks as your ladyship through his door.’

She smiled, as much in amusement as in thanks for Joseph’s unobtrusive praise of her. If the inn did not entirely qualify as what her father would term a “genteel” establishment, it explained why he might not have favoured it, and why, therefore, she would not have known of it. Never mind; for her purpose in the morrow, this place would surely do. She sat there for a few moments, letting it all sink in, with Joseph in expectant attendance; until, rather abruptly, she rose to leave, startling the tavern-keeper in the process.

‘You’s going already?’

‘Yes. I ... I have to get everything ready. I have to ... give instructions, and ... so on. Thank you so much, Joseph.’

The truth was that her head was by then already buzzing with too much excitement. She did not trust herself to remain in any reasonable state of composure, sat at the tavern for the rest of the afternoon; and she feared what else that might let sneak into her mind. She would be much better kept occupied with her new to-dos: choose clothes, procure more change, get Joanna to pack for the overnight, might the donkeys be needed ... ? And she would probably want to be at the inn in good time the following afternoon, so she had best settle any urgent matter with Jude the overseer straight away. It was too bad that this early into her current stay, no prospective builder had presented himself at the estate; she could have done with one fever chasing another tonight.

‘Then one more thing, your ladyship.‘

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t go alone. That crowd as’s coming in. I’d not want your ladyship to be roughed up by them out-of-town folks.’

Here was Joseph being kind and caring for her again, bless his heart. She answered his worried frown with real gratitude, and more than a hint of merriment, in her eyes.

‘I’ll take my maidservant with me.’

‘She sturdy?’

‘She‘s no field hand, but she’s sturdy enough. She can deal with any roughing up. And I’d rather take her than one of the labourers, who might strike back and do more harm than good.’

‘Ay. You’ll be all right then.’

‘Thank you once again, Joseph. For everything.’

She signed farewell to the tavern-keeper, her mind and soon her face already turned to the way back to the estate. It had been a long time since she had looked forward to something this much; not since her dwelling-house had been finished. When she had arrived at Capernaum on this visit, not even a full week before, she could hardly have imagined she would be feeling this thrilled about a meeting with a carpenter-preacher and a handful of fishermen. And now, after only two sunsets, it would come.

The day was promising to be hot and unusually dusty. Or perhaps that was just her perception of it, up on the inn’s rooftop with little to shade her from the sun, hugging the low parapet, propped up on makeshift bolsters scavenged from the downstairs rooms and strewn over a coarse rug. Mary was wary of relying too much on the solidity of the rooftop masonry; as she leant on the parapet, she could conjure up panicked images of the thing crumbling away, sending her tumbling to the roof tiles of Simon the Pharisee’s house. But the inner courtyard she could see from her vantage point was starting to fill up, and she wanted to have the best possible view of it. Joanna, who had no curiosity at all about the scene unfolding below, and had clearly even less confidence than her mistress in the inn’s brickwork, was sitting nervously by Mary’s feet, ready to grab her by the ankles at any intimation of danger. To be fair, Mary had suggested there was no need for her to come all the way up, but Joanna had set her jaw and stubbornly followed her.

Mary had been awake since the faintest light of dawn, eager not to miss a single moment of the day’s events. Joanna had had to put up with more than her normal share of her mistress’s impatience, as well as with an early morning dressing-up of more than usual fastidiousness. The innkeeper had been sent, with the help of a fair few bright coins, scurrying in all directions; providing at the same time for Mary’s breakfast, and for her comfort up on the rooftop, and posting a watch on the street for the first sign of the preacher’s arrival.

In the end she need not have fussed; she had been ensconced on the rooftop in time to see Simon the Pharisee (pointed out to her by the innkeeper, before he had scampered off) when he helped his own house guests settle themselves for their morning meal. A quick look around, upon first coming up, had proven the judiciousness of the preparations that Joseph the tavern-keeper had made on her behalf, as well as the probable pointlessness of the watch on the inn’s doorstep: the whole street was thronged with people in both directions, as was the narrow traverse opposite the Pharisee’s house, which led on to the market. It would seem a small wonder in itself that the preacher managed to make his way through that.

From her sitting-down position, now, to the rear of the inn’s rooftop, she could no longer see the street nor the massed ranks of people in it, possibly growing thicker by the moment. She kept her gaze firmly on the courtyard, where a large group of neatly turned-out men, some younger, some older, had by now congregated around Simon the Pharisee; garbled snatches of their conversation would now and then float up to Mary’s observation post. There was something in their similarity of dress and of demeanour that spelt out their belonging together, their being all of a same party; she guessed that the Pharisee had invited all his peers in town, perhaps even from neighbouring villages, to come and listen to the preacher.

