Read Online According to Mary Magdalene by Marianne Fredriksson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marianne Fredriksson
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the pruning knife and hoe in her hands as she gazed for a long time out over the sea, a streak of brilliant blue from horizon to horizon, a sail here and there, signs of mankind in the infinity.
She remembered the first time she had ever seen the sea, when Leonidas had been searching for her and had found her in Galilee, where she had walked, confused and mad, obsessed by the desire to see Jesus. Here by the blue sea, his spirit must surely be found and once again show himself to her.
She had looked like a beggar woman and was one, begging her bread at people's doors, asking for houseroom, and sometimes being allowed to stay overnight in an outhouse with the animals, though she mostly slept under the open sky.
It was a hot summer.
No one had recognized her.
According to ancient custom, she had strewn ash in her hair and, mixed with sweat, it had run in rivulets down her face. She never washed and grew used to the smell from her body. Her monthly bleeding came and she let it run down her legs. Her skin was dry and cracked, burnt by the sun and covered with sores.
The night before Leonidas found her, she was sleeping under an upturned boat on the shore and had a dream in which she was walking over land in an unfamiliar landscape, asking everyone she met for the sea. Most just shook their heads, but a few pointed in a certain direction, so she followed their instructions, but never found the sea.
Once she saw some waters that seemed to have no end. It became a long and exhausting walk to get there, but she was driven by her longing and hopes. When she finally reached the shore, to her despair she saw that it was a stretch of river she had seen and thought had no end. She tried imagining the waters of the river were like her, on their way to the sea, but was unable to follow the winding course, so she stopped by the trees on the riverbank, a place she knew, but where people no longer lived.
She wept with despair in her sleep.
It was strange that he recognized her. His cry of “Mary, Mary” reached her in the morning as she rolled out from under the boat. But she found she could neither answer nor even raise a hand in greeting.
I thought I was dead, she thought. But I was stark staring mad.
He took her to a house he had borrowed, put her in a warm bath, washed her hair and rinsed it again and again, then soaked the scabs off the sores on her body.
She submitted like an infant, but her blue eyes followed him, grave and questioning. By the time he had finally dried her, massaging her with a large towel and rubbing ointment on the open sores, she was able to ask, “Leonidas, do you think I'm sick in my head?”
“You've probably been a little, but you'll soon be well again.”
She could hear he was frightened.
He made her eat.
Before she fell asleep, he said, “As soon as you're better, we'll go to the sea.”
They went by wagon. To the Roman soldiers controlling all vehicles, he said: “My wife has been ill. We're on our way to the sea, where she is to rest.”
They looked with pity at Mary's scorched face and thin body, glanced through Leonidas' papers and politely waved them on, Mary scarcely conscious of what was going on. It wasn't until she stood by the endless sea, bluer than the sky, but closer and full of strength, that she found her way back to herself and tried to explain: “Since last time you left…”
“I know,” he said. “As soon as I got back I heard about it. That damned Pilate had Jesus crucified. I had a feeling he was threatened. I oughtn't to have left him.”
Leonidas was also in despair.
“You couldn't have done anything. He decided himself.”
“So incomprehensible!”
“Yes, no one will ever understand.”
They had seven days to talk about what had happened, but what she remembered most of all of their time on the shore outside Caesarea was the waves breaking day and night, great waves that washed her until she was empty.
Mary brushed her memories aside. It was all so
She remembered the first time she had ever seen the sea, when Leonidas had been searching for her and had found her in Galilee, where she had walked, confused and mad, obsessed by the desire to see Jesus. Here by the blue sea, his spirit must surely be found and once again show himself to her.
She had looked like a beggar woman and was one, begging her bread at people's doors, asking for houseroom, and sometimes being allowed to stay overnight in an outhouse with the animals, though she mostly slept under the open sky.
It was a hot summer.
No one had recognized her.
According to ancient custom, she had strewn ash in her hair and, mixed with sweat, it had run in rivulets down her face. She never washed and grew used to the smell from her body. Her monthly bleeding came and she let it run down her legs. Her skin was dry and cracked, burnt by the sun and covered with sores.
The night before Leonidas found her, she was sleeping under an upturned boat on the shore and had a dream in which she was walking over land in an unfamiliar landscape, asking everyone she met for the sea. Most just shook their heads, but a few pointed in a certain direction, so she followed their instructions, but never found the sea.
Once she saw some waters that seemed to have no end. It became a long and exhausting walk to get there, but she was driven by her longing and hopes. When she finally reached the shore, to her despair she saw that it was a stretch of river she had seen and thought had no end. She tried imagining the waters of the river were like her, on their way to the sea, but was unable to follow the winding course, so she stopped by the trees on the riverbank, a place she knew, but where people no longer lived.
She wept with despair in her sleep.
It was strange that he recognized her. His cry of “Mary, Mary” reached her in the morning as she rolled out from under the boat. But she found she could neither answer nor even raise a hand in greeting.
I thought I was dead, she thought. But I was stark staring mad.
He took her to a house he had borrowed, put her in a warm bath, washed her hair and rinsed it again and again, then soaked the scabs off the sores on her body.
She submitted like an infant, but her blue eyes followed him, grave and questioning. By the time he had finally dried her, massaging her with a large towel and rubbing ointment on the open sores, she was able to ask, “Leonidas, do you think I'm sick in my head?”
“You've probably been a little, but you'll soon be well again.”
She could hear he was frightened.
He made her eat.
Before she fell asleep, he said, “As soon as you're better, we'll go to the sea.”
They went by wagon. To the Roman soldiers controlling all vehicles, he said: “My wife has been ill. We're on our way to the sea, where she is to rest.”
They looked with pity at Mary's scorched face and thin body, glanced through Leonidas' papers and politely waved them on, Mary scarcely conscious of what was going on. It wasn't until she stood by the endless sea, bluer than the sky, but closer and full of strength, that she found her way back to herself and tried to explain: “Since last time you left…”
“I know,” he said. “As soon as I got back I heard about it. That damned Pilate had Jesus crucified. I had a feeling he was threatened. I oughtn't to have left him.”
Leonidas was also in despair.
“You couldn't have done anything. He decided himself.”
“So incomprehensible!”
“Yes, no one will ever understand.”
They had seven days to talk about what had happened, but what she remembered most of all of their time on the shore outside Caesarea was the waves breaking day and night, great waves that washed her until she was empty.
Mary brushed her memories aside. It was all so
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