Excerpt

She was carried to a place she had never been. It was much
more vivid than a dream, it had a depth and a color to it, and
exquisite detail that made it seem more real than the time with her
mother in the courtyard, more real than the dreamy hours she spent
sometimes looking out at the great lake of Magdala, the one so
grand they called it a sea: the Sea of Galilee.

She was elevated, put on a high pillar or a platform, she could not
tell which. And all around her were people, gathering at the base
of it, looking up at her. She turned her head to the side and saw
that other pillars had other people on them, that there was a whole
row of them, stretching as far as she could see. The sky was a
yellowish color, the color she had only seen once, when there was a
sandstorm. The sun was blotted out, but there was still light,
diffuse golden light.

Then someone came to her-were they flying, was it an angel, how did
they get there?-and took her hand and said, "Will you come? Will
you come with us?"

She felt the hand holding hers, and it was smooth like a piece of
marble, not cold, not hot, not sweaty, but perfect. She wanted to
squeeze it but dared not.

"Yes," she finally said.

And then the figure-she still did not know who it was, she dared
not look at the face, only at the feet in golden sandals-lifted her
up and took her away, and the journey was so dizzying that she lost
her balance and began to fall, to plummet, and it was very dark
beneath her.

She sat up with a jolt. The oil lamp had burned out. Outside she
could hear the gentle sound of the water of the great lake, not far
from her window, as it lapped the shore.

She held out her hand, felt it. It was moist. Was that why the
being had let her go, had dropped it? She rubbed it hard.

No, let me cleanse my hand! she cried out, silently. Don't abandon
me! I can wipe it off!

"Come back," she whispered.

But the only answer was the stillness of the room and the sound of
the water.

She rushed into her mother and father's room. They were sleeping
soundly; they did not need a lamp, they slept in darkness.

"Mother!" she cried, grabbing her shoulder. "Mother!" Without
permission, she climbed into the bed and huddled under the warm
covers next to her mother.

"What...what is it?" Her mother struggled to form words.
"Mary?"

"I have had such a strange dream," she cried. "I was taken
up...into some heaven, I don't know where, I only know it was not
of this world, it had angels, I think, or...I don't know what..."
She paused, gasping for breath. "I think I was...I was called.
Called to join them, called to become part of their company..." But
it had been frightening, and she had not been sure she wanted to
join them.

Now her father sat up. "What's this?" he said. "A dream? A dream
about being called?"

"Nathan-" Mary's mother reached out and tried to restrain him, by
touching his shoulder.

"I don't know if I was being called," Mary said in a small voice.
"But there was this dream, and people up on high places,
and-"

"High places!" cried her father. "That is where the ancient heathen
idols were. In the high places!"

"But not up on pedestals," Mary said. "This was different. The
people being honored were standing upon them, and they were people,
not statues...."

"And you think you've been called?" her father asked. "Why?"

"They asked if I would join them. They said, 'Will you come with
us?'" Even as she recited it, she could hear the sweet
voices.

"You must know, daughter, that all prophecy has ceased in our
land," her father finally said. "There has been no word uttered by
a prophet since Malachi, and that was four hundred years ago. God
does not speak to us that way any longer. He speaks only through
his holy Law. And that is sufficient for us."

But Mary knew what she had seen, the transcendent glory and warmth
of it. "But, Father," she said, "the message, and the invitation,
were so clear." She kept her voice low and respectful. But she was
still shaking.

"Dear daughter, you have been misled. It was but a dream, brought
on by our preparations for Jerusalem. God would not call you. Now
return to your own bed."

She clung to her mother, but her mother thrust her aside. "Do as
your father says," she ordered.

Mary returned to her room, the majesty of the dream still
enveloping her. It had been real. She knew it had been real.

And if it was real, then her father was wrong.

In the hours just before the sky would lighten, the household made
ready for its pilgrimage to Jerusalem for the Feast of Weeks. Mary
had been excited, because all the adults were so eager for the
trip, and because all Jews were supposed to long for Jerusalem. But
she had most looked forward to the journey itself, for the
seven-year-old had never been outside Magdala, and there were sure
to be adventures on the way. Her father had hinted at them when he
told her, "We will be traveling to Jerusalem by the short route,
through Samaria, so it will take us only three days instead of
four. But it is dangerous. There have been attacks on pilgrims
going to Jerusalem." He shook his head. "The Samaritans even still
have idols, I have heard. Oh, not so openly any longer, not by the
roadside, but..."

"What kind of idol? I've never seen an idol!" she asked
eagerly.

"Pray that you never do!"

"But how will I know an idol if I see one?"

"You'll know," her father said. "And you must shun it!"

"But-"

"That's enough!"

