Two from Galilee (30 page)

"You are the father then? Of this holy child?"

"My wife has borne a son," he said. "I am the father of a month old son. And is not every child sacred in the sight of God?"

"Yes. Yes, truly," said the tall one after a second. "But the stars have foretold this event for years. We have studied the stars. We are Magi from Persia and Chaldea, philosophers and physicians, and we have traveled for weeks following the star that stands over this doorway. It has become the sole purpose of our existence, my friend—to see him, if only for a few minutes, this child of yours who is to change the course of all history. This one who is to become King of the Jews." The voice was grave, at once stern and imploring. "Surely you would not turn us away?"

Joseph gazed into the stranger's impassioned eyes. And he knew that it was ended, the peaceful dream of the stable with the child as only a child at its center and heart. For cradled there in the clay manger lay all the portent and the promise, the man of destiny.

"Wait," he said brusquely, "I must go and consult my wife."

Mary had been packing for the trip. The remains of their evening meal still lay on the table, while she attended the baby. He was laughing and crowing as she bent over him, changing his bands. He seemed to recognize Joseph when he entered, to gurgle and glow with new delight. A sweet desperate pain drove through Joseph's breast. "I'm sorry I was gone so long," he said. "But there are strangers at the door insisting they must see him. They are wisemen, Mary, come all the way from Persia and Chaldea, they claim."

Mary gasped. And she too was bewildered and suddenly stricken. "Wisemen? Then you must not keep them waiting." She looked about at the confusion. "Though what will they think of us?"

"Mary, it is the baby they are pressing to see." He caught her hand and they regarded each other a long moment. "He who is one day to be King of the Jews."

Mary closed her eyes. She too had almost forgotten, or set the truth aside. Now she was forced to remember all that was back of him. All the suffering and hope that had led to this moment. And all the threat and promise that lay ahead of him— this innocent little being, kicking and chewing his fist, unaware of his fate. She took him up and kissed him; blindly then she put him down and began preparing the boy so that he should not be found wanting in the strangers' eyes.

"Bid them come in."

In a few moments she could hear the pound of sandals and the swish of robes as they approached; it was like the ominous rush and pound of some majestic but overpowering sea. They filled the room with their turbaned strangeness, their exotic smell of spices and perfume. But one by one they knelt at her feet, there in the straw, and kissed the hem of her gown. And they gazed long upon the baby, who smiled at them with his great liquid eyes and strove within his bindings, as if to reach out to them. And they laughed gently, and opening their embroidered shawls, presented their gifts—jars of precious myrrh and frankincense, a bolt of silk shot through with gold, a ruby in a velvet case.

"For the king," they said, rising unsteadily and brushing at their eyes. "For the hope of the ages. And for you, his blessed mother. . . ." One of them draped a cashmere shawl about Mary's slight shoulders. "And you, his father. ..." A leather bag of coins was pressed into Joseph's hand. "Use it to lighten your load. For it is a heavy load you have been elected to carry, and a long journey that you will surely have to make."

"How so?" Joseph asked. "Tell us," he begged, "you who are wise. What lies ahead for the child and for us?"

The men exchanged troubled glances. The tall Persian spoke. "For one thing, make haste to leave this place. You did well to question us. There are those in the land who would come not to worship but to destroy a rival king."

"Herod?" Joseph blanched.

"Yes, Herod, the madman. Foolishly, we stopped in Jerusalem to inquire where the child might be found." He smiled faintly. "Even so-called wisemen can make mistakes. For he seemed unduly interested in this king we sought. He made us promise that when we found him we'd return and tell him." At Joseph's start—"Don't worry, we'll return to our own country another way. But the news will spread, there will be others who will send the information to him. Take the child and go, don't stay here another day!"

"We are leaving for Jerusalem tomorrow," Joseph said anxiously. "We must present the child at the Temple, for the day of my wife's purification is at hand. Whatever the danger involved, that must be done."

