Free Song of the Magdalene by Donna Jo Napoli Page A

love between man and woman as they unite, but between the Creator and His people, our Israel. It was a charmed moment, a moment that comes but rarely. Oh, I knew these words in my sleep. The melody repeated itself. It was easy to learn. And I was opening my mouth now and I was singing. I sang the words I’d sung so many times before, but now I sang them to their rightful tune. I sang all the love in my heart.
    Suddenly I realized my voice was alone. I sang, but no one else did. The Levites had stopped. The men, who stood at the front, had turned andwere looking at me. The women, who surrounded me, now faced me and even behind their veils I knew they gawked. The air was brittle with incomprehension. I was anathema to them. Why? What had I done wrong? When would the Creator take me by the hand? But I wouldn’t stop now. I couldn’t. This was my voice and I had promised myself that I would use it. I would not fail myself a third time. I sang on to the end of the canticle. The bodies around me were still and solid. The words of my song fell dully on their shawled shoulders, like rocks into mud. I sang into a space devoid of spirit. I felt that if I stopped singing, I, too, would be empty of the quickness we call life. I sang, though my voice weakened and my knees wanted to cave, though I knew it was anger that had robbed this house of spirit so quickly.
    When I finished, I tugged at Abraham. I hadn’t the strength to pick him up. Somehow someone helped us both, out of the house of prayer, down the steps. The helping hands were firm and purposeful. I imagined them gripping the handle of a broom. I imagined myself being the dust tossed into the hair of the mourners at Mother’s funeral.I choked on the dust that was me and coughed, doubled over. I moved blindly, clumsy with the weight of their anger.
    Abraham said nothing to me on the way home. It didn’t matter. I wouldn’t have been able to hear him. I was locked behind a wall of silence that preceded me through the streets. I heard nothing. Not even my own breath. I searched my heart for pride that I had used my voice at last. Or if not pride, at least consolation. Instead I found emptiness.
    I mustered all my strength and carried Abraham into the house. I kicked the door closed behind me.
    Hannah took one look at my face and ran to me. “What is it, Miriam?”
    Already the lights flashed and my hands and feet tingled. I thanked the Creator for the small mercy of this warning. I barely managed to place Abraham on the floor before the fit came.

C HAPTER E IGHT
    â€œI know the words to the fourth canticle.” Abraham’s right hand opened and closed rapidly. “I know them all. You’ve sung it a hundred times. I know them all.”
    This was the first time we’d been alone together since my fit. Hannah was now part of the deceit; we formed a trinity — Hannah, Abraham, and me — a trinity that kept my fits hidden from the rest of the world. Abraham had insisted that Hannah keep the secret. And Hannah had agreed instantly, as though any alternative was nonsensical.
    Hannah had rubbed my hands and feet with a mixture of oil and wine. She put cold wet cloths on my forehead and muttered and moaned. She had me chew bitter rue and drink a hot brew of saffron. She said it fought spasms. Hope tingedher fearful voice. I didn’t correct her. For had not my morning brew with Abraham, that ritual of the past two years, been the very same attack? Tiny spears against desperation. Finally Hannah went out to gather the drying laundry.
    And I expected to talk to Abraham of the things that were so filling my chest it burned. But instead he was talking about knowing the words to the canticle.
    â€œWhat does it matter?” I said impatiently. “Other things are so much more important.”
    â€œI wish I could say I didn’t know the words.” His right hand went up to his head and buried itself in his sandy-colored