Now Mary remembered this, but all her earlier curiosity about
Jerusalem was eclipsed by the dream, still so vivid to her in the
darkness.

Busying herself with the final preparations, Mary's mother,
Zebidah, had suddenly broken off measuring grain into the travel
sacks and bent down to her daughter. She did not mention the dream.
Instead she said, "Now, as for this trip, you must not mingle with
any of the other families coming, except for the few I tell you are
acceptable. So many people do not keep the Law and only want to go
to Jerusalem-and even the Temple!-as some sort of holiday. Stay
with the other observant families. Do you understand me?" She
looked hard at Mary. In that instant her pretty face was not pretty
but forbidding.

"Yes, Mother," she said.

"We keep the Law zealously, and so it must be," her mother
continued. "Let all those other...transgressors look to themselves.
It is not our duty to save them from their negligence. And mixing
with them will contaminate us."

"Like mixing milk and meat?" Mary asked. She knew this was
absolutely forbidden, so much so that anything pertaining to them
must be separated.

"Just so," her mother answered. "And worse, because their influence
does not fade away after a day or so, like that of the milk and
meat. It stays with you, corrupting and corrupting."

They were ready. The six families making the journey together
waited, donkeys loaded, packs slung over their shoulders, on the
road above Magdala for the larger groups from the nearby towns to
join them for the trip to Jerusalem. Mary would start out riding a
donkey: the youngest traveler in the family, she did not have the
stamina to walk long distances. Perhaps on the return journey she
would be so toughened that she would not have to ride at all. That
was her hope.

The dry season had begun, and already the sun felt hot on Mary's
face. It hung brazenly over the Sea of Galilee, where it had risen
earlier from behind the mountains. At dawn those mountains across
the lake had been the color of tender grapes; now they showed their
true colors of dust and stone. They were quite bare, and looked,
Mary thought, malevolent. But perhaps that was because the land of
the old Ammonites had such a bad reputation as Israel's ancient
enemy.

What was it the Ammonites had done that was so bad? King David had
had trouble with them. But, then, he had trouble with everyone. And
there was also that evil god they worshiped, although Mary could
not at first remember his name. He made the Ammonites sacrifice
their children to him, putting them into the flames. Mo...Mol...
Molech. Yes, that was his name.

She held up her hand and squinted across the lake. She certainly
could not see any temples of Molech from here.

She gave a shudder, even in the warm sun. I won't think any more
about Molech, she told herself sternly. The lake, gleaming in the
sun, seemed to agree. It was too beautiful for its blue waters to
be stained with thoughts of a blood-dripping god; it was probably
the most beautiful place in all Israel, Mary firmly believed. No
matter what was claimed for Jerusalem, how could anything be
lovelier that this oval body of water, bright blue, surrounded by
hills cupping it protectively?

She could see fishing boats out on the waters; there were a great
many of them. It was fish that her town of Magdala was famous
for-here they were salted, dried, traded, and shipped all over the
world. Magdala fish were a presence on tables as far away as
Damascus or Alexandria. And a presence in Mary's own home, for her
father, Nathan, was a leading processor of the fish hauled into his
warehouse, and her oldest brother, Samuel-although he had taken to
calling himself the Greek name Silvanus for trading purposes-was
the business manager, dealing with both local people and foreigners
to arrange sales. Thus the big mosaic of a fishing boat that
decorated their entrance hall indicated the source of their wealth.
Every day as they stepped across it they could be reminded and give
thanks for their good fortune and God's multitude of fish in their
sea.

An east wind struck the waters of the lake and made the surface of
the water tremble; she could see the ripples of water that did
indeed look like harp strings. The old, poetic name for the lake
was Lake Kinneret, Lake Harp, because of its shape and also because
of the pattern of the wind on the water. Mary could almost hear the
fine sound of plucked strings, singing to her across the
water.

"Here they come!" Mary's father was gesturing to her to urge her
donkey back toward the others. Down the dusty road she could see a
very large caravan approaching, with even a camel or two besides
donkeys and the mass of walkers.

"They must have celebrated the Sabbath too long yesterday," said
Mary's mother, tartly. She was frowning; the late start was a
nuisance. What was the point of delaying the departure until after
the Sabbath if they were to lose a half-day anyway? No one ever
started a journey the day before the Sabbath, or even the day
before that, if it was a long journey. The rabbinical law
forbidding walking more than about a Roman mile on the Sabbath
meant that would waste a day-as far as travel was concerned.

"The Sabbath is such an excuse to waste time," said Mary's brother
Silvanus loudly. "This insistence on strict observance of the
Sabbath is crippling us in the foreign trade; the Greeks and
Phoenicians don't take one day off out of every seven!"

