The Crucifixion commenced:
Red ichor and fonts of water poured out of Yeshua’s side as I wept, senseless, while attending to his pierced feet. I wiped his blood with my crimson veil, the liquid rivulets moving like red slugs down his body, collecting at the breast and hem of my loose dress. I prayed and sang B’shem HaShem to Christ as I had done when we were children. He groaned, barely hearing me over the wails of Mother Mary – who cradled her son’s side – and the maddening furor of Pilate’s legion.
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Yeshua was losing pulse. Losing life. I kissed his bloody toes and wept, wretched.
We had grown up together on the shores of Galilee. My father was a rich, traveling merchant with a homestead back in Bethany who loved Yeshua’s human father, Joseph, like a brother. And now, the blackened road of discipleship had led to an early grave, betrayal, and silver coins at a crossroad that burned the flesh of all they touched.
I had seen Yeshua raise my dead brother Lazarus. Turn water to wine. Multiple loaves had been made into an innumerable number, like the fishes in the shoals of Galilee.
But what was that worth, if he had been deemed an enemy of Rome?
Mother Mary was tear-full, bearing witness as her son – my Rabboni – was drained of divine life. La Pieta. Joseph steadied her, and Mary Salome held back her wrath, Salome’s pet crow set upon the Roman legion to peck at their heads. They swatted the bird away, but the crow got bits of blood and hair, bringing them back to a defiant Salome.
Suddenly, as Christ’s soul moved like a ghost through the mist, a strange, impenetrable darkness eclipsed the sun. Pilate and his legion recoiled as the golden obelisk of the sky grew dark like gauze had set over its bronze flame. A terrible icy frost threaded over the crosses of thieves and the Savior.
The thieves died first. Then, my Rabboni gave up the Holy Ghost with haunted brown eyes rolling back into his ageless face. We saw it, I swear: his Soul descending to Hell. To conquer Death, as promised. For those of us that were the Children of Adonai, the afterlife was sure to be sweet, but still, Christ had sung a blood song at his departure from this plane:
Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani? Why, my God, is suffering the ultimate state of mortal life?
The outburst and gurgle-music of Christ’s throat disturbed the Romans. A burst of white light and feathers like dust came from his body like a snow flurry or simoom sand, blinding us.
Pilate cursed, wiping away the angel down. One clung to his ear, a passerine wing. Gabriel touched my shoulder – “Do not weep, Magdalene, it is a time to rejoice.”
Perhaps only Mother Mary and I could see her, but Gabriel was beautiful. It did no balm to my bitter belly, though, as angels were flighty things. What could they know of tragedy, sinless as they were?
I was bitter. I was beyond remorse.
I, in fact, was furious.
I spat at Pilate’s feet.
He grimaced. Pilate took the weapon from the legionnaire that had shoved his spear into my Yeshua’s side. Pilate forced its molten tip deep, deeper. But Christ was already dead. I yelped, out of anger and fear. He then withdrew it, cutting my cheek with the blade.
“Do not desecrate the Savior’s corpse, you heathen!”
Pilate inserted it again into Yeshua’s heart this time with a violent twist, dismissing his troops. “Gather your dead, family of this pitiful man. Is this what your King is reduced to?” Pilate pronounced, then shielded his eyes. “What strange eclipse warrants the death of a Jew, I know not. The celestial movements are governed by Jupiter. Not the god of Judea, whose Temple rots and peoples foment. Perhaps your Christ had made a pleasing sacrifice for the Roman gods... still, it moves me in a way I cannot explain…?” Pilate wiped away the tears in his eyes, as if trying to disguise his sorrow. Red blood and milk were coming from Yeshua’s side. He pretended to ignore the miracle, as all the Roman guard did. “Witchcraft by the Magdalene this must be, as always. You’ve been a sower of chaos and Typhon’s brood since childhood. You, filth, to trick my eyes, and make me weep for a Jew!”
I looked at Pilate with poison irises. It was a Typhon for sure, but one without legs, that had fueled my magick for many years, only to be purified by Christ when I had gotten in too deep, dancing with the Devil.
“He is King, Pilate. Not Herod. Never Rome. My King is a King of revolutions.”
“Gods damn him, then, you women who weep at his feet. I have no need of a Savior.”
“Do not invoke the Spirits you do not know. Thou shall be hated forevermore, Pilate. Like Judas hung by his guts.”
“You forget yourself, crass witch. You and Christ fomented revolution under my feet! And still, you weep like a madrigal or Siren, discontent with justice, as if your leader had done no injury to Rome. He was a problem, this Jesus. Better left dead. You’re better off alone!”
I filled the cup of Christ’s communion, drank in defiance, then splashed Pilate’s feet with it – the same cedar cup I had used at Yeshua’s last supper.
