She had thought the day he died unbearable, the pain she endured the worst she could ever know. But the day that followed surpassed it, as the men who had followed him slunk by ones and twos from the city, hoping to escape notice. By the morning of the third day, only some of the women remained. His mother. His sister.
By that quiet morning, she could no longer bear the silence in her heart. Softly, so as not to
waken the others, she rose before dawn and gathered up spices; myrrh and nard. She set them in an
alabaster jar, and slid her veil over her head, and went out into the silver light before dawn.
Jerusalem's streets lay silent; even early risers seemed to have slept longer today than they
should. She moved swiftly through the deserted streets, passed out through the Western Gate.
And there she encountered the first living thing she had laid eyes upon since she closed the door of
the safe house behind her.
It was a small brown creature, thin and dirty as all dogs were. It lay beside the road that led
from the gate down the hill, its muzzle resting upon its front paws.
She drew her skirt close, to run no risk of brushing against the creature; dogs were unclean
beasts, feral and dangerous. On any other morning, she would have slipped back through the Gate,
waited until the dog moved away. But today she would not be stopped by even Tiberius Caesar
himself, let alone a dog. She drew a breath and said,
"I am going to walk past you, dog. Do not trouble me and I will not trouble you."
The dog lifted its head at her first words, flinched as she moved cautiously past it.
"There," she said once she had half-a-dozen strides between her and the dog. "You see?
Peace between us."
At the words, the dog rose and took a step towards her; its tail moved from side to side.
Another step; alarm rushed through her. She must stop the animal; she had nothing to throw at it,
save the jar of spices -- then she remembered the crust she had caught up as she hurried from the
She pulled the piece of dry bread from her girdle. "Here, dog." She made her voice soft, as
if she spoke to an infant. "Food." She tossed the crust toward the dog; the bread fell into the road
As the dog lowered its head and edged forward to the crust of bread, she turned away and
began to walk on. The sun was rising now, the light shifting from silver to gold. His tomb lay at
the base of the hillside; a tomb given by a friend to house his body through all eternity.
A long walk, and a hard one, and nothing at the end but a stone. Yet I bring him spices.
She did not know why; she knew only that this was a task she must perform.
The walk proved even less pleasant than she had feared, for she paid dearly for bribing the
dog rather than seeking out stones to drive the animal away. The small unclean beast persisted in
following her, even when she turned and hissed at it to leave her alone.
"Leave me. Do not follow after me." And she raised her hand as if she would throw a
stone; the dog shied away and she turned again and walked on. But when she glanced back, the
dog still shadowed her footsteps. When she stopped again and stared at it, the dog flattened its ears
and whined softly; its tail waved slowly back and forth.
"Turn away from me," she begged the dog, but this time she did not raise her hand to
threaten. For a moment they stared at each other, woman and dog, and then she sighed, and once
more walked steadily on. She had an important task to perform, and perform it she would, unclean
beast or no. When she glanced back, she saw the small brown dog padding steadily after her, its
paws raising small puffs of dust that hung in the morning air like golden mist.
The area about the tomb was quiet; the Roman soldiers who had stood watch through the
first long nights were gone. The man they had feared lay dead now, the crowds that had cried for
him, and against, had vanished, returned to being merely denizens of Jerusalem. Romans hated to
waste so much as a coin or a breath. They would not squander soldiers to guard a dead man in his
As she came closer, she at first thought her eyes deceived her, morning light could be
tricky, could dazzle and confuse the unwary. Then she saw that she was wrong; no illusion
deceived her. The stone that had closed the tomb was no longer there. The huge circle of pale
rock lay upon the ground a dozen paces away.
Her fingers closed tighter about the alabaster jar; wary, she edged forward until she could
gaze into the chamber carved into the rock of the hillside. It was empty. He no longer lay there.
I have carried these spices all this way for nothing, was her first thought. She looked down
at the jar cradled in her hands. He does not need spices now. He needs nothing now. Nothing that
I can give.
