from The Book of the Cave

MARY OF NAZARETH

1

When I returned from Egypt, I heard the story the villagers told about me, that I had been a virgin who gave birth.

Then I understood that stories have lives of their own. That we are at the mercy of beliefs that grow among us like weeds. You try to dig them out, but the lies and desires that feed these stories make them stronger than facts, for who fertilizes truth? The more lies are chopped back, the faster they spread. If you push against a belief, the believers push back and grow stronger, just as scrub plants on a mountainside toughen up in strong winds and fierce weather.

I could never root out the foolish rumours that spread throughout Galilee about my miraculous pregnancy.

My first wedding night.

I was fifteen. Until now, I have always believed that wedding night was the most terrible thing that could ever happen to me.

Then I was Mary of Cana and my bridegroom, my beloved, was Lazarus. It was decades ago, but even now I remember every minute, every smell, touch, and sound of that night.

Lazarus and I were finally alone after the feasting and ceremony. From inside our chamber, I could hear muffled laughter of the wedding guests who were still eating and drinking outside. At first, I was irritated that they were so close to us, as if they were watching through cracks in the window coverings.

But then he led me to the bed.

I was eager but not trembling. I knew what I wanted even then. Lazarus, my beloved boy. His name was like perfume poured into the palm of a hand. My beloved was an apricot-tree in the dark woods, a treasure. I had known him since I was a child and had loved him always.

The room was dark with only one lamp burning. The scent of hyssop was a cloud around us. We dropped our clothing as we moved to the pallet of bedclothes. I pulled back the linen sheet and we collapsed entwined. His body was leaping under my hand, and his skin was filmed in sweat. With that one press of our naked bodies together, his body convulsed and he threw his seed against my belly. Simply by touching me! I marvelled. I was gleeful. He was quivering and panting. I lay with a gazelle.

Beloved, you are so fair, I whispered as I kissed his salty lips. Together we had read the Song of Songs. I had taken as much care to ornament my mind with poetry as I had to ornament my body with perfume, fine mantle, and headdress. He groaned and ran his hands over me, ready again. I poured sacred poetry into his ear, The mandrakes give their perfume, and all rare fruit are ready at our door.

I was a bold girl.

I was determined to take his seed into me. His skin was oiled with perspiration. His body shuddered again. I straddled him, like a rider. He began bucking like a young goat.

I remember that I laughed.

Then he stopped moving. I looked down at him, grinning, feeling pain and a warm pool between my legs. The pain didn’t matter, I was about to tell him.

His eyes were wide open. His panting had ceased. His skin was drenched yet still like marble.

I laid a hand on his cheek. His eyes did not flinch.

I screamed and pulled myself off him. I crawled to the door, shrieking, sobbing, crying.

The sounds of laughter outside ceased and my mother opened the door a crack. I lunged through it and ran into her arms.

“Silly girl, I told you what would happen….” she started to say.

I gestured wildly to the pallet, and she saw him.

In his marriage bed, sprawled on his back, my beloved Lazarus, the naked bridegroom, lay lifeless as a stone.

So perhaps “virgin birth” is close enough, since my baby was fathered by a dead man.