“Look at her, she’s no shame.”
“Absolutely no sense of modesty, can’t believe she has the nerve-”
The murmurs are that sort that act as if they do not want to be heard, but make no efforts to disguise themselves. They float up to her ears and creep inside, echoing through her skull.
“And all that hair, not covered, of course-”
“Of course.”
She is close to stopping, but a warmth spreads itself over her arm. “Come on,” mutters Susannah, pulling her forwards across the sun-baked and foot-packed earth. “Don’t listen to them.”
She does as she is told, and some of the crowd fall in behind them, others continue through the roads ahead. Some scoff and turn back into their houses. She just continues, head down, one bare foot in front of the other.
The people are entranced as they sit and listen to the teacher- who wouldn’t be? The truth that He speaks is so wildly simple and yet mind-burningly wise that they cannot help but soak it up. Mary still listens with all her might. She never tires of it. Susannah is more restless, concerned with food and numbers and where they’re going next, who needs what from the village, what they’re running low on, that even when they stop to let Him speak she is still buzzing. Mary has seen Him take her aside gently and tell her not to worry before, but even He smiles. Susannah does not worry, she simply does things, to ask her not to would be to suggest the impossible.
But, of course, to Him, nothing is impossible.
The crowd begins to leave, some hangers-on remaining behind to ask Him questions, and these, Mary is not so fond of. Whenever she goes nearer to listen, they look at her with disgust. Something on her face must tell them what she is- what she was, she reminds herself, for she’s changed. Sometimes He comes to her defence, but somehow it only makes it worse that He should need to.
Instead she leaves and busies herself with Andrew who is building a fire. She likes his company, for Andrew doesn’t require anyone else to do the talking. He and his brother are quite different, Peter is passionate whereas Andrew is flighty and has a short concentration span. He was easily the friendliest of the men towards her, looking after her until the women came and took them under their wing.
Later, as the fire is dying and they settle to sleep- those who have not been invited to stay in the houses wrapped up in what they have against the cool night. Mary is, of course, amongst them. Susannah stays with her, though Mary suspects she could have gone with the others and spent a night in the house if she so wished. She has found a good friend in the woman a few years older than herself.
Still, the others- saving Matthew, who was in the same position, and Andrew- look at her strangely and turn away. Mary sits by herself, tugging at the knots in her hair.
It had always been her pride and joy, her hair the colour of dark honey. Her pride, her joy, and her hiding place. She used to hide behind it when her mother shouted at her for doing something wrong. That night when their father came home and announced he had lost his job, Mary had buried her face in her hair.
Men used to ask for “Mary with the golden hair.” She remembers each of them, their stinking breath and hard worker’s fingers. Fingers that would pass through that hair, and the countless rasping voices that told her how beautiful she was. Afterwards, she hid her shame in its depths.
She dried His feet with that same hair. A shaft of light shone on it that day, picking out yellow strands. She could see them, curling over His toes, tickling his ankles, hiding her own face from the stares she was sure she was getting.
From however many years it’s been of destitution, the knots will never come out. She sits alone for several minutes pulling at it, and suddenly the decision is clear.
Andrew’s knife is sitting by the fire. She picks it up and sits next to Susannah, holding up her hair.
“Cut it,” she says. “Cut it all off.”
Susannah doesn’t even ask, and after a few moments she takes the knife. From across the fire, Andrew watches with flickering black eyes.
The gold falls from her head like her sins, which she had been told were washed away, are finally gone. It’s a relief, and she feels naked, but not embarrassed naked or trying to hide herself. Naked, like for once, people can see her and she will let them.
“Such a pity,” Susannah says. “It was so beautiful.”
Mary stoops and picks up the strands and looks at them, as if each is a single memory.
“Yes,” she said. “It was.”
And she throws them into the fire.
A/N: for Hannah's contest if I come up with two other pieces. Inspiration, Mary Magdalene by Donatello: http://strambinha.files.wordpress.com/2 ... gdalen.jpg