Just then, loud cheers rose from the far end of the street and were picked up and borne along, a wave of sound rippling in her direction. That had to be the sign of the preacher’s being sighted nearby. Below her in the courtyard there was movement too: Simon the Pharisee had got up, and was moving towards the front of the house, accompanied by a servant; presumably to greet the preacher upon his coming to his threshold. She was riveted to the corner of the courtyard through which the Pharisee and his servant had just disappeared, torn as to whether to risk a quick run to the front end of the rooftop for a view of the preacher’s progress and entrance, when she was jolted by a loud call behind her.

‘Your ladyship!’

She turned to see the innkeeper’s head emerging from the ladder that led to the rooftop.

‘The preacher’s here! He’s here!’

‘Yes, thank you!’

Oh, the fool, she thought, as she whipped back to survey the courtyard. Thankfully nothing had changed during the short interruption; everybody else below was waiting, just as she was. But the preacher must have gone into the house; the noise of the crowd outside was subsiding. If felt interminable, yet it was in truth only a short wait before Simon the Pharisee re-emerged onto the courtyard, bringing alongside him a man who seemed remarkable to her, from this distance at least, only in being utterly unremarkable. He was neither short, nor particularly tall; older than James and John, older than her own brother, but, she ventured, younger than Andrew and Simon-the-Rock; and his shoulder-length hair and sparse beard were undistinguishable from those of many of the other men in his following.

For whilst the preacher made his way to the middle of the circle of Pharisees, and was sat next to his host, another group of people, two or three dozen strong, poured out onto the edges of the courtyard, where some now crouched, some stood, some leant against the walls and columns. She should not have been surprised to see women amongst them, since she had been told by Joseph the tavern-keeper himself of the mother of the sons of Zebedee ... The sons of Zebedee! That reminded her of what she ought to be looking for. She went over the gathering of preacher’s followers again, carefully this time, searching every face. Soon enough one jumped out at her, even though she could only see him in profile: Simon-the-Rock, his familiar stocky figure, arms crossed over his chest, standing almost directly below her. He turned to someone at his side, and she recognised Andrew. She risked stretching herself out slightly further, to look at two dark-haired men who were sitting on their heels in front of the brothers. She ignored a frightened whimper from Joanna. There they were: James, and John.

She sat back on the bolsters, rearranging them into shape, and Joanna, behind her, breathed thanks for the reprieve. Mary suddenly realised that the noise from the crowd, which had been dying down, seemed to be flaring up again; she could hear shouts and raised voices.

‘We wants to see the preacher!’

‘Friend, we all wants to see the preacher!’

‘We’s a sick man here!’

‘Hey, hands off!’

‘Don’t shove!’

‘What d’you thinks you’s doing?!?’

She had been looking at the preacher, curious as to what he might do, or not, about the altercation apparently brewing outside the house, when her attention was drawn away again. The shouting erupted into a full-fledged commotion, as a couple of men, scrambling up the outside wall, climbed on to the roof tiles, on the far side of the courtyard from her vantage point on the rooftop. With a cry of surprise, she stood up, almost falling backwards over Joanna, who had instinctively lurched forward, and was now gripping the bottom of Mary’s gown with both hands.

The men on the roof tiles were labouring to bring something else up, their shouted instructions to whatever companions they had on the outside drowned out, to Mary’s ears, in the din of the continuing uproar. In no time at all, a stretcher breached the outer rim of the roof tile expanse; a pallet of wood and woven flax, covered with a blanket, and supporting a thin man with shrunken cheeks and a short, dense beard, who was tightly clutching its sides. The stretcher was hauled up and deposited at the men’s feet, and quickly followed by two more men carrying ropes. The whole bunch of them then skittered across the roof tiles with the stretcher, until they were standing right above the courtyard.

By this time everybody below had risen to their feet as well, and converged towards the disturbance they could hear unfurling somewhere in the clatter over their heads. Only now could they perceive the men balancing themselves on the edge of the roof. It was the preacher who first addressed them.

‘Now, what is this all about?’

At the sound of his voice, a swell of hushing spread out in the courtyard and through the crowd outside. And what a voice it was. Deep, measured, and resonant; most remarkable.

‘Master, this man’s paralysed. We’s brought him to you, so as you may bless him.’

‘You are up on the roof. I am down here. What do you propose to do?’

Strange. The preacher was turned almost completely away from her, but she could swear she could hear the smile in his voice.

‘We’s getting him down to you.’

And the men set to work immediately with their ropes, watched patiently by the preacher, and anxiously by everybody else. A low hum of voices arose, in the courtyard as in the crowd outside; in the case of the latter, in spite of, or perhaps because of, not being able to see exactly what was being attempted. After a few minutes of the men’s efforts the stretcher touched ground. The preacher bent down on one knee to talk to the paralysed man.

‘What do you say for yourself, my friend? Are you tongue-tied as well as paralysed?’

Mary couldn’t quite make out the words that followed, in the wheezy voice of the paralysed man. The little she caught sounded like, ‘Heavier in my heart than on my legs.’ The preacher simply clasped one of the man’s hands in his, and looked at the man for some time. Then he finally spoke again, and his voice sounded an even deeper bass than before.

‘Take comfort, my friend. Your taints are taken away.’

As he rose from the side of the paralysed man, a murmur ran through the group of Pharisees; and even Mary, who had had very little religion pressed into her, could sense that this must be an extraordinary declaration. The preacher turned around and looked levelly at the Pharisees.

‘Why do you think of blasphemy? Why would you see only in God the power to take away the taints afflicting a man? Why do you have these thoughts in your hearts?’

From the looks they exchanged amongst themselves, some of the Pharisees must have been somewhat discomfited that the preacher had so clearly overheard them. But others looked back at him, just as clearly uncowed, if not openly defiant.

‘Let me ask you a question. Which of these is easier: to say to this man, “Your taints are taken away,” or to say to him, “Get up and walk?” What do you think?’

Mary could not hear any of the Pharisees replying. And the preacher might not have been waiting for a response, for he continued in his very next breath.

‘What I do now, is so that you understand that whatever power there is over the taints of man, it can be found on Earth, as much as in Heaven. And that it is for the taking away of taints that the Son of Man has come, and that such power is received.’

He stood over the paralysed man and spoke again in that deepest, resonant bass. In a voice of command, was Mary’s immediate thought.

‘I order you. Get up, pick up your stretcher, and go home.’

Mary did not know what she expected to happen next, and perhaps neither did the paralysed man. But what he did was, he pushed himself laboriously to sit, and then, surprising even himself, to stand uncertainly; after casting a brief glance at the preacher, he bent down to retrieve his blanket, and threw it over his shoulder; he took up his stretcher, and bringing himself upright again, steadied himself against its weight; and, with a last puzzled look at everybody else, he crossed the courtyard in slow, ungainly steps, the preacher’s followers standing back to let him pass; and went out.

And when he had gone, all those who had held themselves in suspended anticipation sprung back to life. Mary realised she had been holding her breath, and released it with a gasp. She had been standing through all of this, and now saw that at some point Joanna had also got up and was standing by her side. But everything was moving equally fast down below. The men on the roof tiles were scrambling away, and the people in the courtyard were breaking up; the Pharisees, staying behind, were caught up in lively arguments amongst themselves; whilst the preacher was slowly making his way out, escorted by his host. She could see where the fishermen were crossing the courtyard to make it to the preacher’s side, and she could hear the noise level rising again. This might be her last chance. She was afraid she might not even be heard. She cried out, as loud as she could.

‘John! John of Capernaum! James son of Zebedee!’

With huge relief she saw them turning and looking for the source of the call. She repeated her cry and waved to them, and they raised their hands in acknowledgement. She saw that, nearby, Simon-the-Rock and Andrew had also turned and were looking up at her. It was another relief that she had not had to cry out for them two; for the weirdest reason she could not explain, she would have felt embarrassed. She saw the four men conferring together, then addressing the preacher, who nodded briefly. James and John turned back to her and raised their hands once again, whilst Simon-the-Rock and Andrew joined the preacher.

She understood. They would wait for her. She spun around.

‘Joanna, did you see those two men I was waving to?’

‘Yes, Mistress.’

‘Good. Now move.’

She pushed Joanna before her towards the ladder out of the rooftop, and all the way down the stairs to the inn’s common room on the ground floor. She quickly caught sight of the innkeeper, and he of her.

‘Your ladyship, what’s your pleasure?’

‘Take my maidservant with you and go to the house of Simon the Pharisee.’

‘Your ladyship, I’ll not be allowed in!’

‘You won’t have to go in. There’ll be two young men at the door. My maidservant will point them out to you. Give them my name, and bring them here.’

‘Ay, ’twill be done.’

But the innkeeper did not seem in any hurry to move, standing there with the palm of his right hand nonchalantly held up. Mary had become almost boringly familiar with his style of unspoken entreaty. If anything, it confirmed that the incentives in minted and struck form she had dispensed early in the morning had made a decided impression.

‘Produce the two men, and I’ll produce more coins. Now go.’