The Chaldean physician spoke up. "Go, then. Many infants are brought to the Temple every day, it's the last place Herod would think to look for him. But whatever else you do, don't return to Bethlehem."

Night now, deep night and all was still.

Now and then a dog barked somewhere, a hoof stomped, a swallow went fluttering across the ceiling. Except for these sounds the stable was silent. Yet Mary could not sleep. Careful not to disturb Joseph, she got up and stole about, doing last-minute things for the journey. Then she crept back and gazed upon the face of the slumbering child. It lay so still, was it breathing? She bent her ear to the hot bundle; she could feel it move inside its cocoon of wrappings, the lips made sucking movements, and her own being relaxed.

"Mary?" She turned, startled to see Joseph sitting up on his pallet on the floor. His eyes were large with alarm. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes. I was only looking after the baby."

He flung off the robe and began striding about, poking the fire, turning the wick of the lamp higher. "I can't sleep either. At least I didn't think I was sleeping but I must have been because I had a dream just now. A vivid dream. An angel stood beside me and repeated the wisemen's warning." He was breathing hard. "Mary, they were right, we will have to flee. After the presentation tomorrow we can't come back here or even go home to Nazareth. The dream made that very clear. We must take the child and flee into Egypt."

"Egypt!"

"Yes, the land of our people's exile. We will have to wait there until it's safe to come back."

Mary stared at him as he heated milk to calm himself. "Joseph, are you sure?"

Sure? He could scarcely steady the vessel he was so shaken. Who was sure of anything any more? All, all was a dream and a miracle. To be born at all, to love and be fulfilled, or to love and be denied. Where was home? A house he had built on a Nazareth hillside ... or a crowded stable ... or an everlasting highway? Did man ever really wake and know truly where he was at any given moment, or if he lived and breathed at all, or only dreamed his own existence? For all, all was a mystery— where it began no one knew, and if it ever ended, even at the grave, no one could say.

"Yes," he said grimly and sipped the milk from the gourd. "Yes, we must do as we are told." For, sorrowing, he saw that this was the only truth now. Forces beyond themselves had brought them to this moment, and would surely guide and guard them in the hours that lay ahead.

"Then we won't be able even to see my aunt and the little John?"

"No, Mary."

"I had looked forward to it so. I wanted the cousins to meet. I did so want to show her our lovely baby."

"I know, Mary."

"Oh, Joseph!" She ran to him in her bare feet and flung herself against him, and he held her close and wrapped his garment about her to shelter and comfort her. "Joseph, I'm afraid. I want to go home. Home to our parents and friends in Galilee. Home to our house." Suddenly—"I want to live as other women, I want to love you as your wife and for you to love me as my husband."

He caught his breath. . . .
"But know her not until she has borne this holy one."
. . .
Until!

It was too much, it was more than he dared contemplate right now. Yet her words gave him a source of strength and joy he would sorely need. "Hush, we mustn't think of such things yet. For now, for a long time, Mary, the child must be our only concern." He kissed her tenderly and stroked her hair. "We have a long hard journey ahead of us, as the wisemen said. And we must be thankful that they came to warn us. And their gifts —the money will help take care of us and the child. If we are driven to it we can even sell the ruby."

"No, it belongs to him. And the precious silks and oils." She drew away, wiping her eyes. "We will put them away for him, unto the day when he shall truly be king."

Again the conflict bore in upon Joseph. King yet lowly. God yet man. Born of a virgin in human fear and suffering, as all men must be born. Why? Why? . . . Was it to demonstrate the eternal majesty and mystery of being? What a crude and wonderful thing it is to emerge out of a woman and live for a little while upon this planet, whether as king or god or slave. And God the author of it all, in whose image all men are made. God, in his desperation to draw men back to him, willing to be born and perhaps even to die in the bittersweet manner of men.

