Secret Magdalene by Ki Longfellow

the river, who, by his terrible accent, is another Galilean! Salome and I are made to stand before the infamous John the Baptizer, he who so inflames Father and all his friends? I cannot help it, I gape at this rung of a man talked of in every house in Jerusalem; John the Baptizer gapes back. “Come here, girl,” he says.
    Girl? He knows my sex! I creep forward until I am only a cubit away from John of the River. He is buried in his robe. Covering his head is a cloth of brown. His beard is a wild thing. I follow the hard fold of skin from his nose to his mouth.
    “I have seen there is a
bat qol
within you,” says he. “I saw this at the house of Heli bar Nehushtan as I now see my own hand.” He thrusts his hand in my face. “I saw this as I see the toes on my foot.” Glancing down, I see his feet are as camel’s feet. I spend a moment fearing he will thrust his foot in my face as well, but he does not. “I know you are a Daughter of the Voice.” He plucks at my clothing, pulls me closer. “You know what is said about those who are visited by a
bat qol
? It is said they are mad and will only grow the madder.”
    I think, John the Baptizer ought to know, is he not a prophet too, and a Galilean?
    Seth startles me by speaking. “Socrates once said our greatest blessings come to us by way of madness.”
    “Socrates was a Greek.” John has turned his head slightly in Seth’s direction, though his eyes remain on me. “But he knew a truth or two. As for you”—and here he turns his face toward Salome—“Seth believes you have the mind of a great scholar. But from what I have heard and seen, I believe you to be willful, devious, and vain, daughter of Coron of Memphis.”
    I feel Salome stiffen at this, as do I. Of course she
is,
but who is he to say so?
    “And I am well taken with you.”
    Salome is not like me; she will not be silent. “Where are we?” she asks. “What is this place? I have heard many things about you. I have heard you do more than wash away sins, that you wash your god into souls. Are you the great teacher Addai promised us?”
    Yea Balaam!
Salome’s questions are my questions! I wish her courage were my courage. In the face of this flood, the old man holds up one finger, one only, and Salome swallows what more she would say. I am amazed. I have never seen her do this, never. Over John’s face, a change has come. There is a lift in the brow, and a light in the eye that was not there a moment ago. I have seen lifts and lights like these before: they show in the face of Addai when he savors magic, in Seth’s when he debates philosophy, in Father’s when he contemplates profit. It is the light of the fanatic talking about that which he cherishes most. But this old man’s light is blinding; the very air seems suddenly charged, as if dark clouds were gathering over the hills. What he says next comes like a blow to the heart. “But even as you are Daughters of the Voice, you are also females alone in this world. What else is there to say of you? You are nothing.” Without moving, I recoil. The words that follow are not blows, but chains; they weigh me down link on link. “You have no brothers or uncles or fathers to protect you, to give you value. What man would marry you now? If you were not here, where would you be? What would you do with yourselves? There are those who would say you are not worthy of Life.”
    I am rooted to the spot; I am frozen in the bone. My belly cramps like a fist. Though I have taken my eyes from his face, I know he stares straight into me as he says, “Look about you. What has become of you?”
    I look about me. I am in a pit deep underground and I am dressed as a boy. My name is a boy’s name and no man claims me as his own. What has become of me? What will become of me? I do not know, and I am sore afraid. I am listening to a heartless old man, a prophet, tell Salome and me that we are not welcome in the world, not as a man is welcome. This is not the first