The innkeeper and Joanna were finally out the door, and Mary was left to her own ruminations. She had been so taken up with her impending meeting with James and John, she had not even paused to properly consider the indescribably incredible scene she had just witnessed. It was no longer a question of stories told first- or second-hand; she had seen, with her own eyes seen, the preacher heal the paralysed man. And that, with no big show of miraculous faculties, no thunderous invocation to the Most High or whatever; as matter-of-factly as if he had been setting to rights an errant servant.

She had a fleeting thought for the Pharisees who had come all this way for his preaching, as for that matter she had herself, and who might even now be on their way home after only a short encounter with the preacher. Yet she was not feeling short-changed, and, she would wager, neither would they. What if there was no reporting on astounding words of wisdom? He had provided undeniable testimony as to what he could do, and she for one would no longer dispute that he was a holy man, indeed, powerfully so. She snorted at herself; here she was now, in exactly the same position as those she had previously tried to query about the preacher, and whose unquestioning allegiance had so baffled her. In that case, did that make the actual, and as yet unencountered, substance of his preaching more, or less important? On the one hand, whatever he said would henceforward be cloaked with the authority he had just demonstrated; but on the other hand, perhaps the whole point of a holy man was his presence and his actions, rather than anything he said.

Enough, she decided. She could only do so much wondering. Impatience for the sight of John gained her again. She started pacing the common room, looking constantly at the door, willing it to open. At last she was rewarded, and two homespun-clad bodies stumbled into the common room, and two black heads of hair were bobbing up and down, bowing to her.

‘Your ladyship ...’

‘We want to thank you ...’

‘Oh, please, please!’

‘We heard what you did for the old man, and for the Rock’s family ...’

‘Don’t mention it. Have you seen them, then?’

‘We were there yesterday.’

Behind the backs of the two brothers, Mary saw the innkeeper and Joanna slipping in through the front door, and removing themselves to some inconspicuous corner of the common room.

‘Come, let’s have a seat. Can I call for something to eat, or to drink, for you?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘No, not really, but thank you.’

They sat down at a table, the two brothers on the same bench, across from her. When she had known them as fishermen at the Lake shore, their share of small talk, if it could be called even that, had never gone beyond a few offhand comments about the catch, the boat, the weather, the deep waters and the further shore beyond; and these had always been prompted by herself. Preacher’s followers as they now were, she was unsure as to how to engage them; and she seized on the first topic of notice to her.

‘It’s good to see you again! But ... if you don’t mind me saying ... you don’t sound the same.’

The brothers smiled.

‘Ay. Even the Rock’s minding his language now.’

‘You still can hear the Lake in his accent, though.’

‘So how come?’

‘That the Rock still has the accent? That he’ll never lose, I reckon, just as however much he listens to the Master, he’ll always be Rock.’

She laughed at James’s joke, but noticed that John looked away, plainly uncomfortable.

‘No, I mean, how come you’re now so well-spoken? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say you weren’t before, but ...’

‘Nay, your ladyship, we know you don’t.’

‘Enough with the “ladyship”. So ... ?’

So far James had led the conversation, but now he turned to his brother; and John obliged, albeit as diffidently as ever.

‘We’ve been learning from the Master’s example, I guess.’

‘Ay, when he talks ... he’s always ... precise, like, and careful with his words.’

‘Like he wants people to understand something beyond the words.’

‘Which’s hard on the Rock, seeing as he has difficulty with the words already.’

Mary could see that John was becoming almost embarrassed at James’s repeated jibes at Simon-the-Rock. As it was, she was glad to steer the conversation elsewhere; after all, whatever her ulterior motives in calling James and John to her, it was now evident that they might be her best hope so far in dispelling the perplexity which the content of the preacher’s preaching seemed always to conjure up.

‘So what does he talk about, in all this talking?’

Once again, James looked to John to provide the answer. And this time John seemed rather more eager to contribute.

‘Do you know how we pray, in assembly, for the Kingdom of God to come?’

At first this barely evoked any recollection at all for Mary. If truth be told, she had only been to assembly on very few occasions she could remember, all of them during the period of mourning for her father, at the beginning of the year or so of prayers that her brother was supposed to recite for him. It had been, for her, a grasping at some lingering sort of connection; yet it had only lasted for a little while, until the lack of any form of participation, for herself, in the most visible forms of worship, the absence of anything for her to do, or to utter, to feel at one with the unfathomable that lay beyond death, had finally turned her away. But the experience must have stamped itself on her mind somehow, enough for the words to start stirring something, the more she thought of them, and eventually for fragments of the actual prayer to come back to her, as she finally answered, ‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s what the Master talks about.’

