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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

A soldier rode up bearing a lance tipped with iron. The soldier’s hair was cropped so close Margery couldn’t tell what color it was. When she saw what he intended to do, she picked up a stone and hit the blade from an amazing distance. She kept throwing stones.

The soldier laughed—it was a game to him. He drove his lance into Jesus’s side with such force it came out the back. When he withdrew the lance its point was bright red, showing that the heart had been pierced. The soldier’s face quickened as a river of dark arterial blood gushed from the wound. The entire scene strobed or flickered, the uncertain light caused by Margery’s own eyelids batting. She fell on her knees next to Mary and screamed, “Cease from your sorrowing—I will sorrow for you!”

Joseph of Arimathea lowered Jesus’s body from the cross and laid it before Mary on a marble slab. The eyes were sunken and full of blood, mouth cold, arms so stiff that the hands could not be raised above the navel. Mary kissed the mouth. Mary Magdalene said, “Let me kiss the feet.” Mary’s sisters took both hands and kissed them. They clung to Jesus’s body, a small raft, but what the infinite means is that we are already in it. Margery ran back and forth; she wanted Jesus for herself; she screamed with awareness till her voice was a pale whistle.

49

Margery was in a state of shock close to wonder; for the moment she knew total freedom. She was ripped in two: half of her was the absent Jesus. It was too soon to bind this injury with strands of language—to make it inevitable, normal. She was just a wound. She fell apart, or opened up.

She lay on her side, rigid, breathing quickly through her nose, making surprised sounds of small hurts. Brittle fear of death replaced endless talk. In Jesus’s blank nonrelation she saw her grave, a loss deprived of purpose, unrevealed, unhidden, uninterpreted.

She began the night with her eyes wide open, her senses entirely awake, cold light in the darkness; at dawn she was still focused, wild and cold. Daylight was crisp and weak, celery green. She felt numb; she lost the will to divide inside from outside. She waited for the night and her sorrow to recommence.

•

She woke at midnight with such heavy grief she was amazed by some deeper Margery who encountered feelings below. She had to wearily reiterate the wooden shutters, her cup on the sill, the stool, the blue covers, the bed. “I can never live through this hour alone”—and then chimes brought the next hour. The air was cold so Margery was cold.