short story
many faces of mary
song of mary
song of anne
song of joseph
fantasy art






He comes home, late at night, drunk in wine. He is drawling, loud for his usual, contemplative, tone, sloppy. There is a woman with him, at first I think she is a bird. The olive trees my father planted long ago are rustling in the night wind. The candle has long gone out. If I could see out the doorway, I'd watch some clouds racing past other clouds, journeying somewhere with a purpose. The stars would be veiled. The sky, the grass, the fields, all would be in flurry of the oncoming storm.

They stumble past the door, and onward up the hill, I think, maybe towards the stable. The goats and the sheep start bleating. If a pale rosy light had come through the doorway, I would have been fooled. I would have stepped out of bed and gone to let them out. But they bleat awhile.

In the morning, I get up late. The sunshine is at full blast through the doorway, and the hearth is also going. I walk into the kitchen, asleep but running. The kettle is over the stove. A broth cooking. The morning light is restless here, wanting something done.

Jesus is nowhere to be found. I step out and he is not outside, sawing and hammering. I call his name out, and return to the broth which is boiling over.

© 1990 - 2003 Katharina Woodworth

fantasy art