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The children often followed behind in the daytime, mingling freely, seeking out companionship, singing, telling stories, throwing stones and sticks in the air, or at shrubs. But it was in the evening, when the camp was formed and the tents were pitched and the members of each family came together, that Mary looked for Jesus and realised that he was missing.
Immediately she went to Mariam’s family tent, thinking he would be with Yeshua who had taken ill in Jerusalem, but she found Mariam alone, sitting beside her son’s listless body muttering prayers.
Worried Mary set off with Salome to walk among the tents calling out her son’s name, but none had seen him. Ordinarily, this would not concern her, for Jesus did not disdain his own company and would often take himself to some quiet corner to play his flute. It was the onset of darkness that concerned her. Where could he be?
As night fell over the desert she clutched the woollen shawl over her shivering shoulders and bit her lip to prevent herself from fainting. She had not felt well since their arrival in Jerusalem and now her heart seemed to be loosening its rhythms during this fruitless search. When she returned to her family tent Joseph resolved that they must not wait for sunrise. They must return in haste to Jerusalem to look for their son, knowing Mariam would go on with the caravan to Nazareth, for the sake of Yeshua.
The journey was difficult in the night, with only the waning moon to guide them. When she and her husband arrived, weary, thirsty and hungry, the sun was already high and a great wind was sweeping the city.
Fear bit into Mary’s heart when she entered through the gates but she did not give it a voice. She kept her face calm and serene as she walked, glancing this way and that, calling out for Jesus. The bazaars that occupied the ever-rising rows of streets, thronged with noisy Hellenists, Galileans, Judeans and Jerusalemites competing for the best ironware, the most practical clothes, good wood, fresh bread, fruit, vegetables, fish and spices. No man had seen her son. In the upper city markets they asked if anyone had seen her boy, but it was the same.
They looked until nightfall. Exhausted they found lodgings and rested, but Mary’s sickness had increased with her sorrow and concern. In her feverish sleep, she heard the song of a night bird and it was woven into her dreams with an Arab tale that she had often told Jesus. It was the tale of a Nightingale that loved a white rose. The bird sang the most beautiful songs to it each night, but only from afar for fear of its thorns. One night, beneath the swollen moon, having drunk her fill of song and emboldened by love the Nightingale resolved to embrace the rose. She clasped it to her breast, which was pierced through by a thorn. Thus she sang the most beautiful song she had ever sung, pressing the thorn closer and closer to her heart, a song of sacrifice and true love found. In the end, having stained the rose with her own heart’s blood, she died and the rose, in mourning, forever after bloomed red.
Mary had woken from this dream crying out.
‘No! Not my son! Not yet! Not Yet!’
In the morning of the third day, gathering what strength was left to her she resolved to join her husband and his relatives in their search for Jesus. They made their way beyond Herod’s palace and crossed the bridge that spanned the valley of the Cheesemongers, which connected the eastern and western hills. Staring down at the lower city they called out his name. Dust flew up into Mary’s face, since the wind was born anew and wove around her dress and made it come to life with movement.
The wind said, Go to the temple.
She had heard this wind-voice before and it had never failed her, so she directed the others to climb terrace upon terrace, towards that great edifice of marble. When she neared the royal porch where the priests and their families mingled, she did not pause to show courtesy but hurried instead towards the Temple itself. Once through the porch to the court of the gentiles she swept them with her gaze, her heart hammering out its paces without rhythm and her forehead wet with perspiration.
A silent crowd had gathered here to listen to the members of the Sanhedrin, for it was the custom of the elders to come out to the terrace of the Temple on Sabbaths and feast days to teach the people and to listen to their questions. She made her way through the knotted crowds and a sudden and great relief entered into her heart when she saw her son, but it was mixed with amazement because Jesus was among the priests and scribes, discoursing with them!
When her husband and Salome had caught up with her they were equally astounded. Mary near fainted then and would have fallen if they had not caught her.
‘Wife!’ Joseph voiced into her ear, ‘Can you not see how he is safe?’
But she trembled all over for she knew he was not safe. She looked at him closely. Her son held his head erect, his fair eyes, clouded with dreams since birth, now darted sharply to this man and to that, flecked with fire. He was altered! It was as if a different spirit now lived inside the boy and was moving the mechanism of his thinking. For how else could she explain to herself the sight of him questioning the rabbis, when only a week before he could barely recall the most basic teaching?