She had been branded an evil woman and the people threw stones at her as they would to drive away the scavenging pariah dogs, and even the children – educated in these matters by their parents – sniggered as she went by and called out ‘Harlot!’ and made obscene gestures with their scrawny fists. She had come to accept it (there was no choice) and withdrawn into a self-protective shell of icy aloofness, not answering their taunts or acknowledging their presence, though she burned inside with a deadly white flame, so pure and hot that it scorched every fibre of her being. She was not so readily cast down; a lust for revenge shook her like palsy; the day would come, she told herself, and the day would be sufficient unto itself. They scorned her now but somehow Maria would have the retribution she craved.
Her father had warned her of this. Ever since she was a child he had told her that those descended of Dagon had a heavy burden to bear, for they were set apart from their neighbours by virtue of their birthright. The story was well known, even among those who were not of their tribe, how an Angel of the Lord had descended from heaven and been tempted by the evil daughter of Dagon in the temple at Ashdod, and from this sacrilegious act had come a tainted people who would carry the sins of their forefathers for all time. The story had become the central legend of their tribe and even after twenty-eight generations it both sustained them and set them apart so that they lived in the community as outcasts.
Maria had learnt the hard and painful lesson that there was no charity in the hearts of men. Her neighbours worshipped in the temple, knelt and prayed for forgiveness of their sins, and straight away poured scorn on those they considered had transgressed in the eyes of God. They sought forgiveness but weren’t prepared in their turn to forgive. They suffered with rancour and ill grace the presence of the tribe of Dagon in their midst, treating them as an inferior species which didn’t deserve the consideration and respect they would have shown an animal.
Before he died Maria’s father had tried to comfort her with these words:
‘Our forefathers were punished for their sins. They were driven from their city by a plague of vermin and afflicted with emerods and ever since the descendants of Dagon have been made to pay anew, each generation carrying the guilt of the past. It won’t always be so. The time will come, and it won’t be long, when our people will be rid of the stigma which has lain upon us like a brand; we will be as other men, even exalted above them.’
She had never discovered – from her father or any other member of the tribe – how this miracle was to come about. It seemed futile to hope, and yet hope continued to burn steadily inside her, a hot clear flame. She shared her father’s conviction that one day soon salvation would be at hand, but it was founded on nothing more substantial than blind instinctive faith.
Two days after her nineteenth birthday, as in the twinkling of an eye, Maria fell in love. She had been sent by her mother to the carpenter’s shop to ask for shavings to kindle the fire, and having run the gauntlet of sniggers and obscene whispers had entered the dark cool room filled with the sweet fragrance of freshly-cut timber. The carpenter, who was not of her tribe, was a gentle man called Eliel who treated everyone with kindness, irrespective of their line. He greeted Maria warmly and told her she could collect as many shavings as she wanted.
Maria set about her task and it was only after several moments had elapsed that she became aware she was being watched by a young man with intense dark-brown eyes who sat cross-legged in the far corner of the room. He was smoothing down a piece of work with pumice stone, though his eyes were fixed on her, never leaving her face. She was annoyed (she pretended to be annoyed) and flashed him a cold blank stare which didn’t have the effect she intended, for he smiled. This confused her and she glanced away, feeling her cheeks grow hot. The heavy sweet fragrance of the wood seemed to be preventing her from fully catching her breath.
‘No,’ she said at once, and then in a softer tone, remembering her mother’s edict, ‘Thank you.’
‘There are some bigger pieces here if you want them.’ He scooped up a handful and tossed them to her. His hand passed through a bar of sunlight and she was dazzled: an impression of his hand was imprinted on her eye which turned from glowing black to brilliant white every time she blinked.
‘Got something in your eye?’
‘No.’
‘Might be sawdust.’
‘There’s nothing in my eye,’ Maria said tartly, gathering up the scraps of wood. She obstinately refused to look at him and got to her feet, thanking the carpenter, and was so intent on avoiding his look that she turned and almost walked into the wall.
‘You have got something in your eye.’
‘I haven’t,’ she said, and ran outside, now totally bewildered and nearly in tears, thinking, What a stupid stupid man!.
For several days after she couldn’t recall what he looked like (she remembered he had dark-brown eyes) but she knew every detail of his hand which was perpetually in her memory, bathed in vivid sunshine.
The young man, whose name was Jozabad, of the tribe of Kish, had come to the village to take up an apprenticeship, and by surreptitious questioning and observation Maria learned everything she could about him. But she was careful not to visit the carpenter’s shop too often in case he got the idea that she was keen on him, which of course she certainly was not.