"Somehow I can't think of our son as a king," Joseph said. "At least not a king who will mount a throne one day and rule the world." He went and stood by the child who stirred in its sleep and whimpered and slept again. "But rather as a king who will somehow change men's hearts."

Mary followed, and he saw that she was weeping quietly but terribly, from somewhere deep in her soul. "Oh, Joseph, our poor baby! I love him so. I would almost renounce the honor of being the chosen one if only this child could be simply our child and not subject to ... to what both of us know must surely come to him."

"Hush," he whispered. "Hush, Mary, be still." He spoke brusquely even as he soothed her, trying to deny what now for the first time he too must force himself to face. "Why, he has a glorious fate awaiting him. God's own sonl I spoke wrongly a moment ago, he will be a glorious king, greater even than David, for his kingdom will be all the world."

She was staring at the baby, across whose sleeping face a shadow now hung. It was only the shadow of a wagon tongue propped against the wall, yet she saw it, the dark and terrible shape of it drawn across the helpless form of her little son.

"No," she said quietly, out of her private agony of knowledge. "The prophets have already spoken of his fate. He will be no earthly king. He will be a man of sorrows whom the world will despise. He will be the scapegoat driven into the wilderness to carry away the people's sins. He will bear the whole burden of their guilt upon his shoulders. He will be led up onto a hill to be slaughtered for that guilt; he will be the sacrificial lamb."

"Don't, Mary, don't! I can't bear it, you can't bear it. He will not be forced to bear it. The prophets were often madmen claiming revelations that came from the devil and not from God."

"He will be slain," she went on as if in a daze. "They will crucify him in the manner of thieves and Zealots. That Zealot I once saw upon a cross. . . . They will make him a cross and force him to carry it for the guilt of our falling apart from God. See—the shadow of that cross is upon him now."

"Stop!" For now Joseph saw it too, and the cry was wrung from his very bowels. In anger and anguish he went to the offending shaft and carried it the length of the stable and flung it into the yard. When he came back he was trembling but more calm. Mary, however, was crouched beside the manger, her head pressed against it.

"Forgive me." She lifted her wet tormented face to his. "But oh, Joseph, the pains that I suffered to bring him forth, what will they be compared to the suffering if this thing be fulfilled?"

"Mary, Mary." He lifted her up and held her like a child. He strode with her to a bench and set her down upon it, and then he warmed a cup of milk for her and bade her drink it. And as she did so he stroked her hair and plucked the wisps of hay from it, as he had done that night of her travail. And he whispered softly to her until she was quiet, and then he sat beside her, holding her hand.

"Hush, my love, my little wife," he said. "Does not every mother who bears a son know that he must die one day? Aren't there already a thousand crosses upon the hills of Judah? Doesn't every man who walks this earth carry his cross with him every day?"

He turned and looked a moment at the manger. "This is our cross, Mary. Yours and mine—for you know how much I love him too. But this is our cross—to know that our son's hour will come and we can't stop it. To live with that certainty every day of our lives. But this is our blessing," he told her. "To know that in his living and his dying he will be lifting the yoke somewhat for all men. Life with its burdens will be more tolerable. There will be hope. Not only for the freedom of Israel, our own people, but all people who are enslaved.

"And hope for the tormented spirit, Mary. To have some link, some proof that the God we worship really cares about us. Not to have to
fight
God any more, not to be estranged from him." Joseph's face was working, he was struggling to make it clear. "That too is suffering, perhaps the worst suffering of all. Somehow through this child all this will come about."

"But he's so young, so little and young!"

"Yes, he's just a baby now—our baby, unaware of this great plan." His voice broke, it was a second before he could go on. "Pray God that he will be a long time knowing. But when he becomes a man and takes up the work that has been designed for him, we too must be ready, Mary. And so we must accept it. Accept it now. We must not struggle against that secret knowledge, we must accept it and grow in courage toward that hour. So that we won't be found wanting, Mary his mother. Mary— my wife."