her long curls bouncing well past her shoulders. “Sheikan provides me with a blessed distraction in Yeshua’s absence.”
Martha looks up from her needlework, her slender hands never idle. “We are concerned that this separation is wearing upon you.”
Sighing, I sit at her feet and Martha strokes my hair. “It has been difficult, sister, I miss him so.”
Sarah runs to hug me, her plump cheeks sticky with massah crumbs. “Don’t cry, Ima. Abba’s here.” She presses her small hand over my heart. before returning to Micah.
Ima sits, her hayye laced with concern and at the core, the darkness of fear. “Men crave adventure and travel. We must understand that our husbands have greater needs than we may be able to fulfill.” Foreboding laps at the edge of my aura.
Martha tries to help, “Mary, Eleazer is so happy that I am bearing his children and I am happy to be a wife and mother. But of course during the pregnancy, I cannot expect him to wait for me in our marriage bed.”
How can he not wait? Perhaps she thinks that Yeshua and I were not intimate when I was pregnant. I look down, wondering if we broke some tradition which she and Ima need not know about.
“Mary, you cannot expect Yeshua to be away this long without taking other women to his bed.”
I gasp as stabbed. “You are wrong, Ima! Yeshua is faithful to me. There has never been anyone else.”
She shakes her head sadly, her hand heavy on my shoulder, “Dear Mary, I just want to prepare you by revealing the truth.”
That is not my truth! Sarah ceases her play so I try to appease her with a smile. “Ima,” I measure my words, “are you satisfied with this arrangement?”
“Well, of course, Mary. What choice do I have?” She really believes she is powerless.
“Ima, do you not have desires as well? When Abba is gone and you believe he is taking other women to his bed, do you not feel justified in taking a lover of your own?”
Ima stands up flushed in the face. Gasping, Martha drops her needlework. “I will be faithful to Yeshua and I expect that he will be as well.” They stare at me as if I have blasphemed.
“Mary,” Ima gasps, “do you not realize that a woman could be stoned for adultery?” I pick up Martha’s forgotten needlework. “Promise me that you will stay chaste while your husband is away.”
I stand and kiss them. “I made that promise to Yeshua as he did to me.” Holding Sarah up for a kiss, we take our leave.
I find Miriam in the study, but she is not alone. A familiar burgundy hayye pulsates like the heart of a hot fire. I hesitate at the threshold with Sarah in my arms.
“Please, Mary, join us.” Sarah struggles to be put down and Miriam scoops her up. She listens patiently as Sarah describes our visit with Savta, before asking “Would you like to talk?” At the invitation, my emotions bubble to the surface. Turning back to Sarah, she whispers, “Guess what, precious child? There is someone here to meet you.”
Sarah leans confidentially into Miriam’s shoulder, “Savta, that’s my Hava. Can she stay with me now?”
Miriam kisses her plump cheek and releases her. Instead of the usual hugs and kisses, Sarah greets our guest palm to palm. When they press their foreheads together, I gasp, remembering Hava greeted me in the same way. Visions of the altar force me to my knees, as waves of desire flood my body. This morning’s dream continues where it was interrupted with clans from around the world witnessing our union. My passion draws Yeshua.
For heaven’s sakes, Mary, what is happening?
I am here before the high priestess. Sarah knows her.
Sarah reaches from Hava’s arms, “My Abba,” receiving his embrace through the ethers. Tears flow over the edge of my smile.
Hello, my son. I have returned to be with your precious daughter.
With reverence, Yeshua responds, You have my deepest gratitude, dear Hava.
I kiss her extended hand but Hava laughs, “Please stand so I might greet you properly.”
Still holding Sarah on her hip, she raises her left hand to my right. So intense is the energy, the rose inscribed on my body nearly three years ago pulsates with a sweet aching. Sarah breaks the spell by kissing my cheek, “Ima, stay here with Savta. I want to be with my Hava.” They glide out of the room.
Miriam smiles, motioning me to sit with her on a wide cushioned chair. “Hava has been in Qumran with the priestesses of Astarte holding the energy that was brought to earth during your union with Yeshua.”
The eelestial quartz glows as hotly as my cheeks. “I am sorry to act so overwhelmed.”
Looking at me intently, Miriam’s hayye softly probes mine. If only she can reassure me that all will be well. “Martha and my mother brought to my attention that men cannot be trusted with fidelity especially when absent from us…,” my voice trails off. “I just never considered this a possibility.”
“Mary, you must learn to trust.” I do, but have allowed my mother to place doubt in my mind. “This separation is granting you an opportunity to learn to trust in yourself and the Divine.”
But she does not reassure me that my husband will be faithful. Perhaps she had to live with this same turmoil herself when Joseph left and now it is my turn.
***
A chilly breeze blows long black hair over a drawn face. Coarse bindings secure bloodied wrists to the crossbar. Groans cascade down the stony mount. The myrrh-laced wine wore off long ago. With a muttered curse, a centurion orders the prisoner’s death hastened. A quick draw of straws provokes a disgruntled groan from one of the four young soldiers who rises armed with a stout oak staff.
The sickening crack of bone precedes a piercing cry. The condemned man’s head snaps back sharply against the vertical beam parting the veil of hair. Stricken eyes fix a green death glare upon him. Horrified, he backs away, stumbling down the mount.
In a cold sweat, Teoma bolts upright, nearly capsizing the hammock. After his first zealot campaign, he witnessed the crucifixion of one of his comrades. Never again! Now that cursed dream which haunted him five years ago returns. Why? Because Tiberius drowned any hopes of an uprising after Augustus’ death last summer by strengthening the legions. The more fortunate prisoners file by Nazareth on their way to the galleys, while the rebels are condemned to the cross.
He should be taking up arms besides the zealots, but instead plays father to another’s child. Trapped by his loyalty to Yeshua, yet so is Mary. He wipes a damp brow. At least she experiences a measure of freedom riding far from the house on the white stallion. Not that there is another mount that can keep up nor does he wish to tempt fate by being alone with her.
Sighing, he closes his eyes but the death glare pierces his mind until a wave of sorrow disturbs the garden. Contrasting with the creamy blossoms of the apricot trees, Mary’s dark beauty is soaked with despair. She sits gingerly next to him and shivering, leans into the warmth of his body.
He places