Jozabad, however, took matters into his own hands and did the unthinkable: without even the flimsiest of pretexts he came to her house and asked for her by name, apparently indifferent to the consternation he caused – not only that he had come unbidden but also that a man of the tribe of Kish could lower himself to visit the house of one of the tribe of Dagon. Maria’s mother was scandalized and she was also afraid, and she refused to call her daughter or to allow Jozabad over the threshold. He was not of their tribe and had no business calling on them; she would forbid Maria to visit the carpenter’s shop ever again.
Closing the door firmly and resolutely she returned to the kitchen. Her face was closed, her lips sealed tight. Maria, who was (in deed if not thought) the innocent party, went about her chores with a creeping discretion, making very little noise, for she knew well enough the strict taboo which separated the other tribes from her own people. Marriage between them was not forbidden because it was never considered; the stigma, even after twenty-eight generations, was scored deep into their minds and hearts.
The following day, as they were making bread, her mother said, ‘I’ve noticed how pale you’ve been lately, Maria. Are you feeling all right?’
Maria looked up, startled. ‘There’s nothing the matter with me.’
‘You’re so quiet. I’ve been thinking you should visit your cousin Elisabeth for a while. The heat will be starting soon and it’s much cooler in the hills round Juda. Why don’t you go and stay there for the summer? A change of air for three or four months will do you good.’ She was kneading dough with strong curved fingers, wrestling with it like a bear throttling a snake.
Maria said quietly, ‘I’d rather stay here, mother.’
‘I think you should go.’
‘I’d rather stay.’
Her mother choked the last gasp out of the doughy snake. ‘It would be better for your health, Maria, and for everyone concerned, if you went. The summer heat can be very trying. Very trying indeed.’
Maria said, ‘If you want me to go I’ll go.’
Her mother tied the snake in knots and dropped it into an earthenware bowl where it lay still and dead.
‘There’s a sensible girl.’
*
Elisabeth, wife of Zacharias, was forty-three years old and still without a child. She and her husband had waited patiently through the years, and then impatiently, and then they had prayed, but the child had never come.
They lived in the city of Juda, on the edge of the hill country, where the scrubland gave way to rocky slopes which rose up to bleached volcanic cliffs standing poised and sharp in the cool clear heights above the desert plain. Some of the tribe of Dagon had settled here, believing that the further they fled from the populated areas the more accepted they would become; it was a fallacy soon disproved.
When Maria arrived there was great excitement in the household. She didn’t understand the reason until, when they were alone together, her cousin broke the news.
‘After all these years I am with child. Maria, think of it! I’m to be a mother!’
‘Is it possible? I thought you were …?’
‘I’m not that old,’ Elisabeth said, scolding her. ‘We have lived good lives, Zacharias and I, and now at last we’ve been rewarded – you can’t say we haven’t been patient.’
‘You’ve been more than patient. And I’m very pleased for you … I’m very happy that you’re to be a mother.’
‘You don’t sound at all enthusiastic, Maria.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing. Really.’
‘Shall I tell you a secret?’
‘Yes,’ Maria said, smiling.
Elisabeth closed her eyes. She made the sign of the cross and pressed the palm of her hand against her forehead. ‘I’ve seen the Angel of the Lord.’
Maria said, ‘Where?’ – glancing nervously round the room as if she half expected a heavenly presence to be hovering nearby.
‘In a dream.’
‘Oh,’ Maria said, relaxing.
‘Don’t you believe me?’
‘Yes, I believe you. You saw the Angel of the Lord in a dream.’
‘He appeared to me six months ago and told me that if I went into the hills I would be blessed with a child.’
Maria was suddenly afraid. She recalled the legend of their tribe: how an Angel of the Lord had been tempted and seduced by the daughter of Dagon and ever since they had been damned in the sight of God. Was the curse again upon them, to be reenacted after all these generations? Would it follow them throughout time, a penalty which had to be paid again and again? She said:
‘And you obeyed him?’
‘I went up into the hills, to a place he had spoken of in the dream, and there I found the Ancient of Days.’
‘I don’t understand. What did you find?’
‘He told me about it in the dream,’ Elisabeth said, her voice falling to a whisper. Her eyes were lost in remembering. ‘He said that in the hills I would find the Ancient of Days and if I worshipped before it I would become fertile. He spoke truly and what he said came to pass.’
‘But … what is the Ancient of Days? A shrine?’
Elisabeth said, as in a trance. ‘A globe of radiant light which burns from within. There is no flame or smoke, as from a fire, but its light is as constant as the sun.’ She looked at Maria. ‘Don’t you see? It’s the fire of heaven! God has not forsaken the people of Dagon – He has looked down upon us and seen our plight and blessed us. We have found favour in His sight.’
