Magdalene

It was our second attempt to reach the cave of Mary Magdalene. Our first last year stymied by fire risk. Incendie, said the woman behind the desk of the tourist information centre in St Baume, forêt fermé and we’d contented ourselves with the Basilica and her skull - not that of the woman behind the desk, obviously, that of Mary Magdalene encased in gold. I didn’t know it was a temple to her, rather than the place where she resides. We were knocked down by the pagan, naked, scented glorious death of the place where her tomb was found hidden. But it isn’t where she is.

This year we tried again, a careful planning which couldn’t have known it was the one morning of the year for la chaise. We arrived at the ready, shawls and water, to be stopped at the mouth of the forest by a handsome hunter leaning into the car and spilling in rapid, sweet French we couldn’t go up this morning. We must wait till midday. We took to the monastery, coffee and sandwiches, sun pouring through pine. We waited. An hour and a half went by and my phone rang. My friend in Italy, headed for Thailand but news of his mother with cancer everywhere and a matter of months to live changed everything. I told him where I was. Light a candle for her.

We set off for the cave where Mary Magdalene spent the last forty years of her life, from where, in her nineties, she descended to St Baume to visit her brother and never returned. This pilgrimage of feet and devotion up steep, wide, stony paths shot with golden light through Lindon trees a habit of centuries, since the 5th, M tells us; M who knows Magdalene better than most, who has brought with her scents and knowing. It was a panting, heartbeat climb, sweat and plod, the rhythm of our tread a rope ladder music, one after the other, muscles complaining, staying in tune with each other. We rose to the rising splendour, eyes up, the sheer rock face coming near as others in sensible hats with flaps overtook, Norwegian walking sticks and dominant strides. On a stone bench we passed two old ladies fat with sandwiches and flasks enjoying themselves tremendously. That will be us, M and I said to each other and I wondered when I am very old if I could find a horse to carry me, already intending to do this forever.

The final climb becomes steps, stone and wide. Stations of the cross. A red arched door, open. Signs saying from here there will be no peeing, no cameras, no smoking and no talking. From here this is contemplation and prayer. The atmosphere spoke louder. Beyond the iconoclastic suffering, deeper than the sculptures of pain presented as the first thing to pass beyond the door, lay the voice of Magdalene in every breath of wind, beat of wing, rustle of trees, dip of rose and butterfly. I have the impression the life-sized Christ, face twisted, body bloodies, the men on either side and women at his feet, will break for lunch, look at their watches and climb down from the cross, stretching their arms and rubbing sore spines, perhaps eat their sandwiches in the courtyard looking out at the view of Mont Sainte Victoire, spend an hour lying in the cool of the cave, splash tired faces with water from the gently dripping pools which shimmer green there. Because Magdalene is there. Not tied up or encased in gold, not behind iron bars or stuttered in agony but here, in every rock, in the ceiling of damp, cool shadow and ground slabbed in stone, in every rough surface along which to run your hand, in the benches on which we sat and said prayers and lit candles. We each know pain and loss, grieving and terror and we each brought these to the cave.

To my friend’s mum for her safe crossing, to those who betray may they recover from such illness, to those who protect, success, and to my children may they ever be in my arms. We wrote a note doused in the perfumes Mary Magdalene used to anoint the feet of the dead and the living and wrote a prayer for the world. To all in suffering, her golden light. I am no Christian. My heart for this woman is far beyond those narrow straights. She knew a thing or two about love.

Speaking of which it’s almost a year since this happened: