Two from Galilee (27 page)
Authors: Marjorie Holmes
Mary too was concerned. Every instinct warned her that her time was not far off. And it must not happen before they reached Bethlehem. Bethlehem, as fated and foretold by the prophets. Therefore, she reasoned, it could not happen elsewhere. Yet anxiety warred with that blind conviction. What if the city were as crowded as the ferryman said? Where would they go if there were no room for them?
Even so, the sheer high spirits of the man had invaded theirs. Partly to conceal their anxiety, they laughed again at his jokes and at their own. The worst heat of the day had passed, the world seemed exquisitely cool and clear. And that evening as Joseph was making camp he snared a partridge which he blessed and bled and roasted over the coals. Mary had already started the quick bread which she baked for them each night. It always tasted of smoke but it was delicious after the cold dry bread and figs they had eaten at noon. Tonight they were ravenous, and the unusual treat of the meat made the meal festive. They sat beside their fire eating and watching the stars come out.
"Our last night on the road," Mary said wistfully. "For some reason I almost hate to have this journey end."
"Yes, it's been good, just the two of us like this." Now that it was nearly over Joseph too had a strange wish to prolong it. Even its ardors. The grit on the face and in the teeth, the endless glare of the pavement, the sore feet, the muscles that ached from sleepless nights lying on the hard ground watching over her, his Mary. Something was ending here, this night. A phase of their life was going.
He fed the fire another load so that it crackled and sprang high, and then he put down a pallet of cloaks and skins for Mary and rolled her up in them. "Warm enough?" he asked and she smiled back, "I feel as snug as a caterpillar in its cocoon." He knelt to kiss her before he wrapped himself in his woolen cloak and lay down by her side.
They had never been happier, or the heavens more beautiful. The sky was almost too crowded with stars; now and then one darted off in bright escape. The constellations drew their jeweled patterns, crisp and clear. They could hear some shepherds singing on a nearby hillside and see the eye of their campfire glowing like a hearth. The voices drifted down to them, and the occasional plaintive crying of the sheep. It was companionable having them so close, it was like having neighbors by their star-canopied home.
Drawing nearer for warmth and holding fast to each other's hands, they fell asleep.
S
UNRISE found them again on their way. They tried in vain to recapture last night's mood. But a sense of urgency was upon them; they were nervous before the events impending. The taxes, the census, the birth. Gone was the sweet bond of aloneness, plodding so immutably toward that which they did not understand but had not as yet really feared. Now as their goal loomed closer, they felt poor and ill-prepared and far from home. For suddenly from sideroads and hillsides other people had come streaming. Leading or riding camels, on mules or donkeys, some on horseback, a number borne on litters carried by sweating slaves, but most of them on foot, they came, all intent to get either into Jerusalem or on to Bethlehem.
The press was so great it was scarcely possible to see the Temple in the distance when at last they reached the outskirts of the Holy City. But by then Mary was too miserable to care.
"Hurry! Oh, Joseph . . . hurry," she begged, when he paused for the fourth time to give her a drink of water and wipe off her streaming face. Her cheeks were ashen, her lower lip was clenched. He could see that she gripped the bundles piled before her until her knuckles were white.
"Darling, I am hurrying. I'm doing the best I can."
"I know, I know. Forgive me. It's . . . just that I ... I don't know how much longer. . . ."
"Then let's stop," he cried. "Mary, if your pains are beginning we can't go on, we must get help."
"No. No, we've got to go on to Bethlehem!"
"But that's at least six more miles. And at this rate it may be nightfall."
"Then I'll wait. Somehow I must wait." She gave a long shudder, then relaxed, regarded him with clearer eyes. "I'll be all right," she promised. "I've heard that it sometimes happens this way. You get a spasm or two and think surely the labor has started, then it stops. It's sometimes a very long time."
Nonetheless, Joseph was distraught. He pleaded with those in his path, trying to maneuver around them with the heavily laden donkey. "Please, it is urgent, my wife is ill!"