Maria said slowly, ‘Is that what it means? Are you sure?’
‘What else can it mean?’ her cousin said eagerly. ‘I was barren and He made me fruitful. Our prayers have been answered.’
‘Does Zacharias know of this thing in the hills?’
Elisabeth shook her head. ‘I was afraid to tell him. I haven’t told anyone … except you.’
‘I see,’ Maria said, glancing away.
‘Don’t you believe what I’ve been saying?’
‘Of course I do,’ Maria soothed her.
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’
Maria was silent. Then she said, ‘You say the Angel of the Lord came to you in a dream – but couldn’t it all have been a dream? Are you sure the Ancient of Days wasn’t also in your dream?’
‘Is my pregnancy a dream too? Feel my belly. Does that feel like a dream to you?’
‘Of course you’re pregnant, I believe that. But it could have happened … naturally.’
Elisabeth said stubbornly, ‘I know what I saw. I know what happened and nothing can change that. God heard our prayers and sent His angel to answer them.’ A thought came to her. She said, ‘I know the place where the Ancient of Days resides – if I show you, then you’ll have to believe.’
‘No,’ Maria said quickly. ‘I don’t want to.’
‘If you don’t believe why are you so afraid? If the Ancient of Days doesn’t exist there is nothing to fear. You can’t not believe and be afraid.’
‘I’m not afraid for myself but for our people.’
‘But why? Our people have waited for a sign. We’ve been persecuted long enough. God has at last shown us His mercy and forgiven us the sins of our fathers. Why else should He bless me with a child?’
‘I don’t know,’ Maria said doubtfully. She looked at her cousin and came to a decision. ‘I will go with you. Perhaps if I can believe I shan’t be afraid any more. My father said before he died that our people would one day be rid of the curse which has lain upon us for so long. Perhaps that day is near.’
So they went up into the hills around Juda and Elisabeth led the way unerringly to the place where the Ancient of Days resided.
Everything was as she had said: the narrow fissure opened up to a large chamber inside the rock which was lit by a sphere of serene light. It rested on pillars and slabs that gleamed like burnished brass and threw a soft radiance over the two women as they approached and knelt before it. Neither one spoke; it was as if the chamber was a consecrated place, holier than the temples of the tribe of Kish which they were forbidden to enter.
Maria felt herself to be suspended, her senses wandering from her body and drifting upwards into the chamber like feathers. She had not disbelieved her cousin’s story so much as been afraid that it was true. It was one thing to pray for salvation but when there was the real and actual possibility that it might be granted she had felt a strange sense of reluctance, as though it was too soon, too hurried, it would be better to wait a few generations more.
Now her doubts had vanished. There was no fear in her. The Ancient of Days was benevolent, shedding a soft kindly light throughout the chamber, washing them in its holy radiance. The light seemed to penetrate her skin and warm the root of her belly and it was as though she was filled with the Holy Spirit. A feeling of infinite peace and tranquillity settled on her like the gentle rain from heaven.
As they descended from the hills, returning to the city, neither woman felt the need to speak; each was alone with her own private thoughts. Maria was thinking Our god was taken from us and we were denied the religious beliefs which sustain the other tribes. For many generations we have been a godless people. Is it now the time when we shall be welcomed back into the fold?
And even as she thought these things germination had already begun.
*
Maria stayed three months in Juda with Elisabeth and Zacharias and saw the birth of their child, a baby boy whom they named John. Then it was time for her to return home.
Her mother greeted her warmly and that first evening they sat around the supper table and drank wine and sang songs. Maria told them of Elisabeth’s good fortune in at last bearing a child, though she said nothing of the circumstances which had led to the blessed event. Her mother said, ‘You look better for having spent some time in the hill country; the climate must agree with you. You’re not as thin as you were.’
‘I feel very well.’
‘I’m glad you’re back home with us. It’s been a strain running the household without you.’ She smiled and said contentedly, ‘Now we’re back as we were.’
For several days Maria remained in or near the house. Her mother didn’t insist on this, nor did she forbid her daughter to walk through the village, but it seemed as if there was an unspoken agreement which Maria tacitly acknowledged and obeyed. But inevitably there had to come a time when, her heart in her mouth, she entered the carpenter’s shop, and keeping her eyes modestly lowered asked if she might collect some scraps to use as kindling. She had not been sent: her mother knew nothing of the errand, but she pretended to herself that she was carrying out her mother’s wishes and being the dutiful daughter. After all, she reasoned, three months had elapsed and there couldn’t now be the slightest danger; not the slightest.
