I, Magdalena (eBook)

ONE

Were my story not written by men, it would be a more honest tale. For women have a greater understanding of the road set before us. They would have greater empathy for the circumstances of my life and appreciate the choices I was forced to make. The legend of my life was made by men who never knew me, or if I existed, and was brought to lore hundreds of years after I walked this earth. Who I was, how, or if, I came to my situation, never concerned them; they simply made an assumption of my character. It is easy to accept and hold stories as they are told, without evidence or inquiry because they fit the narrative we want to believe. To those scribes, I was an inconsequential and meaningless woman, obscure and useful only in illustrating that a great man saved a worthless sinner. That he was good is without question. That I lacked morality, I must leave for you to decide. But, as is true for us all, there was more to my life than one moment.

I was a girl searching for justice and truth, but in my world, I was merely a woman. I had no rights, and any independent thought was to be denied, forbidden, or silenced. Movement and freedom meant more to me than norms and customs. Light, sound, and art spoke to my soul, and the natural earth and stars were my only genuine comfort. My society refused to see or understand me, but somehow, and for some unknown reason, the heavens did.

My story really began on the worst day of my mother’s young life. On that fateful morning, stumbling up a steep incline, her heart and lungs pounding with panic, she ran searching for her mother. Though thin and underfed, my mother was born to the land and its hardships, and was strong for her size. At any other time, she would have taken the hill in stride, but in those moments, fear weakened her. Gifted with intuition from an early age, she could read people as few did. For days, the stark change in her mother’s appearance had alarmed her. The permanent, sorrowful scowl etched on her mother’s face had softened into an eerie resolve. The elder’s eyes had grown vacant, and she moved as if a shadow no longer connected to a body. When her mother failed to appear at the hearth, the child knew something was wrong.

The desert wind whipped my mother’s face while she shivered from the chill that ran through her. As she willed herself up the gravel path, it was futile denying what she knew to be true, but she was always one to hope. Clutching her heart, she peered over the cliff. At the ragged bottom lay scattered bones of unsuspecting animals who, while grazing on the rich grass at the cliff’s edge, slipped on the unsettled shale and fell to an untimely death below. On top of those remains, fresh and covered with her single, tattered cloak, lay the broken and dead form that had once been her mother.

The child laid there for hours, traumatized and without expression, abandoned to a desolate world her parent found too painful to endure. Fear, sorrow, and failure overwhelmed her. It would have been easy to fling herself over the brink to join her mother, but she could not find the will to do it. As night closed its grip on her numb form, my mother pulled herself up, picked out two small rocks, and put them in her pocket. These stones would be her only inheritance from a mother she had tried so hard to love but never reached. Cold tears finally fell down her cheeks. With one last look at the woman lying on the jagged rocks below her, Rachel made a vow.

“I will not follow you. I will create the happiness you could never know.”

* * *

That was all I knew of my grandmother; there had been a terrible accident at the cliff, and my mother did not care to discuss it. But the mystery of it spoke to the misery I carried in my heart; grief about life I did not fully understand. It had something to do with whatever drove my grandmother off that cliff, for eventually, I realized she had taken her own life. I wanted to know why. I felt entitled to the truth. It had as much to do with me as anything did. Although I asked countless questions, I received few satisfying answers. In my determination, I eavesdropped on every scrap of gossip around me while closely observing and analyzing everyone I encountered. I tried desperately to understand how to navigate this life I found so unfair. And yet, I must admit, I was undeniably judgmental of my observations, in no way a clear path for the discovery of truth. As I searched for equity I was sure did not exist, my mother wrapped me in the love she had never known. She tried to protect me and soften the reality of life by creating a world of song, dance, and art.

Yet, with my continued eavesdropping, I learned I was right about life not being just, not for me or any girl, and it got worse the older we became. Such was life in our discordant era of war and occupation, and apparently, I was expected to accept it. But there was more to it than that. While the Romans ruled the countryside and the priests dominated our lives, our frustrated and angry husbands and fathers had dominion over us. Even in the best of situations, they took this power to heart. None of it felt right to me, and while most knew better than to question it, I felt the need to resist. I listened to the music my mother heard, and I tried to find peace in the world of imagination she created for me. But we were different from each other, Mother and me. She was a gentle spirit who found joy and carried her songs within her, and I resented having to keep them hidden.

One day, sitting at the well with Mother and the other women, listening attentively to the lively gossip around me, a woman approached us. She was clutching her chest and wringing her hands in desperation.

“Oh, Rachel,” she uttered to my mother. “My Lena has been promised by my husband to the widower Aaron. She is too young, and has cried endlessly for days. She will not eat, and cannot sleep. I don’t know what to do.”

“But he is three times her age,” Mother responded. “Can you not talk him out of this? She is not yet twelve.” Mother had a worried look. All the women came to her, for she had a way about her that set people at ease.

“His mind is made, there is no talking,” the woman lamented, and began to weep with an anguish that would move even the coldest heart.

Mother had no answer for her, none that would ease her pain.

“I am so deeply sorry,” was all Mother could say, and she held the woman close as if to absorb her pain. “Let us hope he will be gentle with her. She will find her way. I do not know the man, but maybe he is kind.” Even at a very young age, I knew that was as improbable a chance as any.

I watched the two women, knowing what I had to do. At that moment, I instinctively understood I needed to make myself as undesirable as possible to assure that no one would ever want to marry me. I had seen and heard enough to know that girlish dreams of romance did not last long. Those fantasies faded quickly as the girls settled into marriages with men they hoped to love, but rarely did. This was the main topic of discussion and gossip among the girls older than me. Without voice or consent, they were most often fated to subservient, often brutal lives, complaining only among themselves until their use was over. Or live a withering existence with an unpleasant man they could never love. That would include me soon enough, and I needed to avoid it.

So, at that moment, I became mute, refusing to speak to any adult outside my home. I pretended I had no tongue. I felt repulsed by every man I saw anyway, not because of how they looked, but because they made me feel worthless and insignificant—and because their attention threatened me. Tempted to spit at their feet and run, I held myself, knowing that would get me nothing but punished. The thought of making myself unappealing felt ingenious.

My pretense made me happy. Except for the gossip at the well, which I relished enthusiastically, most of what people had to say was senseless chatter anyway, and I had no desire to participate in the exchange. As I knew I could not spit at or kick anyone without significant castigation, it seemed the perfect plan. I pretended I was unable to hear what they were saying. I gave no response when they spoke, and practiced confused looks and curious expressions to perfection, thinking myself brilliant. They had no idea what was wrong with me, nor did they care, so they quickly overlooked me, giving me exactly what I wanted; invisibility. The game pleased me greatly, as I desperately wanted separation from them and their rules and obligations. I built an emotional wall around myself, for it seemed my only defense against being taken from my beloved mother and given to an old and angry man I already knew I hated. My mother, most likely understanding me better than I could have imagined, never discussed my behavior. I like to believe she also hoped it would delay the day I left her. As I fought against my inevitable misery, she was my invariable ally.

In so many ways, I was a troubled child. I worried about myself, mostly, but had no clear idea why. Hopelessness and despair closed the air around me after I heard stories of hardships and cruelty from the women at the well. Because I did not speak or interact, the women quickly forgot about me. They felt free to discuss matters more openly and share even their most sordid gossip around me. I was horrified by most of it, although I could never let it show on my face. That would give my ruse away, so I perfected an ignorant, expressionless look that fooled everyone and caused me great pride. Being a self-concerned child, I asked too many questions after these visits that my mother had...