"Yes, we know about your pagan sympathies, Samuel," said Mary's
other older brother, Eli. "I suppose next you'll be running naked
in the gymnasium with all your Greek friends."

Silvanus-alias Samuel-just glared at him. "I haven't time," he said
coldly. "I am too busy helping Father run the business. It's you,
with all your spare time studying scripture and consulting with
rabbis, who have the leisure to go to the gymnasium or any other
place of amusement you want to."

Eli flared, as Silvanus knew he would. The younger man had a hot
temper, despite all his efforts in studying the ways and whys of
Yahweh. With his fine, straight-nosed profile and noble bearing, he
could pass for Greek, thought Silvanus. Whereas he-he almost
laughed-looked more like the little scholars who were always bent
over the Torah in the beth ha-Midrash, the House of Learning.
Yahweh must have a mighty sense of humor.

"The study of Torah is the most important thing a man can do," Eli
said stiffly. "It supersedes all other activity in moral
worth."

"Yes, and in your case it precludes all other activity."

Eli snorted and turned away, pulling his donkey with him, so that
its hindside was facing Silvanus, who merely laughed.

Mary was used to hearing this exchange, in various forms, between
her twenty-one-year-old and eighteen-year-old brothers. It was
never resolved and it never even progressed. Mary's family was
deeply observant, adhering to all the rituals and religious
strictures; only Silvanus seemed restless in what her father
referred to as "the perfect Law of the Lord."

Mary wished she could study that Law at the little school attached
to their synagogue, the beth ha-sefer, and see for herself. Or that
she could steal the knowledge that Silvanus, who did not seem to
want it, had acquired from his Torah schooling. But girls could not
attend the school, since they could have no official place in
religion. Her father had sternly repeated the rabbinical dictum,
"It would be better to see the Torah burnt than to hear its words
upon the lips of women."

"You should learn Greek so you can read the Iliad," Silvanus had
once suggested to Mary, with a laugh. Naturally Eli had countered
with a shocked blast. But Silvanus had replied, "If someone is shut
out of her own literature and knowledge by stupid rulings, is she
not then forced to turn to another?"

Silvanus had a point; the Greeks welcomed others into their
culture, whereas the Jews guarded theirs like a secret. Each action
was the result of thinking theirs was superior: the Greeks thought
that one taste of Greek culture would instantly win anyone over,
whereas the Jews felt theirs was so precious it could be desecrated
by offering it to any and all passersby. Naturally this made Mary
all the more curious about both of them. She would learn to read,
she promised herself, and then she could tap into the magic and
mystery of the holy writings herself.

The two traveling parties met and merged on the fork of the road up
from Magdala-there were now about twenty-five families to make the
journey. Many were related, distantly or otherwise, so large
numbers of third, fourth, fifth, and sixth cousins would meet and
play en route. Mary's family was traveling only alongside other
very observant families. As they regrouped to form the procession,
Eli could not resist one aside to Silvanus. "I don't know why you
are making this journey at all," he said, "since you have no
sympathy with our way of thought. Why go to Jerusalem?"

Instead of a sharp retort, Silvanus said thoughtfully, "For the
history, Eli, for the history. I love the stones of Jerusalem, each
of which tells a story-and tells it clearer and finer than the
words in the scrolls."

Eli ignored his brother's solemnity. "It's a story you wouldn't
even know if it wasn't written in the very scriptures you scorn! It
isn't stones who talk and tell us their tales, it's scribes who
record it for posterity."

"I'm sorry that you credit only yourself with the finer feelings,"
Silvanus finally said. He halted and fell back into another group;
he would not be traveling close to his brother on this
journey.

Mary did not know which one to keep near, so she went over to her
parents. They were walking resolutely, their faces set for
Jerusalem. The sun beat down, its brightness causing them to squint
and shield their eyes.

Clouds of dust were blowing. The startling green of the Galilean
spring grass had begun to fade, replaced by a dun mat; the
jewel-colored wildflowers that had dotted the hillsides had wilted
and disappeared. From now until next spring, the landscape would
become progressively browner, the glorious burst of nature's love
merely a memory. Galilee was the lushest part of the country, the
nearest thing to a Persian garden paradise in the land of
Israel.

The branches of the fruit trees were laden with new apples and
pomegranates; the bright-green early figs were peeking from under
their leaves. People were gathering them; new figs never remained
on the trees long.

Chapter Two

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Mary, Called Magdalene
by by Margaret George [5]

Genres: Fiction [10], Historical Fiction [11]
paperback: 656 pages
Publisher: Penguin (Non-Classics)
ISBN-10: 0142002798
ISBN-13: 9780142002797