“But the priestesses,” I was weeping now. “Surely the priestesses knew. They called the storm. I know they did—they blew me to safety.”
Joseph said nothing for a moment; I could feel he didn’t believe me.
“If they had any knowledge that you were alive, they did not say so; they said nothing more at all. When the swells calmed, we sailed for Palestine.”
For a while neither of us spoke. I just sat with my head in my hands, hearing the slap of the waves on the boat, feeling his desolation as he went back—with what? Anna the Prophetess of Jerusalem had told him to step outside his world. She had promised him that when he came back he would see his people with new eyes, love them with a new love. And instead he had returned grief-stricken and sick with shame.
But it was not over yet. It could not be over. He was alive. I was alive.
“Joseph, where is he now?” I turned to look at him, and again he looked away.
“I don’t know.”
I waited. There had to be more. There had to. I took his face in my hands and made him look at me.
“Maeve, don’t you understand? That’s where I went when I left last summer. To find him. I didn’t want to tell you, because I wasn’t sure. But I thought I had to find him. I had to make sure of him, because, because—”
“Joseph, don’t spare me anything.”
“Well, you see, I had helped to arrange his marriage.”
The words went in, went in so deep I couldn’t comprehend them.
“I told you he reminded me of my son. Such a keen mind. That much was evident even when he was most desolate. I tried to help him by teaching him the rudiments of Greek philosophy—so spacious and spare compared to the Torah. He paid attention at first out of courtesy, but I like to think the mental exercise brought him some relief. I rejoiced whenever I could draw him into argument. You of all people can understand, I’m sure, that after spending so much time with him on the journey, I became attached to him. I even went back with him all the way to Nazareth where I met his family.”
I was jealous, jealous even of Joseph.
“I made a point of checking up on him whenever I was in the country. Often as not when I went to Nazareth, he wasn’t home. He picked up odd jobs in Sepphoris, carpentry, enough to keep him in drink. His older brother had thrown him out of the shop at home, and I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but he became wild and dissolute. His mother, she’s a widow and very eccentric, never wavers in her belief that he has some great destiny. She goes on about it, and all her other children just roll their eyes. They resent him; it’s understandable. He’s the favorite, and what has he ever done but bring her grief and worry while they stay home and do her bidding?
“Last time I was there his mother told me: ‘He needs to get married.’ That’s not the strange part. What mother wouldn’t say that? She kept insisting that he’s supposed to marry a woman named Mary. He must marry Mary.”
“No!” I burst out.
“Do you want to hear the rest of the story?”
“Yes, but that’s not how the story goes.”
“Well, listen. When she said the name Mary I remembered a cousin of mine in Bethany. Her family had tried to arrange a marriage for years, but—”
“She’s hideous.” I was hopeful. “Foul-tempered. Mad.”
“No. Just brilliant. She cares only about learning. She wants to be a rabbi.”
“So?” I was worried now. Esus would love having someone with whom he could dispute the fine points of Mosaic Law.
“Among our people that is not considered normal. Men can be quite put off by a woman more learned in Scripture than they are, and one, moreover, who is almost completely ignorant of housewifely arts. But I thought, well, two misfits. And her passion for study might reawaken his, so I offered to broker the match.”
“He agreed?”
“Maeve, he thought you were dead.”
I was rocking myself now, back and forth, back and forth.
“I was going to go back for the wedding in any event. But when I realized who you were—or might be—I went sooner.”
“You were going to tell him I’m alive?”
“I have to tell you the truth, Maeve. I hadn’t decided. I wanted to see if he was still haunted or if, if he might want this new life with Mary. Maeve, you must know, even if he wanted to, he couldn’t marry you. A gentile barbarian and you know—”
“A whore.”
“Well, yes,” he paused delicately. “But, in any case, when I got there—”
“Wait, Joseph, just give me a minute.”
There was something I needed to know about myself. Would I, could I give him up—if I had a choice? Which of course I didn’t. It was true; it had always been true, that he couldn’t marry me. I knew less about marriage than most people. My mothers had not been married, nor had the druids. But I knew marriage was important to other people. Maybe to him. Could I give him up—to life, to ordinary life?
Tears were rolling down my face now. Giving him up meant giving up the story, too, the story of Maeve and Esus, the lovers, the lovers of the world. His mother and Anna the prophetess had all prophesied greatness. So had the druids, though they thought he had to be dead first. Maybe he was destined for greatness. Without me. Maybe I was just a short episode. And now he had to marry Mary.
“So,” I spoke at last. “What did you find out? Has he forgotten me? Is he happy with her?”
“The thing is, I don’t know, Maeve.”
“What do you mean? I thought you went back to find out.”
“I did, but he was gone. They were both gone. Three weeks before the wedding, they disappeared. No one knows where they are.”
“Together? They ran off together?”
“They are both gone. That’s all anyone knows.”
“Gone,” I repeated. “But not married. They ran out on their wedding?”
“So it seems.”
I did not know what to make of this information. Or at least my mind didn’t. My heart had already taken off, skipping, soaring. Not married. Not married to Mary. He’s somewhere in the wide, wild world, and I can find him. I will find him.
“Joseph!” I turned to him and grabbed hold of him with both hands. “Now you understand. How I wish I had told you everything before. But now, now you must see why you must take me to Palestine. You must. And Domitia Tertia will be glad to be rid of me. I disgraced her; she’s already denied me publicly. She’ll be itching to sell me.”
Joseph didn’t answer, and his silence was dreadful.
“What is it, Joseph? What’s wrong?”
“Maeve, she’s already sold you.”
“What?” I felt as though the hard floor gave way, I was falling. “How can that be? If she’s sold me, why am I here?”
“You were sick, Maeve. Remember? That was her agreement. She’d keep you till you were strong enough to walk.”
“But who? Who?”
“She