for the assistance of her beautiful daughter.”
“It is I who should thank you.”
John cried louder, and Elizabeth bent to attend to him.
Mary went to her room for her small bundle of things. She said goodbye to Zechariah, who had packed her a breakfast of flatbread and olives and cheese, and then went outside. The travelers who would journey with her to Nazareth were almost upon her. Mary watched them come.
Soon she would be back in her parents’ house. She had grown comfortable here; she loved Elizabeth and Zechariah and now the baby, too. Her health had improved considerably: her cheeks were again flushed pink, and her hair had grown even thicker and more lustrous. Her body had filled out to be that of a woman’s; Mary marveled at it as though it were not her own.
But happy as Mary had been here, she was more than eager to start her journey home. Upon arrival, she would send word that she wanted to meet with Joseph, alone, in the olive orchard. He would know the place—it was where he had first professed out loud his love for her. And upon hearing his words, she had clapped her hands together in delight. May they share such joy again, Mary thought. May they once again regard their lives together as full of promise.
The traveler at the lead, a stout man with an immense beard, called out to Mary, and she strode forward, her steps light, her heart full of hope.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Nazareth
JUNE, 4 B.C.
Joseph
E SAT WITH HIS BACK AGAINST THE MISSHAPEN trunk of the olive tree. From far away, he saw her coming. He recognized the purposeful stride, the erect carriage, the proud lift of the head. He stood, reached behind to dust himself off, then straightened to the task at hand. He had walked here feeling sure of himself and of his decision, intractable in the words he meant to say. But now she came fully into view, and he found himself weakening. She had grown ripe and luscious, his Mary, who was no longer his. Gone suddenly was the righteous anger he had felt when Mary’s mother had told him of the “angel” who had visited and made such an astonishing announcement. Gone the conviction that this would be a happy day, and that he would be better off without her, that indeed he had been lucky to have her terrible faults revealed before their wedding day.
His friends had told him she should be stoned as the adulteress that she was, and at first he had angrily agreed. She who questioned him unendingly, who made him feel foolish about beliefs he held, beliefs for which others praised him! She who had brazenly put her hand on his knee long before it was time for such things. He should have known then, he had told himself. On that very day, months ago, he should have divorced her, rather than having to face the humiliation brought by her coming back to their village with child. He had resolved to speak of the few things necessary and then leave. He would tell her that he would not have her stoned, but neither would he take her as his wife—he had prepared the document that released his rights over her. He would tell her of his great disappointment in her—let her for once not interrupt him!—his great disappointment, and his great sense of shame. He would tell her of all he had been made to endure while she so blithely went away to visit her relatives. The only one immediately kind to Joseph—apart from Mary’s parents, and who welcomed their attention now?—had been Naomi. And Joseph had fully intended to tell Mary everything about Naomi. Her pride in the things women should take pride in, her proper disinterest in things not womanly. Her deference to him—not once had she questioned anything he had said. He had imagined, indeed hoped for, pain in Mary’s face when he told her that Naomi was much better suited for the role of his wife, a role Mary obviously cared nothing about. He had decided that at the point when she covered her face in shame and wept, he would turn and walk away.
But there she was before
“It is I who should thank you.”
John cried louder, and Elizabeth bent to attend to him.
Mary went to her room for her small bundle of things. She said goodbye to Zechariah, who had packed her a breakfast of flatbread and olives and cheese, and then went outside. The travelers who would journey with her to Nazareth were almost upon her. Mary watched them come.
Soon she would be back in her parents’ house. She had grown comfortable here; she loved Elizabeth and Zechariah and now the baby, too. Her health had improved considerably: her cheeks were again flushed pink, and her hair had grown even thicker and more lustrous. Her body had filled out to be that of a woman’s; Mary marveled at it as though it were not her own.
But happy as Mary had been here, she was more than eager to start her journey home. Upon arrival, she would send word that she wanted to meet with Joseph, alone, in the olive orchard. He would know the place—it was where he had first professed out loud his love for her. And upon hearing his words, she had clapped her hands together in delight. May they share such joy again, Mary thought. May they once again regard their lives together as full of promise.
The traveler at the lead, a stout man with an immense beard, called out to Mary, and she strode forward, her steps light, her heart full of hope.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Nazareth
JUNE, 4 B.C.
Joseph
E SAT WITH HIS BACK AGAINST THE MISSHAPEN trunk of the olive tree. From far away, he saw her coming. He recognized the purposeful stride, the erect carriage, the proud lift of the head. He stood, reached behind to dust himself off, then straightened to the task at hand. He had walked here feeling sure of himself and of his decision, intractable in the words he meant to say. But now she came fully into view, and he found himself weakening. She had grown ripe and luscious, his Mary, who was no longer his. Gone suddenly was the righteous anger he had felt when Mary’s mother had told him of the “angel” who had visited and made such an astonishing announcement. Gone the conviction that this would be a happy day, and that he would be better off without her, that indeed he had been lucky to have her terrible faults revealed before their wedding day.
His friends had told him she should be stoned as the adulteress that she was, and at first he had angrily agreed. She who questioned him unendingly, who made him feel foolish about beliefs he held, beliefs for which others praised him! She who had brazenly put her hand on his knee long before it was time for such things. He should have known then, he had told himself. On that very day, months ago, he should have divorced her, rather than having to face the humiliation brought by her coming back to their village with child. He had resolved to speak of the few things necessary and then leave. He would tell her that he would not have her stoned, but neither would he take her as his wife—he had prepared the document that released his rights over her. He would tell her of his great disappointment in her—let her for once not interrupt him!—his great disappointment, and his great sense of shame. He would tell her of all he had been made to endure while she so blithely went away to visit her relatives. The only one immediately kind to Joseph—apart from Mary’s parents, and who welcomed their attention now?—had been Naomi. And Joseph had fully intended to tell Mary everything about Naomi. Her pride in the things women should take pride in, her proper disinterest in things not womanly. Her deference to him—not once had she questioned anything he had said. He had imagined, indeed hoped for, pain in Mary’s face when he told her that Naomi was much better suited for the role of his wife, a role Mary obviously cared nothing about. He had decided that at the point when she covered her face in shame and wept, he would turn and walk away.
But there she was before
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