In this monologue, seventeen-year-old Mary relates her side of Jesus's conception. At the beginning of the scene, she is seated on the floor in the fetal position, with her knees pulled to her chest. The actress may stay seated or stand as the inspiration strikes her.
MARY: You shall call his name Immanuel.
I know he said more than that, but that's all I can clearly remember. Immanuel. God with us. And God was there. I could feel it, that breathlessness in the air, that fiery sensation rushing through my veins. I could see it in the angel's eyes--I could see things I never dreamed, never imagined. Every color in the world, but at the center . . . just pure, endless black. Seeing straight through me. No, not through me--into me. If I had ever had secrets--if I had ever had fears, or doubts, or hopes--they were all revealed in that moment. But somehow . . . somehow I knew those eyes were not condemning me. Even before he spoke. And when he did, his voice was like . . . it was like it was coming from far away, a lone singer at the end of a concrete corridor. And yet, there were many voices in his. There was music in it, wind, thunder . . . screams. When he spoke, there was no other sound. But . . . but somehow, I can't remember much of what he said. Not even saying it was like a dream could accurately describe it, because it wasn't like any dream I've ever had. It was like being inside a swirling cocoon of liquid gold, shot through with light and color and sound.
And somewhere in the swirling, shining chaos, I heard: You shall have a son.
That brought me back to reality, at least a little. A son? I'm not even married yet. And if I became pregnant . . . what would Joseph say? He's eight years older than me, and handsome too. Oh, he is so handsome. . . . I'm sure he could have any number of older, more beautiful women to choose from if he wanted to. Why stay with a shy, skinny, pregnant seventeen-year-old? I don't know how I'm going to tell him that I am indeed pregnant. (She runs her hand lightly over her stomach.)
I guess I didn't really expect the angel's words to come true, at least not at first. After he was gone, after the light was gone, it was like waking up from a disturbed dream. Or maybe it was more like falling asleep again. . . . I just sat there for hours, as darkness fell. At some point I think I got up and stumbled to my bed. Nothing seemed . . . real.
But that night--three nights ago--I had a dream. I was standing in a wide field under the stars, with snow falling around me, collecting around my motionless feet. In my arms I held a newborn infant, and I knew the baby was my son. He was the most beautiful child I'd ever seen, with large, dark eyes and fine, soft brown hair. But he was thin, thinner than a baby should be, and his expression was intelligent--so intelligent it was almost eerie. He didn't cry, or make any sound at all. He just looked at me, with those mesmerizing eyes . . . and he reached out his tiny hand and touched my face. His hand was cold.
The next night I dreamed again. This time I was walking down an empty street in a city I'd never seen before. The sun was shining, but there was no one in sight. I was . . . looking for something, but I don't know what. I turned a corner, and standing there, with the golden light resting on his head and shoulders, was this boy. He might have been anywhere from twelve to sixteen, I don't know. But I stopped, and he approached me, and I realized that he was taller than me now. But I only had to look into his eyes to know it was my son, who only one night ago had been an infant. He smiled a little--a sad smile, I thought--and said gently, "Mother, don't you know I must be about my Father's business?" I don't know if I replied or not. Then he leaned down and kissed my cheek, and I thought I caught a fragrance about him--like frankincense.
Last night I barely slept at all. I felt as if something were hanging over me in the dark. But I did sleep long enough to dream a third time, though I don't remember all of it. I'm not even sure I want to. I remember sitting in the grass, rocking slightly back and forth. It was neither dark nor light, warm nor cold, and this time there were people everywhere, walking around and around and sometimes stopping, but if they spoke, I couldn't hear them, and they didn't seem to see me anyway. I think I was on a hill, because I could see the roofs of a city in the distance, and the sun, huge and red, sinking--or maybe it was rising--over them. There were three long, motionless shadows on the grass in tree-like shapes--tall, straight trees with a single branch growing across each of them. But then there was one more shadow, the shadow of a person. I looked up. He was a young man now, slender and beautiful still. But there was something in his eyes this time that aged him--aged him by hundreds, thousands of years. There was so much pain, so much sorrow in my son's eyes, I could hardly bear to see it. I wanted to protect him, but I didn't know how. He lay down on the grass beside me and closed his eyes. "Forgive them," he murmured softly, "they don't know what they're doing." He moved his arm, and I saw the gaping wound in his side, scarlet as the darkening sky.
That was when I woke up.
(She holds her head in her hands.) What's happening to me? Am I going insane? Someone please tell me. God! God, where are You? Where is my son? My Immanuel. . . . I won't let them hurt him, I won't let anyone hurt him! Take me instead. Oh, God, what's going to happen to him? Please, God, please tell me what's wrong with my son. Tell me what's wrong with me.
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