Pilate’s feet burned. He winced, but said nothing, then set a flogger at me. “As many lashes as her demons. I am righteous sick of women of rebellion and witchcraft.”
I endured the misery – seven whips for seven monsters. Seven whores. Seven hells, seven devils, in ecstasy, feeling that the edge of death was pushing me closer to my Rabboni. I had bought us valuable time with my dramatics, weeping, and curses, as I always did, and seizures of glory and peace overtook me, I, rocking on the ground like a crying, bloody babe. The rest of our family cleaned up, taking the beautiful, flayed body of Salvation and the Crucifix down to safer harbors.
Oh, my Rabboni! How I am in pain with you! How we are wedded by our suffering. John put a gentle, healing hand on me, soothful and true. John and I had shared Christ as we all had, but his connection with John would span ages, a bridge between Heaven and Hell.
There was blood in my mouth, my back rawhide like my forearms, and I spit out some curdled bile from deep in my belly that had gathered in my jawbone. The Romans were gone, thank Adonai!
Joseph and Nicodemus helped Mother Mary, Apostle John the Beloved Disciple, and Mary Salome retrieve Yeshua’s supine body down from the nails. I chased off Pilate and the Roman Guard’s shadows – I was known to spread all manner of depravities in Israel, the woman witch. Those that knew me, loved me and hated me in equal measure.
But Yeshua? He saw only the beauty in my poison bones.
None had ever loved me like the Wandering God. My God-Brother of Communion, of Revolution and Sacrifice.
All I could think of was: is this where three years of wonder, and a lifetime of following Yeshua: son of Mary, heir of Joseph the Carpenter – my Rabboni – had led me? Had I done my duty as Migdal Eder, the Watchtower of the Flock?
I carried my faith like breath in my lungs, like fish in a net, instigating revolution with Joanna, Martha and Suzannah over lots, Martha’s fresh-baked bread, and wine – and the Disciples committed themselves to even more righteous ruckus under Yeshua’s guidance.
And so, we had borne Christ’s ministry here, to this Golgotha Pit. From Gethsemane and Gilead, to death.
To this wretched Hill, of crucified thieves. I drank deep of Yeshuas’s miraculous blood and milk, choking on it in my passion, vampire or Lilitu bird I was, holy and dark. They said Lilith was my mother, but she was simply a rich housewife.
I cast my gaze to Gehenna, where I could sense my Rabboni’s soul was.
Now that Pilate was gone, the Devil I had received my powers from, at a bargain of twelve years of age, with a mountaintop hermit fast, and bloody, poison kisses – my demon Samael – whispered in my mind in temptation:
“Was it worth it, Magdala?” The Nachash hissed like a flute. “Weeping like a poor toy of my Father. Own your treachery, girl. Ever since you betrayed me, I have cursed any leader or love you have. I won, Mags.”
I spat Yeshua’s blood at the adder that drew among the darkness to the lowered, carried Christ’s feet – the serpent Samael’s vessel. Yeshua’s blood, wine and flesh burned the snake’s approaching coils, and Samael withdrew, slithering down into a hole.
Ha Satan continued to haunt me.
“My brother is dead. I have won. He is Michael, incarnate virgin born. Perhaps I shall impregnate some donkey-barn bitch next with my hellspawn next. See how that goes for you. HE is MINE now, in Gehenna forevermore. Death has won.”
“The Savior will not go so easily to that good night. Now, my Brother Christ will rid the afterlife of you, and Death shall be no longer Triumphant. Let me mourn in peace, wretched Sam.”
Samael appraised me out of the corner of his eye with poison red iris. He materialized in a smoky, monstrous body that only I could see. “Pieces, more likely. You have whipped yourself with goat leathers and bathed the wounds in nanny milk, my Maggie.”
“Pilate did that, idiot.”
“Still, I remember a time when you surrendered to my serpent’s pink mouth, and tender bite and poison of zuhama between your thighs –
“I needed power to save my family fortune when abba died, Sam. It was no favor to you. I used you as banker, nothing more, nothing less.”
“So, you mean me a petty usurer, and your soul in my tax collection bucket, like that poor man Levi-called-Matthew. And am I to understand, I have your soul like dear sickle-fanged Judas, to gnaw on eternally in the Lowest Circle?”
I flinched as Samael’s swirling darkness wrapped around me, and I made my gaze flint and steel. He brought up Judas’ blue soul, half-gnawed on, guts blooming, then threw it back into the Pit.
I must not fear. I must have faith. “My soul goes where my Rabboni goes, ever in death and life, victorious.”
“And yet Heaven is oh-so-boring –
“Enough!” I sent my magick in sparkling, fiery tendrils out to subdue Samael. He grunted, cursing. His smoke disintegrated. The serpent’s golden eyes whom he had possessed glowed from his hole in the ground.