‘But what exactly does he say about it?’

This time John hesitated a while, and Mary was in renewed despair that, once again, nothing more definite would be forthcoming. She turned to James, looking every encouragement she could overlay on her features for him to rejoin the exchange. This produced a quick crossing of glances between the brothers, in which she thought she could discern a sudden, and welcome, sympathy of animation.

‘He says he’s come to teach us how to enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.’

‘He’s come to bring the Kingdom of Heaven to us.’

‘Except he never tells us exactly what the Kingdom of Heaven is.’

‘But we know that, through him, we’ll find it.’

‘Ay, but he’s not giving us any rules on what to do to get there, either. It’s not like the Pharisees, with all their praying and fasting. Or the Temple priests, with their sacrificing. Or like John the Baptist washing away sins with water, and telling people to spend their time in repentance.’

‘Nay, he’s not giving us rules, because we only need to believe. Because we can make ourselves new, through him. And he has warned us not to be like the Pharisees. They have ears, he’s said, but they don’t listen. And eyes, but they don’t see.’

‘Ay, that’s true enough. One thing on the outside, another on the inside, that’s what he’s said of them.’

This was fascinating to Mary. And not the lesser part of the fascination was that these two brothers, both of them equally in the preacher’s following, seemed nevertheless to be giving her slightly different accounts of his preaching. And for all that they each appeared to cling to their own interpretation, she could not shake off the impression of John gaining the ascendancy, and of James readily yielding to his junior. This would have been rather wonderful, had she not been looking closely at John throughout. The rapture in his expression, whilst discussing the words of the preacher, had made his face, if at all possible, even more handsome than she remembered; she had been positively enthralled, and basking in his every detail. But having thus allowed a lull in the conversation, she noticed more meaningful glances passing between the two brothers, and she surmised that the reunion was coming to an end.

‘Oh ... I’ve ... kept you long enough. I expect you’ll be wanting to make your way back. I’m glad to know that you’ve seen your families, and that ... everybody’s all right.’

‘We’re, really, very grateful for your looking out for them, your ladysh- ...’

‘No, please, don’t even mention it.’

The brothers rose and started towards the door. Mary was loth to see them go, and clutched at anything that might make the moment last, as she rose and accompanied them.

‘So .... Where are you heading back to, now?’

‘We’re staying in the artisans’ quarter, to the north.’

‘Do you know how long you’ll be staying in town?’

‘... Not exactly,’ was John’s reluctant reply.

‘... But I think we’ll be here for a few days more, at least,’ was James’ more spirited rejoinder, followed with a quizzing glare at his brother, which Mary interpreted as a reproach for such apparent churlishness towards their acquaintance and benefactor.

‘I see. And ... thank you for what you’ve told me. About your Master’s words. I wish I could get to hear them for myself.’

‘Would you really, your l- ... ?’

‘Yes. And please stop calling me that.’

She meant what she said. Her afternoon in Simon-the-Rock’s former home, the stories she had heard or extracted from others, the conversation she had just had with James and John, and above all the morning’s extraordinary events ... She could not exactly relate to this talk of the Kingdom of Heaven, and she had no more concept than James did of what it was supposed to be; but her interest in the preacher was far from exhausted yet.

‘If you’d like to come hear him speak, your l- ...’ James stuttered as Mary’s frown and narrowed eyes intervened speedily before the title. ‘I mean, you’d be very welcome.’

‘All are welcome.’

‘Ay, the Master’s never turned anyone away. He’s kind even to lepers.’

Despondency stabbed at Mary, even as she scolded herself from being overmuch surprised that speaking from the heart should not have quite produced the wished-for results. She did not disbelieve the sincerity of their words, yet it was hardly a warm endorsement, either of herself, or of any plans she might have for closer access to the preacher.

She did not know that she had any definite plans yet on that count; the crowds outside Simon the Pharisee’s house, alone, showed the perils of the enterprise, even before considering her own, more personal misgivings; but the wish for continued exposure to the sort of experience the morning had served up was there, to be probed at; and that the wish was there, did not alter one iota from the lack of any enthusiastic reception to its expression. That she should also wish to get closer access to the preacher’s band of followers, and to one of them in particular, ... Well, that was best not dwelt on too closely just then. But by now they had loitered long enough at the inn’s door, and Mary knew she really should detain the brothers no more.

‘I guess we’ll see what the days bring. Good-speed, and peace be with you.’

James and John regaled her with a double-dose of ‘Peace be with you’, and Mary was left looking at the backs of their dark-haired heads, as they bobbed along and soon disappeared down the fast emptying street.