Song of the Magdalene Read Free Page A

with us too long not to recognize my wanderings as flight. But in one thing I succeeded: Hannah swore to keep my confidence. She told Father nothing of my visits to the valley.
    Each silence on her part, each confidence on my part, while they didn’t make us grow closer to one another, made us grow separate from Father. There were days when I feared the loyalty of Hannah — when I questioned for the first time the need for the separateness of women.
    And the claws of my deception tore at my soul. I was mindful to watch Father and Hannah for signs of vulnerability. I didn’t worry about Abraham. He already knew a devil. Father and Hannah, however, might need protection. And so when Father raised his hands and said firmly, “Shema yisra’el,” calling upon Israel to listen, when Hannah inspected the meat carefully to make sure it had been completely bled, I rejoiced inside. They followed the laws; they were pious. Neither of them would become the host of a devil. Neither would need refuge.
    The valley was my refuge. I climbed the sycamores and in the very treetops I sang. I begged the Creator to look upon me. To do what I could not bear to have any human do — to pity me. I begged the Creator to forgive me for not going to the mikvah, for coming to the valley, for whatever impurities I hid from myself. When I climbed down, I did not dance. I had given up dancing. This was my own kind of atonement. The Creator knew how much my feet had rejoiced in dancing before. The Creator knew that I atoned.
    I hung my shifts in the brightest sunlight and watched them fade. And I never mentioned pomegranates. No more crimson for me. Mother’s colors faded away.
    No more fits came. But I didn’t know whether that was because the Creator had heard me and answered my song prayers, or because the demonwithin was waiting quietly. In the absence of fits, there was no way to know. I sang, day in day out, week in week out. I walked and walked and walked. Each night I slept the sleep of exhaustion.

C HAPTER T HREE
    This self-imposed exile in the valley might have gone on forever if it weren’t for Abraham. One day as I was leaving the house, he called to me.
    Hannah had gone to the well early, as usual. She drew the water and returned before the women with children gathered there. She would indulge in talk with the older women, but never with the young mothers. Most days Hannah took Abraham with her. She pushed him in a handcart Father had fashioned. It was because of Abraham that Hannah left when the women with children came to the well; I knew this. No mother ever had to tell her child not to go near Abraham, for Hannah whisked Abraham away before there was any need. No mother had to fear Abraham’s demon.
    I was allowed to stay behind at the well andplay if I liked. And in the old days, before my first fit, I had done that often. Now I never did. Now I usually didn’t even accompany Hannah and Abraham to the well.
    On this morning, however, Abraham was at home. The night before he had slept poorly. He woke cranky and complained of the heat. He said he couldn’t bear the women’s busy voices at the well that day. So Hannah left Abraham behind, propped outside the door, where he could catch a bit of air.
    And he called to me.
    At first I wasn’t sure I had actually heard him. But he repeated, “Come here.”
    When I was small, I’d talked with Abraham many times, naturally, of nothing in particular. Other people found him hard to understand because his lips didn’t move the right way. But I had no trouble knowing what he meant. Only these days we didn’t have much to say to each other.
    Still, I knew many things about Abraham. I knew he had little control over his legs and left arm. I knew his head stayed to one side because he couldn’t right it. Had some flaw within Abraham’ssoul invited his demon, just as a flaw had invited mine?
    I stood beside him and spoke