Mother Mary crushed his head, solid and weary, and flung him far away.
“No time for your demons or Ha Satan’s wiles, my dearest daughter Magdalena,” Mother Mary said, resolute. She was tear-stained, but firm, her earth-worn wrinkles holy like divots in the earth. They formed the Protoevangelium, crushing Samael’s possessed vessel with her strong, tan, leather-shod foot.
I smiled knowingly. “Thank you, Mother. You purify all you touch, like sweet rain and Heaven’s air.”
“’Tis a trick I learned from my dear Adonai. Now Magdalena, dip into that deep well of wonder and women’s magick at your core. My Son is to rest, then Rise.”
“But how?” I asked, incredulous. “He was the only one to bring Lazarus back. None of us have that power, now that sweet Yeshua is gone,”
Mother Mary glistened, tears and a heaven’s holy veil on her face. She could be carved of stars, each line on her face a constellation. Nicodemus and dear Joseph and John, the Beloved, bowed and left us to the cave. Mary Salome, Mother Mary, Martha, and I. Joanna and Suzannah guarded the door.
She prepared her Son: “Us three Marys must wash the body of and purify my Child. Wrap him in linens, camphor oil, and nard. Anoint him as King of Heaven. He, and we, have long roads ahead, bitter tears, and sorrow.”
My dear Mother Mary tenderly dislodged the wreath of thorns crowning my Rabboni’s head. Mary Salome looked at them with lust and devotion, making them into painful circlets on her arms, the better to bleed out with. Salome always loved pain, and we were bereft. Her crow cawed, pecking a seed from one of the rose buds that had bloomed like blood halos on the wreath. Perhaps the thorns were the better comfort – the only proof that Christ’s death was… real.
I remember the deal I made with him, to be free. Sixteen years of age, four years following demons and ghosts and spirits, thinking I could master the Goetia like Solomon, only to find myself out of control, with nights of blue lotus, soldier’s coin purses, and wine.
I remembered that first bargain with his Dark Brother, of bitter dates and rotten, blackened fig. I, the Magdalene, was a bipolar soul, dark and light.
It had torn me apart in the beginning, the sweet temptations and power of the Powers and Archangels and Archdemons. Samael’s tongue at my pear and clam. None, however, compared to my Rabboni. He thought a Woman was God, so why not let a Woman be Priest, run his Ministry, Preach? We did it all in our time, Woman and Man. After all, Eve was God’s crown of creation.
And most of the younger male disciples, lately, were lacking. Us women stood in the tomb.
It took all night, and steadfast Joseph and faithful Nicodemus and John rolled the stone to place, guarding our sweetest, gone treasure. Joanna and Suzannah had fetched food from the market. We ate in silence, burdened hearts, beaten and blue.
I ran through the list of offenses of the Disciples not here, chewing my lips. A bit of dead flesh caught from the corner of my mouth. I felt vinegar in my belly and sour wine.
He had said it would come to this. And the men hiding up in the house were not helping.
I cursed Judas in my mind. Blamed Peter for his denial. Wondered after sweet, young John, who ate pita next to me. I wanted to hole up with Matthew, once called Levi, and lose myself in deep wine cups and our awe-inspiring Christ’s alchemical texts after our beloved Yeshua was buried and put to rest.
Come midnight, I could swear I heard Pilate cry out amongst his silken sheets miles away. But perhaps it was a ghost of a rose.
It was true: Yeshua was gone. Snuffed out like a little light that had grown into a November fire. The slick darkness of the clotted blood sun lingered long after my Christ’s execution, for two days and nights. We did the death rituals and sat shiva in a daze.
I looked into my mirror Saturday evening, peering deep into Samael and Lilith’s realm, as I sat in my Roman-style mansion. Yeshua was walking through Gehenna heaven-cloud-clad, burning feet, sword at mouth. Come to conquer Death.
“He has come to ruin you, I see,” I smiled, scrying in my obsidian mirror upstairs to witness Samael in his obsidian castle, gutted on the ground and molting. Yeshua-Michael was harrowing his Twin in Hell as Lilith set her hounds and warrior children on Yeshua’s seraphs. Demons and angels fought in great legions, and Samael struck back at Yeshua in flashes of black blade and pearl feathers, dragging great wounds out of Christ as my Rabboni spat tongues of flame and whirling winds from his Mouth of the Word at Ha Satan.
Samael heard me as I cast my Witch of Endor scrying-soul to Gehenna. Ha Satan, who I had once pressed sweet kisses on his chest and called him much fonder names –
Heylel ben Shachar
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scowled at me, distracted enough to mouth a “Fuck you, Maggie,” at me as Christ used my momentary distraction to trample Samael and claw his way to the Bosom of Avram.
