Lions and Souls: The Story of St. Mary of Egypt

By John Loranger

Siren and saint, hedonist and penitent, Mary of Egypt was a woman of extremes. A runaway at the age of twelve, she ventured to Alexandria to begin a life of reckless promiscuity. But a pilgrimage to Jerusalem brought about an inward change that drew the adult Mary into wilderness and solitude.

From the monasteries of fifth-century Palestine to medieval Europe, the fame of this Desert Mother gradually spreadby both the written and the spoken word, and through visual art.

Lions and Souls is a work of fiction based on ancient accounts of Marys life. Retold for twenty-first-century readers, an enigmatic figure from a remote past is revealed to be surprisingly familiar and relevant.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503589384

John Loranger

Author John Loranger’s previous work, The Odyssey of Art O’Hara, has been described as “harrowing, satisfying, haunting” (Kirkus Reviews). He was born in Butte, Montana, in 1961. He now resides in Nevada, where he continues to write fiction.

Book preview

Part 1

My Name Is Mary

Chapter 1

She lay on her side in bed in the dark bedroom, listening. Between tense silences came the shrieks from the room below. By now they ceased to sound like her mother; they ceased to sound human at all. They might have been the bellows of an animal being crushed by a snake’s constrictions. The girl had been tempted more than once to plug her ears and hum, but she had resisted each time. It seemed to her that by listening she might weaken something inside herself, some tenderness or attachment that she would rather kill than protect.

Don’t cry, she commanded herself while wiping away tears and sniffling.

About ten hours earlier, shortly before her mother had gone into labor, Mary was calling to a cat from an upstairs window. She stood on a stool in order to lean across the windowsill. The cat was on the ground outside, pacing looped patterns and pausing now and then to meow to the girl above. Most of the area was shaded beneath a sycamore. Birds chattered among the leaves of the tree. Hot, dry gusts stirred its branches, which brushed against the side of the house.

Meanwhile, in the room at her back, Mary’s parents were engaged in a heated exchange. The disagreement had to do with her father’s horoscope trade, which supplemented his already considerable wealth. He would often laugh at the gullibility of those who believed the predictions of any stargazer, not excluding himself. This time, in response, his wife had accused him of hypocrisy. An argument had ensued.

But because Mary’s parents argued over so many things, she tended not to listen. She was not listening now.

Come on up, kitty, she said to the cat. Come up here and see me.

The cat, a trusting stray Mary knew well, looked awful. Someone had shaved his brown, lengthy hair to make him look like a lion. The effect was a mockery. Bloody nicks were present in many places where the hair had been sheared too close; the tail must have been torched, and the mane was grotesquely misshapen.

Who did that to you? she asked. Tell me who did it, and I’ll make him pay. Come up here and tell me.

Damn it, Mary! her father roared suddenly.

She wheeled around to face him while maintaining her balance on the stool. Her father was seated about ten feet away and was glaring darkly at her.

Your mother and I are discussing something, he said. Don’t you see that?

Mary nodded, her large brown eyes agape.

So hush up or leave, he said. The note of kindness now discernible in his voice did not rule out an imminent beating. He was a stocky man whose dusky, bearded face appeared fierce and stern even in his best moods.

Sorry, Papa.

He shook his head and looked away from his daughter. Afterward, she stood listening for a minute as though obliged to do so.

So as I was saying, he said, addressing his wife again, "this is not hypocrisy. Please don’t use that insulting word. It would be if I didn’t believe, at least in principle, that the stars determine all. Everything is written down beforehand—only not in those silly books I consult."

So acquire the right books, the ones that aren’t silly, said Mary’s mother in her throaty, almost masculine voice. Throw out the ones you have. Her dark eyes rarely left the woolen fabric upon which she wove images from an Old Testament episode.

The ‘right books’ don’t exist.

Mary’s mother smiled as if relishing a quiet triumph. Then what’s this talk about everything being written down? she asked.

Try to be a tiny bit more imaginative, my dear, said the father, "if that’s possible. Reach for figurative or spiritual meaning beyond the letter. Your Paul had that idea right, anyway."

Just tell me: if you know that those books of yours are frauds, why do you make use of them?

Money, the father answered bluntly.

Filthy lucre, said the mother, nodding her head. Humph.

"Let’s hear you say humph if you ever have to face poverty."

I plan to face it, she said. Someday.

What do you mean by that?