"Then let 'er stay home where she belongs." A roar of laughter went up from a group of men, though others muttered and bade them be still. Except for several painted harlots there were few women in the mob. Only men were being rounded up to be counted and most women had had the good sense to stay behind.
It was a little better once they were beyond Jerusalem. It was much cooler here, but the donkey was cruelly burdened. He could move only so fast, especially since the road now climbed again into the barren hills. Mary could only hold on, eyes closed, teeth set, and pray. "Help us, help us. Delay the pains, oh God, or when they come don't let me show my suffering. . . . And help my poor Joseph. And this beast, this poor little beast who's carried me so far—dear Lord, help him too." She could feel its wet heaving sides, and now and then when it tossed its head foam flicked onto the steaming road.
This day the sun shone pale and chill, minus comfort, metallic. Gusts of stinging grit tormented the cheeks and eyes. Joseph pressed on, straining. Again the road was clotted with people and their mounts, their litters or their carts, all of them weary, impatient. The smell of garlic and oil and sweat and dusty clothes together with that of beasts was almost overpowering. Mary had to fight nausea now, along with the grinding anguish that began to gnaw slowly at her back, then in waves at her very vitals, so that she would have doubled over if she could, clutching herself and moaning. But she must sit erect, hanging on, grimly hanging on though people jostled her, nearly knocking her from her seat. . . . God—dear merciful God in heaven, please help us! Bring us to our refuge soon!
They were not too far now from the Bethlehem gates, where a mass of humanity surged, anxious to have their goods weighed and be done with the tax collectors stationed there, so that they could enter the town. A couple of Roman centurions on magnificent horses rode about, trying to keep order. "Don't crowd, get in line now, get in line, get your belongings ready. The tax collectors will take you each in turn."
The donkey had halted. Mary sat dazed, limp from her last bout with the agony, trying to rest, to regain her identity before the monstrous thing assaulted her again. Dimly she was aware that Joseph had left her side. She could see that he was saying something to the centurion and this astounded her, and yet it did not either. Nothing mattered, nothing except that she hang onto herself until they managed, heaven knows when, to get through the gates and into the inn. The inn, the inn, the bed at the inn . . . dear God, please let there be a bed at the inn. . . .
She saw the centurion suddenly wheel his horse about and wave his whip above the crowd. "Stand back, out of the way, let these people through! You fools, where are your manners?" Many fell back, surprised, as he pulled up beside her. "Are you all right, lady?" he asked, taking off his helmet and mopping his brow where the iron weight had left a deep red mark. He was very young, his anxious blue eyes did not match his harsh voice, he seemed embarrassed.
"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, thank you. Once we get inside . . . into the inn. . . ."
But when he had broken a path for them and led them forward and ridden on, the crowd closed in upon them. They resented his having put these Galilean bumpkins at the head of the line, they muttered and shoved. Joseph stood scarlet but adamant, trying to protect their place. And Mary suffered afresh for what he was enduring on account of her. Oh, help us, help the tax collectors to hurry!
But the process of weighing, measuring and assessing the value of possessions that were being brought into the city, proceeded slowly. The collectors at the gate got a percentage, and they made sure that nothing, no garment, no trinket, no grain of meal, was held back. It was an eternity before the party ahead of them was finally motioned on and Joseph was called. "Next! Unload and be quick about it."
Joseph had already unstrapped the paniers and lifted down the bundles. All must be exposed, all their poor little possessions. Even—and this was most outrageous and hurtful of all, the lovingly wrapped packet of swaddling clothes. "Is that all?" The tax collector was a large-nosed contemptuous man of about thirty. He exchanged an amused glance with the other collector as he fingered their goods and slapped them onto the scales.
"Yes," said Joseph tightly.
"What about that thing your wife's sitting on? I presume it's your wife?" he joked, while the crowd tittered.
"Just an old robe that serves as a tent and to keep her warm at night," Joseph said, again tightly.
"Let's have it."
