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Back Margery Kempe Save as PDF
Chapters (69)
  1. Cover
  2. Biographical Notes
  3. Title Page
  4. INTRODUCTION
  5. MARGERY KEMPE
  6. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  7. Dedication
  8. Front
  9. PART ONE
  10. 1
  11. 2
  12. 3
  13. 4
  14. 5
  15. 6
  16. 7
  17. 8
  18. 9
  19. 10
  20. 11
  21. 12
  22. 13
  23. 14
  24. 15
  25. 16
  26. PART TWO
  27. 17
  28. 18
  29. 19
  30. 20
  31. 21
  32. 22
  33. 23
  34. 24
  35. 25
  36. 26
  37. 27
  38. 28
  39. 29
  40. 30
  41. 31
  42. PART THREE
  43. 32
  44. 33
  45. 34
  46. 35
  47. 36
  48. 37
  49. 38
  50. 39
  51. 40
  52. 41
  53. 42
  54. 43
  55. 44
  56. 45
  57. 46
  58. PART FOUR
  59. 47
  60. 48
  61. 49
  62. 50
  63. 51
  64. 52
  65. 53
  66. 54
  67. 55
  68. 56
  69. MY MARGERY, MARGERY’S BOB

Early in the morning as she lay in bed, she saw the lightning, heard the thunder. A larch was instantly reduced to ashes. The first drops fell in pellets that sat on top of the hard dirt. Veins of lightning tangled in the distance. Mules sank in mud up to their pasterns; they brayed and lurched with their haunches. The tepid air went through an electrical cleansing. After the storm the decisive light laid a hand on her. No actual light could deliver such promise.

“But Jesus, I have no money to buy clothes.”

He replied, “I’ll buy them for you.” Jesus always got money from someone else. He does own everything, she reasoned, but she had given her life and spent her fortune following him around, while nothing he gave made a difference in his life. In response, she grew more animated; that repelled Jesus, who took it as a demand. His somber character really didn’t suit her; he barked orders and walked ahead. How long could she put up with that?

•

John set out from Lynn to take Margery home. He knew something was wrong—he pictured Jesus too clearly, saw Margery tipping onto him, two bodies then, and Jesus feels her weight which is given lightness by her breathing; she slides down a little, the tender flesh of her ass, two handfuls, the twin dimples at the base of her spine where muscles play; she nudges apart his long legs with small motions of her legs.

John thought, The world is getting smaller but not less frightening. Sheep, flies, and mosquitoes. He thought, Jesus is the devil. A scarecrow like an archer drew his bow. The smell of sun-baked dung. The chirping of the field insects ended as he entered the woods. Bright preindustrial blue through the trees. Families and journeymen, tramping or riding, carried their pieces of cloth to market. A goose raised its head for grain as a farmer swung his scythe—in the dust its yellow beak parted hopefully. Hawthorn bushes flowered and the sun arched over the open heaths. A blackbird with a yellow bill ran in a crouch.

Margery met John on the street outside her inn—a spring dusk of lilting clarity. He had not seen her in over a year: he swung around her like a dancing bear and beamed love that was consoling and hard to endure. She was very glad to see him. John didn’t care about judgments or personalities, his own or others’.