Song of the Magdalene by Donna Jo Napoli

trees and dirt. They had a size and shape and texture that simply were. Now our bodies were ideas. They could enter the mind and fill every crevice. They were to be avoided.
    Our talk seemed more guarded, too. We read the Torah together now, whenever we had the privacy we needed. I could have counted on myfingers and toes the number of times up till then that I had touched the sacred scrolls that made up the books of the Torah. Now suddenly I was touching them almost daily. Exhilaration made me dizzy the first time I carried one across the room and unrolled it beside Abraham.
    Abraham delighted in discussing with me the great women leaders of Israel. But now he didn’t talk of Daniel and the women Daniel had spoken of who lived in our times. We turned, instead, to a higher authority — to the scriptures. We told each other the ancient stories of Deborah, the judge and leader, who commanded the people in battles with the Philistines. We spoke of how Barak, the man leader, turned to Deborah for guidance. We reveled in Jael’s pounding a nail though the soft temples of King Sisera’s head as the Philistines slept, and thus saving her people. And Abraham loved most reading with me the tales of Miriam, my namesake, who was called a prophet.
    A woman prophet. A woman with a voice that would be heard. A woman who sang a war victory song. Would that I could take a timbrel inmy hand and place a crown of olive wreaths on my head and celebrate victory over the battles of my life, as Miriam had done.
    Abraham and I spoke of other things, too. We spoke of my vegetable and herb garden. We spoke of birds and trees. We spoke of the people of the village. But we never spoke about each other anymore. We never spoke our fears. Nor our hopes.
    Maybe Abraham had no hopes. I wasn’t sure I did.
    I missed Abraham, though I was with him in the same house day after day. In my dreams we were close again. In my dreams we climbed the hills that surrounded the Sea of Galilee. We followed the River Jordan south. We sat among the flowering mustards that grew as tall as trees. And nothing, nothing kept us apart. But when I’d awaken, we’d keep our respectful distance once again.
    Sometimes I didn’t want to wake. Sometimes the distance of Abraham during the day left me lost and disoriented. At those times I’d study the Torah most intensely. I wanted help in this passage through life.
    Judith was true to her word. She taught me new and intricate dances. My eager feet couldn’t learn fast enough. They demanded more, and Judith taught more. But she watched my face closely. She said my mouth moved in silent song. She played a reed flute and three months after her wedding to Father she bought me one, saying I needed to make music with my mouth. I remembered sitting beside Mother as she played the harp. Father had given that harp to one of her sisters when she died. My hands had itched with the desire for those strings as I watched them carted away.
    The flute didn’t have the same attraction. Flutes to me meant Mother’s funeral. So my hands, which had been so greedy for the harp, were now reluctant on the flute. My fingers touched the holes gingerly. Yet the notes that came forth were not mournful. They rose light and gay, and soon I came to trust them and my fingers moved more quickly and my lungs were happy to swell.
    Judith and I filled the house with birdlike melodies. Then we danced again. We laughed together and wove, side by side with Hannah,mindful that woolwork kept a woman virtuous. We spun yarn at night under the moonlight. Judith told stories of our people’s history as we worked, stories her mother had told to her. And every time the Israelites triumphed over an oppressor, we laughed. Judith came home from the well and told stories of the village children’s antics that morning. And we laughed again. We laughed often. But my laughter was never wholly carefree. I think hers was not,