Head bent, she turned slowly away; tears blurred her vision, and only the brown dog's swift
dance sideways kept her hesitant feet from stumbling over the little beast. Pain too deep for easy
mourning numbed her. Now even his body had abandoned them. It was all gone, all the courage,
all the hope, all the dreams.
All the love.
"Woman," said a man's voice, "why are you crying?"
She drew her veil across her face, hiding even from kindness. "Because he whom my soul
loved is gone, and they have stolen even his body away from us." Once more pain rolled through
her; she felt a pressure against her legs and looked down to see the dog gazing up at her, eyes
luminous in the rising sun. Almost as if it weeps with me.
"Mary," said the voice again, "look at me."
She raised her head and let the veil fall away from her face, and looked into the man's face.
Grief and hope warred; doubt and common sense won. The dead did not rise --
"Who are you?" she asked, and he smiled.
"Now, Mary, you know me well -- better than any man could. You always did."
Beneath her fingers, the alabaster jar warmed, mocking her gift of death spices for one so
truly living. "I did?"
He spread his arms, embracing the sunlit morning. "Do you see any men here, Mary? Did
any of them dare come? Did they dare risk Romans and their own fears to come back to me?"
"You died," she pointed out in the others' defense, and he laughed.
"I told them I would," he said, and suddenly she laughed too.
"But now you are back; you will walk with us again," she began, her voice joyous, only to
see him shake his head.
"No; I pass by only, I pause to say your name once more, and to send a message to those
who followed me."
For an instance she closed her eyes hard, closed away the pain so she could think. I will
not have his last sight of me be a woman drenched in tears. I will be what he thinks I am.
"What message shall I bear?" she asked.
"Tell them I shall be with them always. I have gone down to death and now rise to
everlasting life, as shall all my Father's children."
"I will tell them," she said, proud that her words came steady and smooth. Prouder still that
he smiled upon her. He always knew he could rely upon me.
Sensing the meeting at an end, she strove to prolong it, to make him tarry if only for
another breath. "Wait," she said, and dropped the pot of spices to the ground; she stretched out her
hands. "You leave us alone. How can we live without you beside us? How can we endure
without your love?"
"That you have always."
"But we will have nothing, with you gone. Give us something to hold on to, Master. You
must. You must."
"I will give it, if you will take it." He crouched down and held out his hand, and the dog
that had followed her all the way from the Western Gate paced forward and laid its muzzle in his
hand. He looked into the dog's dark eyes, and smiled; he stroked its back, and then lifted the dog
in his arms.
She had seen him walk with idolaters and dine with sinners, yet seeing him cradle a dog in
his arms shocked her. Dogs were unclean, outcast beasts. To touch one -- to hold it against his
bosom like a precious gem -- how could even he do such a thing? And then he held the dog out to
her, and she found herself shrinking back.
"Well, Mary? Will you take what I offer you?"
"A dog?" she said, and he smiled again.
"Love," he said. "Love unbounded and unstinting. Love that gold cannot buy and evil
cannot alter. Love that will walk beside you always. Look behind you, Mary."
She turned and looked back at her footprints in the dust. Footprints leading here, to this
empty tomb -- and beside hers, another, smaller set. Pawprints; the pawprints of the dog that had
followed her all this long way, only because she had spoken one kind word to it, given it one crust
of bread --
"Do not weep," he said, and suddenly there was a warm firm weight in her arms; she looked
down into the dog's warm brown eyes, and recognized that warm endless love before. She had
seen it before, in her Master's eyes.
"When you think I am gone, remember the footprints in the dust," he said.
She began to promise that she would, that she would remember each word, always, but
when she looked up, he was gone. She was alone before the empty tomb.
A soft whimper, a cold nose nudging her chin --
No. Not alone. She looked at the tomb, and at the stone that once had sealed it. And then
she turned away and carrying the dog in her arms, she began to retrace the tracks in the dusty road
that led back to Jerusalem.
And as she walked, she wept for both sorrow and joy, and a soft wet tongue gently washed
the salt tears from her cheeks.
©2016 India Edghill