‘Well, well,’ said a voice, and she looked up in confusion to see Jozabad, alone, standing at the bench. ‘I thought you’d gone for good.’
‘I’ve been visiting some relations. Where’s Eliel?’
‘It must be the season for visiting relations. He’s gone to visit some of his. You’re looking well.’
‘You have a fine colour,’ Jozabad said, smiling. She looked at his strong square hands holding a piece of timber. His hands fascinated her. She could still remember vividly the first time she had seen him, and the image of his hand, golden in sunlight, was imprinted on her memory.
‘How’s your mother these days?’ asked Jozabad.
‘She’s very well. Thank you.’
‘Has she forgiven me?’
‘What for?’
‘It seems I did the wrong thing in coming to your house. Isn’t that why you were sent away?’
Maria traced a pattern in the sawdust with her foot.
‘Isn’t that the reason?’
She shrugged slightly.
‘You didn’t want to go; it wasn’t your idea.’
Maria shook her head slowly.
He suddenly grinned at her. ‘Don’t look so pensive! I like you and I think you like me. Nothing wrong with that is there?’
‘We’re of different tribes.’
‘So?’
‘I’m of the tribe of Dagon.’
‘I know that.’
‘Doesn’t it matter to you?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Should it?’
‘Everyone else thinks it matters.’
‘They’re everyone else: we’re you and me. If it doesn’t matter to us why should we care what they think?’ He gathered up some waste and brought it to her; she noticed the veins on his hands, standing out, and patches of moistness between his fingers. She had an almost irrepressible urge to kiss his hands, sweaty as they were, and rub the damp palms against her cheek.
He said softly, ‘We shouldn’t care what anyone else thinks.’
‘People can be very cruel,’ she said, with a bitterness that surprised him.
‘You have a depressing attitude towards life for one so young.’
‘You’re not much older than me.’
‘Twenty-four. You’re nineteen.’
‘How do you know that?’ she asked quickly.
Jozabad didn’t answer, just smiled, his dark-brown eyes fixed upon her, and Maria knew with total conviction that what she had felt for him that first day three months ago was a true and abiding emotion.
They had to overcome the opposition of both families to their betrothal.
Jozabad’s parents, who lived in a village near the coast, were as outraged by the notion as was Maria’s mother: it was unheard of, a scandal, not to be countenanced at any price. Every kind of obstacle was put in their way – religious, social, economic, family pride, family disgrace. The marriage could not and would not be allowed. And it did seem, for a while, as if the families would have their way, for a girl of Maria’s age could not wed without her parents’ consent.
So Jozabad was left with no choice: he pulled the oldest trick in the book and told his parents and Maria’s mother that she was pregnant by him. If they were to save the honour of both families they had to get married at once; there must be no delay. His own people were still dead against it, having little regard for what befell a woman of the tribe of Dagon: it was only to be expected of her kind, they said, for it was common knowledge that all their women were nothing better than harlots. One had only to recall what had taken place; between Dagon’s daughter and the Angel of the Lord …
The marriage took place, though outside the temple, for the priests refused to sanctify or give it their blessing, saying it was a blasphemy and that the child of their union would be damned for all its days in the sight of God. Jozabad had brought disgrace on his people and henceforth would not be permitted to worship in the temple. They washed their hands of him.
On their wedding night, lying side by side in the warm pressing darkness, Maria gathered together every ounce of her resolve and told her husband of her condition. Jozabad didn’t respond straight away and Maria waited in an agony of despair. Then he said:
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
‘I thought I would lose you.’
‘I love you. You know that.’
‘I was afraid. Forgive me.’
‘There is nothing to forgive.’
‘Yes I do.’ He held her in his arms. ‘There is nothing to forgive, Maria, because I already knew. I knew that day in the carpenter’s shop when you had returned from Juda.’
‘It isn’t possible. How could you have known?’
‘I knew,’ Jozabad insisted gently in the lightest of breath. ‘And there is nothing to forgive.’
*
Towards the end of the year, Jozabad (in common with all the people of the village) was required to go to the city in order to be taxed. This was decreed by the ruler of these lands, Caesar Augustus. He set out from the village, taking Maria with him, and they went from Galilee into Judaea, to the city of David, which was called Bethlehem. The journey was difficult and made harder because Maria was near her time. When they arrived they found the city full with all the people who had come to be taxed and there was no room anywhere for them to stay. The only place they could find to spend the night was a stable, which they accepted gratefully.