The mother glanced up. I yearn for poverty and solitude the way you yearn for wealth and revelry. I envy the monks and nuns who follow the way of Anthony the holy man. Someday I will join their company.

You’re foolish enough to try, the father said. I’ll grant you that.

The mother paused from her weaving and closed her eyes. God’s foolishness is wiser than men’s wisdom. She opened her eyes and recommenced her work. Among the figures before her, there was a serpent coiled on top of a staff that rose above a compact crowd of large-eyed Israelites.

Apropos of your quote, why do you make use of those books of yours, which are just as fraudulent as mine? He grinned.

The mother looked up sharply. What do you mean? she asked.

You know exactly what I mean.

No, I do not.

All that rubbish about Jesus the Galilean rising from the dead—you know it never happened.

If I knew that it never happened, the mother said, "then I would not teach our daughter that it did happen!" Her shoulders were beginning to heave.

Yes, and I’ve allowed you to ‘catechize’ her, said the father, because she’s a clever girl who will wise up soon enough, all on her own.

Mary had turned away by now and was leaning out the window again. This time she was careful to keep her voice subdued while addressing the abused stray, lest she provoke her father’s wrath a second time. Upon hearing herself referred to by her parents, she paused to listen—but only briefly, because the cat was about to spring. When he did so, his claws emitted harsh scratching sounds against the brick exterior. Mary leaned back as he attained the wide sill.

What happened to you, poor thing? she whispered, gently passing a hand along his scabby back. Why would anyone do this?

The cat paced back and forth upon the sill before rolling over to have his belly rubbed. He closed his eyes and purred. Despite all the nicks, he did not seem to be in pain. The effort of climbing had opened a few of the deeper, rawer cuts. Now and then he would claw—playfully—at the hand that was petting him. Once, when he snagged Mary’s skin with too much force, she quietly hissed, Ouch! Meanwhile, her father was laughing over something that had just been said while her mother threatened divine punishment involving worms, unquenchable fire, and gnashing of teeth.

Is that what the Galilean warned? jibed the father.

His name is Jesus, replied the mother passionately. And he is the Christ, not the Galilean. He is the Word and Wisdom of God, he is the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and—

Yes, well, more important than all those impressive titles, the father interrupted, you need to keep our latest child in your womb. For another month, anyway. After a moment he added, Let’s avoid, as best we can, another miscarriage.

A silence followed. Mary glanced back and saw her mother’s head drooping. A tear dangled from her nose.

Mary’s father admonished her mother. I’ve told you before that if you can’t discuss these things calmly and moderately, then we won’t discuss them at all.

I only pray it’s another girl, the mother said spitefully, glaring at her swollen belly. Oh please, let it be a girl!

I’ll see what my books say about that, the father quipped, laughing and rising from his chair. "And you seem to forget that I’m perfectly happy having a daughter … this daughter, for instance. He approached Mary. Who’s this now, coming into my house uninvited?"

Just a stray I made friends with, Mary answered. I did the inviting, if that’s all right.

What happened? asked her father. Looks like a hyena got hold of her.

"It’s a he, Papa, she corrected. Mary’s father, though he liked cats well enough, tended to lump all of them into the female sex. I don’t know what happened, except that someone is cruel."

You know, girl, he said, nudging her with his elbow, not to talk about this with anyone.

Mary was confused. Not to talk about what? she asked, looking at him. Perched on the stool, her eyes were level with his.

What concerns my livelihood, he answered. My private opinions are private.

Oh, that.

Yes, that, he said and suddenly gripped her near the elbow. Pay attention now.

Mary paid attention.

Not a word to anyone, her father ordered, lifting his black eyebrows threateningly.

Mary nodded. I know, Papa, she said and felt his hand release her arm.

My clients hear what the books say, he said, raising his voice so that his wife could hear him. Even if the words are hogwash.

Mary waited for her mother to speak; when she did not, she emphasized her obedience to her father. I know not to say anything.

You’re a good girl, he said, at least when you try to be.

Mary smiled sheepishly. I’ll try harder, Papa.

Just then the mother moaned, and both Mary and her father looked back. Are you in pain, dear? asked the father. His concern seemed genuine.

The mother nodded, squeezing shut her eyes.

Do you need to lie down?

She nodded again, rising heavily from her seat while pressing a hand against her belly.

Go and help your mother.

Mary assisted her mother down the stairs. The cat, still lying on his back, watched with interest as she departed. Abruptly he rolled upright and dropped to the floor to pursue.

