He's getting so old, he won't be of use for too much longer, she thought, turning to the empty room. Evening was falling. Amber light through the window colored the cup and bowl that rested on the table. The bedroll, laid out in the comer, was turned back. He'd slept last night but now was gone.
Miriame lay on the bedding and thought of her son. Such a good boy. He always minded. The things they said about him were unfair. Who could have guessed that all this upheaval would happen, because of her tender Jes.
As the light dimmed, the woman closed her eyes. She tried to sleep, but her mind raced. She couldn't help Jes. The priests wouldn't talk to her. "You are his mother," they told her. "You could be held responsible." She'd always known it would be hard. She'd always known.
Many years ago, she'd been given fair warning. "These are not the ways of man," she'd been told. "You behave in a manner befitting a woman of the streets. "But father, I have done nothing. This is a gift."
Father disagreed, and she was sent from her childhood home. She'd known a man; a stranger, and he took her in, making her his wife in exchange for simple food and a tidy house. They had grown to love each other. Together they raised this strange child. And again she was told, "These are not the ways of man."
But her husband never said this. He didn't question her actions or pry into her past. He stood beside her, bearing the raised eyebrows of the leaders, trusting the words she'd been promised "By God," she'd told him. And he never doubted.
Now, Joseph, old and loosing his wits, rocked himself in the front yard. Passers-by taunted him, calling out "Your son is a traitor!" Or "How could you have spawned such a deviant?" Joseph said, "It is not me. I have done no wrong."
Miriame heard this and wept.
Tonight she looses her husband. Her son will die with the dawn.
"How, Father, could you do this to me?' she asked, sobs shaking her withered body.
"I have said this," she was told.
"These are not the ways of man."