"Please." Joseph's contempt surpassed that of his tormentor. "Can't you see that my wife is in no condition to climb down? If there is a grain of decency in you don't disturb her."
"Let it be then," the man brazened it off. "We'll take your word—one drachma for the old robe. That'll be five dinars altogether. Pay up, pack up and move on."
With unsteady hands Joseph brought forth the coins. Five dinars! Out of the twelve they had brought for the trip. It was robbery. He flung the money onto the table and savagely stuffed the things back into the bags. But at least they had cleared the gates and could find a place for Mary. He forced a smile as he strapped the paniers back on. "It won't be long, my dearest. Be brave, I'll soon have a place where you can rest."
She nodded, too grateful to speak. A place. Oh, thank God. Just any place away from people, from staring eyes and shouting voices and stink of flesh. A place where she could give way to her agony at last.
Again the donkey moved forward beneath her, through the gates, into the hubbub of humanity just beyond. The inn stood to the left, a sprawling moss-grown structure with a large courtyard in front and a row of blackened ovens in the rear. The yard was crowded with people unloading baggage, tethering their beasts, or leading them through the low doorway that led to the stable beneath the inn. From the back came the smell of smoke and roasting meat, where cooks tended the spits and serving maids darted about.
Joseph saw at once that the fears of these last tortuous miles were to be realized. Trying to hide his consternation, he tied the donkey and hastened inside.
The innkeeper was busy serving wine, a squat wheezing man who had no time for Joseph's appeal. "I'm sorry, we're full up, haven't an inch to lay a cat in, nay nor a mouse. You'll have to do as the others; find yourself a friendly yard to sleep in or go back outside and sleep in the fields."
"We can't. We've already paid dearly to enter the town. Nor can we sleep on the earth this night." Joseph grabbed the man's beefy arm, causing him to slop wine down his grimy apron. And though the man was angered he could not escape the desperation in the young face. "My wife is in labor. She is about to bear a child. You must give us shelter, at least for a few hours."
"But I can't," the innkeeper wheezed. He gestured to the people pounding their mugs for service. "Can't you see for yourself? There's simply no room. I'm sorry, lad, but I can't perform miracles."
Miracles,
Joseph thought in a flash of bitterness. Let the Lord produce one now. "You must," he repeated. "You must help us."
"Well, there is the stable. It's full of creatures and people already, this one below us, but if you don't mind the stink and the noise. . . ."
Joseph's heart sank. The chaos was deafening, not only all around them but from below, where he could hear beasts stamping and voices raised in drunken laughter or raucous argument. "Is there nothing else?" he begged. "My wife must have privacy."
The innkeeper was gone. But as Joseph plunged back to the entrance, despairing, the man was suddenly wheezing at his side. "Wait. There are some caves toward the back where we store things and stable a few animals when we're crowded. It's quieter there and warm, you'd be alone there. Just circle the inn and go down the path, you can't miss it."
Joseph thanked him. But he was heartsick as he hurried back to tell Mary. A stable! That God had chosen him to look after her, and the best he could provide was a poor cave worse than that in which his parents had lived. A humble cave of a stable.
But she was in the grip of such pain there was no use wasting time apologizing. "Come," he said gently. "The inn is truly full as the ferryman warned, but you'll be alone, my beloved. I'll make you a soft bed on the hay." Once again taking the donkey by the halter, he hurried it forward, flinching each time the poor beast stumbled and jarred her, praying only that the distance would not be far.
The rocky pathway was strewn with dung. It pitched downward as it circled the inn and led to the low but ample opening that marked the first of a series of caves. As he approached through the gathering darkness he could see that even here they were not to have complete privacy, for a group of grizzled Bedouins had built a fire before it and were cooking their evening meal. It lit up their faces, some old and weathered, some mere boys, and played on their veiled heads and their robes. They were laughing and talking as they squatted to dip their bread into the stew, or strode about preparing to bed down for the night. They paid scant attention to the little group that plodded into the cave's yawning mouth.