The father had not moved, and he soon noticed something on the white sill. Extending a finger, he tested one of several smudges and droplets to determine if they were what they appeared to be. The tip of his finger came away coated with fresh, perceptibly warm blood. Damn it, girl, he muttered, glowering toward the stairs. He had just drawn a deep breath—to call for a servant—when he heard the birds fall silent on the branches of the sycamore. It was a peculiar, very sudden drop-off of sound. Even the wind seemed to die. He looked out the window, gazing through a motionless tangle of the tree’s branches.

A sharp convulsion ran through the entire house, followed by mild tremors.

* * *

While this went on upstairs, Mary and her mother stood frozen about halfway across the floor of the master bedroom. They gazed about tensely and held each other.

Amen, murmured the mother with a shaky voice. Come, Lord Jesus.

Just then the stray cat appeared. He paused near the entrance, announced himself with a single mew, and then ambled into the bedroom. He seemed indifferent to the seismic activity. The heavy lampstand vibrated on the floor, and dust rained down from the ceiling in fine streamlets. Within a minute the tremors ceased.

Is everything all right down there? the father called from the top of the stairs.

We’re safe, Papa! Mary answered. To her mother she said, That was longer than the last one.

That’s because the end is near. Her mother groaned as she was helped onto the bed. Lying down on one side, she told her daughter to close the shutters and then called her back. Sit, my dear, she said in her croaking voice. Visit with me.

Mary sat on the edge of the bed in the partially darkened room. Her mother’s eyes closed, and soon she seemed on the verge of sleep. Directly above was Mary’s own bedroom. She looked up at the ceiling, which was covered with a minimally detailed mosaic. The picture was meant to convey an illusion of vastness: a blue sky lightly sprinkled with birds in flight, one puff of cloud, and a small crescent moon. From her own bed, she could always hear the muted sounds of her parents’ exchanges: argumentative or just talkative on some nights, procreative on others. In any case, she was usually asleep before they were.

She looked away from the ceiling and watched the cat. He had settled on the floor and was licking at his wounds. With his eyes reduced to slits and his pink tongue at work, he appeared loving and tender toward himself. The aspect of a miniature, gnarled lion grew more pronounced, and Mary smiled fondly; she almost laughed. When she turned again to her mother, she saw that her eyes were open. She was watching Mary steadily.

Her mother’s hair was black and glossy, as were her eyes, but her face appeared haggard and old. The latter effect was not softened by the room’s dim lighting. A mole of significant size was fixed to one of her eyelids. Though her mother had never complained, it had always seemed to Mary that the mole must cause distress to that eye.

You’re such a beauty, her mother said, rolling onto her back. Where’d this beauty come from, I wonder?

Shyly, almost sullenly, Mary shrugged. She avoided her mother’s eyes whenever such awe arose.

Not from me, mused her mother, not from your father. She shook her head. Nothing about you matches me or him. You’re a mystery to me.

You’re sure I’m yours? Mary asked, smirking almost maliciously.

Oh, you’re mine, answered her mother without levity. There’s a birthmark, she said and pointed to an area of Mary’s head that was covered in layers of smooth brown hair. I noted it when you were fresh from my womb.

What’s it shaped like? Mary asked, as her forefinger traced diamond shapes of varied colors that were woven onto the cover of the bed.

Well, her mother sighed, your father says it’s an Egyptian ankh, but I say it’s a cross.

This was not the first time Mary had heard of the birthmark, but only now had she learned something about its shape. It struck her that she would probably never get to see the birthmark and judge its shape for herself. Can’t it be both? she asked.

How can it be both?

Can’t it mean life and death?

"Life from death, the mother said, smiling. I’d agree with that. You certainly are a clever girl."

That’s more your idea than mine, Mary observed. I said something different.

Her mother shook her head. I untangled it, is all, she said. "The idea is yours." Suddenly she closed her eyes and grimaced.

Are you all right, Mama?

Her mother nodded. Beads of sweat had gathered on her forehead, and the grimace, while less pronounced, still lingered on her face. Mary looked away and saw that the cat had settled into a curl on the floor and was napping.

Mama? she said after a while. Are you still awake?

Yes.

I have to ask you something.

What is it?

Mary drew a breath. Do I have to marry?

Her mother opened her eyes and looked at her. Why do you ask that?

Mary only stared