Christ spread his gown of skin cloth he had had since his time as Adam open, cradled the souls within to him, then ascended in flashes of fire and light to Heaven.
I snuffed out the red and white candles besides my bedside black scrying mirror.
“Bitter luck, Samael.”
“Bitch.”
It was time to feed the Disciples, who were in a building over in Martha’s vineyard and our sprawling estates. My honey cakes were done, my head maid informed me. I donned my red dress and robes, carried the tray with flowers in my hair, my wrists oudh-clad and bangles-a-jingling with crimson on my cheeks and lips. I set out a feast for the Disciples.
“He shall return!” I pronounced
Peter was drowning, his burden the hardest. “You must hide, Magdalena. The Romans will come for the women of the Cross first. I shall find you a place, North, to escape. With your and Yeshua’s Sarai to be born, we must –
“I am going nowhere, Peter. Yeshua will return.”
Matthew counted his coin purse. The silver he had stolen back from the Romans that Judas had spilled at his hanging ground hung heavy in his lap – like he was a tax collector of the Apocalypse.
Matthew turned the pieces over in his hands. They left burn marks that healed once the metal left his flesh. It was as if Levi-called-Matthew needed the pain to summon wakefulness, lest he sleep like the dead.
John – so young, so fair of form and complexion (and Yeshua’s Beloved) – tended the fire. “I cannot wait for my Master’s return.” He had a secretive, boyish smile. I knew he could see deeply into the threads of God and Yeshua like me, heaven-forward, whereas I was always stubbornly hell-bent.
Peter looked haggard but led the meal all the same as High Priest, blessing it. Martha held Mother Mary’s hands, who had spoken no words since the dressage of Yeshua’s corpse, and the shiva. Joseph sat with Nicodemus and his wife, and we all rotated like stars around Mother Mary’s moon-like soul. As she aged, she grew more beautiful, like a waterfall the unicorn who had not survived the Flood drank from, reflecting God in her beauty.
I heard Samael and Michael-Christ in my mind, burning against one another in endless, intertwinement as fiery, winged serpents. The twins who walked earth at different times, different epochs – as Jacob and Esau, as Samson and Delilah, as Cain and Abel, as the Nachash and Adamah.
Lilith reached through the fabric of time, and my magick pooled hot in my throat. The She-Leviathan was coiled around my esophagus like a vise.
“Little bird, go to Christ’s tomb tomorrow, Sunday morning,” Lilith hissed. “I am hell-sick of my husband being tortured by your Rabbi. I bade you get your Master.”
Lilith’s voice was like oil on fire. I shook the poison from my mind.
Soon, dawn came, breaking the eternal black spot on the skies – some sort of lament of the sun that had lasted since Christ descended to the watery deep.
I brought myself up on leaden limbs as the cock in the yard crowed, haunted by dreams of flying locusts and whales on the walls of the Red Sea beyond Moses’ watchful Nehushtan staff. I readied myself, dealing with a different serpent than Moses.
“Where go you, sister?” Martha asked, mustering all the pleasantry she could after the death of our Teacher.
“To put flowers on his grave.”
Martha sobbed, a wild, wolf sound. “Put this bit of food, too out. He loved my bread.” My elder sister placed a loaf in my hands, next to lavender bouquets from my garden.
Lazarus waved silently from the bottom room where the disciples lacked sleep, haunted.
They gazed at me like a chorus of ghosts.
I made my way to the tomb. The rock, as expected, had rolled away. Gabriel and Raphael fluttered about in hundreds of wings and eyes.
“He has risen, Magdala. You will not find him here.”
“And where am I to find my Rabboni?”
“He has gardens to tend.”
I looked around the rocky outcrops, hiked under the olive trees. All there was was the yeoman.
“Fair gardener, have you seen my priest?”
“Mary, it is me.”
“Oh, Master! Rabboni?”
I cried senselessly. He was no longer human, ascendant, glowing with light and power, supernatural like the Roman’s Heracles.
Yeshua laughed, tugging himself free of my hugs. “Do not cling to me, Mary. We have plenty of time. Eternity, in fact. You are my Church. On you, I build my Watchtower. Peter is for the masses. Cephas, Petros, a Solar Key. For you is the Gnosis, the Holy Cup, Moon Blade and Silver Key. They will damn you and bless you in the same sentence, but our bloodline will reign, creating such beauty, our children singing as daughters of New Adam and Watchtower Eve. How would you like to travel the world with me, Mary?”
I was in awe, my eyes blue from tears. “Oh Rabboni, you mean it?”
“Even unto Judas was a place in time.”
“He betrayed you.”
“Who has not, every day, each moment, thought of betraying themselves, and insofar, betrayed me, their piteous God?”
I considered his teaching.
“I must tell the others you are here.”
