MARY MAGDALENE
Amber fire shot from Mary's eyes causing Deborah to falter and step backwards as though pierced by a plunging shard.
"You would deny your own vision of me, Mother? You said you believed it. Now you restrain me?"
Deborah's jaw fell slack pulling her mouth open as though to emit a whisper but loose flesh hung like weights from the bone, pressing the sound back down her throat. She swallowed in one noisy gulp.
"We'll go to the Rabbi. He'll tell us what we must do."
Mary's face tightened with a mixture of fury and condemnation. You not only surrender to those men; you help them build your prison walls. Rage turned to pain and blanched her rosy cheeks a cold, stone white.
"I'll not permit them to steal the life from me, Mother. I will not!" As they've done to you, she thought, but caught herself before saying it.
The two, so embedded in each other, stood separately defined by the moment as though their bodies were carved from granite. Anger always served to disconnect them, relieving the intensity of their relationship.
"I'll speak with Father!" Mary snapped as she pulled her fury back into her body using it to flee before her mother could mutter another word amid her shortened gasps.
Deborah sank to the thick cushion, stuffed plump with new lamb's wool. Her body looked small and pale against the bright reds of the room as she sagged closer to the floor, the cushion collapsing in barely noticeable sighs of cloth and wool.
Jacob wanted all this red. She couldn't escape it: Red cushions on the lounging couches and large deep red rugs in the communal room where she now sat; red, woven into the throw coverings over their pallet and red curtains draping the archways between the rooms of this huge house.
Red, red, red, wherever she looked. There was no respite from the harsh glare it created against the alabaster walls.
She pressed her small hand to her temple, which had now begun to throb mercilessly. Reaching for the brass bell at her side, she prepared herself for the jab of pain its ring would create as she shook it.
"Rebecca," she whined when her long time servant shuffled into the room, "get me some tea, please. You know, the strong tea." Deborah didn't notice the scowl that wrinkled the old woman's worn brow as she turned to go.
What must I do about Mary? Perhaps nothing needs to be done. I'm sure that's it. Nothing needs to be done. She sighed, relief flooding her body, as she watched the breeze flutter the gold fringe edging the bright crimson fabric that draped the entry to the portico.
Clasping the fingers of her right hand, which had just begun to tremble, she spoke aloud, her voice filled with the irritation she felt, "Where's the tea?" The effort made her eyes water to the continuous beat in her temple.
Rebecca's hands shook as she poured the Blackberry Leaf tea into the thick white bowl Deborah liked best. It was delicately painted with blue lilacs and deep green, leafy vines running wildly along the fullness of the bowl. Restful blue, Deborah sighed to herself, as she grasped the steaming porcelain with both hands.
The pungent odor of berries, black as licorice root and smelling like yesterday's wine, filled the space between their two bodies. Deborah lightly stroked the old woman's hand as though to silently thank her for the secrets they shared.
Rebecca wouldn't allow her eyes to meet with Deborah's. She turned to go, large, wide-bellied earthenware pot in her hands.
"Leave the pot here, Rebecca." Deborah motioned to the elegantly carved table beside her. Sadness filled the old woman's eyes as she turned away not wanting to hear the loud gulps as Deborah quickly finished one cup and poured another."Now, where has Mary gone?" Panic rose in Deborah's chest as she tried to retrieve the memory. "Oh, yes, she's out." A sigh escaped her body as it relaxed though she immediately felt guilty at its release. She poured another full bowl of steaming tea and smiled as the tingling sensation she knew so well ran down her spine, pulsating through her arms and legs.
Tight muscles around her mouth and eyes loosened, her body easing back against the cushions. She looked around the room with an admiration for it she hadn't felt only moments before. A tightness gripped her chest as Mary crossed her mind once more, but a second gulp of tea washed it away.
Mary kicked the dust with her sandals. Then, glared angrily at the golden powder that settled onto her brightly painted toenails. She fingered the grimy linen scroll in her hand and practiced her first words to her father. A thought flashed through her mind and she laughed softly.
"Thank you Jehovah," she whispered secretively, glancing around to assure herself she was alone on the dusty path to her father's shop.
She wiped the painted red from her lips and pulled her thick ringlets back into a long tail down her back with the thin ribbon belt of her tunic. The gown now fell loose and wrinkled about her hips, hiding the deep curves caused by full breasts and round bottom.
Bending down with a wet finger she skimmed some of the powdery dust from her toes, carefully streaking her face with it. She smiled, looking like a child who had just played in the dirt. She allowed the disappointment in her mother to move through her mind again. It caused the same feeling it always did. A deep ache in her forehead, stinging her eyes with tears that would not flow, stopped like a dammed up brook.
Guilt at the feeling made her straight, firm shoulders sag. She searched for a memory of her mother that brought her pride. The effort forced Mary's mouth into a thin, tight line. Mother meets life sitting or lying down, she told herself.
The thought, newly created, brought a flood of memories. Deborah on the low, elegantly carved stool near the brazier, watching Rebecca cook; Deborah propped up on cushions in the communal room; Deborah lying on her pallet, hand to her temple. Disgust edged up from the pit of Mary's stomach, but she pushed it away with the fear it always caused.
Shaking off the feelings, she almost skipped as she entered her father's shop, the huge iron hinges groaning as the rough-hewn door swung wide from her shove.
Jacob smiled and nodded at his only child. Perching herself on a tall wooden stool, she began to slide bright pink and clear white glass beads onto taut strings of wool, without a word to her father whose head was now bent over his work.
Jacob adorned the Roman women in town with his necklaces, bracelets and anklets linked together in their favorite colors. He gladly peddled to their vanity and arrogance, smiling as he succumbed to the clank of their silver.
A scowl crossed his brow as he thought of the Romans. He was appalled to find that some of the younger men had taken to wearing these beads on their ankles in a vain attempt to soften the harsh angles of calves and feet. There was no limit to their decadence. Disgust filled his face as he turned to Mary's voice.
"Father, I have something I want you to read," handing him the rough linen, Mary summoned her most charming smile.
"It's from Judy, Joanna's beloved teacher."
Jacob looked surprised. Mary expected that look, so she had planned her first statement well. Jacob trusted Joanna, everyone did.
"She wants Joanna and I to visit. She wants to hear my dream, Father. She thinks it means something." Mary's voice lifted like a small child's on the last words, wiping away the deep frown that had started to form between her father's brows.AuthorsDen states, Mary Magdalene Disciple of Christ receiving Top Reviews.
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